2. THE EDGAR ALLAN POE NIGHTMARE
[In Part I of this story I told you how my brat brother played an evil joke on my Mother, and for this he was thrown into the root cellar and the cellar door shut tight…]
And so, now as I write this, I wonder. ‘What would today’s psychologists say about a child that would play that kind of nasty trick with a rope tied to a rock in the well? And would root-cellar-discipline head the discussions for weeks, even months on prime television?’
If there were to be any media discussion, it should be no more than three minutes. After all, Brat Brother got no physical beating. He simply got modern-day sanctioned time-out. And boy, did he get time out. I’m certain sure he would have preferred a good thrashing. I know I would have.
Anyway, to make a long story short, I did not have to press my ear to the cellar door to hear the muffled cries and sobs from that cold chilly ethereal pit of hell. My brother was trapped in an Edgar-Allan-Poe-nightmare with only darkness and the beat of his heart. And I was glad, so very glad, it wasn’t me.
But still, I couldn’t in my wildest imagination think how scared my brother must be. And although I so often told him that I hoped some day he would be so far removed from me that it would cost a thousand dollars to mail a letter, I did feel truly sorry for him and begged for his release.
But Mother was adamant that he would remain there for a time (long enough I guess for remorse to set in because remorse is important). But, of course how could he even for one New-York-second consider the weight of his actions in a place that so seriously threatened survival. Was there sufficient air? And I know he was thinking, ‘If I mold and die in here, they’ll be sorry.’
And so after hopeless raking and clawing at the root-cellar lid, and screaming until he could scream no more, and crying until his face was thorough soaked, he moved to the more dire thought of what would he eat. The eating part, to Brat Brother, was the most fundamental of survival. To survive one must eat, one must eat much, and one must eat often.
And if the experts are right, that eating is a remedy for other distresses, Brat Brother’s distresses at the moment were overwhelming, and so his next clear conviction was no matter what else, he must eat.
And so he felt around in the blackness of the cellar and had one flash of relief when he found a tin can with a lid. He managed to pull the lid off. He felt the stuff. It felt like jam. He tasted it. It seemed to have a weak sweetness. It was hard to know for sure what it was by taste, but because it was stored in the cellar, it could only be one of two things – pork lard or jam. And though questionable which it was, that weak bit of sweetness convinced him it must be jam.
And so, he commenced dipping and licking his fingers. Taste was of little matter. One MUST eat.
Now I expect my brother was probably in that cellar no longer than ten minutes but I’m sure, and quite understand, how to him it must have felt like many long hours. He was in survival mode and so he was eating jam. Unfortunately when the cellar door was eventually cast back and he was released, he found to his dismay, the meal he had partaken of was in fact, finger servings of, what was called in those days, axle grease.
_____
So this is where we’ll leave this story, but now as I watch Court TV, and see so many suspects of child murder and abduction refusing to talk, I am so dismayed. Seems to me that within the Geneva Convention and the Fifth, the authorities have no way to force confessions, and no way to get to the truth – though that truth might redeem an innocent child.
But wait, maybe there are acceptable ways of making people talk. And it is not by locking them in cellar-holding cells in Remand Centers with painted walls, air-conditioning and concrete floors. These conditions are totally false misappropriations of what a cellar is.
The Geneva Convention and the Fifth (which admittedly I know little about) must be upheld, even when childrens lives are in danger. But, at the same time, society accepts without protest or qualm the new discipline of Time-Out.
So for those who refuse to talk, why not time-out in a damp, fusty, funereal, black-mold-lined, dirt-excavated cubbyhole five feet square and four feet high, piled with rotting carrots, potatoes, and turnips, inhabited by fungi of all slimy convictions, and misty demon-like poltergeists...crowded into a darkness as thick as black-strap molasses?
And if that be not enough to make them talk…
Dry bread and axle-grease for dinner!
Showing posts with label child interpretations. Show all posts
Showing posts with label child interpretations. Show all posts
Monday, January 25, 2010
Thursday, January 21, 2010
THE ROOT CELLAR - Part I
1. HORRORS SPAWN COURAGE
It was a secret door, almost secret, except for the metal circular ring that lay flush with the floor in a round shallow cut of the same size. You had to bend and look closely, within a certain line of light to see in the lino, the outline of the little square door that led to the secret passage.
When the ring was lifted and the small door pulled open, nothing could be seen but a few steps and a hole of black darkness. The coolness was such that when the door was opened, spirits rose from within in wispy transparent death-dress. Hell’s hole. Pretty much. But still, t his is where my Mother sent us for carrots, potatoes, and on one occasion — for disciplinary measure.
The root cellar smelled earthy, fusty, funereal. The five wooden steps were slick with black mold that made their sturdiness questionable. And when I descended gingerly with pail in hand, I shivered with horror and a definite foreboding. Multiple times, I offered my services to do another’s chores, or my small monthly allowance to a sibling to avoid the split-second task of getting vegetables for dinner. Descent into that tomb? Not if I could avoid it.
_____
Always my greatest horror was someone would shut the door before I was resurrected to the light. And it would bind and stick as it so often did. And I would thus find in my crouched position on the upper steps a law of physics that in my mind was already suspect. That without methodology, instruction, or Newton-theory or Einstein-understanding that ‘an upward pressing force is far less efficient than an elevating lift’ –particularly if some stupid fool is standing on the door and cannot hear the pounding of my fists on sodden moldy wood or my yells to be released forthwith.
Monsters under the bed? So what?
Boogie-Man in the closet? With one eye in the middle of his forehead, and a pitchfork, and a black stallion for quickness of movement? So what?
In these matters I can be so brave because all of it and none of it was comparable to the horror of the thought of being trapped in the cold cellar.
_____
And so a day came, when these theories were tested.
In one act of parental desperation my brat brother was put in the cellar and the door was shut. On that particular day, he chopped a hole in the ice in the well with an ax. He then tied a length of rope to a large and heavy rock. And when I disappeared for a time in the quiet of my upstairs room with books and dolls, that was the opportunity he was waiting for. That meant it was time to perform what he thought was a wonderfully witty joke on my Mother. And so then, while my Mother busied herself in the kitchen, from outside my brother sent up a terrible howl from the yard.
My Mother ran to the door to see what the problem was. There was my brat bother holding a taut rope some twenty feet from the well.
“Help Mom! Oh Help!”, he screamed. “Roberta is in the well and I can’t get her out.”
Without donning shoes or coat, my mother ran to the well leaping through the snow in bare feet to the bottom of a hill as fast as her legs would carry her. Meanwhile my brother was screaming, “The rope is slipping. I can’t hang on. The rope is slipping!”
And then, just when my Mother got within five or ten feet of the well, my brother let go of the rope and there was a horrendous splash as the rock he had tied to the end of the rope descended deep into the well.
By now, I heard the commotion and came running from my upstairs hideaway to see what all the hullabaloo was about.
_____
Now my Mother was a very patient and kind woman. I don’t remember what was said, I know my mother wept loud sobbing cries of relief when she saw me. And then my brother, grinning sheepishly, was firmly grasped by one arm and tossed into the root cellar and the door was slammed shut.
That is the only time anyone was ever in there with the door closed that I know of.
(to be continued...)
NEXT POST: 2. The Edgar Allan Poe Nightmare
It was a secret door, almost secret, except for the metal circular ring that lay flush with the floor in a round shallow cut of the same size. You had to bend and look closely, within a certain line of light to see in the lino, the outline of the little square door that led to the secret passage.
When the ring was lifted and the small door pulled open, nothing could be seen but a few steps and a hole of black darkness. The coolness was such that when the door was opened, spirits rose from within in wispy transparent death-dress. Hell’s hole. Pretty much. But still, t his is where my Mother sent us for carrots, potatoes, and on one occasion — for disciplinary measure.
The root cellar smelled earthy, fusty, funereal. The five wooden steps were slick with black mold that made their sturdiness questionable. And when I descended gingerly with pail in hand, I shivered with horror and a definite foreboding. Multiple times, I offered my services to do another’s chores, or my small monthly allowance to a sibling to avoid the split-second task of getting vegetables for dinner. Descent into that tomb? Not if I could avoid it.
_____
Always my greatest horror was someone would shut the door before I was resurrected to the light. And it would bind and stick as it so often did. And I would thus find in my crouched position on the upper steps a law of physics that in my mind was already suspect. That without methodology, instruction, or Newton-theory or Einstein-understanding that ‘an upward pressing force is far less efficient than an elevating lift’ –particularly if some stupid fool is standing on the door and cannot hear the pounding of my fists on sodden moldy wood or my yells to be released forthwith.
Monsters under the bed? So what?
Boogie-Man in the closet? With one eye in the middle of his forehead, and a pitchfork, and a black stallion for quickness of movement? So what?
In these matters I can be so brave because all of it and none of it was comparable to the horror of the thought of being trapped in the cold cellar.
_____
And so a day came, when these theories were tested.
In one act of parental desperation my brat brother was put in the cellar and the door was shut. On that particular day, he chopped a hole in the ice in the well with an ax. He then tied a length of rope to a large and heavy rock. And when I disappeared for a time in the quiet of my upstairs room with books and dolls, that was the opportunity he was waiting for. That meant it was time to perform what he thought was a wonderfully witty joke on my Mother. And so then, while my Mother busied herself in the kitchen, from outside my brother sent up a terrible howl from the yard.
My Mother ran to the door to see what the problem was. There was my brat bother holding a taut rope some twenty feet from the well.
“Help Mom! Oh Help!”, he screamed. “Roberta is in the well and I can’t get her out.”
Without donning shoes or coat, my mother ran to the well leaping through the snow in bare feet to the bottom of a hill as fast as her legs would carry her. Meanwhile my brother was screaming, “The rope is slipping. I can’t hang on. The rope is slipping!”
And then, just when my Mother got within five or ten feet of the well, my brother let go of the rope and there was a horrendous splash as the rock he had tied to the end of the rope descended deep into the well.
By now, I heard the commotion and came running from my upstairs hideaway to see what all the hullabaloo was about.
_____
Now my Mother was a very patient and kind woman. I don’t remember what was said, I know my mother wept loud sobbing cries of relief when she saw me. And then my brother, grinning sheepishly, was firmly grasped by one arm and tossed into the root cellar and the door was slammed shut.
That is the only time anyone was ever in there with the door closed that I know of.
(to be continued...)
NEXT POST: 2. The Edgar Allan Poe Nightmare
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Ships in Bottles
I have always been completely fascinated by Ships in Bottles. I’m certain the very first clipper ship I ever saw was a miniature in a bottle.
I saw it at a house my parents visited when I was but a child. But to me, it was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen. I never forgot how beautiful it was with its wee sails and rigging and every detail so exact. And yes it was on a blue ocean and there in front of a window, with bright sunshine lighting the interior of the bottle, it seemed all too real. And then, of course, the most fascinating enigma of all, was “How did they get that ship in that bottle?”
And so now, for Christmas, I found a very simple kit for building a ship in a bottle and bought it for my 7-year-old grandson. Now just because I have a great love, and fascination, with ships in a bottle will not mean that he has. There is no context in his experience to give him the same fascination.
So I wrote a wee book for him with ship poems, ship-in-a-bottle history notes, and my own story of my first encounter with the ship in a bottle when I was a child. I will spare you the reading of the entire book. I only want to share with you a silly poem I wrote for his little book.
SHIP IN A BOTTLE, SAIL SAFELY AWAY
They were sailing, fast a-sailing
In a sunbeam on the shelf
Sea a-foaming, sails a-billowing
Captained by a tiny elf.
They were rum-mied up and jolly
Singing songs of sailing fame
And I could not help but want so much
To join them in their game.
To face the sea from the upper deck
And see flat waters with a curve
They call’d to me, “It is your watch.”
I thought that quite absurd.
The tiny ropes were coiled up tight
Lifesavers in their places
The main sail billowed like a flying kite
With the ocean spraying traces.
___
I could not stay my little hand
The sea called out to me
So I took the ship down from the shelf
To sea what I could see.
I turned it over in my hands
To have a better look
And yes, I saw the captain there,
And I think I saw the cook.
I pulled the cork out of the bottle
Looked in that porthole small
Then suddenly the bottle slipped
I saw it bump the wall.
I scooped both hands so quickly
Down near the hard slate floor
And in a nick of time I caught
And saved the Misty Moor.
Tiny voices rummied up
All danced and cried with glee
And in that careless wreckless dance
They fell into the sea.
Before I could cast my tweezers
Down the tiny bottle-neck
I saw the cook throw out life savers
And say, “Get these round your neck!”
They grabbed the tiny lemon candies
The LifeSavers that were chucked
And so managed to keep a-floating
Till with tweezers they were plucked.
I pinched their trousers in the backside
And pulled them up on the deck
And again I heard that same small voice
Muttering, “What the heck?”
So now they’re back there in the cabin
Of the tall ship, Misty Moor
And I am very grateful that
With my help, they did endure.
When ships are built in bottles
The crafting lends a charm
That will safely keep the real ship
Forever free from harm.
____
Later on the radio,
I heard something very odd
The real Moor was so embattled
Only help could come from God.
They said she clashed with giant waves,
Round the coast of Cull Eldees,
There was little hope she could be saved
In those rough, tempestuous seas.
But a miniature in a bottle
Made with patience and with care
Gave salvation to the Big Ship
To escape the wild sea’s snare.
Because that mini-ship was bottled
The Big Ship was safe that day,
And the Misty Moor, at nightfall
Docked safely in the bay.
2009 Roberta Smith
Hope you enjoyed the poem.
Have a Very Happy Holiday Season!!
I saw it at a house my parents visited when I was but a child. But to me, it was one of the most amazing things I had ever seen. I never forgot how beautiful it was with its wee sails and rigging and every detail so exact. And yes it was on a blue ocean and there in front of a window, with bright sunshine lighting the interior of the bottle, it seemed all too real. And then, of course, the most fascinating enigma of all, was “How did they get that ship in that bottle?”
And so now, for Christmas, I found a very simple kit for building a ship in a bottle and bought it for my 7-year-old grandson. Now just because I have a great love, and fascination, with ships in a bottle will not mean that he has. There is no context in his experience to give him the same fascination.
