John and I will celebrate 25 years of marriage in September. Plus, 32 years of friendship. How have I put up with him for so long, you ask? Perhaps because I don’t know any better. I’m only 35, doncha know.
Anyway, we were married in the Archdiocese of Miami, and they celebrate a jubilee mass every year. Unfortunately, we had some other commitments on that weekend so we didn’t go. Then, this came in the mail. What a lovely surprise!
Don’t get your panties in a wad…I’m not giving serious consideration to reincarnation nor am I mocking world religions. I was just thinking that there are so many things I want to see and experience that I would need two or three lifetimes in order to fit them all in.
Some of these things are left over from when I was a kid, and some of these things are things that I’ve thought of as an adult. So, I present to you, in no particular order, the things I’d see or do if I fell into a vat of toxic waste and came back as Catwoman (besides getting the attention of my husband in a very special way).
Here goes:
1. Climb Machu Pichu (this from childhood–I think my love of science fiction was born in my fascination with crop circles and the year 2012)
2. See the Grand Canyon
3. Go to the Summer Olympics (I once dreamed of participating, but I’ll settle for shouting USA! in the stands)
4. Jump out of an airplane (ideally, I’d be wearing a working chute)
5. Go to the running of the bulls in Pamplona (I’d settle for the tomato throwing festival)
6. Learn Italian
7. Write a good novel
8. Play the piano (Useless — I’ve worn down some of the best music teachers. I don’t get time signatures. Music isn’t just a foreign language to me, it’s alienspeak.)
9. Go back to Rome and visit for as long as I want
10. Meet the Pope (Alexander would have been interesting, but he’s been dead for hundreds of years — B16 would be a nice consolation pope)
11. Get a Ph.D., not an Ed.D. (I have snob issues)
12. Go on a mission trip
13. Run a marathon
14. Spend the day at the Smithsonian
15. Visit Cuba
16. Eat shrimp scampi (with an epi pen!)
17. Go surfing
18. Visit the Holy Land
19. Party in Australia with my friend Leonie
20. Drink cafe au lait and have a croissan at the Cafe Georges V on the Champs Elysees (tourist trap? definitely. but very early in the morning, I think I could capture a slice of my youth while backpacking through Europe a million years ago)
There are few things in my life that really annoy me, as opposed to the number of things that just generally annoy me. Having NO SENSE, or as I prefer to call it, BEING STUPID, and its close cousin, BEING INCONSIDERATE, rate up there in the annoyances that generate a blog rant.
Welcome to my rant.
The South has an undeserved reputation for being slow and talking funny. Well, ok, people do talk funny here, but the reputation for slow is misunderstood. It’s a different culture in the way that each region of the United States is a different culture, too.
Southerners, perhaps because of the agricultural economy, are just not in a hurry. Think about it. Unlike in the industrial areas, ruled by factory shifts and assembly lines, things around here get done when they’re done. It’s not better or worse, just different.
For example, if I have to take a file to an office on another floor, I’ll chat with the secretary for a moment and ask after her momma ‘n ’em before plopping the file on her desk. She’s competent — it’ll get done. Skipping the pleasantries isn’t going to make her work any faster. In fact, I’d venture to say that precisely because of the human touch I’m likely to get good service (not that it’s my motivation in this case).
That human touch, sometimes called southern hospitality, is what I want to share with you. It’s saying “Yes, sir” and “No, ma’am” and “Please” and “Thank you.” Opening doors for women.
Pulling over to the side of the road when a funeral procession passes and staying put out of respect, for the deceased as well as the family.
That one is a little unusual for me. I have to admit that while I spent my childhood in Atlanta, the later formative years of living in Miami, you know, that southernmost burrough of New York City, turned me into a Yankee. The last almost fifteen years of living in the South again have retrained me. Still, I was kind of taken aback the first time I saw every single car pull over to the side of the road for a funeral procession. I’m no dummy. I did the same and quickly learned that it’s one of those things that’s done out here.
