We've been here a while now because we brought son Steven for his earlier flight. We're on our way to Texas to spend NY with children and grandchildren. Who thought this would've been such a tough Christmas. But having a child (grown man, actually) incarcerated, and our being firm about not bonding him out (5 incidents this year) has caused us anguish, especially given his fury with us, as if that's what we're here for--as of that's only what we're here for. It is apparent that love = money for D., no more, no less. So okay, but his abusive language to the man who has sheltered him, physically and psychologically, is at this time,now, right now, unforgivable. I've watched his father age at least 10 years.
How is it that one child can take up about 90% of your emotional life? And that emotion being negative? This is the first time this man--approaching 40--has ever been told "no." That's not quite the truth--he's been told no numerous times. He's also been told, "No more money; this is the last time." But he has knwn that's not the truth--just a little begging and his parent will come through--they always have, especially when it involves keeping him out of jail. But so far the "no" has stuck, even with the demands, anger, abusive language, contrtiteness, promises (I'll never do this again), threats (I'll hang myself in my jail cell), accusations (My family has abandoned me), lame excuses (I don't like the people here.).
That has not been our christmas season in its entirety, but it has cast a pall over it. Yes, our visit with Steven and our anticipation of seeing children and grandchildren in Texas, a celebration of a 3rd son's birthday--all are great reasons for joy.
I've preached 3 times during Christmas/Advent. I'll post those sermons here.
Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Mondays with Niko: It's been a while
On December 4, her birthday, Niko fell on the ice, hit her head and suffered a concussion. She is still, of course, feeling the effects of that, but decided to go to yoga today--and that was a goog decision, since she was able to do some of the poses aand the watch and absorb the energy of the class for the others. We are at our usual bookstore/cafe and ahve started writing after a quick catching up about how and where we've been.
Where is my heart today as a bask (actually bake) sitting by this window with the sun high to the southeast. Outside, we.re wearing coats, but not hats and gloves--it.s in the 40s. This time last week? Our high for that day was, I think 11, but that might be an exaggeration. It was cruelly cold with snow for at least 4 days, and I think longer. but a break on Friday made those memories of the cold melt away like the ice on the sidewalks and drives. The metaphor works--since we do have remnants--and dangerous ones--of the ice, as we do of the memories, minus the danger.
that week and before, I took an intermediate jazz workshop--a bit above my head and challenging, but this is all to say that the dancing continues. Because I wasn't at the same level as most of the class (but can dance well enough not to embarrass myself most of the time),
Where is my heart today as a bask (actually bake) sitting by this window with the sun high to the southeast. Outside, we.re wearing coats, but not hats and gloves--it.s in the 40s. This time last week? Our high for that day was, I think 11, but that might be an exaggeration. It was cruelly cold with snow for at least 4 days, and I think longer. but a break on Friday made those memories of the cold melt away like the ice on the sidewalks and drives. The metaphor works--since we do have remnants--and dangerous ones--of the ice, as we do of the memories, minus the danger.
that week and before, I took an intermediate jazz workshop--a bit above my head and challenging, but this is all to say that the dancing continues. Because I wasn't at the same level as most of the class (but can dance well enough not to embarrass myself most of the time),
Monday, November 23, 2009
Mondays with Niko: Talking about Oliver Sacks and Depression
Another coffee and granola morning after a good yoga class, practicing gratitude. In yoga this morning, I requested the circle that has always been for me the metaphor for community since I first started practicing with Ellin last March. I've practiced yoga (really, off and on) for over 30 years--and no matter the kind, style, teacher, aapproach, city, it seems that we will always do balancing poses, always the tree. In this class, we stand in a circle, palms touching palms, leaning on the shoulder of our friend (as Ellin refers to those on either side of us) until we achieve our position, then standing tall in an elegant circle, fingertips touching, arms raised high. This morning, we also practice leaning inward and extending one leg outward--and--the most beautiful and awkward of all, grasping our the arch of our foot, extending it outward and to the right (or left), all the while grasping the shoulder of our friend as we are positioning ourselves, and placing our heel on the extended leg of the person next to us. I'll try to draw an illustration of this pose soon, but it forms truly a celtic knot of a circle as our legs interlock with one another's and we lift our arms upward. My gratitude today? That I can do this--in community. In this kind of community, this beautiful metaphor for community, we can pose so much more gracefully and strongly than if we were struggling with balance on our own. On our own, even if, say, my balance feels right and secure, in the corner of my eye, if I see the person next to me teetering, my own balance is affected, as if were are connected by an invisible cord. Actually, I believe that we are, but when we stand in the circle, our cords retract, because we do touch one another. We recognize the connectedness that really does exist when we're not in the circle. We,re brought into connectedness.