So I wrote a wee book for him with ship poems, ship-in-a-bottle history notes, and my own story of my first encounter with the ship in a bottle when I was a child. I will spare you the reading of the entire book. I only want to share with you a silly poem I wrote for his little book.
SHIP IN A BOTTLE, SAIL SAFELY AWAY
They were sailing, fast a-sailing
In a sunbeam on the shelf
Sea a-foaming, sails a-billowing
Captained by a tiny elf.
They were rum-mied up and jolly
Singing songs of sailing fame
And I could not help but want so much
To join them in their game.
To face the sea from the upper deck
And see flat waters with a curve
They call’d to me, “It is your watch.”
I thought that quite absurd.
The tiny ropes were coiled up tight
Lifesavers in their places
The main sail billowed like a flying kite
With the ocean spraying traces.
___
I could not stay my little hand
The sea called out to me
So I took the ship down from the shelf
To sea what I could see.
I turned it over in my hands
To have a better look
And yes, I saw the captain there,
And I think I saw the cook.
I pulled the cork out of the bottle
Looked in that porthole small
Then suddenly the bottle slipped
I saw it bump the wall.
I scooped both hands so quickly
Down near the hard slate floor
And in a nick of time I caught
And saved the Misty Moor.
Tiny voices rummied up
All danced and cried with glee
And in that careless wreckless dance
They fell into the sea.
Before I could cast my tweezers
Down the tiny bottle-neck
I saw the cook throw out life savers
And say, “Get these round your neck!”
They grabbed the tiny lemon candies
The LifeSavers that were chucked
And so managed to keep a-floating
Till with tweezers they were plucked.
I pinched their trousers in the backside
And pulled them up on the deck
And again I heard that same small voice
Muttering, “What the heck?”
So now they’re back there in the cabin
Of the tall ship, Misty Moor
And I am very grateful that
With my help, they did endure.
When ships are built in bottles
The crafting lends a charm
That will safely keep the real ship
Forever free from harm.
____
Later on the radio,
I heard something very odd
The real Moor was so embattled
Only help could come from God.
They said she clashed with giant waves,
Round the coast of Cull Eldees,
There was little hope she could be saved
In those rough, tempestuous seas.
But a miniature in a bottle
Made with patience and with care
Gave salvation to the Big Ship
To escape the wild sea’s snare.
Because that mini-ship was bottled
The Big Ship was safe that day,
And the Misty Moor, at nightfall
Docked safely in the bay.
2009 Roberta Smith
Hope you enjoyed the poem.
Have a Very Happy Holiday Season!!
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sufficient for Any Season - III (conclusion)
Wounded Enough to Smile
Now all that I have told you so far is a multi-layered thing. And it is only now, in the writing of this, and in present reflective contemplation of my past, that I attempt to peal back the layers to find what drove me to be the kind of person I was.
And regrettably, if only somewhere along the way, I had done the level of inner reflection I now do, I could have done so much better. I could have been, in my youth, so much more the optimist, more the happy, more the dispenser of (sincere) smiles.
But all I can do now is discuss the experience and ponder over what might have been. A useless exercise so many will say, but if there is a story in it, I am a story teller, and I will tell the story.
And so, from that point on, rather than smiling, I took on a wounded countenance. As a teen I used my wounded countenance to flirt with cute boys. Of course it was a wounded countenance with sad, sad, eyes, and no hint of a smile. That proved to be a delicate exercise to get just right, the wounded look, without a scowl.
Now I can hardly bare to write this next sentence – in retrospect, it was such a dumb philosophy, but all I could calculate as a worthy measure at the time. The theory when it came to flirting? Make them feel sorry for you and they’ll ask you for a date. Be humble, be quiet, reserved, and act wounded.
But now I’m going to leave that and fast track ahead to one brief period of enlightenment along my long road of, for lack of a better word, stupidity. Not too many years ago, I encountered an old flame whose looks are now charred, as mine are, by gray hair, wrinkled skin, and the physical wasting and weakening ravages of time.
Now way back then, he was a prize, or so I thought, and so I looked him over and wondered what drew me to him. And immediately I realized it was his smile. His perpetual smile.
And wouldn’t you know it? Right then, in that chance meeting, so many years later, he handed me the gift mentioned in the beginning of this rant – that old familiar smile. And I felt the joy that the gift of a sincere (though somewhat foolish), smile can give. Jolted me back to the original story we discussed at the beginning of this rant.
So now I’m back in a space wavering between smiles and wounded looks. The wounded look cannot continue. I am forced to return to the original act of dispensing with unlimited generosity an abundance of smiles. Not smiles of big God grace, or movie-star pasted, or ‘see my nice teeth’ (though my new dentures are very nice indeed), but smiles of absolutely nothing more than true sincerity. Fundamentally because I have reached a point where I have nothing else to flash that will create a gift-exchange of joy equal to that discussed in a small classroom so very long ago.
And added to that, life has a fragility now that could cause it to so easily break, that it is silly to take it too seriously. And furthermore, I have so many more reasons to smile than look wounded. Because even without the beauty of my youth, and even with the pain of rheumatism and the discouragement of the sameness of routines and the bothersome chores and difficulties of each day, I have reasons to smile.
I smile now because the sky is so beautiful, the season so precious, the snow so white and fresh, and the weather all that it promised to be and more (Brr…). I smile because big scary global warming is happening, but not where I live.
On top of that, I smile because I have the comfort, security, and confidence that I understand where I once was, and where I am now. Truly, that is a reason to smile.
I smile too because compassion is no longer a happening. Try as I might, I can’t even put on a wounded look anymore. You have to be fresh and vibrant to do that.
A failing thing cannot apply a wounded look sufficient for anyone to notice.
Now all that I have told you so far is a multi-layered thing. And it is only now, in the writing of this, and in present reflective contemplation of my past, that I attempt to peal back the layers to find what drove me to be the kind of person I was.
And regrettably, if only somewhere along the way, I had done the level of inner reflection I now do, I could have done so much better. I could have been, in my youth, so much more the optimist, more the happy, more the dispenser of (sincere) smiles.
But all I can do now is discuss the experience and ponder over what might have been. A useless exercise so many will say, but if there is a story in it, I am a story teller, and I will tell the story.
And so, from that point on, rather than smiling, I took on a wounded countenance. As a teen I used my wounded countenance to flirt with cute boys. Of course it was a wounded countenance with sad, sad, eyes, and no hint of a smile. That proved to be a delicate exercise to get just right, the wounded look, without a scowl.
Now I can hardly bare to write this next sentence – in retrospect, it was such a dumb philosophy, but all I could calculate as a worthy measure at the time. The theory when it came to flirting? Make them feel sorry for you and they’ll ask you for a date. Be humble, be quiet, reserved, and act wounded.
But now I’m going to leave that and fast track ahead to one brief period of enlightenment along my long road of, for lack of a better word, stupidity. Not too many years ago, I encountered an old flame whose looks are now charred, as mine are, by gray hair, wrinkled skin, and the physical wasting and weakening ravages of time.
Now way back then, he was a prize, or so I thought, and so I looked him over and wondered what drew me to him. And immediately I realized it was his smile. His perpetual smile.
And wouldn’t you know it? Right then, in that chance meeting, so many years later, he handed me the gift mentioned in the beginning of this rant – that old familiar smile. And I felt the joy that the gift of a sincere (though somewhat foolish), smile can give. Jolted me back to the original story we discussed at the beginning of this rant.
So now I’m back in a space wavering between smiles and wounded looks. The wounded look cannot continue. I am forced to return to the original act of dispensing with unlimited generosity an abundance of smiles. Not smiles of big God grace, or movie-star pasted, or ‘see my nice teeth’ (though my new dentures are very nice indeed), but smiles of absolutely nothing more than true sincerity. Fundamentally because I have reached a point where I have nothing else to flash that will create a gift-exchange of joy equal to that discussed in a small classroom so very long ago.
And added to that, life has a fragility now that could cause it to so easily break, that it is silly to take it too seriously. And furthermore, I have so many more reasons to smile than look wounded. Because even without the beauty of my youth, and even with the pain of rheumatism and the discouragement of the sameness of routines and the bothersome chores and difficulties of each day, I have reasons to smile.
I smile now because the sky is so beautiful, the season so precious, the snow so white and fresh, and the weather all that it promised to be and more (Brr…). I smile because big scary global warming is happening, but not where I live.
On top of that, I smile because I have the comfort, security, and confidence that I understand where I once was, and where I am now. Truly, that is a reason to smile.
I smile too because compassion is no longer a happening. Try as I might, I can’t even put on a wounded look anymore. You have to be fresh and vibrant to do that.
A failing thing cannot apply a wounded look sufficient for anyone to notice.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Sufficient for Any Season - II (cont'd)
The Wounded Look
In my analysis of other people, which I have been doing for a lifetime, more so than analysis of myself, I realized early on that sincerity coupled with wholesomeness has great appeal. There is no denying that. And so I returned to an examination of other facets of righteous, forever smiling, beautiful people like those depicted in my Sunday School paper.
And what I came to realize is that Godly people, (and perhaps even the un-Godly), if they are sincere in their role of a beautiful person, must, as part of that dedication to being a ‘beautiful person’, be compassionate to the nth degree. That is a necessary requirement for the ‘beautiful person’ commitment.
So in my struggle for popularity, acceptance, and joy in life, why not forget about the foolishness of smiling and instead simply reveal my need for compassion. Life is too worrisome to smile all the time, so why not put on a glum, serious face, and in doing so, buy into the compassion of the beautiful smiling people?
After all, my Father is a beautiful person, and he is compassionate when I am sad. My Mother is a beautiful person and she is compassionate when I am sad. Even my siblings, though not exactly beautiful people, become compassionate when I, for a certainty, am sad.
The bottom line is if one must smile with insincerity or foolishly, for the sake of a smile exchange, wouldn’t it be better to adopt a wounded look that invites doting compassion. And then smile with true delight while bathed in the compassion of others? Somehow, that seemed like a loftier perch than the equanimity of foolish and rather meaningless smile exchanges.
Seeking compassion, and receiving it, it seemed to me, could create a situation touching for all, and for me, only me, a dramatic saturation of joy in all my emotional hot spots.
And so, with that realization, I took on this wounded countenance. This glum look. This unsmiling look. This look that begged for compassion. And soon it became a way of life.
NEXT POST: Wounded Enough to Smile
In my analysis of other people, which I have been doing for a lifetime, more so than analysis of myself, I realized early on that sincerity coupled with wholesomeness has great appeal. There is no denying that. And so I returned to an examination of other facets of righteous, forever smiling, beautiful people like those depicted in my Sunday School paper.
And what I came to realize is that Godly people, (and perhaps even the un-Godly), if they are sincere in their role of a beautiful person, must, as part of that dedication to being a ‘beautiful person’, be compassionate to the nth degree. That is a necessary requirement for the ‘beautiful person’ commitment.
So in my struggle for popularity, acceptance, and joy in life, why not forget about the foolishness of smiling and instead simply reveal my need for compassion. Life is too worrisome to smile all the time, so why not put on a glum, serious face, and in doing so, buy into the compassion of the beautiful smiling people?
After all, my Father is a beautiful person, and he is compassionate when I am sad. My Mother is a beautiful person and she is compassionate when I am sad. Even my siblings, though not exactly beautiful people, become compassionate when I, for a certainty, am sad.
The bottom line is if one must smile with insincerity or foolishly, for the sake of a smile exchange, wouldn’t it be better to adopt a wounded look that invites doting compassion. And then smile with true delight while bathed in the compassion of others? Somehow, that seemed like a loftier perch than the equanimity of foolish and rather meaningless smile exchanges.
Seeking compassion, and receiving it, it seemed to me, could create a situation touching for all, and for me, only me, a dramatic saturation of joy in all my emotional hot spots.
And so, with that realization, I took on this wounded countenance. This glum look. This unsmiling look. This look that begged for compassion. And soon it became a way of life.
NEXT POST: Wounded Enough to Smile
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Sufficient for Any Season - I
1. Beautiful People
Today I’m thinking about a story told by my teacher (when I was in first grade), and a fascinating story it was. A story about something we all have in abundance. That caught my full attention because in my childhood the only thing we had in abundance was ‘want’. Want of money, want of food, want of warm clothes, and want of enough coal for the long winter.
And more surprising, the something in the story, though precious, was meant to be given to others fast and furiously, yet it could never be depleted. Because always as much as one gave away, the same, or more, would be returned. And the exchange, whether giving or taking, would bring much joy. How amazing is that!
Obviously, ‘This is either a new fairy-tale, or a pretend situation similar to the trick of my Dad pinching my nose and playfully extracting it between two fingers and putting it in his pocket. A story, like the extracted nose trick, that requires me to pretend something is real, that isn’t real.’
Pretend or not, the answer was eventually revealed, and the answer, of course, was ‘a smile’.
I was a wee bit disappointed but still I smiled at the story and so did my classmates and as we glanced (and smiled) at each other, for one quick moment the joy that the story promised for ‘the exchange’ was felt. True to the tale, but the recompense rather short-lived. And so I began to give much thought to the worth of smiles.
And that is when I noticed that in Sunday School papers there were always children who ceaselessly smiled. Children with ruddy glowing faces and great broad and beaming smiles.
I envied their beauty and could only think it was because they were wrapped in pure thoughts, silver notions, and God-possessed grace. The orphan child’s face, the forgotten waif’s, the thin hungry child – all of them – depicted with beaming beautiful smiles. It mattered not that they faced such obstacles. Regardless of their many trials, they peeked at me from those pages with optimistic delight. I guess if you have enough discipline, self-confidence, and righteous grace, it is not possible to be ruffled by want or cruel misfortune.
And so I envied their happiness. I envied their happiness when they had reasons to be happy. But I envied even more the individuals who were happy when they had so little to be happy about. It never occurred to me that their flat world of printed and color-washed sketches was too vastly separated from my reality to even have relevance.
I reveled in their glowing faces and broad smiles that made them so stunningly beautiful. That is what I wanted as well – to be that beautiful. So I tried desperately to clone the personalities revealed in the stories that surrounded them. I tried to clone their purity, grace, patience, forgiveness, and staunch self-confidence in their own righteousness.
