Collecting faith....

I am a writer, and I treasure the words of others brave enough to do what I do. I learn from them, marvel at their insight on ordinary things, often laugh out loud or cry with them. Sometimes, I wish I could reach out to them, random strangers putting pen to paper, daring to release their thoughts
like doves into the blogosphere or perhaps to perch on a magazine stand or bookshelf awaiting a hearing ear.  I recently picked up a copy of 'O' magazine on an airport newsstand during a five hour spring break layover.  I found within it a single column which inspired this, my next post, on faith.....

The writer, an atheist, embarked on question #20 in the collection of  '20 questions every woman should ask herself today.'  The question?  'Why are we here?' Ah, the age old quest for the meaning of life.... or for faith itself.  Her answer? In part... 'When most people inquire as to how and why this planet and life of ours came to pass, as most people do, they are given a one-syllable answer: God.  Which is to say the world is the invention of an invisible, all-powerful being, spinner of galaxies and sculptor of continents.  As for what God wants and why he is doing all of this--well, that is a "mystery," far beyond the pay grade of our puny human intelligence.'  Ahhhh, I wanted to shout, no! It is not a mystery, it is not unknowable.  But alas, it has been shrouded in mystery, by humans over centuries who have, knowingly or unknowingly, sought to keep us 'puny humans' from having the deep relationship with or creator which is possible.  Rather than muddle through the misinformation, many, like this writer, have turned to atheism...to a belief that though God may exist, he is unknowable to us. 

I have made my own journey through this maze of  mystery to truth.... having been raised Catholic, grateful for the foundation, but unsatisfied by the doctrine of divine secrets.  I reel against the notion that God is unknowable to us, or that he is part of  a 'trinity,' which we are not meant to fully understand.  I find myself considering this now, at this time of year, when many are considering the life, and death, of Jesus Christ.  Jesus.  God? Son of God? Both?  How can we fully appreciate the gift without knowing the giver?  If Jesus is God, did he give himself? Then why do we speak of God giving to us his only begotten son?  Who should receive the thanks for this gift?  The truth, my truth, is that our loving Father gave us his Son....two distinct individuals, one immeasurable gift.  The trinity shrouds this gift in mystery, taking the glory due our heavenly father away. 

Ultimately, why we are here is to show gratitude.... to the 'invisible, all-powerful spinner of galaxies and sculptor of continents.'  Each day holds for us reasons to show this gratitude; for the gifts of natural laws which result in our enjoyment of the beautiful planet we inhabit, for the love and humanity shown by those around us struggling to find meaning in the daily grind, for the ultimate gift of His Son, and the truth that is available..... if you look beyond those sources shrouded in mystery, and realize that our creator respects, and holds grand expectations for our vast intelligence.

Collecting Traditions... or making my own

So this week the world celebrated Christmas.  But I did not.  Every year this day finds me pondering the reasons... and the consequences... of this decision.  I grew up with this celebration; surrounded by family and warmth, in living rooms filled to capacity with laughter, family recipes, gifts, and balls of crumpled up left-over wrapping paper.  These are good things.  Some might question my desire to deprive my children of such moments.  I know a few things for sure.  First, my children are far from deprived.   Second, they know what it means to stand up for a principle you believe in.  I am most proud of this consequence of giving up Christmas.

 Some wonder why I would not celebrate the birth of one I do consider my savior, king, and the reason for my hope in an everlasting future.... I would counter that it is because of my deep respect for this living King that I do not.  I do not believe that celebrating traditions rooted in pagan customs can possibly honor the one who encouraged his closest followers to flee from such influences.  The tree? Gifts? Feasting and parties?  All derive from the ancient Roman tradition of Saturnalia, celebrating the birth of the Sun on the winter solstice around December 21st.  I believe my savior was born in a stable... to humble, poor, Godly parents.... sometime in October.  When I realized these facts, Christmas lost a little of its luster.