I'd like to choreograph a dance like this.
Gratitude.
It is time to go.
I haven't yet spoken about Oliver Sacks, from whom Tana will take a course at Columbia this spring--or depression--I'll save that.
But Niko and I have just has a conversation about our advent teaching series, the great prayers of the Old Testament--and the beauty of that poetry, especially Psalm 23. But as Walter Breuggemann says, our Christian prayers are anemic in comparison--we'll look at Moses, Hannah' David, and Jeremiah.
And that's for another time.
I'd like to choreograph a dance like this.
Gratitude.
It is time to go.
I haven't yet spoken about Oliver Sacks, from whom Tana will take a course at Columbia this spring--or depression--I'll save that.
But Niko and I have just has a conversation about our advent teaching series, the great prayers of the Old Testament--and the beauty of that poetry, especially Psalm 23. But as Walter Breuggemann says, our Christian prayers are anemic in comparison--we'll look at Moses, Hannah' David, and Jeremiah.
And that's for another time.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Mondays with Niko: On Dancing at 70
Here we are in our favorite cafe, doing what we often do, settling in to writing after a catch up conversation on how we we've been, our latest worries about our children, and, this morning, friends with cancer--prognoses not good. This is the day after the storm. Six, maybe 8, inches of snow and now bright sun, blue sky, great plops of snow falling from the pine trees, sloppy sidewalks', snow boots, scarves, and vests--in all, one of those winter-loving days that Coloradans are extremely boastful of--
But today I want to talk about dancing at 70. I really do NOT want to go to my grave regretting that I haven't danced enough. So that's what I'm doing--mostly now in the form of NIA, an acronym whose words I can never remember, but having something to do with neuromuscular intergration--something very good for my body, mind, and spirit--a combination of dance, martial arts, and something else--Tai Chi, perhaps. I'm taking as many classes as I can fit in, given my schedule--but sometimes I can do up to 4 a week.
This week, let's add ballrooom dancing lessons, swing and foxtrot. In preparation for Mary Kate+'s wedding, she and Jean-Hilaire are taking dance lessons and inviting others to do so also, so that they are used to dancing in the presence of others. Doug and I joined mostly young people for a lesson in the chapel (of all places, but, oh well) taught by the ever-gracious, ever-patient talented Gabriel. Doug did beautifully in his usual good sport way--not always entirely comfortable, but always willing.
I first started dancing, I'm pretty sure, when I was in the third grade. I took tap, ballet, and acrobat--loved it all. Little did I know that my parents could hardly afford those lessons--and they did die out after a while, especially since we moved around so much. I also don't know why I was selected for the lessons--of the three of us girls--but I do remember Mother talking about trying to find me in the supermarket--and thereI'd be, dancing down the aisles. (Grocery store aisles are, by the way, eminently suited for sweeping gestures and great leaps from one end to the other.) My best lessons were in Corpus Christi, and I can't even remember the name of my teachers. But they were the best, by far, that I've ever had. I was talented, really, and loved dancing so much that I actually would practice at home. (and in the supermarket, down the street, in the school halls, at church)
When we moved to Beaumont, I did enroll again--taking from Miss Miriam (Widman) and Miss Judith (Sproule). Something had changed, though. The classes were larger, we were at all levels in the same class, as new girl (throughout childhood I was always the the"new girl"), I didn't get the personal attention that I had gotten in Corpus. I faithfully did my recitals, however. My favorite tap was to "Shrimp Boats" (so fitting for the Gulf Coast); of course, as did many a 12-year-old, we danced the "Waltz of the Flowers" from the Nutcracker. The costume was beautiful--made by my Mother--of pink net and satin with flowers as our shoulder straps. In jr. high I danced to "Sentimental Journey" with a group of friends for a talent show. We wore blue skirts and white organza blouses, and carried suitcases--those beige looking ones with darker bands around them--the then equivalent of today's black suitcases on wheels--everyone had them.