But it was not so easy. Classmates taunted me for my valiant goody two-shoes efforts. Even my teacher became impatient, as did my parents and siblings, with this great and wonderful righteous thing I was trying to do.
___
And so, before long, I had a different take on the perpetual glowing smiling face. I was still a pre-adolescent when I realized that life is not something to be taken that lightly. Life is a struggle. A struggle to do well in school. A struggle to make friends. A struggle to feel good about wearing hand-me-downs, that are neither fashionable, colorful, fresh-looking, or warm. All of these obstacles added up to too much embarrassment and degradation for me to pass around smiles all day long without reservation.
Furthermore, as time passed, I met too many people that smiled too much. There was the nurse my Mom knew whose face was forever flushed with an ironic smirk-smile. A smile that deviously attempted to mask her distaste for all of life and the inhabitants in it.
And there was the Sunday School teacher that smiled too much in an attempt to clone wholesomeness beneath a private wealth of sins. And there was the School Bus driver that smiled too much in an attempt to always look professional (I guess). And there was the man and his team of perpetual smilers who walked the streets shaking hands and knocking at doors for several weeks in order to gain support for a local upcoming election.
There was the half-wit in town sweeping the sidewalks and perpetually smiling at some nonsensical nothingness. There was the neighbor who smiled all the time but in all things was such a failure because his smile was a cover for all he did not understand about finances, farming, or the seriousness of life. I began to think they were a bunch of fools. Foolish people smile all the time. People too foolish to realize life is serious business and all applications of it, serious as well.
Obviously, with these observations, I could only conclude that the value of a smile is both overstated and overrated, and so it quickly became a shabby accessory in my books.
_____
Cont’d: Next Post: The Wounded Look
Today I’m thinking about a story told by my teacher (when I was in first grade), and a fascinating story it was. A story about something we all have in abundance. That caught my full attention because in my childhood the only thing we had in abundance was ‘want’. Want of money, want of food, want of warm clothes, and want of enough coal for the long winter.
And more surprising, the something in the story, though precious, was meant to be given to others fast and furiously, yet it could never be depleted. Because always as much as one gave away, the same, or more, would be returned. And the exchange, whether giving or taking, would bring much joy. How amazing is that!
Obviously, ‘This is either a new fairy-tale, or a pretend situation similar to the trick of my Dad pinching my nose and playfully extracting it between two fingers and putting it in his pocket. A story, like the extracted nose trick, that requires me to pretend something is real, that isn’t real.’
Pretend or not, the answer was eventually revealed, and the answer, of course, was ‘a smile’.
I was a wee bit disappointed but still I smiled at the story and so did my classmates and as we glanced (and smiled) at each other, for one quick moment the joy that the story promised for ‘the exchange’ was felt. True to the tale, but the recompense rather short-lived. And so I began to give much thought to the worth of smiles.
And that is when I noticed that in Sunday School papers there were always children who ceaselessly smiled. Children with ruddy glowing faces and great broad and beaming smiles.
I envied their beauty and could only think it was because they were wrapped in pure thoughts, silver notions, and God-possessed grace. The orphan child’s face, the forgotten waif’s, the thin hungry child – all of them – depicted with beaming beautiful smiles. It mattered not that they faced such obstacles. Regardless of their many trials, they peeked at me from those pages with optimistic delight. I guess if you have enough discipline, self-confidence, and righteous grace, it is not possible to be ruffled by want or cruel misfortune.
And so I envied their happiness. I envied their happiness when they had reasons to be happy. But I envied even more the individuals who were happy when they had so little to be happy about. It never occurred to me that their flat world of printed and color-washed sketches was too vastly separated from my reality to even have relevance.
I reveled in their glowing faces and broad smiles that made them so stunningly beautiful. That is what I wanted as well – to be that beautiful. So I tried desperately to clone the personalities revealed in the stories that surrounded them. I tried to clone their purity, grace, patience, forgiveness, and staunch self-confidence in their own righteousness.
But it was not so easy. Classmates taunted me for my valiant goody two-shoes efforts. Even my teacher became impatient, as did my parents and siblings, with this great and wonderful righteous thing I was trying to do.
___
And so, before long, I had a different take on the perpetual glowing smiling face. I was still a pre-adolescent when I realized that life is not something to be taken that lightly. Life is a struggle. A struggle to do well in school. A struggle to make friends. A struggle to feel good about wearing hand-me-downs, that are neither fashionable, colorful, fresh-looking, or warm. All of these obstacles added up to too much embarrassment and degradation for me to pass around smiles all day long without reservation.
Furthermore, as time passed, I met too many people that smiled too much. There was the nurse my Mom knew whose face was forever flushed with an ironic smirk-smile. A smile that deviously attempted to mask her distaste for all of life and the inhabitants in it.
And there was the Sunday School teacher that smiled too much in an attempt to clone wholesomeness beneath a private wealth of sins. And there was the School Bus driver that smiled too much in an attempt to always look professional (I guess). And there was the man and his team of perpetual smilers who walked the streets shaking hands and knocking at doors for several weeks in order to gain support for a local upcoming election.
There was the half-wit in town sweeping the sidewalks and perpetually smiling at some nonsensical nothingness. There was the neighbor who smiled all the time but in all things was such a failure because his smile was a cover for all he did not understand about finances, farming, or the seriousness of life. I began to think they were a bunch of fools. Foolish people smile all the time. People too foolish to realize life is serious business and all applications of it, serious as well.
Obviously, with these observations, I could only conclude that the value of a smile is both overstated and overrated, and so it quickly became a shabby accessory in my books.
_____
Cont’d: Next Post: The Wounded Look
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Death & Resurrection of Faith #2
(To appreciate this story, you need to read Part 1, before continuing with this conclusion)
Come Take a Portion of Faith – Pt. 2
Now Bible Camp and in particular, The Tabernacle, is a place of revelations where unseen occupants of heaven descend and commune and touch those within. It is a place of revelations through miracles, faith, healing, tongue-speaking, and soul-changing blessings. Normally, that is, but the shavings on the floor have told me a different story.
The adults at Camp assumed they had a monopoly on these messages, visions, and all other forms of heavenly contact. They assumed children were excluded. But that was just not so. I received a message. The message contained within the ‘Parable of the Shavings’. I wanted desperately to tell them ‘my message’ but unfortunately, I had not the courage or opportunity to do so.
And so, I remained silent as the Minister concluded his sermon with an announcement that he had a special surprise for us. And with that, he nodded toward a dim corner at the side of the platform. Shavings rustled softly as a tiny woman moved to the side of the platform and made her way slowly and unsteadily up three steps with an old cane as crooked and bent as she. The crowd applauded with delight at a figure familiar, and so well-known to all of us.
It was Mrs. Rett, with her bright little eyes that always twinkled and her precious mouth that only smiled. Mrs. Rett was a black woman. Black as midnight. But in Bible-Camp circles, she was a camp-celeb – renowned for her grace and goodness, renowned for her unshakable faith. Faith sufficient to part the sea, or move mountains if she chose to. And if the color of her skin made a difference, the only difference was the keen awareness we all had of her special gift of faith and unwavering goodness.
Now this particular day was Mrs. Rett’s ninetieth birthday. And what you need to realize about that is we are talking about a time when life expectancy was probably no more than sixty-four years. And so now the Minister left the podium and Mrs. Rett steadied herself with feet spread and both hands on her cane in front of her.
“Friends, I am soon going to be moving to another place,” she said in a feeble voice, “and I wanted to say a special good-bye to all of you before I left.”
Here the pianist rippled a few soft notes, and Mrs. Rett began to sing.
“Some day the silver chord will break,
And I no more, as now shall sing…”
The chord, if there was one was already broken. And we truly hoped that she ‘no more, as now would sing.’ Her voice was squawky, raspy, pitchy, cracked, and brittle. In a way that made even I, though just a child, feel the embarrassment and concern we so often have when another human being is in a situation that perhaps it would be best for them not to be in. But then Mrs. Rett raised her head towards the orange-colored canvas overhead, where the golden sunlight was filtering through, and continued her song.
“…but oh the joy, when I shall wake,
Within the palace of the King…”
And suddenly the melody was sweet and pure – her voice steady and unwavering. The sound as silken as the smooth warbling of a nightingale. And all the time we saw, in the midnight blackness of her countenance, her bright eyes and warm smile.
“…and I shall see him face-to-face…”
And that is when the most uncanny thing happened. I know others saw it too. Mrs. Rett’s charcoal-colored face suddenly turned silver –as silver as a radiant crystal with an inner glowing light. And those bright eyes were no longer fixed on us. They were fixed on something else that broadened her smile even more.
And that’s when all that I had lost from within my longing, vacant, empty soul, came rushing back with a force that made my knees weaken. I looked around me, and I could feel it in the room. Hope and faith and unwavering belief flooded the tent with a force that loudly rippled the canvas.
And I knew in that moment that everyone in that room, every single solitary person – sinner, agnostic, atheist, or believer, seized hold of a portion of Mrs. Rett’s faith. And in that moment, every one of us had faith that could part seas or move mountains – if that is what we chose to do. I believe at that moment we had enough collective faith to even turn the shavings on the floor into tightly-spliced floorboards.
And so this is where my story concludes. There is nothing more to tell you except that bit which is simply a matter of fact.
Mrs. Rett died a couple months later. And who knows? There may or may not be a heaven, there may or may not be a hell, there may or may not be a God. But if faith can do all it promises to do, of one thing I am certain – whether the foregoing questions are answered ‘yea’ or ‘nay’.
The thing I am certain of (no matter how barren the fact, science, or truth) is that there is one wee mansion with one lone wee occupant straight up, overhead, right up there – beyond the sky!
Come Take a Portion of Faith – Pt. 2
Now Bible Camp and in particular, The Tabernacle, is a place of revelations where unseen occupants of heaven descend and commune and touch those within. It is a place of revelations through miracles, faith, healing, tongue-speaking, and soul-changing blessings. Normally, that is, but the shavings on the floor have told me a different story.
The adults at Camp assumed they had a monopoly on these messages, visions, and all other forms of heavenly contact. They assumed children were excluded. But that was just not so. I received a message. The message contained within the ‘Parable of the Shavings’. I wanted desperately to tell them ‘my message’ but unfortunately, I had not the courage or opportunity to do so.
And so, I remained silent as the Minister concluded his sermon with an announcement that he had a special surprise for us. And with that, he nodded toward a dim corner at the side of the platform. Shavings rustled softly as a tiny woman moved to the side of the platform and made her way slowly and unsteadily up three steps with an old cane as crooked and bent as she. The crowd applauded with delight at a figure familiar, and so well-known to all of us.
It was Mrs. Rett, with her bright little eyes that always twinkled and her precious mouth that only smiled. Mrs. Rett was a black woman. Black as midnight. But in Bible-Camp circles, she was a camp-celeb – renowned for her grace and goodness, renowned for her unshakable faith. Faith sufficient to part the sea, or move mountains if she chose to. And if the color of her skin made a difference, the only difference was the keen awareness we all had of her special gift of faith and unwavering goodness.
Now this particular day was Mrs. Rett’s ninetieth birthday. And what you need to realize about that is we are talking about a time when life expectancy was probably no more than sixty-four years. And so now the Minister left the podium and Mrs. Rett steadied herself with feet spread and both hands on her cane in front of her.
“Friends, I am soon going to be moving to another place,” she said in a feeble voice, “and I wanted to say a special good-bye to all of you before I left.”
Here the pianist rippled a few soft notes, and Mrs. Rett began to sing.
“Some day the silver chord will break,
And I no more, as now shall sing…”
The chord, if there was one was already broken. And we truly hoped that she ‘no more, as now would sing.’ Her voice was squawky, raspy, pitchy, cracked, and brittle. In a way that made even I, though just a child, feel the embarrassment and concern we so often have when another human being is in a situation that perhaps it would be best for them not to be in. But then Mrs. Rett raised her head towards the orange-colored canvas overhead, where the golden sunlight was filtering through, and continued her song.
“…but oh the joy, when I shall wake,
Within the palace of the King…”
And suddenly the melody was sweet and pure – her voice steady and unwavering. The sound as silken as the smooth warbling of a nightingale. And all the time we saw, in the midnight blackness of her countenance, her bright eyes and warm smile.
“…and I shall see him face-to-face…”
And that is when the most uncanny thing happened. I know others saw it too. Mrs. Rett’s charcoal-colored face suddenly turned silver –as silver as a radiant crystal with an inner glowing light. And those bright eyes were no longer fixed on us. They were fixed on something else that broadened her smile even more.
And that’s when all that I had lost from within my longing, vacant, empty soul, came rushing back with a force that made my knees weaken. I looked around me, and I could feel it in the room. Hope and faith and unwavering belief flooded the tent with a force that loudly rippled the canvas.
And I knew in that moment that everyone in that room, every single solitary person – sinner, agnostic, atheist, or believer, seized hold of a portion of Mrs. Rett’s faith. And in that moment, every one of us had faith that could part seas or move mountains – if that is what we chose to do. I believe at that moment we had enough collective faith to even turn the shavings on the floor into tightly-spliced floorboards.
And so this is where my story concludes. There is nothing more to tell you except that bit which is simply a matter of fact.
Mrs. Rett died a couple months later. And who knows? There may or may not be a heaven, there may or may not be a hell, there may or may not be a God. But if faith can do all it promises to do, of one thing I am certain – whether the foregoing questions are answered ‘yea’ or ‘nay’.
The thing I am certain of (no matter how barren the fact, science, or truth) is that there is one wee mansion with one lone wee occupant straight up, overhead, right up there – beyond the sky!
Monday, May 4, 2009
The Death & Resurrection of Faith #1
The Parable of the Shavings – Pt. 1
Some stories of my childhood defy my ability to tell a story, and this story about the mysticism of faith, is one of them. The story has meaning impoverished by only words. But still, with no other way to tell it, I hope I can find enough inspiration in a long-ago memory to make the meaning of the story transcend the insufficiency of the words.
The story is about Bible Camp – that ritualistic 4 or 8 or 10-step program dedicated to making kids the best they can be. But unlike other self-help programs, I didn’t have to first recognize I had a problem. I didn’t even have to have a problem. My Mother just assumed if I didn’t go, she would have a problem, so every year, I and my siblings, went to Bible Camp.
