Keep Calm and – well, you know

I guess I want to be George Takei.

When he first exploded on the internet with his clever and quirky posts, I thought, who died and made him king of our on-line kingdom? How did Sulu earn the clout to be our trendsetter and meme-maker? There were two things that let me rationalize enjoying his posts: the fact that many were freakin’ hilarious and that, well, he’s Captain Sulu.

Then the other day, feeling incredibly down and tired, I opened my blank book hoping to release whatever funk was plaguing me. I stared at the blank pages, too tired to form thoughts and too tired to get up and shut off the radio that was also distracting me. Then this song came on:

In that weird way that the universe seems to speak to us from time to time, the lyrics of this song said exactly what I needed to hear. That we’ve all been in that funk and need to keep going until we pull out of it. One of those great realizations that make us feel alive again. And I thought, how wonderful it would be to share this feeling.

Enter blogging. Facebook. Twitter. What have you.

The perfect platform to share favorite quotes, songs, photos, jokes. All those clever and quirky things that bang around in our heads and until social media didn’t have anyplace to go – except the backs of notebooks, bottoms of scribbled notes, and countless collages that littered my bulletin board or inside of my locker growing up.

Maybe I was snarky about George Takei’s meteoric rise to fame because I envied it. We all have a little Sulu inside us, I guess. Now, engage, and carry on!

Identity, Spirituality

Cultural Catholic

While driving home late last night, I caught the tail end of Terry Gross interviewing Dusting Hoffman. I didn’t know at the time it was Dustin Hoffman, having tuned the station to the middle of one of his responses. I simply heard a distinctive voice telling me his father was essentially an atheist. And that, as a child, he would lay on the grass in the backyard, looking up to the sky, and talk to God, asking him questions – and hear God’s answers.

The discussion then turned to ‘being Jewish’ as a cultural phenomenon vs. a religious one. Hoffman said he most definitely identified with his Jewish heritage, given from where he and his family hailed, his culinary likes and traditions, the idiosyncratic sense of humor. But it was only a cultural connection, not a belief in or adherence to organized religion.

And it occurred to me – is there such a thing as a cultural Catholic?

Those who pray to St. Anthony when they lose something, but don’t attend mass. Those who break the commandments knowingly, yet still feel the immense pressure of Catholic guilt instilled in them since childhood. Those who dangle the rosary from their rearview mirrors yet never recite the prayers. Those who don’t consider an Ash Wednesday, Christmas, or Easter complete unless they’ve attended mass, but don’t darken the door of the church any other day of the liturgical year. Those who don’t get married in the church, but insist on baptizing their children. Those who believe we’re all made in God’s image, but support abortion. Those who are proud to be part of the institution, but don’t uphold its tenets.

Catholic means universal. There is no one language, tradition, race, or cuisine that defines it. So I suppose there is no one way to practice it. And it would be impossible to divide it cleanly into two halves of religion and culture as one could argue with being Jewish. But there certainly seems to be a human inclination among some believers to keep secular routines and discard the spiritual aspects. To consider oneself Catholic, but not practice it. To tow some of the party line, but not the parts of the Catechism that drag them down.

When I first heard what I learned afterward was Dustin Hoffman’s voice and heard his responses before Terry Gross’ questions, I had no context in which to place them. They were pure thoughts and information – no judgment, no interpretation. And the thoughts and questions they provoked here are just the same. It is what it is. This is what I see.

I simply wonder if there is such a thing as a cultural Catholic.

Writing

Somewhere Out There

I write best when in my car.

No, I’m not one of those people you see mouth agape going eighty miles an hour applying mascara. I’m not reading the map spread across my dashboard as I try to maintain lane (disregard the fact that ergonomic dashboards and GPS have made this point moot). I’m not even trying to eat a sloppy sandwich as I steer with my elbows.

I have both hands securely planted on the wheel, watching both the speed- and tachometer, the radio adjusted to a safe level so as not to cause distraction. My youngest daughter is safely secured in her five-point harness in the backseat. My eyes are on the road and what the traffic ahead of me is doing.

Some part of my mind, however, is in the hills lit by sunlight on the horizon. The clouds sweeping across the crest of the hill. That part of my mind is parsing words and phrases, building them up and fine-tuning them.

Into poetry.

Into a thousand different perfect prompts for this blog.

Into the character quirk I’ve been needing for Dmitri.

Into metaphors and images, symbols and signs –

all of which leave me when I sit down hours or days later at the keyboard.