In high school, not so many dance lessons, but lots of dances--and the jitterbug was my favorite, but we also did the bop--and that was the time that lyrics began to change from "How Much is that Doggie in the Window?" to "Rock Around the Clock" and "Bip-Bam, Thank You, Ma'am'" Our parents were horrified.
We lived on the Louisiana border, so, of course, we learned the Cajun Two-Step at the fais dos-dos.
Over the years I've enrolled in ballet. It took me a while to come around to modern, a result of the influence (and prejudice) of my early ballet teachers. In Cedar City, I took dance from my yoga teacher, Terri. I suggested at that time that she think about starting a dance group for older women, but I think she thought the idea was ridiculous.
Where I live in Colorado, however, the idea is far from ridiculous, and I have begun jazz lessons and am fascinated witha group of women whose company is known as Forty Women Over Forty--and that's my goal. Workshop in December, audition fror the show.
But today I want to talk about dancing at 70. I really do NOT want to go to my grave regretting that I haven't danced enough. So that's what I'm doing--mostly now in the form of NIA, an acronym whose words I can never remember, but having something to do with neuromuscular intergration--something very good for my body, mind, and spirit--a combination of dance, martial arts, and something else--Tai Chi, perhaps. I'm taking as many classes as I can fit in, given my schedule--but sometimes I can do up to 4 a week.
This week, let's add ballrooom dancing lessons, swing and foxtrot. In preparation for Mary Kate+'s wedding, she and Jean-Hilaire are taking dance lessons and inviting others to do so also, so that they are used to dancing in the presence of others. Doug and I joined mostly young people for a lesson in the chapel (of all places, but, oh well) taught by the ever-gracious, ever-patient talented Gabriel. Doug did beautifully in his usual good sport way--not always entirely comfortable, but always willing.
I first started dancing, I'm pretty sure, when I was in the third grade. I took tap, ballet, and acrobat--loved it all. Little did I know that my parents could hardly afford those lessons--and they did die out after a while, especially since we moved around so much. I also don't know why I was selected for the lessons--of the three of us girls--but I do remember Mother talking about trying to find me in the supermarket--and thereI'd be, dancing down the aisles. (Grocery store aisles are, by the way, eminently suited for sweeping gestures and great leaps from one end to the other.) My best lessons were in Corpus Christi, and I can't even remember the name of my teachers. But they were the best, by far, that I've ever had. I was talented, really, and loved dancing so much that I actually would practice at home. (and in the supermarket, down the street, in the school halls, at church)
When we moved to Beaumont, I did enroll again--taking from Miss Miriam (Widman) and Miss Judith (Sproule). Something had changed, though. The classes were larger, we were at all levels in the same class, as new girl (throughout childhood I was always the the"new girl"), I didn't get the personal attention that I had gotten in Corpus. I faithfully did my recitals, however. My favorite tap was to "Shrimp Boats" (so fitting for the Gulf Coast); of course, as did many a 12-year-old, we danced the "Waltz of the Flowers" from the Nutcracker. The costume was beautiful--made by my Mother--of pink net and satin with flowers as our shoulder straps. In jr. high I danced to "Sentimental Journey" with a group of friends for a talent show. We wore blue skirts and white organza blouses, and carried suitcases--those beige looking ones with darker bands around them--the then equivalent of today's black suitcases on wheels--everyone had them.
In high school, not so many dance lessons, but lots of dances--and the jitterbug was my favorite, but we also did the bop--and that was the time that lyrics began to change from "How Much is that Doggie in the Window?" to "Rock Around the Clock" and "Bip-Bam, Thank You, Ma'am'" Our parents were horrified.
We lived on the Louisiana border, so, of course, we learned the Cajun Two-Step at the fais dos-dos.
Over the years I've enrolled in ballet. It took me a while to come around to modern, a result of the influence (and prejudice) of my early ballet teachers. In Cedar City, I took dance from my yoga teacher, Terri. I suggested at that time that she think about starting a dance group for older women, but I think she thought the idea was ridiculous.