So now, let us first examine the camp-grounds. The original camp I went to had two granaries connected together that served as a kitchen and dining area. Another granary with too few windows sufficed as the girls’ sleeping dorm. The boys slept in a big tent and church took place in a much larger tent – orange-colored like a circus tent.
The once-circus-tent, now-camp-tent, was referred to as the Tabernacle, and inside were rows of crude wooden benches and at the front a wooden platform. The floor was sod of some sort, heavily layered with fresh, pale-colored, sweet-smelling wood shavings. And it is the wood-shavings I want to talk about, because that is where the story begins.
But first I must tell you that when nothing was going on in the Tabernacle, adults or children were still free to go there. And because, for the time being, the tent served as a church, we were expected while there to be quietly tranquil and reverent as is expected in any church. And so, one day, in the quiet tranquillity of the Tabernacle, I sat alone on a bench waiting for some friends, and quietly scuffling, with my feet, the shavings on the floor.
I had already been at Camp a few days, and of course with all the sermons, songs, and prayers, I was at a new high in my faith. Soul and mind overflowing with self-righteousness and resolve to be more kind, loving, reverent, faithful, and mindful of my spiritual wellness.
But as I examine the shavings on the floor, an obtuse thought came to mind. I find it rather amazing that although the remnants at my feet are the same fiber, the same color, and material, as a solid wooden floor – this is not anything like a solid wooden floor. It is only fragments of the original. Posing in a shameful way as a wooden floor, but not really a wooden floor.
And then that obtuse thought became even more obtuse. I began to wonder if the shavings were translating a message to me? The Bible relates stories of messages from God being relayed through simple things like the sun, a burning bush, tablets of rock, grass-dew and rain. Wood-shavings seem to fit that category, so is there a message for me in those shavings?
But at that moment a crowd arrived and seated themselves for the afternoon service. And, as generally was the case, the service commenced with singing and a few announcements. The singing was nice, but in a weak way. Relative, it seemed, to the shavings on the floor.
Now came the sermon. The minister gave dramatic inflection to every word. His body was animated. His eyes wept tears – of happiness one moment, concerned sadness for souls the next. Somehow, though, I wasn’t getting it. I was still too preoccupied with the shavings on the floor. And despite the Minister’s heroic efforts to make a solid impact on everyone in that place, I was more intent on understanding the translation within the context of the shavings on the floor.
And then came a dark realization. Perhaps the shavings signify a warning from God about my spiritual wellness and the authenticity of Bible Camp instruction. Maybe the counterfeit relationship between shavings and a wood floor is being paralleled here in the form of false spiritual instruction mimicking, in a similar way, something solid, true, and good.
Maybe this sermon, despite the dramatics of the Minister, is nothing more than a counterfeit and blended mix of shards of human-based and Bible-driven thinking, that can never provide solid transport for my soul from present life to an eternal place of refuge.
But how, pray tell, did I end up involved in such obviously complex and convoluted thinking? Truthfully, I cannot believe for one minute that it originated in my nine-year-old brain without heavenly assistance.
And so, that is how the Parable of Shavings formed in my mind, albeit in a more rudimentary way, and as it clarified, my heart and soul felt truly vexed. Hollow and empty of the usual warming convictions that had always come to me in the Tabernacle. And then as the sermon drew to an end, I felt an uneasy chill as a sudden final backwash left my inner spirit devoid of any previous convictions. And with that, a searing sense of abandonment that I expect only an orphan could understand.
I determined to look away from the floor, but by then not even the happy shouts of “Glory! Hallelujah!” or the magical gold wash of color that bathed all of us within those orange canvas walls could shake the impending agnosticism that now heavily bordered on something even more extreme. The “ath----” thing. I’m reluctant to say it, but I’m sure you know what I mean.
NEXT POST is about a broken 'chord' and faith restored.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Fresh Air and Sunshine
How much is too much fresh air and sunshine (FA&S)? At what level does it exceed the saturation point? Surely all things, including FA&S, for the sake of a reasonably balanced existence, should be done in moderation.
But my life has been one of excess. With all the times, as a child, that I was kicked out of classroom or house for FA&S, I think I’ve had my quota.
I still remember being shooed out of the school during recess or noon hour for FA&S. But even more vividly, I remember the emotional feeling of ultimate and indescribable rejection that this act produced. It reminded me, at a point when I was just starting to feel a calming security in place and time, that my school was not ‘my school’, my classroom was not ‘my classroom’ and my desk was not ‘my desk’. A sensation that left me feeling weakened and undermined.
And, at home, the same story. So many times, when the house felt warm, comfortable, and cozy; in fact most often when floors were fresh-waxed and the house smelled of lemon-oil and baking. And when all I wanted to do was curl up with a good book in a comfy chair, and revel in it all—my Mother would eject me from the house. On with mitts and toque and coat to get outside for some damnable FA&S.
And then later, when I eventually married, now I had to contend with Hub. He, too, was forever at it. Winter, or summer.
“Roberta, you need more FA&S. If I was pale of countenance, that’s what I needed. If I was tired or weak-kneed, that’s what I needed. If I was impatient, that’s what I needed. And even when I was too silly, too carefree, that was still what I needed.
So year in, and year out, I’ve heard it spring, fall, summer, and winter. The damnable push from almost every living contact in my life for more FA&S.
Still, I’ve remained quiet and good-natured (and obliging as well) about it. But this week was too much. My good nature had a melt down.
Earlier this week a neighbor came for coffee. And didn’t he have the audacity to tell me I need more FA&S? I bit my lip but that is when the melt-down began.
And then two days later, another neighbor, began ranting like a lunatic about warm temps and sunshine, and having finished her lengthy prelude, wound it up by saying to me, “Roberta, aren’t go going outside today to get some FA&S?”
That’s when the complete melt-down happened.
“Yes,” I said, “I am going to do that. But I’m also going to put a clothespin on my nose, and a dark tarp on my head, because although I enjoy being outside, the very last thing I need is more FA&S!”
But my life has been one of excess. With all the times, as a child, that I was kicked out of classroom or house for FA&S, I think I’ve had my quota.
I still remember being shooed out of the school during recess or noon hour for FA&S. But even more vividly, I remember the emotional feeling of ultimate and indescribable rejection that this act produced. It reminded me, at a point when I was just starting to feel a calming security in place and time, that my school was not ‘my school’, my classroom was not ‘my classroom’ and my desk was not ‘my desk’. A sensation that left me feeling weakened and undermined.
And, at home, the same story. So many times, when the house felt warm, comfortable, and cozy; in fact most often when floors were fresh-waxed and the house smelled of lemon-oil and baking. And when all I wanted to do was curl up with a good book in a comfy chair, and revel in it all—my Mother would eject me from the house. On with mitts and toque and coat to get outside for some damnable FA&S.
And then later, when I eventually married, now I had to contend with Hub. He, too, was forever at it. Winter, or summer.
“Roberta, you need more FA&S. If I was pale of countenance, that’s what I needed. If I was tired or weak-kneed, that’s what I needed. If I was impatient, that’s what I needed. And even when I was too silly, too carefree, that was still what I needed.
So year in, and year out, I’ve heard it spring, fall, summer, and winter. The damnable push from almost every living contact in my life for more FA&S.
Still, I’ve remained quiet and good-natured (and obliging as well) about it. But this week was too much. My good nature had a melt down.
Earlier this week a neighbor came for coffee. And didn’t he have the audacity to tell me I need more FA&S? I bit my lip but that is when the melt-down began.
And then two days later, another neighbor, began ranting like a lunatic about warm temps and sunshine, and having finished her lengthy prelude, wound it up by saying to me, “Roberta, aren’t go going outside today to get some FA&S?”
That’s when the complete melt-down happened.
“Yes,” I said, “I am going to do that. But I’m also going to put a clothespin on my nose, and a dark tarp on my head, because although I enjoy being outside, the very last thing I need is more FA&S!”
Monday, January 12, 2009
Dignified or Countrified
I read a touching tribute the other day that mentioned as part of sweet memories the long-forgotten ritual of masticating spruce sap into gum. That, of course, swung me into big nostalgia about some of the things I ate as a child.
Things that I cupped in both hands and hid behind the teeter-totter at school to eat, because in my mind, it was shameful fare. And so then and there I solemnly promised myself, that I would never eat those shameful things when I grew up. But, now I find, in so many of them, unexpected delight.
Those things we ate in hard times, I still hesitate to tell you. Something in our society makes shame of the fact that although we live in modern comfort at the moment, that the ‘tar-paper shack’ we originally lived in…well, you know…better not to reveal that.
And likewise, equally shameful to reveal that I still indulge in those countrified foodstuffs I ate as a kid. After all, “normal” people (sophisticated, learned, successful, and cultured people) eat pepper steak, Parmesan pork, and honey-garlic chicken. Polished and successful people eat lobster and shrimp with exotic condiments made from pricey spices, cheeses, and herbs blended in one small container from the far reaches of the globe.
It is quite amazing to me. This perception we have that diet is directly linked to levels of social stratification (i.e. upper class, lower class, etc.) And so, because of that perception, successful and sophisticated individuals recognize how quickly they could topple from their peak if they were to reveal that they eat soda crackers dipped in molasses or potato chips dipped in ice cream. So to preserve social status, they become ‘closet-consumers’ with that part of their lives kept close to their breast.
But I intend to ignore all that in this wee Meme-Trivia combo. I am going to briefly list ignoble and uncultured repasts of my youth. Scored to these standards:
(Yuk) for dreadful, (Mmm) for undecided, and (Yum) for delightful. And if you want to play the game, or give feedback, there are two more categories for you: (???) which means ‘I’ve never eaten it!’ and (XXX) ‘I never intend to!’
So your feedback is invited. Have you eaten any of this stuff? How do you rate it? Or do you have confessions of your own about undignified things you ate as a child?
NOTE: Wax crayons or plant-dirt don’t count.
So now here’s my list:
1. bread and milk – broken-up bits of bread, dressed with brown sugar, and splashed with cream or rich milk. YUM (important – the bread must be homemade)
2. wheat gum - like spruce sap gum, this is wheat kernels picked in late fall from the fields and masticated into a smooth gum (YUM) (smooth and pleasantly mild)
3. Cornmeal porridge – cornmeal cooked as a thick mush, dredged with brown sugar and rich milk. Do not stir. (YUM) (In my books this beats by a mile the more popular savory cornmeal dish, that I think is of Polish, or Ukrainian descent, although I eat that too).
4. Buttermilk and Potatoes – This was my father’s favorite undignified treat. Young and hot boiled potatoes, slightly mashed. Pour on cold buttermilk, and liberally sprinkle with salt and pepper. (YUM, YUM) (This may sound disgusting to some but if you are okay with buttermilk or Ranch dressing, you might be pleasantly surprised.)
5. Rhubarb Biscuits – Regular biscuits with a bit of extra sugar and a cup or two of sliced rhubarb mixed in. (YUM) (Served hot, with butter, these capture an exotic balance of sweetness and tartness that is delightful).
6. Friday Hash – Every thing diced – leftover boiled potatoes, a bit of bologna or wieners, onions and celery. Mix together and season with salt, pepper, garlic, and a liberal amount of sage or poultry seasoning, and scramble-fry in butter and oil until golden and crispy. (YUM) (similar to Stuffing).
7. Instant Cinnamon Buns – a slice of homemade (again important) bread, well-buttered. Sprinkle with brown sugar and cinnamon, then into a hot oven or under the broiler. When bubbly and slightly browned, ready to eat. (YUM, YUM) (Do I need to say more?)
And here are a few undignified treats suggested by others, that I have tried:
1. Wheat porridge – Wheat kernels straight from the granary, salt, and boiling water left to cook and soften in a thermos overnight. Then dressed with sugar and milk in the morning. (YUK) (gawd-awful)
2. Cow Mushrooms (thus labeled because cows, not people, eat them). I always gritted my teeth with distaste when I spied these in the woods. Orange tops, speckled stems, usually so wormy and distasteful-looking. But when a neighbor showed me how to skillfully peal the mushrooms and in that way expose those which were corrupt and those which were pristine, and then cooked them up in fresh cream, onions, and dill. (YUM) (They were excellent).
So now, let’s have fun with this. Don’t be shy. Your social status is not at risk if you let me know what countrified things you eat. You are pretty much anonymous and so am I.
I hope so anyway, or tomorrow I’ll be toppled from middle-upper crust to bottom-of-the-barrel society.
Oh Dear, Oh Dear!
Things that I cupped in both hands and hid behind the teeter-totter at school to eat, because in my mind, it was shameful fare. And so then and there I solemnly promised myself, that I would never eat those shameful things when I grew up. But, now I find, in so many of them, unexpected delight.
Those things we ate in hard times, I still hesitate to tell you. Something in our society makes shame of the fact that although we live in modern comfort at the moment, that the ‘tar-paper shack’ we originally lived in…well, you know…better not to reveal that.
And likewise, equally shameful to reveal that I still indulge in those countrified foodstuffs I ate as a kid. After all, “normal” people (sophisticated, learned, successful, and cultured people) eat pepper steak, Parmesan pork, and honey-garlic chicken. Polished and successful people eat lobster and shrimp with exotic condiments made from pricey spices, cheeses, and herbs blended in one small container from the far reaches of the globe.
It is quite amazing to me. This perception we have that diet is directly linked to levels of social stratification (i.e. upper class, lower class, etc.) And so, because of that perception, successful and sophisticated individuals recognize how quickly they could topple from their peak if they were to reveal that they eat soda crackers dipped in molasses or potato chips dipped in ice cream. So to preserve social status, they become ‘closet-consumers’ with that part of their lives kept close to their breast.
But I intend to ignore all that in this wee Meme-Trivia combo. I am going to briefly list ignoble and uncultured repasts of my youth. Scored to these standards:
(Yuk) for dreadful, (Mmm) for undecided, and (Yum) for delightful. And if you want to play the game, or give feedback, there are two more categories for you: (???) which means ‘I’ve never eaten it!’ and (XXX) ‘I never intend to!’
So your feedback is invited. Have you eaten any of this stuff? How do you rate it? Or do you have confessions of your own about undignified things you ate as a child?