There are times it’s happened in the ether just before sleep. When the body has relaxed just enough to quell the mind’s obsessing, but not it’s creative processes. Perfectly formed paragraphs gather and congregate. Teasing me to remember them, knowing I won’t fight the exhaustion to lift a pen and record them in the notebook on my bedside table.

In the morning, the memory of them remains but not the perfect manuscript.

A voice to text application would probably help. But I have such a nostalgia for and dedication to hand- and typewritten words. I’m searching for a place to display the ancient Underwood typewriter my father’s holding for me now. It would feel disingenuous somehow to speak my words into thin air and have them magically transform to text. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Maybe I just hate to hear a playback of my recorded voice.

I’m hopelessly devoted to forming the perfect mental manuscript and promptly forgetting it when my hands touch the keyboard. If only mental memory would transfer to sense memory in this one instance. Just another form of writers’ block, I suppose. Or another rationalization for not writing what I’m supposed to be. It’s much easier to lament the perfect lost words than write the imperfect permanent ones.

So I’ll take leave of you now. Perhaps to go for a drive. Perhaps to build on the momentum I finally reengaged in my book yesterday. Or maybe to go stare out the window and dream of the perfect words floating somewhere out there.

Uncategorized, Writing

The Next Big Thing

* LATE BREAKING NEWS! I am pleased to announce a last minute addition to The Next Big Thing Blog Tour. Annie Cardi, a fellow New Englander writing young adult novels, has joined us. Please follow the link to her blog as well as the links for the two other writers at the end of this entry. Thank you!

2013 is off to an auspicious start.

As last year came to a close, the lovely and talented Heather Rigney invited me to join her on The Next Big Thing Blog Tour. Heather and I met in our first lives as middle school teachers (though our school was having an identity crisis as one of the few named junior highs remaining in the state). We reconnected in our second lives as writers, attending an institute together at Rhode Island College. Her work is witty, quirky, and entertaining, involving zombies, mermaids, and, yes, junior highs. Her blog, Mermaids Love Sushi, showcases her wit and joie de vivre.

Before I could even digest the questions I’d be responding to as part of the tour, RK Bentley – friend, blogger, writer extraordinaire – hit me with another invite. Rob’s comics have graced my personal library for decades. Within the last year or so I’ve been fortunate enough to see his scifi novel, Where Weavers Dare, take shape in the writers’ group he organized. Rob is an integral part of the local writing scene and he shares his “ramblin’s” about that and his other passions on his blog, RKB Writes.

As part of The Next Big Thing Blog Tour, Heather and Rob answered questions about their current work, much like a published author would do to garner support for their latest book. I think I speak for all the authors taking part in this tour that we do so in the hopes that our writing will, in fact, be the NEXT BIG THING!

So here goes:

1) What is the working title of your book?

Next in Line

2) Where did the idea come from for your book?

Ironically enough, a kitchen remodel. We totally gutted the kitchen in our previous home and a plasterer came in to patch things up. He was so knowledgeable and kind that we learned a lot about his personal background, which got me thinking about family businesses and legacies.

3) What genre does your book fall under?

young adult/realistic fiction

4) Which actors would you choose to play in your movie rendition?

I’m really fighting the urge right now to call on the cast from My Big Fat Greek Wedding; my main character’s name is Dmitri Tslakas!

Maybe Zachary Gordon from Diary of a Wimpy Kid could play him.
Camilla Belle for the lovely yet unassuming Francesca.
Olympia Dukakis for Gram? Sorry, couldn’t resist.
Mandy Patinkin with a beard for Spiro, Dmitri’s dad.
Isabella Rossalini for Maria, Dmitri’s mother.
Can I get Max Cascella from his Doogie Howser, MD days for Dmitri’s friend, Anthony? This whole thing is wishful thinking, right?

5) What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Dmitri, a seventeen year-old sculptor, is trying to build his skills and his strength – to hone his craft and stand up to his father.

6) Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Any takers? I’d like to see what an agent could do for me.

7) How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

~ two years, in fits and starts.

8) What other books would you compare this story to?

Takeoffs and Landings by Margaret Peterson Haddix
Lord of the Deep by Graham Salisbury

9) Who or what inspired you to write the book?

My plasterer and his teenage son on the brink of adulthood
any kid who’s trying to get out from the shadow of his or her parent(s) and stand on his or her own.

10) What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Dmitri has undiscovered family history that ties him to the past as well as his father’s expectations pushing him toward the future.
He is an amazing, naturally talented artist.

I’m so honored to be part of this blog phenomenon! A big thank you to Heather and Rob. I’d like to share the love with two very talented writers both of whose work I highly enjoy and which you should check out, too (They’ll have their posts up in about a week).