Where I live in Colorado, however, the idea is far from ridiculous, and I have begun jazz lessons and am fascinated witha group of women whose company is known as Forty Women Over Forty--and that's my goal. Workshop in December, audition fror the show.
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Picture of Dorian Gray (Hair) aka Kay at 60, 65, 70
Still Monday morning, still writing--but a new topic here-my photos of the last 15, 10, 5 years, such as the one I've posted on this blog. When I went in to give up my Utah driver's license for a Colorado one, I of course had my pictue taken. I had taken in my passport as another means of ID to get me license, so the clerks who took the picture, having the three photos before them, laughed that they all looked the same--my looks have not changed, and, according to the pix, I have not aaged in all these years. I myself would be incredulous to be told that the woman in the picture on this blog was celebrating her 70th birthday. In fact, I would be downright green with envy. What is her secret?
Well, I'll tell you. We love stories about people who have sold their soul to the devil in exchange for immortality, Dr. Faustus, for example. I have not sold my soul to the devil, but I seem to have made some bargain with the camera. Yes, the camera has decided that when I stand in front of it (or sit) that it will render much the same picture that it has over the past 15 years. It was a secret pact, evidently,, and I don't know what being is in charge of what the camera sees, but there it is--
There it is--a reverse Dorian Grey--the physical self has aged considerably over the years--the photos don't age. What is going to happen when the two collide? I shudder to think. The wrinkles on my face are deep and my sagging neck has the texture that my mother's did when Rick told her, "Your neck looks just like your dress, A-my." She was wearing crepe. My hands have all those brown spots on them that signify undignified aging, the flesh on my arms--when I do the downward dog, all moves forward and down, forming crevasses--waves of human flesh folding over into itself. I'm horrified and pretend I'm not.
Maybe that's what the camera knows-she wouldn't be able to take it--go easy on her--rough life and all. Give her something to smile about.
Well, I'll tell you. We love stories about people who have sold their soul to the devil in exchange for immortality, Dr. Faustus, for example. I have not sold my soul to the devil, but I seem to have made some bargain with the camera. Yes, the camera has decided that when I stand in front of it (or sit) that it will render much the same picture that it has over the past 15 years. It was a secret pact, evidently,, and I don't know what being is in charge of what the camera sees, but there it is--
There it is--a reverse Dorian Grey--the physical self has aged considerably over the years--the photos don't age. What is going to happen when the two collide? I shudder to think. The wrinkles on my face are deep and my sagging neck has the texture that my mother's did when Rick told her, "Your neck looks just like your dress, A-my." She was wearing crepe. My hands have all those brown spots on them that signify undignified aging, the flesh on my arms--when I do the downward dog, all moves forward and down, forming crevasses--waves of human flesh folding over into itself. I'm horrified and pretend I'm not.
Maybe that's what the camera knows-she wouldn't be able to take it--go easy on her--rough life and all. Give her something to smile about.
Mondays with Niko
For almost one year now Niko and I have been going to yoga class, then finding a coffee shop and quiet place to di writing for at least an hour and sometimes more than that.. At the end of the year, we'll pull together what we've written--see what we have. Our idea is that if we don't set aside this time, we'll never to it on our own. Today we sit in the lobby of a very posh hotel. We have paid $4 each for an Americano, which makes us thankful that we brought our own pumpkin bread and apple. We're in front of a wide fireplace that has flames coming from crystals--behind it is a window and we see outside to a fountain burbling water up and over a brass sculpture that I cant describe--lots of angles, perhaps representing leaves. It is all very elegant and only a little out of place in this town known best for its laid-back, outdoor, mountaineering life style.
Last week we met, but did not write. Our whole time last Monday was spent talking. I was just back from Paris, so we had missed some time together. But Paris was not what we talked about--rather, our children and the anxiety we feel for them long after they have become adults, have been out of our houses for a while, and are leading their own lives. It started, of course, with my telling Niko about my grief over Jesse's death and for his parents. It's the same response as I mentioned before. We become very quiet, afraid to dpeak some things out loud, thinking of our own children and there but for the grace of God, Allah, the beneficent beings of tghe universe, go we. The death of a child, the most horrific of imaginings, brings out any fear we have of putting that out in the universe--the mere discussion of it resonating at some celestial level--the power of the word--the spoken word-- to emerge into a thing, into a dreaded reality. Interestingly, we find that power absolutely impotent when we put positive thoughts out there--we tend to scorn at that a bit more--as if only the negative has some power over us to fulfill itself in the reality of our lives.
