Category: humor

Simple Moments

mary at 3In the midst of a frenzied few weeks, when breathing into a paper bag is my stress reliever, I have tried really hard to FOCUS…(the caps are me, telling myself to focus right now at this very moment because even in writing about focus, I seem to lose it).  Anyway, there are many lifetime events swirling around me right now: death, new driver, graduation, major home projects, none of which has  sent me over the edge.  I tell myself that I’m handling them like a trooper.  Except not really.  So what threw me over the edge?  Taking out my warm weather clothing, only to realize that while my psyche may have withstood the longest winter EVER, my body has not.  Nothing fits.  Stomping around like a 14-year-old didn’t make me feel any better, especially since I only felt winded.  Finally getting back to the gym this week only validated what poor shape I’m in.  And while body consciousness is usually irrelevant in my day-to-day musings, today it is LOOMING AT ME LIKE OBNOXIOUS WORDS ALL CAPS.  Do you know how hard it is to suck in your stomach when you’re doing planks, or how disconcerting it is when your boobs bump into your gut rendering it almost impossible to complete a crunch?  I tell myself, that this too will pass, that my butt will be back where it’s supposed to be in no time at all.  I will face all these major changes in life with a body that is as tight as my spirit.  Right?

While my momentary body consciousness may be the expression of the challenges I’ve faced as of late, I think the root of my anxiety lies in the fact that while I am fine with life moving forward, I am not always fine with how well or effectively I’ve lived thus far.  Note, that this statement comes from that guilt ridden, Irish Catholic school girl inside me who will never be satisfied with how well I’ve done anything until I’ve earned a feast day.  But as life will have it, something extraordinary happened.  While Steve and I were bickering about which depressingly expensive pool liner we were going to purchase to replace the one that lived 3 years beyond its life span, the young man behind the counter asked me my name…(to which Steve used this momentary distraction to vacate, to make his tee-time) when I told him, he smiled and said, “You were my teacher at Holy Angels”  It was lovely to catch up, but even more so that he actually remembered some things that I said in class that stuck with him.  A simple moment, but remarkable given the funk I was in.  It was nice to know that I did make an impact on a life.  Sometimes it’s just nice to know.  We should all be better at letting others know how they’ve impacted our lives.  I know I will.

The Naked Truth

flasherSo, what does perfection look like?  The dictionary defines it, in part, as the full growth or development of anything, or a completed state.  So beyond all the traditional trappings…I ask this question, “Given that God is perfect what does God look like?  Avoiding the easy traps of artists portrayals, I start with the old testament when God was always shrouded somehow, because to look upon God physically meant certain death.  The metaphor that came to me as I was struggling to find something completely unique, was that of God as a flasher–God revealing the deeper realities of life, for God’s pleasure, and our limited ability to see God in full glory.  NOW WAIT INTERNET, DO NOT FREAK OUT, KEEP WITH ME FOR JUST A MINUTE!  I have waited for enough time after writing this draft to validate that I have not caught on fire, I have not turned to stone and my head hasn’t turned all the way around once…so just bare with me, if God’s OK with it, so should you.  First of all, the reason I use the flasher image is that God has been clothed in so many different layers over the centuries, it’s about time to challenge many of these historical notions.  So when all the layers are stripped away, what do we have left?  I don’t have that answer yet, but and this is a big one, BUT I certainly had to ask this question first?  Am I willing to see God naked?

Culturally, nakedness is far more associated with sexuality and porn than personal knowledge and perfection.  The kind of exposure from someone who reveals themselves out of pleasure without being asked to do so is not only uncomfortable, many times it is a criminal offense.  Perhaps it is our discomfort and limited capacity for understanding perfection that God chooses to show us only so much at a time.  It can be more than a little daunting to entertain the possibility that many of the fundamental assumptions we have about God are really ill-fitting costumes that not only hide, but distort God’s very essence.  I say this, in part, because if we were so clear about God’s true nature, wouldn’t our world be in a much better place?  So let’s go back to before being naked was an indecent thing.