NOTE: Wax crayons or plant-dirt don’t count.
So now here’s my list:
1. bread and milk – broken-up bits of bread, dressed with brown sugar, and splashed with cream or rich milk. YUM (important – the bread must be homemade)
2. wheat gum - like spruce sap gum, this is wheat kernels picked in late fall from the fields and masticated into a smooth gum (YUM) (smooth and pleasantly mild)
3. Cornmeal porridge – cornmeal cooked as a thick mush, dredged with brown sugar and rich milk. Do not stir. (YUM) (In my books this beats by a mile the more popular savory cornmeal dish, that I think is of Polish, or Ukrainian descent, although I eat that too).
4. Buttermilk and Potatoes – This was my father’s favorite undignified treat. Young and hot boiled potatoes, slightly mashed. Pour on cold buttermilk, and liberally sprinkle with salt and pepper. (YUM, YUM) (This may sound disgusting to some but if you are okay with buttermilk or Ranch dressing, you might be pleasantly surprised.)
5. Rhubarb Biscuits – Regular biscuits with a bit of extra sugar and a cup or two of sliced rhubarb mixed in. (YUM) (Served hot, with butter, these capture an exotic balance of sweetness and tartness that is delightful).
6. Friday Hash – Every thing diced – leftover boiled potatoes, a bit of bologna or wieners, onions and celery. Mix together and season with salt, pepper, garlic, and a liberal amount of sage or poultry seasoning, and scramble-fry in butter and oil until golden and crispy. (YUM) (similar to Stuffing).
7. Instant Cinnamon Buns – a slice of homemade (again important) bread, well-buttered. Sprinkle with brown sugar and cinnamon, then into a hot oven or under the broiler. When bubbly and slightly browned, ready to eat. (YUM, YUM) (Do I need to say more?)
And here are a few undignified treats suggested by others, that I have tried:
1. Wheat porridge – Wheat kernels straight from the granary, salt, and boiling water left to cook and soften in a thermos overnight. Then dressed with sugar and milk in the morning. (YUK) (gawd-awful)
2. Cow Mushrooms (thus labeled because cows, not people, eat them). I always gritted my teeth with distaste when I spied these in the woods. Orange tops, speckled stems, usually so wormy and distasteful-looking. But when a neighbor showed me how to skillfully peal the mushrooms and in that way expose those which were corrupt and those which were pristine, and then cooked them up in fresh cream, onions, and dill. (YUM) (They were excellent).
So now, let’s have fun with this. Don’t be shy. Your social status is not at risk if you let me know what countrified things you eat. You are pretty much anonymous and so am I.
I hope so anyway, or tomorrow I’ll be toppled from middle-upper crust to bottom-of-the-barrel society.
Oh Dear, Oh Dear!
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Articles of Faith - Part 2 (conclusion)
2. The Fools of 'Dingley-Dell'
So this is my catechism and at times it is suffocating. Despite the oppression of it, in my youth, I posted pictures on every inch of the bare boards of my attic-bedroom walls. Pictures of spiral staircases, lovely brick houses surrounded by paradise gardens, furniture and home accents of color and unsurpassed beauty, and divinely tall and fair looking ladies in long flowing gowns of lace. All of which were representative of me, my hopes, and my dreams.
Of course, the conflict in all this is that the love of money, thought of money, aspiration for money, all form still another context of sin.
As I’ve already said I must mimic my mother’s simplicity for my own redemption and to be as certain as she was of her paradise, money must have no context in my life. Mother never carried money (except that small bit on a Sunday that my Dad gave her for the collection plate). She spent no money, or asked for no money. All because she was so solidly convinced that it was a sinful act to participate in the dispensation or gathering of money. When money was offered to her, she turned her back and curtly stated, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and onto God the things that are God’s.”
And so, my dad made the money and spent the money. He bought the groceries and household needs without input or communication with her as to cost or deferred payments. And it was only when my father walked past the clothesline on his way to the biffy, and saw a ratty display of mother’s underclothes, that he would finally purchase a few new under-things for her to wear, or a swatch of cloth to make a new dress.
And now the foregoing contemplations remind me of another curious ritual. I don’t know whose benefit it was for. Maybe it was just because of my mother’s strong disdain for money. But when my Dad opened his wallet he turned his back and moved into a corner of the room. I have never seen hell, I have never seen heaven, and the other thing, as I child, I never saw, was the inside of my father’s wallet.
And so I have grown up with an underlying current deep within my psyche that money matters are disgusting. That money is a necessary evil, but an evil nonetheless. Couple that with the curse of my forbears, and I guess I’m as forever lost as someone who was stupid enough, foolish enough to wash sand from a stone three times.
If ‘evil thought’ equals ‘evil deed’, I am up there with the most extreme villains of all time. Particularly when I watch CNN and the never-ending-story over money matters. I’m left wondering if it is just me. Maybe I’m the dumb one. Maybe articles of faith are supposed to include money matters. Maybe life is not about purity of thought and deed. Maybe it is about playing the game of Monopoly and playing it well.
And then I watch the closing bell at the stock exchange and see that silly-looking group of the rich and famous from ‘Dingley-Dell’ decked out in their finest, standing behind a railing on a raised dais. Someone rings a stupid bell and then I observe them clapping their hands like ‘a bunch of brain-dead stupid fools’ – whether the market is up or down or stable.
I gaze in dismay, thinking impure thoughts of disgust and wondering what their catechism or articles of faith are, or if they have any.
[Acknowledgement: ‘Dingley-Dell’ is a name borrowed from Charles Dickenson’s novel “The Pickwick Papers”.]
Monday, October 13, 2008
Articles of Faith - Part I
1. Sins of Thought
When I was a child, no one ever asked, but if they had, this was my catechism. And these were the articles of my faith.
“I believe in God. And I believe in heaven and the certainty that it is the reward for the pure of mind, and hell – a deep pit of everlasting brimstone that is as certainly the reward of sinners.”
But the catch for me was that sin goes beyond evil deeds. It is also the mental act of impure thoughts. That blows my mind cause I can stay my hand when tempted to steal, or hold my tongue when tempted to lie, but it is impossible for me to avoid the equally vile sins of thought.
As a child, from little more than tiny seeds of resentment of expectations placed upon me, a forest grew of anger and annoyance and thoughts of bitter revenge. And likewise tiny spores of dissatisfaction with the poverty and want of my circumstance, grew like a flourishing field in light soil enriched with pig manure.
And so, it was hard for me to accept responsibility for the thoughts I entertained in my head of envy or distasteful judgment of other human beings. I knew it placed me in danger of burning brimstone, but though I could stay my hand from committing sins of the body, I could not stay my mind from mental digressions. Scenes and scripts in my mind fell so solidly outside of my control, that I was compelled to think my mind was oft under the control of a spirit other than my own.
So the pit of brimstone couldn’t be ignored with evil pictures unfolding in my mind for which I had little means of prevention. I feared the nasties that played endlessly like the music of a looping MP3-Player. Enough to wonder if perhaps I carried a curse that had descended from one evil individual within the root system of my family tree that would make my mind forever and always think impure thoughts of evil, envy, and disdain.
My father once told me that the most damnable act one could ever do was to wash a stone three times in a stream and each time repeat, “I wish to be as free of God as this stone is from sand.” And after the third time, there would be no turning back. That life would remain lonely, solitary, and godless.
I had never done it, never contemplated it. But had someone somewhere in my genealogical history done it. Is that why my father knew that and told me that?
So maybe this was the original curse, and maybe that curse is what prompts evil thoughts of hateful disdain for those who belittle things about me. Things over which I have no control – the eats in my lunch pail, my clothes, my shoes, my home, my family, my mother’s plain and unfashionable dress, or the culture of religious beliefs that rule my home.
But I digress when I want to get back to my articles of faith. To continue…
“I believe also that I can only save my soul from eternal damnation by mimicking my mother’s attitude of sparseness, humility, and self-denial.”
Like her, I need to deny the charm of riches, vanity, and worldly pleasures. Like her, I need to form alliances with lonely social misfits (without consideration how such alliances will damage my own status), and though I have a scarcity of luxuries, the few I have, I must willingly share with those who have less.
I do what I must but there is no denying it. I still miss the beloved doll I gave, at my family’s suggestion, to the little girl who had none. I gave Dolly away but, in truth, I still feel more remorse than beatitude for that so-called generous act. And extreme guilt not only about the misplaced loyalty Dolly had in my love and care but also, sadness for my other doll, Lulabell, and her separation from a dearly beloved sister.
NEXT POST: Conclusion - The Fools of Dingley-Dell
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Spinning Jenny Stimulus - Conclusion 3.
Crafting in Quietness
How silly old women with bleary minds. Jesters of nostalgic reflection. Always wanting to turn the clock back to a recall their youth and how things once were.
And the most extreme is some silly old fool wanting us to stop what we are doing and re-install the Sabbath? And all the yap and yawing about some pre-historic thing like a spinning jenny that is older than dirt? Expecting us to read all that blither?
I know, I know. Perhaps I have led you to think I don’t understand the impossibilities of some of the things I rant about. But to a large extent I do. I realize that technology is well past the stage where it can be halted, slowed, or stopped.
I also fully understand why the Sabbath cannot be re-instated. It’s not because it is so hard to celebrate a day with peace and calm and quietness if that is what one chooses to do. But still it won’t happen, because this generation’s expectations won’t allow it.
Because every non-school or non-working day is expected to hold a wealth of leisure-pleasure. These are days for fast food treats, material procurements, new wonders, new sights, new sounds, new colors. And so, with that, how can anyone in today’s spinning- jenny-world envision delight or value in a day of hushed, household quietness? It goes without saying, the leisure pleasure the Sabbath originally provided is no longer understood or even wanted.
And that is the problem. How do you define a day of quietness to a generation so embedded in technology?
What do you say when they ask for the fiftieth time, “But what are we supposed to do with this absurd day? Cooped up without cell phones and with electronics locked up in the closet?”
And the day becomes more meaningless and unreasonable when you say, “This day is to provide you with time for self-reflection.”
What meaning in that statement for a generation that has never ventured inside their own mind since birth – and they’re supposed to understand what the term ‘self-reflection’ is?
And so, when we try to explain the peace and comfort found in quiet time, many will say ‘What about sleepless nights? We all have them. So why re-install the Sabbath? Why not use sleepless nights for self-reflection?’
Well, we could. But we don’t.
Instead we lie awake in bed and contemplate what sleeping pill to try next. And we couple that with a truckload of mental commiseration about needing rest so that we can be on the ball for all the technological tasks that will rule the morrow? There is too much fret about ‘sleep’ to ‘reflect’ on anything. And then, if a state of sleeplessness persists, the inhabitants of this spinning-jenny-world, crawl out of bed in the middle of night and focus their bleary eyes on more flashers and beepers while they play mindless computer-video games.
That’s what we do, and why shouldn’t we? Works for us and since God is dead anyway, there is no need for self-reflection in this generation. All those endless evenings and Sabbath hours that past generations used to formulate plans to be a better person for salvation sake are no longer applicable. With God dead, with no fear of heaven or hell, what need for self-reflective plans for packing, into one lifetime, a mountain of charity and good deeds? If we aren’t going anywhere, we don’t need the luggage.
But wait. I think, despite all that, we still need time for self-reflection. We still need to understand what self-reflection is and how to get there. And our children need to understand it too.
And this is why. You can explain to a child how behavior affects their lives and relationships with others. How ill behavior can limit friendships. Or invite teasing, or bullying, or shunning.
But that isn’t good enough. All that talk isn’t very effective. It is no more effective than trying to cure an addict who doesn’t recognize that he or she has a problem. First rule of any addiction counseling is that the individual wanting help must first recognize they have a problem.
And that, dear readers, is what self-reflection does if we make time for it. Not in the first five or ten minutes, but later, many hours later, self-reflection starts to lead down a path of realization of what is at the root and core of life’s successes vs failures. Later much later, it starts to reveal understanding of all that is possible with concerted effort and cooperative strategies.
Self-reflection ends up leading one into the more difficult questions that side-step the instantaneous and skewed emotions that first come to mind in circumstances of difficulty (or success). First quick-thinks often go like this:
‘They don’t like me cause their jealous.’ ‘He does so care about me, he bought me chocolates.’ And, ‘I can afford to buy that new car, I just need to borrow some shekels from me old dad.’ And of course, in a pre-teen or teen, the thinking is likely to be. ‘I’ll show them, they can’t treat me like this.’ Too often the quick-think of a life-situation bypasses all else and snaps into retaliation mode. Or moody despair. And there it stalls in a disciplinary 10 or 20 minute time-out.
The better considerations take extended time. Maybe a whole day. Maybe a whole day (once a week). Quiet time. Hushed household time.
Time enough to fully understand self-reflection.
And now the bad news. Yeh, a bit of a slump happens when the fullness of self-reflection eventually takes place. Because when it does, that is when one begins to empathize with others, who at first glance seemed so foolish, square, or just bloody nags. And when the fullness of self-reflection kicks in, one begins to pick battles with care. And when the fullness of self-reflection kicks in, this is when the slump happens and one begins to ask themselves the ultimate humiliating question.
‘What can I do to make things better?’ …rather than concentrating on long laundry lists of changes others need to make. (Psst…Laundry lists may work, but man, they are a pain.)
In our modern world, self-reflection no longer is, as it was. It moved from a biological inheritance to a new art-form. It is now a craft that one must learn through sincere endeavor. In a spinning-jenny world, it doesn’t happen at sunrise or sunset. It only happens to those who set aside sufficient quiet time for it.
___
That’s my reflective spin for now. Hopefully somewhere in the fabric of it all you may find something that stirs you into a quiet bit of self-reflection.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Spinning Jenny Stimulus - Part II
TOO MUCH STIMULI
Now even if we ignore my previous dramatization of restricted literature and spinning-jenny hyperbole, and consider my childhood in a more general way, the lack of stimulus that I’ve been muttering about becomes fairly evident.
Think about it. How much stimuli does a child get from direct instruction by “one” teacher? In a wee school that houses grades 1-9 for a grand total of 23 students? How much stimuli with no visual media players, very few books, no musical instruments, and no playground equipment outside of a bat, a ball, and a swing?