A concern over a breakup, a child in constant pain because of an accident, abuse--even the children whose lives are smooth for the moment-we find ourselves waking at night with a pang and a pit in the stomach. Where are those years when we could make everything all right with a kiss, soothing words, and a cookie?
As I've said to my friend whose son is cultivating marijuana for medicinal purposes, has just become a father, has been busted, "They're ont heir own journey." It's my mantra. Lord know that when I was 32, 49, 51---the age of my children now--Lord knows I would have never gone to my mother with any kind of pain; she didn't want to hear about it, and I took that for her uncaring, but frankly, it could very well have been that she cared too much.
A therapist once asked me, when I was grieving over my inability to protect my children from this savage and broken world, "Do you think your children are not as able as you are to endure what happens to us in life?" No, not really. But it's not too much to wish that they didn't have to.
Last week we met, but did not write. Our whole time last Monday was spent talking. I was just back from Paris, so we had missed some time together. But Paris was not what we talked about--rather, our children and the anxiety we feel for them long after they have become adults, have been out of our houses for a while, and are leading their own lives. It started, of course, with my telling Niko about my grief over Jesse's death and for his parents. It's the same response as I mentioned before. We become very quiet, afraid to dpeak some things out loud, thinking of our own children and there but for the grace of God, Allah, the beneficent beings of tghe universe, go we. The death of a child, the most horrific of imaginings, brings out any fear we have of putting that out in the universe--the mere discussion of it resonating at some celestial level--the power of the word--the spoken word-- to emerge into a thing, into a dreaded reality. Interestingly, we find that power absolutely impotent when we put positive thoughts out there--we tend to scorn at that a bit more--as if only the negative has some power over us to fulfill itself in the reality of our lives.
A concern over a breakup, a child in constant pain because of an accident, abuse--even the children whose lives are smooth for the moment-we find ourselves waking at night with a pang and a pit in the stomach. Where are those years when we could make everything all right with a kiss, soothing words, and a cookie?
As I've said to my friend whose son is cultivating marijuana for medicinal purposes, has just become a father, has been busted, "They're ont heir own journey." It's my mantra. Lord know that when I was 32, 49, 51---the age of my children now--Lord knows I would have never gone to my mother with any kind of pain; she didn't want to hear about it, and I took that for her uncaring, but frankly, it could very well have been that she cared too much.
A therapist once asked me, when I was grieving over my inability to protect my children from this savage and broken world, "Do you think your children are not as able as you are to endure what happens to us in life?" No, not really. But it's not too much to wish that they didn't have to.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Saints and All Souls
This weekend is Halloween in Boulder, which means the Naked Pumpkin Run, a modified "mall-crawl," and the CU game with Missouri here. The officials are gearing up for a wild weekend--as well they should. My "wild" weekend will be the celebration of All Saints day on Sunday and All Souls on Monday. On Sunday, I will give the sermon at three services.--the same sermon, really, although somewhat modified for the 5 pm Canterbury.
As usual, I have read the lectionary readings and am in a period of reflection about:
What can I say about saints that we don't say every year at this time?
What do I know about "saints," actually? What do I bellieve? Our catechism begins, "A saint is anyone, living or dead, who..." Is that where I begin?
Who are the saints in my life, both living and dead?
The Gospel reading is on Jesus' raising Lazarus from the dead. I believe, really, that the most significant sentence in this passage is "Jesus wept" (King James, not NRSV). It brings me back to the subject of grief, and the special anguish that sisters and brothers, parents and friends endure with loss. Mary admonishes Jesus, "he wouldn't have died if you would have been here."
But Jesus does not bring Lazarus back from the dead to assuage grief--to make everything all right. I say time after time that, really, Lazarus had to die sometime, didn't he? Jesus brought Lazarus back because of disbelief. The sight must have been terrifying as it is described in our passage.
How do we endure loss? When do we give up hope? How are these two questions related to "A saint is someone, living or dead..."?