Of course, that was many years ago. Today, there are strip malls where I would have pulled over. McDonald’s and Burger Kings litter the landscape, and poison, not just our bodies, but our minds with the need to rush. To get moving.
To not slow down, not even for the anonymous reminder of our mortality.
Today, sadly, we buried a dear friend of the family. It was a tough week. It’s a journey we all have to take and something that I experience more and more as I get older. As Catholics, we are called to a powerful but often difficult task of burying the dead. This corporal act of mercy requires that we do one last thing — bury the deceased with dignity and respect, and provide the family and friends with the solace through the beautiful funeral rites, that all who love the Lord have the promise of eternal life. Funerals are sad, but filled with consoling graces.
Funeral processions, on the other hand, are just short of circuses. Thankfully, the family is up front, and probably too grief-stricken to be aware of the insanity that follows them through the streets on the way to the cemetary.
As luck would have it, we ended up as the second or third car after the family. We were moving through the streets at a steady pace, escorted by motorcyle cops that stood at attention when they weren’t corralling us through lights. A number of people pulled over to the side of the road. In fact, quite a few people, and we were in the city, where I would expect a large number of transplants and “fer-ners.”
Unfortunately, there were more morons than not on the road. At first, I was sad that this last little piece of southern culture seemed to be on its way out when a psycho-pig zipped alongside us and couldn’t wait for the procession to pass. No, this idiot actually cut into the funeral procession! Yes! I still can’t believe it. This guy wedged himself into the procession, travelled with us for several miles, and then turned off when he got to his destination.
Wow.
I don’t know which makes me angrier, that he could possibly be so callous and disrespectful that it was an intentional act, or that he was so totally unaware of his surroundings and the world and customs and everything that he would totally ignore all the clues like cops and lights and flashers and, oh, I dunno, A HEARSE.
I would have given him the benfit of the doubt and imagined that he was rushing home to his pregnant, in-labor wife, only, no. He pulled into a Publix. I guess he needed to get a box of Dings Dongs to match his critical thinking skills.
My friend Jeff takes a special delight in pointing out that in spite of a rather illustrious past in sports, including being inducted into the Sports Hall of Fame for my high school (I’m listed for basketball in 1980), he only ever talks about the fact that I lettered in Badminton.
It’s not humiliating.
If I say it enough it will be true.
Well, take that, Jeffrey. I found something more humiliating than badminton.
Actually, I think I looked hot in my 1980’s style short shorts. More humiliating than the sport of curling is the attire that one must use to play. Really? Who thought this was a good idea?
Of course, the Norwegian Curling Team might be awful, but they’re snazzy dressers. Gotta give ’em credit for knowing how to play the media.
There are parts of my fair city that are…well…interesting. Lucky for me, I work in one of those quarters where there’s always entertainment going on. You know what I’m talking about as I talk around in delicate circles.
Let’s face it. It’s the bizarro world to my quiet, suburban/formerly rural homestead. The fact that we aren’t rural anymore should be an indication of the kind of gigantic growth experienced in Atlanta. As a side note, one of these days Birmingham is going to be part of metropolitan Atlanta due to the urban sprawl, but that’s not what I’m venting about today.
No. Today I saw an angelic vision. Or something.
Yes! Seen on my favorite corner (the one where I have been mooned and terrorized by bible thumping cultists) this morning was a gentlemen dressed in an alb.
I am certain that it was an alb because I was carefully looking at the hem and the pleats in the front. If that wasn’t enough, his fashion accessories were outright bizarre.
To his credit, his black and white motif was working, but still. Weird.
To compound things, the alb was hemmed a little too short, exposing his black dress socks accentuated by dazzling white plastic sneakers trimmed in black. It also exposed the fact that he was not wearing long pants (and it was like 22 degrees F). He didn’t strike me as a Scotsman, so I’d like to think he was wearing something else under there, but my mind refused to ponder that any further.