What have I gained, and passed on to my children, in the absence of this holiday?  We are able to daily revere a living savior, in his current position at the right hand of his father; to honor the truth of his gifts to mankind and look forward to the eternal blessings yet to be bestowed.  There is no need for me to perpetuate the little white lie that is 'santa claus,' in order to show my love and generosity to my sweet children.  I have shown them, by example, that it is possible to stand for a principle, against the grain, in opposition to popular tradition, and not miss a thing.  With respect to all those who still find value in the crumpled up leftover wrapping paper....we must all find our own truth.  I have found mine.

Collecting Years

Today I am 45.  Seems momentous, and I find myself grappling with far too many realities for one day... A few random thoughts I've had this morning:  I have now spent a full half of my life married to the same wonderful man, albeit certainly for better or for worse, as we've had our share of both.  I'm proud of that.  I am old enough to be a grandma, yet still have a 9-year old child.  I am vain enough to notice that though I have always looked younger than my age, that is changing and I seem to have little control over it.  I am at least halfway through this crazy thing called life.

So how should I account for the years I have collected?  In experiences? Good memories? Travels? Heartaches?  I've been blessed to have many of the first three and few of the last.  I've never been one to make a big deal of my birthday, so the years have passed with my focus on the small moments and major  milestones in my children's lives.  I look back over the past twenty years and see bedroom  murals painted in a new home - my paintbrush extended over my pregnant belly,  tiny toes and special blankies, rocking chairs and nursing naps, 'cookie chats' with my toddling little girl, Disney movies and popcorn, sandbuckets and a little red jeep being pushed along endless stretches of beach, sibling rivalries and truces, baseball and soccer games, dance recitals, and driving lessons. 

I look into the next twenty years and see what?  A life that feels a bit like an unraveling tapestry.  The home we have filled with activity, laughter, and memories will slowly empty.  Life that has been chaotic and full of plans will slow down.  The man I married and I will return to the days when it was just us.  We'll travel like we've always loved to do. We'll still make plans. We'll weave a new tapestry with the colorful yarn at our feet... and it will again one day include tiny toes and baby blankets. 

I will remain, as I am now, grateful for a life well lived and blessings undeserved.  I will continue collecting memories like seashells...

Twice In a Lifetime

Some people dream of travelling the world.  I've been blessed to do it twice.   Both trips were unique.  The first one molded a young small town girl into an independent woman.  The second was a whirlwind tour which tugged at both my desires to experience every moment in casual calm and to drink in every drop of an opportunity I knew may never come again.  After all, twice in a lifetime is more than most of us get....

I remember the moment the airplane took off on my first trans-atlantic flight.   I was 21, a college junior, embarking on a semester abroad in London.  I left both my parents and my boyfriend  at the gate.  In a way, I left my childhood behind right there in the terminal. During my three month absence my commitment to Kevin was solidified in writing, and my official break from my parents and childhood occurred upon my return to his home, not theirs. 

That first time I landed in London on a cool, damp morning.  I was immediately in love.  The sights and smells of the beautiful, friendly city were unlike anything I had experienced before.  I soon learned to navigate the 'tube' system, and this afforded me a freedom I'd never had.  I could leave my house in the morning with no clear direction in mind, walk to the station, and wander the entire city.   The tube map would always lead me back.  Far away from all I'd grown up with, from anything that would remind me of my past, from commitments or deadlines or expectations, I became aware of myself.  To this day, the smell of deisel fuel  on a rainy street takes me back to the miles I walked in London, weilding a camera, at home in a huge city that felt like an old friend.  I travelled the countryside during this trip, as part of my student program--Bath, Oxford, Brighton, Stratford-upon-Avon.  I spent a weekend in Scotland, and one in Paris, where I was the most reckless I've ever been...and the most enchanted.  I came home knowing I must somehow, someday return.