As usual, I have read the lectionary readings and am in a period of reflection about:
What can I say about saints that we don't say every year at this time?
What do I know about "saints," actually? What do I bellieve? Our catechism begins, "A saint is anyone, living or dead, who..." Is that where I begin?
Who are the saints in my life, both living and dead?
The Gospel reading is on Jesus' raising Lazarus from the dead. I believe, really, that the most significant sentence in this passage is "Jesus wept" (King James, not NRSV). It brings me back to the subject of grief, and the special anguish that sisters and brothers, parents and friends endure with loss. Mary admonishes Jesus, "he wouldn't have died if you would have been here."
But Jesus does not bring Lazarus back from the dead to assuage grief--to make everything all right. I say time after time that, really, Lazarus had to die sometime, didn't he? Jesus brought Lazarus back because of disbelief. The sight must have been terrifying as it is described in our passage.
How do we endure loss? When do we give up hope? How are these two questions related to "A saint is someone, living or dead..."?
A Lull Before the Storm, Literally
We walk on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at about 6:45, not incredibly early, really, but in this week before DST ends, it feels that way. This morning when we started out, it was 51 degrees, That's in contrast to this time yesterday morning when it was 22, and I decided NOT to ride my bike to yoga. Tomorrow's high will be in the 30s, and we have a storm coming that will measure the snow in a few inches. Rocky Mountain fall isn't usually this unstable.
This morning, with heavy clouds patchworking the sky, the sunrise both to the east and the west was spectacularly orange-shaded--brilliantly lighting up the east and reflecting off the Flatirons to the west as well as one tall building made of glass--can't figure out where that building is actually.
I'm really a kind of begrudging morning walker, but we only do about a mile and a half, and once I'm out, I'm filled with a spirit of well-being, energy.
Now the sky is a dull grey, leaves almost gone from the trees (thanks to the winds of week), the Flatirons having receded into the shadows.
This morning, with heavy clouds patchworking the sky, the sunrise both to the east and the west was spectacularly orange-shaded--brilliantly lighting up the east and reflecting off the Flatirons to the west as well as one tall building made of glass--can't figure out where that building is actually.
I'm really a kind of begrudging morning walker, but we only do about a mile and a half, and once I'm out, I'm filled with a spirit of well-being, energy.
Now the sky is a dull grey, leaves almost gone from the trees (thanks to the winds of week), the Flatirons having receded into the shadows.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Grief, Unspeakable Grief
The death of Jesse, age 30, has filled my waking and sleeping hours since I have returned. This young man, as his father wrote to me, "lived as long as he could, and then he couldn't." As a child and friend to my own son, we knew his troubled, intelligent soul early. We rejoiced when his life took shape with relationships and work that had meaning for him.
Here is what I know in my priesthood. There are no words of comfort here for his parents. There is nothing, right now, to be said. I imagine that the only way to see out of this all-consuming grief is to know that there are so many parents who have lost children. I look at these people with awe. They are actually living in this world, buying groceries, going to jobs, telling jokes.
I believe in the "peace that passes understanding." I believe that Jesse soul is in repose, and, as we say in our Prayers of the People, I believe that "light perpetual shines upon him." I know that his parents, my friends, are inconsolable.
We who have young sons speak of Jesse, then become silent, because we know only too well that he could be our son--that he is our son. I speak to my friend Mary in the need to tell someone--to make real this fact that I'm living with--Jesse's death. I explain to her that I've known him since he was about 8, the circumstances of his death as I understand them, how I know his parents. Then we become very quiet; we have each folded in upon ourselves. We each think of our own sons, sip coffee, and then one of us says, "What a beautiful fall day." Or, "Would you like a slice of pumpkin bread?"
We can tell stories that we know:
My cat Miranda belonged to Jesse at one time--when he was a teenager, he along with a group of his friends, found her and began to raise her as a kitten. When his parents said that Jesse could not bring a new cat into a household that already had one, his mother, remembering the death of our cat Smokey, asked me if I would take her. "Yes," I said. And when she arrived, she was the very image of our tortoise shell, Smokey. But she jumped on tables, on the stove, on kitchen counters, always grazing for food, knowing no boundaries. We liked to say that Miranda was raised by teenage boys.