Julie Robertson Dixon

Kelly Kittel

Annie Cardi

motherhood, parenting, Spirituality

Critical Mass

Taking three small children to church is always a crapshoot.

Taking three small children to mass after a long night of merry-making and a morning of present-opening and candy-eating ups the ante even more.

Our three made it through the three readings from the Bible and the pastor’s homily surprisingly well. I’ve found, however, that it’s always the second half of mass where the clapper hits the bell.

The fidgets start: the foot-thumping, kneeler-diving, seat-switching. And that’s only the non-verbal. Then you have the inter-sibling jibes and jokes, the giggles and snorts. And the doctrinal observations and questions, which at any other juncture would be welcomed wholeheartedly, but not when presented in a stage whisper in the midst of a lull in the sound issuing from the PA system. They never make noise when the organ is grinding, do they?

My five year-old came out with some good ones this Christmas mass. When a prayer included a request for “eternal rest”, she turned to me incredulously: ‘a turtle?’ During the prayer of the faithful for the departed, I hushed her vehemently when she said what I thought was, ‘this is boring.’ Then I realized she was adding to the prayer, ‘like Grandpa Warren’, my deceased grandfather, the great-grandfather she never knew.

At what point do we as parents and parishioners expect children to behave “appropriately” at mass? There is no magic age at which they suddenly will learn to sit still and attend – especially if they’ve been excluded from mass up until that point. In my constant vigilance to keep her quiet, I nearly reprimanded my daughter for realizing the importance of a prayer and adding the memory of a loved one to it.

If we shut them down totally, we’ll miss gems like my two year-old last Christmas, who asked loudly enough for all those around us to hear, “Where’s Baby Jesus?” A woman with three teenaged boys approached me afterward and commented on how nice it was to hear her little voice, to see the innocence and wonder of the young; that she knew the true meaning of the season. At first, I laughed it off, a bit embarrassed at our disturbance, but then realized how nice it was to hear this older mother’s comment; a validation that this is how children are supposed to behave, that we need to appreciate it; and that it’s not a failing on the mother’s part to seal her child’s lips.

My favorite church faux pas by far, though, is when my eldest daughter was maybe four years old. She proudly belted out the words to the closing hymn of mass, “All the Ends of the Earth”. Only she didn’t know that was the refrain. Instead, she sang, “All the ants of the earth.” Classic. All of us can see the power of God if only we look closely enough. And watch for lessons all around us – even in the wee ones kicking the back of our pew as we try to pray.

Identity

Still Flying the Flannel

Our local modern rock station, born of a university radio station since gone commercial, is currently airing “90s week” programming for “those of [us] still flying the flannel”; an extended Christmas gift, if you will.

It really is all I could ask of WBRU.

I cut my alternative teeth on their play lists. I made tape – yes, audiocassette – recordings of their “twelve cuts above the rest” and “retro lunch” programs. I mailed one such cassette to my now husband when he was in some far-flung locale in the Coast Guard. I did have a few flannels and one ripped-in-all-the-right-places pair of men’s jeans I still miss from time to time.

Over the years, some of the music made my ears hurt and I found myself asking the question oft-repeated by our forebears, ‘they call this music?’ And I questioned some of their song selections for the “retro” lunch: ‘they call this retro!?’ I scoffed at the apparent naiveté of the new jockeys, these rookies who didn’t know the really classic stuff. It never occurred to me that for them to be considered whippersnappers, I had to be moving into a new age bracket myself.

Slowly, tastes changed, a new sound came about, and I reveled in it. There was this niggling thought in the back of my head, though. Was this a new crop of really fabulous music – or was I old enough to have witnessed my first cycle of the old becoming new? After all, Rainbow Brite, a color-wheel explosion of my childhood, is now available on DVD. The Strawberry Shortcake picture that once hung above my twin bed now adorns my daughters’ space – and they know who she is!

When I was in second or third grade, I remember rocking out to Billy Idol’s version of “Mony, Mony”. I was flabbergasted when my mother chimed in. ‘This is an old song, you know,’ she told me with a certain triumph in her voice. I can’t say I share in her bravado.

The very phrase, “for those of you still flying the flannel”, suggests that we’re somehow stuck in an outdated place. Are the glorious days of my hey-day now ancient? And am I becoming so?

It’s a bittersweet feeling. While one never wants to be considered passé, the gut-wrenching chords of “Seether” still awaken the adolescent beast in me. “Particle Man” still reignites images of my favorite people bouncing around to it. And the supposed one-hit-wonders, The Mighty, Mighty Bosstones, still make me turn up the volume to an unhealthy level and groove.