Last September, I returned to London on a balmy morning, and was almost immediately assaulted with the familiar smell of the air and sounds of bustling traffic.  I remember thinking that I could not believe I had returned, and marvelling at how it still  felt like home. All the old familiar moments-walking the streets with camera in hand, navigating the tube, revisiting the house I had lived in twenty years ago, slipping into as many comforting, warm pubs as possible-were made even more poignant because that boyfriend I had left behind was now at my side.  In the interim years we'd married, had three children, moved three times, built a business and a house, and weathered nineteen years of marriage and all that entails.  Returning together to the place where I had once been completely independent was full of contradictions. I wanted so much to just be in the moment, to not overplan the two days we had there before taking off to pack  half of Europe into a two week trip. But I also wanted to see it all again, to relive every wonderful moment I had spent alone with my husband now by my side; knowing at the same time this was impossible. I try not to torture myself with 'should haves,' knowing we may never have a third chance.  Still, there are a few things...I wish we'd taken a guided walk... I wish we'd seen 'Wicked'.... I wish we'd had time and a sunny afternoon to visit Kew Gardens...I wish I'd have bought the 'Keep Calm and Carry On' coffee mug which beckoned  me in a shop window...

We left London on the Eurostar train and arrived in Paris three hours later (amazing!!).  Immediately it was clear this would be a different trip.  The first time I was a poor college student, dependent on public transportation and cheap lodging.  We arrived late in the evening after 8 hours of travel by hovercraft and bus, and trudged up a steep cobblestoned street in the highest point of the city.  At one point, of course, we stopped on the sidewalk, sat on our luggage, and opened a bottle of cheap wine to toast our arrival in the city of lights.  This time around, we hailed a cab, were deposited at our darling boutique hotel within sight of Notre Dame, and were soon seated in the afternoon sun at the first of many outdoor cafe tables with a carafe of house red.  Again, I was determined to soak in the experience, avoid the tourist traps, and live in the moment.  We did.  Our first destination was Le Sacre Couer, a white marble cathedral and artsy hot spot on a hill above Paris.  We departed the Metro and walked uphill on cobbled streets I remembered toward the cathedral, which appeared like a vision, set against the perfect azure sky and framed by puffy clouds; imposing yet elegant, playful yet serene.  This had been my favorite spot in Paris on the trip years before.  Rarely in life does a moment revisited completely surpass the memory one holds so dear...this did.  We made our way to an empty spot on the stairs which led up to the cathedral, within veiw of both an acoustic troubador singing favorites and an amazingly agile athlete tossing a soccer ball skyward with his feet while hanging on to a lampost high above the city below.  We purchased cold Heinekens from an enterprising hawker and settled in for a perfect afternoon, buffeted by warm breezes and gentle memories.  Later, we walked among the gift shops and cafes, choosing the perfect momentos, and then wound our way back toward the city.  With a nod to the tourists that we were, we visited the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower during our brief stay, as well as a famous flea market and several streetside cafes, but I will most remember those hours on the steps of the cathedral. 

We left Paris on a night train bound for Italy after one last beer overlooking the River Seine, and woke to find ourselves in wonderland......Florence.  If London and Paris were old friends, Florence burst on us like a new romance.  From the rooftop terrace of our hotel, we gazed past the Duomo of the city's famous cathedral  to the Tuscan hills beyond.  It was truly breathtaking. Beheld in the early morning sunshine, this view alone promised a memorable stay.  Again, we walked miles on cobblestone streets, snapped pictures of views that literally brought me to tears, enjoyed wine, warm breezes, and freedom.  We promised ourselves we'd return, but all too soon had to move on, this time to Aviano to stay with my youngest brother and his wife, and from there to spend one enchanting day in Venice.

The last leg of our trip was on the train from Venice to Munich, Germany.  The four hour trip to Innsbruck, Austria, was spent in first class luxury, with a picnic of bread, cheeses, fruit, cookies, and wine spread between us.  When not awestruck by the passing vistas--from northern Italian vineyards to the Alps-- we talked and drank, and thoroughly 'enjoyed the ride.'   We arrived in Innsbruck at dusk, and again I felt transported to another world.  From the lightness of Italy, with sunshine and summerlike temperatures, we arrived amid a  cool fog in a Bavarian landscape.  We did not see much of this picturesque town, but we enjoyed our evening visit.  A sunset drink under yet another cafe umbrella led to a wonderful dinner inside, and then after dinner drinks at a latin tapas bar (a delightful surpirse!).   Our long day of travelling, drinking, and eating did catch up with us at last and we fell into bed, spent and happy,  much later than we should have.  An early morning train took us on to Munich, our final stop.