According to the book of Genesis, when Eve, then Adam ate from the tree of knowledge, bringing sin into paradise, they recognized their nakedness, tried to cover themselves up and hid from God.  Note that being naked was a good thing until they sinned and they began to see themselves differently as a result.  It certainly doesn’t imply that being naked was intrinsically a bad thing does it?  We are created in God’s image, after all…free of any wardrobe malfunctions.  Isn’t it more likely that the need to cover ourselves up as a result of recognizing our imperfection naturally flows to why we try to cover up God as well;  we don’t want the constant reminder of how imperfect we really are.  History certainly says so, for Christians anyway, look how humanity treated Jesus.  If we are truly created in the image of God, and by our own choice moved away from that image, it seems to make sense that in order to discover God’s true nature we deal with our own nakedness…and the neurosis that comes with it first.

Looking at my own naked flesh is mixed with many different emotions.  At my age it is impossible avoid gravity, period.  I will never resemble those beautiful women in the magazines, and I guess I’m OK with that, but sadly, though, I never thought my body would ever resemble one of those prehistoric fertility goddess figurines comprised of sagging breasts and a marsupial like stomach either…and while spanks work miracles, they do have to come off some time.  But at the same time, this body of mine has survived breaks, falls, injuries, childbirth, dancing, and the many things I have done for God…all that comes with living life.  Our bodies are the empirical evidence of all that we have seen and experienced.  So why is it that we worship bodies that bear no reflection of the greater lessons in life?  Isn’t it true that most supermodels hit their peak before the reach the age of majority?  Why focus on a blank canvas, or a body free of experience?  I truly believe that God’s true nature is probably closer to the reflection most people see of themselves in the mirror–a body worn with experience.  Let’s go back to the definition of perfection…the full growth or development of anything, a completed state.  A life lived fully, should be seen as closer to being perfect than running away from it through growth hormones, plastic surgery or the other myriad of ways we try to look younger.  I’m not saying that we allow ourselves to waste away, our bodies are temples after all…but the obsession with youth has to stop, especially since it sends an unfair message to young people that their bodies are the standard to which all perfection should be measured.  Would I go back to the perky body I used to have?  Ah, now therein lies the rub…the temptation would be great, but seriously no, I would not.  I think I would focus on all the wrong things.  As much as I struggle with aging, it is a natural part of coming to completion…and it is up to me, with the help of God to figure out how to wrap my head around it.  Perhaps, it will mean for me that I am one step closer to seeing God.

God’s Humor

teethAs it so happens, when I am able to articulate a bit of wisdom, or share a challenge of sorts… others may sit back and breathe a sigh of relief they were able to move a bit down the path of righteousness…I  just close my eyes and wait for the karmic tumble that I know I’m about to take.  Generally, it manifests itself in a couple of ways, 1) In the form of a shit storm, most often metaphorical, where I am barraged by spiritual excrement in the attempt to call  “hypocrite” and make me take back what I said, or 2) In the form of a person who makes it almost impossible to put into practice what I’ve just put out into the vastness of cyberspace.  This time, it was number 2…yes, pun intended.  Mind you, rarely does anyone put my teeth on edge like this particular person…a person who at our clinic in a full waiting room, once showed me a disgusting souvenir that his Philippino “girlfriend” sent him and was just barely able to scream at him to put it away before I vomited in my mouth.  This is a person who after bringing me to the edge of my fragile sanity so many times finally stopped speaking to me because I wouldn’t let him come over to our house and use our pool for “rehabilitation”.  Finally, I was free…of course until I shared my words of wisdom about seeing everyone through the eyes of grace.  HMMMM!  Was it the devil or God who decided to test that notion?  Whatever, it doesn’t matter…because I get it.  Sometimes it’s HARD, so hard that when I picked up the phone with my bright message of, “It’s great day at Edling Chiropractic…”  that horrible, horrible voice, forgiving me for being so inhospitable made my hand involuntarily rise to my temple and start pounding the phone against my head until the phrase, “See him through eyes of grace” popped in there.  Lord of All, I love you with all my soul…but that, my deity, SUCKED BIG TIME!  Ok, I tried.  I was kind.  I kept my boundaries.  I wasn’t mean.  I listened, even though he only called to talk about his bracket for March Madness.  I am humbled, and now I need a shower.