And, how much stimuli with only eight colors in the crayon box? And no field trips, library, music-room, gym, cafeteria, or study hall?
Sparse, compared to today’s children who are bombarded on all sides by stimuli in every possible format. Endless books and stories. Endless paraphernalia, including talking books, boxes of 156 colors, games, puzzles, computer-assisted learning, field trips, gyms with great honkin’ boxes under the gymnasium stage of sports equipment of every description. And a large outdoor playground with ball diamonds, football fields, hockey arenas, etc. and indoor space for volleyball, basketball and gymnastics.
But that’s not all. My grandson is six months old and his world is already alive with stimuli. He is already entrenched in a world swirling like a spinning jenny with visuals, sound, and motion.
His toys are a rainbow of things that move, and sing, and bleep, and pop. The floor jumper he sits in has artificial palm leaves overhead. And spirals, beepers, and spinners that leave him virtually unseen and unheard when he is in there. So much motion and sound that he can’t think or even concentrate on his own sweet esoteric language. Or enough quietness for him to practice parsing a gentle “coo”.
His play pen has another equally intricate conglomerate for him to kick with his feet. And his highchair has interchangeable place mats wildly colored with letters and cartoon animals. His soft toys play surf and bird-sounds. His other toys beep and spin and blink lights. His potty-chair talks and sings. His quilts and sheets are a dizzying array of more colors with textured critters designed to look three-dimensional.
And I can see already that with each passing year it will get worse as he reaches the age of e-pods and video games and interactive television. God, where and when will it stop?
Grandson is little but as little as he is, already his mom notices a special calmness when he is here. He plays in an old ancient walker (I know they’re illegal because of safety concerns but with the wheels missing, this one ain’t going anywhere).
The walker has a plain, dull beige, tray. He strokes it with his little hands affectionately. And when I put him in there, he is absolutely content with his sucky and a small plastic bowl from my kitchen cupboard to rattle against it. It takes time but he is clever enough to eventually get the soother tucked in the bowl. And already he knows that if you can’t dig it out, you tip the bowl and it falls out.
He loves that game. He holds up the little bowl to proudly show me how he has melded the two into one conglomerate. And then again to show me how skillfully he has separated them.
And he settles down for naps on a plain bed with a plain blanket without blinkers and tooters. And he lies on a thick folded quilt on the floor near the window and giggles with glee at the shadows cast by swaying leaves against the curtains and the glass. And he chuckles out loud at the puppy strolling past his locale.
So then, in my bleary mind I start thinking about the ever-escalating rise in child-behavioral problems. Children are more anxious and more and more unable to focus for the slightest extension of time on one thing. So I have to ask, “Why do we worry so much about the psychological damage of corporal discipline while ignoring this toxic soup of stimuli that might be equally, or even more damaging?”
We’ve simplified our ideologies to what suits us. Sterilize everything, stop spanking, and stimulate children with flash-cards, Bach or Mozart, travel, visuals, and gizmos, and they can’t help but grow up healthy, independent, and stable-minded.
Yet childhood behavioral problems continue to rapidly escalate. And among the host of possible causes, no one considers that maybe our modern-day spinning-jenny stimulus is just too much. Maybe the enigma of all that research and no fixed conclusion is because at the root of it all is something that was never considered. And truthfully, don’t researchers in childhood behavior have a hand in propagating more noise, color, and motion?
In this bleary mind of mine, with the solace and peace and repair that I get from quiet times—alone and undisturbed—I wonder if maybe the real cause of child behavioral diseases is simply too much stimulation.
As a child, in our home, Sunday was set aside as a special day. Don’t laugh. Just because God is dead doesn’t mean we can’t discuss other aspects of the Sabbath.
Sunday was today’s equivalent of ‘time-out’. There were no spinning jennies on the Sabbath. No sports. No work. No active frolic. Just resting, reading, and relaxing, and time for self-reflection. Sunday was a day that demanded hushed household quietness.
So maybe, just maybe, in the midst of all the paraphernalia of today’s world, we would be well to return to that kind of time-out. (But can we do that without our children interpreting it as a disciplinary move? As something to feel pained about? Even dejected and hurt?)
NEXT POST: Conclusion
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Spinning Jenny Stimulus
LOOKING FOR A STORY - Part I
I was sitting at the kitchen table in that bland, mindless state, that I so hate, and so often lately find myself in. Unable to focus, hearing sounds, seeing sights, but still absorbing no more than a vacuum that is being pushed about the room with no filter bag or power source.
In this bleary state, I found myself recalling how starved I was for stimulation when I was a child. There were never enough books, never enough stories, never enough poems, or sonnets, or songs, or colors, or words, or new ideas to ease my hunger for the stimulus of something new. This was back there in that long-ago-time when children were responsible for their own good time minus gizmos.
And so, if you can imagine a child’s longing for a bike, or a youth’s longing for a truck, or a transient’s longing for a home, then you can understand the ache I had for books with words arranged with the soundness of reverence, emotion, and seduction that words deserve.
One year, with nothing in the house I hadn’t read, I remember spending a big chunk of my summer break reading a book I found in the attic about ‘the spinning jenny’. It was a very old water-stained hard-cover book about the inventor of the spinning jenny, the purpose of the spinning jenny, and how it worked. Looking at the pic of that jenny now, I am amazed that someone could write a book on nothing more than the history of the spinning jenny.
One must indeed admire the dedication of such a writer. That kind of author, could, without a doubt, write with equal ease 125 pages about a paper lunch bag.
The year that I read the spinning jenny book, I was still too young to question why I was doing what I was doing, but I remember distinctly thinking to myself, ‘what could it be that is driving me to read this stupid, stupid book?’ And despite careful reading, did I retain any of what I read? Not an iota.
But I so loved words back then. And poems, and stories. I could never get enough of them. It was as if I was on a quest for a kindred spirit – someone, anyone, who loved them as much as I did. And if I couldn’t find that someone in the school yard, perhaps I could find that sweet spirit between the pages of a book -- if only I could find the right book. It would need to be a book thick enough to allow me time to revel in the author's appreciation for words and all that they can portray.
I expected good luck in the school library. But all I found in the book shelves were books of trite fiction or boring facts. For some reason, each time I took a book from there it was far removed from what I sought.
And so, in another act of desperation in my quest for literary stimulation, I read my English text from cover to cover, every page and every word. Twice.
Surely here I would find what I was looking for. Obviously the original creator of an English text book had to be someone as passionate about language as I. And then, of course, with this common interest sustaining us, and this common force compelling us, and this common passion within us, certainly we, the writer and I, could form a comforting, albeit dream-state-relationship based on our mutual appreciation for language.
It seemed totally sensible to assume that the writer was as ardently dedicated to the function and beauty of words, as that other writer was to the qualities and marvels of the spinning jenny.
But to my dismay, that was not what happened. After not just one, but two careful readings, I came to the harsh realization that, to the voice-and-speaker of that English Text, language was just another spinning jenny. And the rules laid out for language too serious to promote a warm relationship.
The two books could have been written by blood relatives because the text in one so heavily paralleled the content of the other. Both identified and illustrated, with equal detail, the respective parts of language and the spinning jenny. And so like unto the spinning jenny book, the language text elaborated all the rules for the rigid and restricted operation of verbs, and nouns, and adjectives to make them fit the manufacture of phrases as cold and passionless as the workings and production of a spinning jenny.
Neither was a book that I would every recommend. But this story doesn't end here. There is more to the saga of "The Spinning Jenny".
_______
NEXT POST: “Too Much Stimuli”, goes beyond my own experiences to question in a general way how much stimulus children need.
Monday, August 25, 2008
The God and Garden of Intellect
So there we were. In a place as magical as the Garden of Eden. Living in sweet and peaceful harmony. And yes, God walked with us and talked with us.
And on our own, we found wonder in each new day and each new minute. We consulted with fairies dancing in fairy rings. We viewed with pleasured sweetness the videos of our afterlife in golden cities painted on dark blue skies at sunset. We were calm, happy, and so completely at peace. Restlessness and anxiety, foreign to us.
We questioned life in a pleasant way, drawing solace and eternal security from the rebirth of all of nature. And, in particular, the death and internment of ‘dead’ worms in silk winding sheets tucked away in coffin-chrysalises. In sarcophaguses made of bleached gray limestone-colored ash and moth-eaten burial linens. And when we poked them with a stick they were dead, dead, dead.
Buried and forgotten under the old granary roof. But, as children, we watched them closely and came a day, when they were divinely and magically resurrected. Rising from that brutal and lonely place into sunny skies on delicate wings of unsurpassed beauty.
And there in our youth, and in our Eden, we felt the warmth of heart-felt appreciation when a plump deer of the forest came by when for so long, so very long, our stomachs were aching and hungry and gnawing at night. We were hungry, and so our father shot that deer and skinned it out.
And with that, hope and happiness were instantaneously renewed. A divine blessing and generous gift it was, when at long last, once again our dinner table was loaded with heaping plates of tender meat and golden gravy.
In Eden, we went to bed without fear. Confidently cradled by the same loving divinity that brought us food. And in our daily lives, we ignored those sorrows imposed by thoughtless or contemptible people knowing that a justice reigned that they could not escape. A justice that would humble them to full and complete penitence. Whether they ever showed a countenance of remorse or not. Connections to prestige, money, and wealth would in no way lighten the divine discipline meted out for their thoughtlessness.
And we reveled always in the miracle of what was seemingly so impossible. New babies with cooing smiles, and new puppies and kittens with stubby little wags that expressed such joy in life.
We smelled them. The babies’ hair – how sweet and lovely it was! And new puppies, kittens, lambs, and baby goats held their own fragrant scent. We breathed in deeply. And found that a lung-full made our own breath come easier and made us laugh with joy (rather than simply good humor or passing fancy).
We reveled in the uniqueness of our minds, our hopes and passions. All of life was wonderful new discoveries that fit into the pattern of a Garden of Eden. The joy of life, love, rebirth, breezes, rain, and sunshine all blended into a divine magic, within the sweet and secure cradling of nature.
And then, oh woe is me. Along came the Intellect.
A devil, as it were, that forced us to discard fancy, and miracles, and God, and the meaning of nature that fit so comfortably with our own understanding. The Intellect took away our most stunning miracles and put them in labs and test tubes. The Intellect taught us to ignore visions of golden cities at sunset. The Intellect seduced us and the dialect of life with nature was hushed. And like the serpent in the original Garden of Eden he offered us great and wonderful things. And so we believed and became a chaotic mass of competitive followers striving to be the greater, and the greatest of the Intellects.
Now we shiver and quail by day and night, with nothing more to comfort or clothe us than the Intellect’s cold, chilling facts. All the wondrous magic that once surrounded us like a warm, downy blanket, destroyed through explanation.
And with the new found knowledge of the Intellect, and the newfound aspirations of the Intellect, we now have schemes and methods to kill creatures in mass rather than just for dinner. We have ways to alter nature to our own economic advantage and at the same time we continue to unwittingly destroy the balance and the rhythm. We make babies in petri dishes, without fragrant hair, and new forms of life, without real souls.
We have used more of our intellect for evil than good. We have used it to kill God, kill oceans, kill forests, kill morality, and kill conscience. And with God and conscience dead, we continue to use our ever-evolving intellect to split atoms in order to kill even more.
And so the Divine Comptroller of earth and nature, shadow and light; that divine one that walked with us in the cool of the day when I was a child, was compelled to cast us out. We were forced to pack up our facts and leave the Garden of Eden to tread the refuse, toxic, and gunk-strewn paths of our new god – the God of Intellect.
All I can say now is that, ‘As an intellect, I’m not loving it!’
And on our own, we found wonder in each new day and each new minute. We consulted with fairies dancing in fairy rings. We viewed with pleasured sweetness the videos of our afterlife in golden cities painted on dark blue skies at sunset. We were calm, happy, and so completely at peace. Restlessness and anxiety, foreign to us.
We questioned life in a pleasant way, drawing solace and eternal security from the rebirth of all of nature. And, in particular, the death and internment of ‘dead’ worms in silk winding sheets tucked away in coffin-chrysalises. In sarcophaguses made of bleached gray limestone-colored ash and moth-eaten burial linens. And when we poked them with a stick they were dead, dead, dead.
Buried and forgotten under the old granary roof. But, as children, we watched them closely and came a day, when they were divinely and magically resurrected. Rising from that brutal and lonely place into sunny skies on delicate wings of unsurpassed beauty.
And there in our youth, and in our Eden, we felt the warmth of heart-felt appreciation when a plump deer of the forest came by when for so long, so very long, our stomachs were aching and hungry and gnawing at night. We were hungry, and so our father shot that deer and skinned it out.
And with that, hope and happiness were instantaneously renewed. A divine blessing and generous gift it was, when at long last, once again our dinner table was loaded with heaping plates of tender meat and golden gravy.
In Eden, we went to bed without fear. Confidently cradled by the same loving divinity that brought us food. And in our daily lives, we ignored those sorrows imposed by thoughtless or contemptible people knowing that a justice reigned that they could not escape. A justice that would humble them to full and complete penitence. Whether they ever showed a countenance of remorse or not. Connections to prestige, money, and wealth would in no way lighten the divine discipline meted out for their thoughtlessness.
And we reveled always in the miracle of what was seemingly so impossible. New babies with cooing smiles, and new puppies and kittens with stubby little wags that expressed such joy in life.
We smelled them. The babies’ hair – how sweet and lovely it was! And new puppies, kittens, lambs, and baby goats held their own fragrant scent. We breathed in deeply. And found that a lung-full made our own breath come easier and made us laugh with joy (rather than simply good humor or passing fancy).
We reveled in the uniqueness of our minds, our hopes and passions. All of life was wonderful new discoveries that fit into the pattern of a Garden of Eden. The joy of life, love, rebirth, breezes, rain, and sunshine all blended into a divine magic, within the sweet and secure cradling of nature.
And then, oh woe is me. Along came the Intellect.
A devil, as it were, that forced us to discard fancy, and miracles, and God, and the meaning of nature that fit so comfortably with our own understanding. The Intellect took away our most stunning miracles and put them in labs and test tubes. The Intellect taught us to ignore visions of golden cities at sunset. The Intellect seduced us and the dialect of life with nature was hushed. And like the serpent in the original Garden of Eden he offered us great and wonderful things. And so we believed and became a chaotic mass of competitive followers striving to be the greater, and the greatest of the Intellects.