Now we were visiting Kevin's memories, as he had spent two years stationed in Germany during his time in the Army.  He had told me it looked like Ohio...and I agreed.  Indeed, it felt like home.  Munich itself was somewhat imposing; a busy, working city, in contrast to the slow pace of Florence and Venice.  But as we walked the streets, I was amazed to see so many familiar looking faces, and it was clear I had returned to my roots. We donned jackets and gloves against the cool autumn air as we explored the city, then made or way to the meeting place we had arranged with a very special friend.  An exchange student with our family while I was in high school, Anu had remained a steadfast penpal and friend as we both grew into the women we are today.  We'd last seen each other at my wedding nineteen years before, but the years melted away when we met again in a warm German beer hall.  Again, we spent our days walking, sipping, soaking in the moments we knew may never come again.  We joined revellers on the streets at the Oktoberfest parade, close enough to touch the imposingly beautiful Clydesdales proudly pulling the brewery wagons into the historic fairgrounds for yet another three week party.  In the spirit of the celebration we were in the midst of, we did in fact spend the day drinking large glasses of excellent german beer.... and returned via a late flight to my brother's London apartment still a bit tipsy and with the weight of our early morning departure weighing heavily on  our hearts. 

So we opened yet another bottle of wine, curled onto the couch and relived the special moments of our trip.  The moment was bittersweet.  Our 'wine and pictures' tour of Europe had come to an end.  Though we looked forward to returning to our three precious kids, we knew it could be years before we enjoyed such a perfect trip again.  So we drank, and talked, and smiled, until at last we had to give in to the reality that our plane would be leaving in hours and we had not yet finished packing.  I left with tears in my eyes, and a tiny little piece of my heart dared to hope that three times in a lifetime is not too much to ask....

Why write????

So, why do I write?  Because words intrigue me.  Because it has always been a form of expression when my voice failed me.  Because I can't always say what I feel without emotions getting in the way..... but Oh, can I write a letter!  When I was young I kept journals, now both humorous and slightly sad to me, as they recorded my extreme lack of self-confidence apart from whatever current boy was interested in me.  Page after page of teenage angst, always wrapped around certain male attention, or lack thereof.... I wrote a few 'dear John' letters, masterpieces I imagine, though I am sorry for the adolescent hearts they may have broken.  I've written love letters also, to boyfriends, my husband, and my precious kids.  I wrote a letter to my Grampa a few years ago.  He beamed when he told me he kept it in a box of his 'precious letters.'  I felt completely fulfilled. 

I'll admit to being a literature snob.... I am insulted by novels that do not challenge me; roll my eyes at cliches and love stories written at a level I consider below me. If I can predict the ending, I see no reason to waste my time getting there..... Words are a gift, language a trust, we should use them skillfully.

So there it is. I write because words have an impact. They are powerful. They can be a weapon or a gift. Perhaps at their best they are a mirror.  The best authors validate our feelings; they give us permission to laugh out loud, or cry in our pillows for reasons we may have until that very moment been unaware of.  Success for me is knowing I have, at least once, accomplished that small goal.  In the meantime I will write, selfishly, because it is my passion -- like an artist with a brush, or a potter with clay, words are my medium.  I hope you enjoy the results.

Collecting....Birdies

It all began with Carlos....

Our third baby came along six years after we thought our family was complete.  He burst into our life at a very inconvenient time, and taught us all to see the joy in unexpected gifts.  However, it took Noah some time to value this lesson, as he was promptly demoted from "baby of the family" to "big brother."  Perhaps this is why, when one of the stuffed birds adorning Andy's Little Einstein playmat came up missing, we knew immediately that six year old Noah was to blame.  Andy was, luckily, oblivious to the sudden change in his scenery, so I allowed Noah to keep the little red cardinal he had named Carlos.  Little did I know how the next few years of our life would be filled with conversations, playtime, even shopping trips revolving around 'the birdies,' or how this one act of piracy would form an unshakable bond between my three precious children.