Regarding Jonah and the Non-prodigal son

I don’t know if it is God’s great humor or the hubris of Jonah that resulted in my isolation in the belly of my own metaphorical whale, but  sans the fish smell it was no less cramped, dark, and completely uncomfortable.  When it comes to the non-prodigal son and Jonah, I can completely sympathize with their tendency to mope over a last-minute save.  Today, they are my brethren.  Granted, I may be speaking in the voice of that petulant child that roars her ugly head once in a while, but the feeling of putting my ninja on and wreaking havoc on all the vipers and hypocrites and evil doers even has my rational, old soul, adult self jumping on board.  I am tired of bad people getting away with bad things and coming to Jesus to make it all right.  I wish omniscience was one of my super powers so I would have the ability to distinguish between who has really learned the hard lessons and has changed their ways and the liars who just pretend to.  Then I could  spontaneously combust the wolves with my Darth Vader like stare.  But alas, that would make me no better than they are, focused so outwardly on the sins of others that I can’t see my own.  I  did despair a bit at this awareness because Jesus has taught me to keep forgiving the bastards seventy times seventy….which is how I ended up inside my whale.  My internal rantings began to the tune of  “Walking the Line” and all the difficulties that come with that when there are so many who appear to reap benefits from not only walking far away from the line but taunt the rest of us who do…only to descend even deeper to conclude with a chorus of “nana nana booboo” while I visualized the evil doers being herded off a cliff somewhere.  The echo of all that whining bouncing off the blubber of my internal whale became so deafening that I told my internal petulant child that enough was enough already.  The descent into emotional and spiritual retardation, became an invitation to revisit why it is I choose to live by a higher moral imperative anyway.   It isn’t because I believe that I get to go to heaven, or avoid a heavy karmic backlash.  Truly, I believe it is because it makes the most sense to me.  Choosing a path of love demands certain behaviors laid out for me in the New Testament.  Jesus did prescribe a way to live in the world that will build the Kingdom of God and in order to get out of the belly of the whale I had to figure out that holding others accountable is God’s job and not mine.  The phrase, “it’s not fair” is wiped from my lexicon.  That is not to say that I won’t continue to fight for justice, rather, I will trust that Jesus’ great gift is very much alive and well even when it appears that the line isn’t even visible anymore.  I have learned a great lesson these past days and have regain a greater peace.

Boys are Stupid

Please note: if I had multiple personality disorder, this post would belong to an emotional primordial element of myself that I blacked out into after walking downstairs into the man-cave and stepping on cat vomit on the carpet that has been there for months because it has literally petrified.  I try to never go into the basement…for that very reason.  Once in a while, though, I succumb to my optimist self, and believe the men in my house when they tell me the basement is clean and venture down into the pit.  Well, like Charlie Brown keeps falling for Lucy’s football schtick I was blinded by my own optimism.  The bastards lied.  I didn’t lose emotional consciousness right away…I have dealt with all sorts of clashes with bodily fluids and wastes that are not my own, it was the array of filth, the biodegradable kind mingled with the non-recyclable  kind and the ensuing stench rising up from the metamorphosis that pushed me over into blind rage….you know the kind that produces spittle from screeching unintelligible sounds like a she devil that has been caged way too long.  I saw all too literally the remnants of all  things tasteful  and beautiful about our basement decor crumbling away and remember screaming something about acting like they were from the backwoods of Appalachia only to realize that I was insulting those poor backwoods people in Appalachia for using them in comparison to these animals.  I know, by the look on their faces that I needed to put myself in a time out, so I opened a good bottle of white wine brought up some olives, salmon and almonds on a beautiful dish and locked myself in my room.  After watching a mini Gilmore Girls marathon I felt my sentient self returning a bit…although I felt dizzy every time I heard them call me from the recesses of our house.  I used to laugh at the antics of living in a household of boys.  Now that they’re huge burgeoning men…I just think they’re stupid.  The fact that their frontal lobes are non-functioning and they’re bombarded with hormones is of no comfort when their father mirrors the very things that are leaching away at my psyche.  Pray for me.