The ensemble was completed by a black hoodie and thick hockey gloves. And dark sunglasses.
I if was dressed like that I wouldn’t want to be recognized, either.
I’m enjoying a stay-at-home day, which essentially means nothing … same thing, different setting. But I had trouble sitting down at my desk to get some work done because the clutter in my home office is just, frankly, out of control. It’s the dumping ground for all papers and things of “value” that don’t get pitched when the house is straightened. You know, the items one looks at, thinks they’re important, but not important enough to address at the moment.
My desk is a depository for important stuff that is soooo important, the dates have expired, passed me by, and become irrelevent. Yeah, because that’s useful.
A couple of years ago I joined Fly Lady and decluttered my life. Satisfied that I had been effective, I slipped back into my careless ways, which of course brings me to today and a stack of, let’s be honest, crap that has settled into piles all around me.
Don’t get too judgmental, the living room looks nice.
But here’s the problem: that’s external. It’s what a casual guest would see. The truth of my existence lies behind closed doors.
A little like my spiritual life? Hmm. How about a lot like my spiritual life. Oh sure, I say the right things, go to church, give alms to the poor. In public. What am I doing in private? I’m afraid it looks like my office — dusty and not at all conducive to any kind of healthy prayer life. Gotta dust in there, too.
So here’s the plan. I’m going to declutter my body and soul. I’m going to do the 40 Trash Bag Challenge, renewed this year over at Faith & Family (read Danielle Bean’s post here) to declutter my house.
And then, I’m going to do that other challenge, you know, Lent. That one’s a little tougher. I’m usually better with a physical challenge, so I’m going to go on a spiritual diet. A change in my praying habits. If I can find 30 minutes a day to dump the clutter in my life, I need to find 30 minutes a day to fill that void with something healthy.
What that is yet, I don’t know, but I’m sure I’ll think of something. Rest assured it’s going to start with the Sacrament of Reconciliation. The point is, I’m going to be exhaling the toxic waste, and inhaling the fresh air.
Join me?
Um, where’s the snow?
This is what snow looks like in metropolitan Atlanta (very close to where I live):
So that’s what snow looks like. We went about our lives relatively normally.
This is what a snow day looks like:
Do you see a discrepancy? It’s subtle, I know, but it’s there. Well, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth!
The view from my front porch tonight was absolutely lovely. The snow, pristine, shiny, wet, and so soft and quiet was a comfort after a difficult day.
I’m fascinated by the snow. It’s nothing new to me – I’ve spent winters in places much colder than here, driven in snow deeper and more dangerous than today’s, but snow is rare enough in these parts to always draw some attention. Today’s little “blizzard” came in, like the fog, on little cat feet.
After a morning and afternoon filled in equal parts mourning, joy, and love, I made my way back home in the midst of quite a snow-shower. We usually only get the little flurries, barely pinpoints of ice that melt as soon as they land on anything, but today was different.
Today we got some real flakes. Big. Fluffy. Substantial.
They fell quickly, stuck surely, and blanketed the city in what seemed like mere moments. Kind of like life. One minute things are looking all regular, and the next, everything changes.
I reflected on this on the way home because, frankly, listening to the radio was too much noise for my broken heart. The incredible thing about snow is its silence. It falls hard and fast, and noiselessly.
That’s the part that amazes me every time. I’m usually drawn to the violent storms, with lots of thunderous claps and sheering rains, and winds that blow hard and noisily. The ocean, at its most tumultuous is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in nature.
But snow is different.
I know it has the potential for destruction, but in its moderation, in its manifestation today, it was a gift in its simplicity. Gentle, pure, and … quiet. It covered us, not with the pall we were expecting, but like a blanket that a parent might place across a sleeping child.
And still, there was a heaviness that mirrored the heaviness in my heart. The trees bear the weight of the snow nobly and bravely. I pray we can do the same.
another cup of coffee 