Jesse never really forgave me for taking Miranda, but I'm deeply grateful to him for finding her.
Here is what I know in my priesthood. There are no words of comfort here for his parents. There is nothing, right now, to be said. I imagine that the only way to see out of this all-consuming grief is to know that there are so many parents who have lost children. I look at these people with awe. They are actually living in this world, buying groceries, going to jobs, telling jokes.
I believe in the "peace that passes understanding." I believe that Jesse soul is in repose, and, as we say in our Prayers of the People, I believe that "light perpetual shines upon him." I know that his parents, my friends, are inconsolable.
We who have young sons speak of Jesse, then become silent, because we know only too well that he could be our son--that he is our son. I speak to my friend Mary in the need to tell someone--to make real this fact that I'm living with--Jesse's death. I explain to her that I've known him since he was about 8, the circumstances of his death as I understand them, how I know his parents. Then we become very quiet; we have each folded in upon ourselves. We each think of our own sons, sip coffee, and then one of us says, "What a beautiful fall day." Or, "Would you like a slice of pumpkin bread?"
We can tell stories that we know:
My cat Miranda belonged to Jesse at one time--when he was a teenager, he along with a group of his friends, found her and began to raise her as a kitten. When his parents said that Jesse could not bring a new cat into a household that already had one, his mother, remembering the death of our cat Smokey, asked me if I would take her. "Yes," I said. And when she arrived, she was the very image of our tortoise shell, Smokey. But she jumped on tables, on the stove, on kitchen counters, always grazing for food, knowing no boundaries. We liked to say that Miranda was raised by teenage boys.
Jesse never really forgave me for taking Miranda, but I'm deeply grateful to him for finding her.
What is it about Paris?
What is it that draws us there? Why did it just pop out of my mouth when D. asked me what I wanted to do for my 70th--"Go to Paris," I said--out of my mouth before I could even think. We've been there several times. My heart seems lighter when I'm there--and I have more energy. I want to be out--like the parisiens--drinking coffee and wine, walking for hours, tucking into little squares and big churches.
Is it the river? London--also a city that feels like home--has that. The architecture? The ancient history? The language? Or, really, the food--the boulangeries, patisseries, cafes, the coffee and chocolate chaud ancienne? (See Ellen and Helen, after an afternoon of walking and plunging into Galeries Lafayette, above) What is it about Paris? Can we define the energy? I live in a city known as a "vortex," a city located at a site of mystic power--known for its so-called new age ethos. Is Paris an ancient vortex, laughing at these newer places--these babies, really, laying claim to some spiritual power? That ancient vortex called Paris is actually less about mystical energy spots (Dan Brown knows this) and more about eating well (Julia Child knew this), enjoying every last morsel.
Paris and Back: Age 70 for Two Weeks
If I'm going to keep an account of my 70th year, it clearly is not going to be a daily one. Setting up a blog space was the first step, and here I find it beckoning to me, waiting patiently in some form, out of sight, but there nonetheless--like a memory in a small corner of my mind begging to emerge.
It's remarkable to me that I am 70. And I am seeking to live into that age--really not aged, but, frankly, old--with some kind of notation, documentation, that yes, I was here; I made a note of it, unlike the other "0" years that slipped away--unlike the decades now behind me.
I celebrated age 70 by going to Paris. The actual day of my birthday was a Sunday; I am an Episcopal priest, and it just so happened that that very Sunday marked the Bishop's visitation. So I began my 70th year with a blessing. And left the next day for Paris, for a week in an apartment on Rue de Montorgueil. And now I'm back. It's early morning, with only the cat Miranda astir. Perhaps now I can begin.
It's remarkable to me that I am 70. And I am seeking to live into that age--really not aged, but, frankly, old--with some kind of notation, documentation, that yes, I was here; I made a note of it, unlike the other "0" years that slipped away--unlike the decades now behind me.
I celebrated age 70 by going to Paris. The actual day of my birthday was a Sunday; I am an Episcopal priest, and it just so happened that that very Sunday marked the Bishop's visitation. So I began my 70th year with a blessing. And left the next day for Paris, for a week in an apartment on Rue de Montorgueil. And now I'm back. It's early morning, with only the cat Miranda astir. Perhaps now I can begin.
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