Now we shiver and quail by day and night, with nothing more to comfort or clothe us than the Intellect’s cold, chilling facts. All the wondrous magic that once surrounded us like a warm, downy blanket, destroyed through explanation.
And with the new found knowledge of the Intellect, and the newfound aspirations of the Intellect, we now have schemes and methods to kill creatures in mass rather than just for dinner. We have ways to alter nature to our own economic advantage and at the same time we continue to unwittingly destroy the balance and the rhythm. We make babies in petri dishes, without fragrant hair, and new forms of life, without real souls.
We have used more of our intellect for evil than good. We have used it to kill God, kill oceans, kill forests, kill morality, and kill conscience. And with God and conscience dead, we continue to use our ever-evolving intellect to split atoms in order to kill even more.
And so the Divine Comptroller of earth and nature, shadow and light; that divine one that walked with us in the cool of the day when I was a child, was compelled to cast us out. We were forced to pack up our facts and leave the Garden of Eden to tread the refuse, toxic, and gunk-strewn paths of our new god – the God of Intellect.
All I can say now is that, ‘As an intellect, I’m not loving it!’
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Obscenities of Truth & Clarity
I was raised in a home without vulgarity. The most extreme language verging on obscenity was ‘Holy Cow’ or ‘Drat It Anyway!’ Similar to the old book I am now reading that repeatedly says, “Go obscenity thyself”.
But our neighbors, when I was a kid. That was a different story. Theirs was a democratic household where they spoke obscenities openly and eloquently without guilty hesitation or a catch in the throat. Oaths and obscenities rang through the house from morning to night like a never-ending catchy little tune.
And yes, the expressions they used were shocking. Their words made my heart pound in my chest. But at the same time, I couldn’t help but admire their freedom of expression that surpassed all rules and regulations. It was to be admired. The daring bravery of it all.
When one of the kids wandered into the kitchen in a pair of baggy jeans, the other sneered. “You’re not going to wear those, are you? Go look at your backside in the mirror, you look like you sh_ _ yourself.”
The obscenity of the remark was shocking as always, but even more shocking, was the fact that the expression was one of absolute unadulterated truth. From the back, without a doubt, that is exactly what those baggy jeans looked like. Like they were masking a very firm finely formed fecal log (or two).
And that only added to my amazement of their vocabulary. That such sinful expressions could carry a level of absolute accuracy and, at the same time, concerned goodness. In this instance, good advice and concern that would prevent a sibling from walking around town looking like they messed themselves.
Goodness in obscenity. Quite remarkable. But I silently observed and listened and found an endearing feeling in this exchange. Concern of one sibling for how the other might look.
_____
Now many of the expressions so prevalent in everyday conversation in that household were never defined for me. And of course I refused to ask. I would appear far too ignorant, far too non-worldly, and if I were to question the meanings, such an exchange might force me to have to say the word. And furthermore, I pretty much believed that if I did ask, the neighbor’s kids (parents included) would roll on the floor and laugh until they literally fecalled themselves.
And so, I knew I must circumvent their style of speak by giving it a wide berth. By skirting it entirely. And truly, since these were words I was not allowed to use, what matter the meaning? What use to me? When applied?
In our house – never. Not unless I was hell-bent on nursing hurt feelings and a blistered backside.
And so, because of all this, I cast my own connotations and definitions on the expressions I heard.
But one of the more frequently used words, I found rather confusing. I wasn’t sure if a donkey was a reference to testes, the penis, the vagina, or the anus. Was it all or one? What was it anyway?
And so here I am, some fifty years later, and still not certain. And still, resolved in mind to never ask.
But now I don’t need to. The meaning has suddenly become crystal clear. In the past, without certainty of what a donkey was, I likewise never knew if a donkey hole was a penis, an anus, a vagina or a combination of all three. But now I know.
I’ve seen enough cops on TV using guns and tasers irresponsibly to know what a donkey hole is and it is not any of those things that for more than fifty years, I thought it was.
But our neighbors, when I was a kid. That was a different story. Theirs was a democratic household where they spoke obscenities openly and eloquently without guilty hesitation or a catch in the throat. Oaths and obscenities rang through the house from morning to night like a never-ending catchy little tune.
And yes, the expressions they used were shocking. Their words made my heart pound in my chest. But at the same time, I couldn’t help but admire their freedom of expression that surpassed all rules and regulations. It was to be admired. The daring bravery of it all.
When one of the kids wandered into the kitchen in a pair of baggy jeans, the other sneered. “You’re not going to wear those, are you? Go look at your backside in the mirror, you look like you sh_ _ yourself.”
The obscenity of the remark was shocking as always, but even more shocking, was the fact that the expression was one of absolute unadulterated truth. From the back, without a doubt, that is exactly what those baggy jeans looked like. Like they were masking a very firm finely formed fecal log (or two).
And that only added to my amazement of their vocabulary. That such sinful expressions could carry a level of absolute accuracy and, at the same time, concerned goodness. In this instance, good advice and concern that would prevent a sibling from walking around town looking like they messed themselves.
Goodness in obscenity. Quite remarkable. But I silently observed and listened and found an endearing feeling in this exchange. Concern of one sibling for how the other might look.
_____
Now many of the expressions so prevalent in everyday conversation in that household were never defined for me. And of course I refused to ask. I would appear far too ignorant, far too non-worldly, and if I were to question the meanings, such an exchange might force me to have to say the word. And furthermore, I pretty much believed that if I did ask, the neighbor’s kids (parents included) would roll on the floor and laugh until they literally fecalled themselves.
And so, I knew I must circumvent their style of speak by giving it a wide berth. By skirting it entirely. And truly, since these were words I was not allowed to use, what matter the meaning? What use to me? When applied?
In our house – never. Not unless I was hell-bent on nursing hurt feelings and a blistered backside.
And so, because of all this, I cast my own connotations and definitions on the expressions I heard.
But one of the more frequently used words, I found rather confusing. I wasn’t sure if a donkey was a reference to testes, the penis, the vagina, or the anus. Was it all or one? What was it anyway?
And so here I am, some fifty years later, and still not certain. And still, resolved in mind to never ask.
But now I don’t need to. The meaning has suddenly become crystal clear. In the past, without certainty of what a donkey was, I likewise never knew if a donkey hole was a penis, an anus, a vagina or a combination of all three. But now I know.
I’ve seen enough cops on TV using guns and tasers irresponsibly to know what a donkey hole is and it is not any of those things that for more than fifty years, I thought it was.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Kareena's Plight
You my think you know about having it tough, but you don’t. Not until you are plunged headfirst into a grimy box of cottage cheese containers. And you’re not really part of the ‘Garage Sale’ but indifference and apathy has left you upside-down in a box in the corner beside a rubber truck tire eaten away by rot and rusty broken chains that are not for sale.
But still, to some a treasure. That’s where Granddaughter found her. Discarded in an old box. Ragged and broken. But yet with that tattered body and partially decapitated head, she bestowed on GD a sweet look of courage. And so my 9-year-old GD and her Mom came away with doll in hand. GD named her Kareena.
It seems odd to say, but maybe for those of us who link emotional attachments to inanimate objects (usually worthless stuff), it is not so simple as it seems. Maybe within our DNA structure there is an affinity and empathy that reaches beyond living and breathing creatures. All I know is that I form binding relationships with inanimate objects and obviously GD has buried in her heart a similar propensity.
So Kareena came to Grandma’s house. Now I am neither a doll-surgeon or a mid-wife experienced in the art of easing the re-birth of old dolls. But GD expressed such sincere concern for Kareena, that I could only say, “Leave her with me and I’ll see what I can do.”
Gratefully it was Hub that securely reattached Kareena’s head with deft use of pliers and wire after I had constructed a body cast to attach it to. I wish I had before and after pictures to show you but I don’t. We know Kareena is no ordinary doll because she has porcelain (though not high-end porcelain) head, arms, and feet, attached to a cloth body.
But her uniform was dire. Nothing more than a bit of a sweater cuff cut at a fashionable angle. Can’t say that isn’t ‘making do’. And yeh, you know me. It was too unique, I couldn’t discard it. I felt I had to put on a wee hanger on display. How silly, but I guess I was prompted to do so by the same emotion that prompts so many parents to guild and bronze a first pair of baby shoes.
So then back to Kareena. After Hub reunited the plexus of Kareena’s body parts, I set about to sew her a wee dress. I combed her hair, Hub built a wooden display stand for her, and this is the result.
GD hasn’t come to claim her yet, but I’m quite certain she will be very pleased. We’ll probably weep together like sappy people do when presented with an unexpected bouquet of wild flowers.
____
While I was working on the resurrection of Kareena, Eldest Daughter (ED) called. In my discussion with her about the doll project, she admitted to me that she has carried around with her for many years a tiny plastic giraffe with a missing leg. She really didn’t know why. She only knew that if it hadn’t been broken she would have discarded it long ago. Her only explanation was she felt ‘so sorry’ for it.
And then we both ended up postulating that if toy companies were to develop a line of less sophisticated toys like Kareena (prior to a fix) and the wee giraffe, perhaps children would adopt them. And ultimately, through that kind of adoption, come to know and understand empathy in real-life relationships.
Children love to compete with each other. No one ever needs to explain to a child the theory of competitiveness when it comes to fast, slick, and efficient video play. They buy into that from the get-go. So how unique would it be if competitiveness with their peers were in the vein of giving more effort, more concern, than other kids with the same toy?
I can only imagine how sweet it would be to have toys, or perhaps I should say ‘gaming’, that encourages skills in helping those victimized and defeated by circumstance.
Truthfully, do we have any games, where players are encouraged to play in a spirit of kindness, thoughtfulness, and compassion? Don’t think so.
But still, to some a treasure. That’s where Granddaughter found her. Discarded in an old box. Ragged and broken. But yet with that tattered body and partially decapitated head, she bestowed on GD a sweet look of courage. And so my 9-year-old GD and her Mom came away with doll in hand. GD named her Kareena.
It seems odd to say, but maybe for those of us who link emotional attachments to inanimate objects (usually worthless stuff), it is not so simple as it seems. Maybe within our DNA structure there is an affinity and empathy that reaches beyond living and breathing creatures. All I know is that I form binding relationships with inanimate objects and obviously GD has buried in her heart a similar propensity.
So Kareena came to Grandma’s house. Now I am neither a doll-surgeon or a mid-wife experienced in the art of easing the re-birth of old dolls. But GD expressed such sincere concern for Kareena, that I could only say, “Leave her with me and I’ll see what I can do.”
Gratefully it was Hub that securely reattached Kareena’s head with deft use of pliers and wire after I had constructed a body cast to attach it to. I wish I had before and after pictures to show you but I don’t. We know Kareena is no ordinary doll because she has porcelain (though not high-end porcelain) head, arms, and feet, attached to a cloth body.
But her uniform was dire. Nothing more than a bit of a sweater cuff cut at a fashionable angle. Can’t say that isn’t ‘making do’. And yeh, you know me. It was too unique, I couldn’t discard it. I felt I had to put on a wee hanger on display. How silly, but I guess I was prompted to do so by the same emotion that prompts so many parents to guild and bronze a first pair of baby shoes.
So then back to Kareena. After Hub reunited the plexus of Kareena’s body parts, I set about to sew her a wee dress. I combed her hair, Hub built a wooden display stand for her, and this is the result.
GD hasn’t come to claim her yet, but I’m quite certain she will be very pleased. We’ll probably weep together like sappy people do when presented with an unexpected bouquet of wild flowers.
____
While I was working on the resurrection of Kareena, Eldest Daughter (ED) called. In my discussion with her about the doll project, she admitted to me that she has carried around with her for many years a tiny plastic giraffe with a missing leg. She really didn’t know why. She only knew that if it hadn’t been broken she would have discarded it long ago. Her only explanation was she felt ‘so sorry’ for it.
And then we both ended up postulating that if toy companies were to develop a line of less sophisticated toys like Kareena (prior to a fix) and the wee giraffe, perhaps children would adopt them. And ultimately, through that kind of adoption, come to know and understand empathy in real-life relationships.
Children love to compete with each other. No one ever needs to explain to a child the theory of competitiveness when it comes to fast, slick, and efficient video play. They buy into that from the get-go. So how unique would it be if competitiveness with their peers were in the vein of giving more effort, more concern, than other kids with the same toy?
I can only imagine how sweet it would be to have toys, or perhaps I should say ‘gaming’, that encourages skills in helping those victimized and defeated by circumstance.
Truthfully, do we have any games, where players are encouraged to play in a spirit of kindness, thoughtfulness, and compassion? Don’t think so.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Fables from the Book of Child-Interpretations 2.
IRRATIONAL ZEAL AND PERFECT WISDOM
Most of us shake our heads in dismay at the thought of pre-arranged marriages. We reject the thought of a cold convention planned and executed through negotiated dowries, while rejecting as utterly frivolous the delightful components of amorous romance.
How unfair the chilly mandate that deadens the electrocuting jolt of the connection of two individuals sparked by nothing more than a look, or a deliberate brush of a hand. Pre-arranged marriages, like lightning rods, ‘ground’ dynamic events that should be the birthright of all spiritual and fervent species.
But this rant is not about pre-arranged marriages although such discussion certainly sets the context. This rant is about pre-arranged religion.
Now no one could be more fanatical about religion than my mother was. Fanatical to the extent that as a child and even as a teen, I could not cut my hair, shave my armpits, wear slacks, earrings, make-up, or sleeveless blouses. And I was strongly discouraged from attending ball games or community sports events on the Sabbath.
At the time I thought it was all so bloody unfair and utterly ridiculous. But, now in retrospect I see a very important part of the bigger picture that brings fairness and justice into this equation that I could not see when in the midst of it. Despite all of these house rules and regulations, I cannot claim that I was forced into a pre-arranged religion.
Amidst all those standards I have listed (that I sometimes disobeyed, but in doing so endured such painful guilt), I was still quite inexplicably encouraged to read conflicting publications from other churches, and in our bookshelf, there were many. And in addition to that, I was never prevented from attending other churches with opposing views. Of course I attended church often enough there was little risk of that ever happening. But still, my mother poured over the doctrine and beliefs of other denominations and never discouraged me from doing the same.