Noah's collection of tiny stuffed animals, all of whom he called 'the birdies', began to grow.  A set of dinosaur puppets purchased on a trip to Las Vegas a year earlier became Carlos' first family.  McDonalds helped with tiny beanie babies and Neopet happy meals.  A few larger additions- Sully from Monsters, Inc., and Penelope the Dragon from Shrek- became parents to the collection.  Nicole and Noah played endlessly, creating scenes and adventures throughout our home.  Noah made furniture for them, and a beuatiful three foot tall, two story house.  Nicole's Barbie van became the family vehicle; a camper was created out of waffle blocks and pulled by Noah's Tonka truck.  Every minitature find at Wal-Mart or a local antique mall drew an excited cry of, "look, mom, for the birdies!" 

As they grew from pre-schoolers to tweens, and Andy became old enough to join, the games continued.  A few new additions have been made, including a real Pop-up camper and SUV to haul it.  I still occasionally hear, "let's play birdies," but I know it is now a time passing away.  All three of them are close to outgrowing this innocent world of imaginary play, and knowing this brings a twinge of sadness. 

How long until they all become locked in their own struggles, grown beyond these precious moments?  What will signal their coming of age?  In our house, one sure sign will be when we no longer hear Noah announce he's found a 'birdy bathtub' in an antique teacup.

The Perfect Shell

I once sent a card to my dad with the inscription, 'It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to be born a collector of seashells than a man of wealth.'  How true.  For seashells are perfect gifts...simple, elegant, beautifully designed, and free to those willing to search for them.

I searched for the perfect shell once.  I was searching for much more, but I made a bargain with the seashore.  I convinced myself that if I found the perfect shell - a beautiful, spiraled treasure with a pearly pink interior and geometric star shaped crown, one that had not been crushed or broken by the onslaught of tides and the rough abrasion of sand - I would know my prayers had been answered, my peace restored, my life put back together again.  I searched for days, eyes to the sand while the warm salty air swirled around me and the kids played in the surf nearby.  I picked up shell after shell, seeing the perfect crown or the side of it jutting from it's soft bed, only to discover when I retrieved it that is was imperfect, broken, not the shell I needed so desperately to find.  I began to lose hope.

Then on the final day of my search, when I'd almost given up on the quest, I spotted the pale brown side of the perfect shell.  The crown was smooth, all the points still there...it was just large enough to fit in my hand, I picked it up gingerly, then almost threw it back when I saw that, once again, the side had been broken, it was not what I sought.  Then I noticed the pearly, gleaming pink of the inside of this shell, and I paused.  I was taken by the absolute smoothness , the luminescence of this protected inner surface that is often dismissed as we look for the perfect exterior peeking through the sand.  And it hit me.  This was the answer I sought, the metaphor for my life, the vision I needed. 

You see, we are much like this shell.  It is created by the creature who calls it home, from the inside out.  As it grows, the shell grows, spiralling ever outward.  The outer layer of the shell becomes ever more symmetrical, ordered, solid, strong.  It is battered by the elements, tossed in the surf, thrown onto the sand and then grabbed hungrily by the retreating waves to be dragged back into the sea once more.  All the while, the tiny inhabitant is protected, surviving, continuing to create the shelter it needs.  And the material it creates around itself  is smooth, beautiful, pearlescent, serene.  We all have an outer shell, and we've been building it since we were children, adding to it, pushing it outward for the world to see.  We've been tossed by the waves, thrown upon the sand, and dragged back into the fray of life again and again.  Some don't survive.  They abandon the shell, seeking something better, or give up entirely.  If we are strong we remain inside our shell as the tides of life toss us about, and we keep building.  The longer we survive, keep fighting against the storms of life, the more beat up our outer shell becomes,  the stronger our inner shell becomes.  We build within ourselves a soft place to fall, a protected place polished smooth by the wisdom we've gained and the ability to let go of anger, resentment, and fear.  What we build is beautiful, smooth, pearlescent, serene. 

I needed not to find the perfect seashell, but to see the strength within myself. The sea had held up its end of our bargain.  I held my treasure close, and joined my babies in the foam.....