Her belief was in a loving and merciful god. Perhaps that is why she sneered at the thought of signing any church-covenant or formal agreement stating her responsibility, or my obligation, to forever be a member of any particular doctrine. And, as peculiar as it is, although she shunned me when I wore lipstick, or dressed immodestly, at no time did she instill the slightest fear in my mind of shunning or divorcing herself from me because of loss of faith.
She saw no reason to sign a contract and she saw no reason to baptize me at birth prior to me having reached an age of understanding. And even later, when I eventually reached the age of understanding, it was completely left up to my own discretion.
So I revel now in the conflicts that I see in her forceful demands that I should dress modestly, but no such force applied to shutting my mind down to spiritual questioning. It seems to me in retrospect that she seemed to think that if she fed me overly large portions of spiritual fodder until my spiritual appetite reached a point of nauseous obesity, the desire for more would be completely eradicated.
And in addition to that, I believe she saw no risk. No risk because she absolutely believed, as her Bible said, “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” (Proverbs 22: 6)
Isn’t that a lovely, fair, generous and comforting thought for a concerned parent? A Biblical promise that it is okay to allow youths to pursue their own paths and exercise their own independence even to the point of wandering way off course in the interim between youth and old age. With dutiful childhood teaching, it’s not a crisis. In fact, it’s of little matter, because in the end all will be well.
And so now, returning to my original thoughts, as disturbing as it is to contemplate the coldness of pre-arranged marriages, I think pre-arranged religion is equally discomfiting. When spiritual beliefs are dictated or covenanted before the age of understanding, religion becomes a stiff convention that ignores and grounds the thrilling electrifying jolt that transports souls to a higher realm, warms the soul with true sincerity, and allows the dignity of freedom of choice.
I am eternally grateful to my mother for having irrational zeal and perfect wisdom.
Most of us shake our heads in dismay at the thought of pre-arranged marriages. We reject the thought of a cold convention planned and executed through negotiated dowries, while rejecting as utterly frivolous the delightful components of amorous romance.
How unfair the chilly mandate that deadens the electrocuting jolt of the connection of two individuals sparked by nothing more than a look, or a deliberate brush of a hand. Pre-arranged marriages, like lightning rods, ‘ground’ dynamic events that should be the birthright of all spiritual and fervent species.
But this rant is not about pre-arranged marriages although such discussion certainly sets the context. This rant is about pre-arranged religion.
Now no one could be more fanatical about religion than my mother was. Fanatical to the extent that as a child and even as a teen, I could not cut my hair, shave my armpits, wear slacks, earrings, make-up, or sleeveless blouses. And I was strongly discouraged from attending ball games or community sports events on the Sabbath.
At the time I thought it was all so bloody unfair and utterly ridiculous. But, now in retrospect I see a very important part of the bigger picture that brings fairness and justice into this equation that I could not see when in the midst of it. Despite all of these house rules and regulations, I cannot claim that I was forced into a pre-arranged religion.
Amidst all those standards I have listed (that I sometimes disobeyed, but in doing so endured such painful guilt), I was still quite inexplicably encouraged to read conflicting publications from other churches, and in our bookshelf, there were many. And in addition to that, I was never prevented from attending other churches with opposing views. Of course I attended church often enough there was little risk of that ever happening. But still, my mother poured over the doctrine and beliefs of other denominations and never discouraged me from doing the same.
Her belief was in a loving and merciful god. Perhaps that is why she sneered at the thought of signing any church-covenant or formal agreement stating her responsibility, or my obligation, to forever be a member of any particular doctrine. And, as peculiar as it is, although she shunned me when I wore lipstick, or dressed immodestly, at no time did she instill the slightest fear in my mind of shunning or divorcing herself from me because of loss of faith.
She saw no reason to sign a contract and she saw no reason to baptize me at birth prior to me having reached an age of understanding. And even later, when I eventually reached the age of understanding, it was completely left up to my own discretion.
So I revel now in the conflicts that I see in her forceful demands that I should dress modestly, but no such force applied to shutting my mind down to spiritual questioning. It seems to me in retrospect that she seemed to think that if she fed me overly large portions of spiritual fodder until my spiritual appetite reached a point of nauseous obesity, the desire for more would be completely eradicated.
And in addition to that, I believe she saw no risk. No risk because she absolutely believed, as her Bible said, “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” (Proverbs 22: 6)
Isn’t that a lovely, fair, generous and comforting thought for a concerned parent? A Biblical promise that it is okay to allow youths to pursue their own paths and exercise their own independence even to the point of wandering way off course in the interim between youth and old age. With dutiful childhood teaching, it’s not a crisis. In fact, it’s of little matter, because in the end all will be well.
And so now, returning to my original thoughts, as disturbing as it is to contemplate the coldness of pre-arranged marriages, I think pre-arranged religion is equally discomfiting. When spiritual beliefs are dictated or covenanted before the age of understanding, religion becomes a stiff convention that ignores and grounds the thrilling electrifying jolt that transports souls to a higher realm, warms the soul with true sincerity, and allows the dignity of freedom of choice.
I am eternally grateful to my mother for having irrational zeal and perfect wisdom.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Fables from the Book of Child-Interpretations
THE WHIP, THE TEMPLE, AND THE MONEY
Even kids have opinions. Even kids set values. And believe me, as opinionated as I am now, you ain’t seen nothing yet. You should have seen how opinionated I was when I was a kid.
It should have never happened. It was so ‘not right’. God said so. He said so in the story of Christ using a whip to chase the moneychangers from the temple. And he said so through another story. The story of Christ’s examination of the image on a penny and what he then spoke to those around him. “Render…unto Caesar the things which be Caesar’s, and unto God the things which be God’s. (Luke 20:25)
(all of this a pre-cursor to the phrase – “separation of Church and State”)
So although I was a little eight-year-old, I took this stuff very seriously. And I knew for a certainty that it was wrong and I was righteously indignant at those who exchanged money in the temple-church in the form of harvest suppers, Bingo, card games, silent auctions, and flea markets. Some used the feeble excuse that they only engaged in this sort of thing in the ‘basement’ of the church, but that wasn’t a good enough excuse for me.
I knew the Bible perspective (as stated above). So why was this happening with adults? Had no one told them the rules? That there should be zip, nanna, NO moneychangers in the temple. In what other instance did the loving Christ get so thoroughly upset? So completely and uncharacteristically angry and annoyed? So quick to show disapproval? So quick to punish?
My annoyance about it burned in my child-heart and brain like a fire. Like a unique communication given to me in the form of a daunting challenge from God, himself. You know full well what any Minister will say if you ask them why they became a Minister. They all tell the same story. The calling came to them through a whisper in their ear. And when pressed further they will also say, “It was clear and well articulated.”
All of that quite amazing to me, but now I understood it. It was kind of nice to know that ‘whispers in the ear’ were not specialized things reserved only for Ministers. I know that now cause I definitely heard a ‘whisper in my ear’ as direct as God’s clear-speak to Noah to ‘build an ark’. And the voice in my ear told me that it was up to me to fashion a sturdy whip to snap about the ears and rears of blatantly irresponsible adults so impervious to holy writ. The lot of them, mature adults no less, buying and selling in the church basement.
Of course, some of them were to be pitied. I knew nothing of addiction but still I knew that some were there to play cards or Bingo, not because they wanted to be, or chose to be, but because of entanglement of intemperance in soul-strings and heart-strings. That I could understand. Cause I was a good honest kid, wanting to be the best I could be, but I could not stay my hand when there were Jap oranges, chocolates, and nuts stashed under the cupboard at Christmas, or tins of thick-creamy evaporated milk in reserve in the attic.
Now I want you to hold those thoughts, while here I digress for just a moment to tell you something quite personal about my own contemplation of the temple tirade. I never could quite come to terms with the rashness of Christ’s reaction to buyers and sellers in the temple. Until I realized that I (as the very good person I wanted to be) exact far more pain from observing disciplinary justice than being a participant.
I’m not sure you will understand this but I would sooner be cruel myself, I would sooner man the whip, be the cruel surrogate, as it were, then watch others be cruel, because at least when I am in that role, I have control over the severity of the cruelty.
This no doubt, sounds to you, like a dangling principle, but nevertheless, that is my aside and now I continue with my story.
I knew how to braid, and so from binder-twine I found in the granary, I wove a lovely rope whip like Zorro’s. The burden on my mind, however, was far too heavy. The whispering in my ear ever more harsh.
It was truly frightening to face a prospect similar to that of David, the young shepherd boy, alone against a warrior giant with nothing but a slingshot. Here I was, a mere child, alone against the moneychangers in the temple with nothing but my scurrilous whip. David’s story gave encouragement, his success was comforting, but not encouraging or comforting enough so I told my Mother what I must do.
Mother agreed in part. Her belief was the same as mine (i.e. no moneychangers in the temple), but she said that although I was being given a God-guided conscience in the matter, it was not a “call” to whip the moneychangers. I actually wept with relief.
My father, spying my braided whip, soon also heard the story. He agreed with my mother but said it was a lovely whip and so he attached it to a stick and showed me how to use it for snapping the heads off of dandelions and other noxious weeds. I’m not sure if I should admit how personally satisfying it was to find I could do such treacherous decapitations so swiftly and so expertly.
Ultimately, it was good to know that it would be ‘okay’ for me to have fried chicken and lemon pie in the church basement at the annual Harvest supper without my whip. And that it would be okay to sit at one of the long tables consuming such a fine repast while ignoring the utterly contemptible people sitting around me.
Not that it would ever happen. You would never catch my mother and father exchanging money in the temple! But that’s okay. I think there’s still a few cans of evaporated milk in the attic yet to be opened.
Even kids have opinions. Even kids set values. And believe me, as opinionated as I am now, you ain’t seen nothing yet. You should have seen how opinionated I was when I was a kid.
It should have never happened. It was so ‘not right’. God said so. He said so in the story of Christ using a whip to chase the moneychangers from the temple. And he said so through another story. The story of Christ’s examination of the image on a penny and what he then spoke to those around him. “Render…unto Caesar the things which be Caesar’s, and unto God the things which be God’s. (Luke 20:25)
(all of this a pre-cursor to the phrase – “separation of Church and State”)
So although I was a little eight-year-old, I took this stuff very seriously. And I knew for a certainty that it was wrong and I was righteously indignant at those who exchanged money in the temple-church in the form of harvest suppers, Bingo, card games, silent auctions, and flea markets. Some used the feeble excuse that they only engaged in this sort of thing in the ‘basement’ of the church, but that wasn’t a good enough excuse for me.
I knew the Bible perspective (as stated above). So why was this happening with adults? Had no one told them the rules? That there should be zip, nanna, NO moneychangers in the temple. In what other instance did the loving Christ get so thoroughly upset? So completely and uncharacteristically angry and annoyed? So quick to show disapproval? So quick to punish?
My annoyance about it burned in my child-heart and brain like a fire. Like a unique communication given to me in the form of a daunting challenge from God, himself. You know full well what any Minister will say if you ask them why they became a Minister. They all tell the same story. The calling came to them through a whisper in their ear. And when pressed further they will also say, “It was clear and well articulated.”
All of that quite amazing to me, but now I understood it. It was kind of nice to know that ‘whispers in the ear’ were not specialized things reserved only for Ministers. I know that now cause I definitely heard a ‘whisper in my ear’ as direct as God’s clear-speak to Noah to ‘build an ark’. And the voice in my ear told me that it was up to me to fashion a sturdy whip to snap about the ears and rears of blatantly irresponsible adults so impervious to holy writ. The lot of them, mature adults no less, buying and selling in the church basement.
Of course, some of them were to be pitied. I knew nothing of addiction but still I knew that some were there to play cards or Bingo, not because they wanted to be, or chose to be, but because of entanglement of intemperance in soul-strings and heart-strings. That I could understand. Cause I was a good honest kid, wanting to be the best I could be, but I could not stay my hand when there were Jap oranges, chocolates, and nuts stashed under the cupboard at Christmas, or tins of thick-creamy evaporated milk in reserve in the attic.
Now I want you to hold those thoughts, while here I digress for just a moment to tell you something quite personal about my own contemplation of the temple tirade. I never could quite come to terms with the rashness of Christ’s reaction to buyers and sellers in the temple. Until I realized that I (as the very good person I wanted to be) exact far more pain from observing disciplinary justice than being a participant.
I’m not sure you will understand this but I would sooner be cruel myself, I would sooner man the whip, be the cruel surrogate, as it were, then watch others be cruel, because at least when I am in that role, I have control over the severity of the cruelty.
This no doubt, sounds to you, like a dangling principle, but nevertheless, that is my aside and now I continue with my story.
I knew how to braid, and so from binder-twine I found in the granary, I wove a lovely rope whip like Zorro’s. The burden on my mind, however, was far too heavy. The whispering in my ear ever more harsh.
It was truly frightening to face a prospect similar to that of David, the young shepherd boy, alone against a warrior giant with nothing but a slingshot. Here I was, a mere child, alone against the moneychangers in the temple with nothing but my scurrilous whip. David’s story gave encouragement, his success was comforting, but not encouraging or comforting enough so I told my Mother what I must do.
Mother agreed in part. Her belief was the same as mine (i.e. no moneychangers in the temple), but she said that although I was being given a God-guided conscience in the matter, it was not a “call” to whip the moneychangers. I actually wept with relief.
My father, spying my braided whip, soon also heard the story. He agreed with my mother but said it was a lovely whip and so he attached it to a stick and showed me how to use it for snapping the heads off of dandelions and other noxious weeds. I’m not sure if I should admit how personally satisfying it was to find I could do such treacherous decapitations so swiftly and so expertly.
Ultimately, it was good to know that it would be ‘okay’ for me to have fried chicken and lemon pie in the church basement at the annual Harvest supper without my whip. And that it would be okay to sit at one of the long tables consuming such a fine repast while ignoring the utterly contemptible people sitting around me.
Not that it would ever happen. You would never catch my mother and father exchanging money in the temple! But that’s okay. I think there’s still a few cans of evaporated milk in the attic yet to be opened.
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