The synapses are still firing and helping me remember some of the best and brightest moments of my life. And luckily the music that inspired them has inspired a new group of whippersnappers to create like-minded and nearly as good music for a new soundtrack.

motherhood, parenting, Spirituality

Where are all the people?

Today my daughter and I wandered into church.

New to town and in search of someone/anyone in the rectory, we’d wandered in there a couple months ago. Apparently to her three year-old mind that signaled a routine. So today after we finally did complete that unfinished business in the rectory, she wanted to go into the church again.

I hadn’t been planning on it. I’d finished my list of tasks and was headed to the car. I began to say we were done and could go home – when I paused. Why couldn’t we go into the church? We didn’t have to rush home. And even so, I make time to do all sorts of ultimately extraneous errands. Why shouldn’t I stop to spend a moment in the quiet sanctuary of the church? And at this point in time, in my life, in society, a prayer could certainly be used.

Angela and I entered the dark hush of the church, a sacred feeling sweeping over me in a way that just doesn’t happen with the hubbub of a congregation-filled Sunday. We quietly trod towards the sanctuary, my eyes on the golden glint of the tabernacle and rosy glow of the Christ candle, Angela’s moving from side to side across the pews.

“Where are all the people?” she asked.

Years of Catholic devotion springing to life through the sense memory of approaching and genuflecting on the altar, I continued forward without answering. After we both genuflected and crossed ourselves – she doing a surprisingly good job for a three year-old – she asked again.

“Why aren’t the people here?”

Just like my initial response to her request to go in the church, I had a quick and logical answer – it’s not Sunday, there’s no mass right now.

And then I saw this beautiful little being standing next to me, a human in miniature, not even as tall as the altar, asking her question again in her sweetly innocent voice.

“The people should be here,” I said.

“Yes, they should,” she said.

I knelt down and focused on the image of Jesus on the cross, His presence in the tabernacle, the light from the candle. I acknowledged all that He gave us and how all we do is ask for more. And then I asked for more. I asked for strength to give Him my all; to turn it all over to Him. I prayed to remember this lesson my daughter had unwittingly given me – to go to Jesus; that I should be with Him there and always.

And I suppose, somewhere, inside me, I knew this. I chose today, a week before Christmas, the midst of a week of trials and tribulations all around me, to officially register at the parish – a task I’d been meaning to do since moving in. Why now? The same reason I agreed when Angela suggested we enter the church. Something inside me needed this lesson, this reminder, this preparation of Advent that always seems to fall short other years.

And it is no small wonder that it came from a small child of God.

Identity, Legacy, parenting

Odd is One Word for It

Last night, my husband and I watched The Odd Life of Timothy Green. We were looking for a feel-good, fun film to offer some distraction and diversion. Instead, it made me think.

The story is book-ended by Cindy and Jim’s overwhelming desire and relentless pursuit of parenthood. Before they digest the heartbreaking news that they cannot conceive, they build the idea of the perfect boy – then pack their dreams away and bury them safely underground.

Watching the palpable yearning of these scenes, I realized the amazing gift of my own children. I felt almost guilty that they came to me so easily; for getting so caught up in the drudgery of day to day that I fail to see the miracle that they are. How blessed we are.

Then Cindy and Jim’s dreams of the perfect boy sprout out of the mud and they obtain instant parenthood. Their joy at his arrival was a familiar feeling. And that the universe rewarded such yearning was a gratifying feeling. They truly wanted this child.

As the movie went on, however, their journey seemed to be less about Timothy and more about their own performance. How did Cindy’s child measure up to her sister, Brenda’s? How would Jim better his own father’s parenting skills? Were they making the right choices? Were they keeping him close enough?

The scene that haunts me most is their argument after Timothy’s game-winning goal for the opposing soccer team. As per his demeanor throughout most of the film, Timothy is nonplussed by his social and sporting gaff. He is happy simply to have participated and had fun. Cindy and Jim, however, have an all-out fight about their parenting. Did they hope for the wrong things for their child? Are their own feelings of validation getting in the way of their parenting?

Yes.

In their pursuit of parenting excellence, Cindy and Jim lost sight of the most important thing – their child.

Is that not a struggle we all face as parents?

Do we use parenting as a vehicle for helping our children fulfill their true potential as human beings or to fulfill our own latent, unrealized dreams? Do we get so wrapped in assessing and perfecting our own performance that we fail to see the perfectly imperfect little being we so longed for in front of us? The yearning to have a child is a strong, very personal and intimate one and that child truly is a part of us; however, it’s also essential that we see their distinctiveness as well. At some point, their needs and desires diverge from ours and our performance is simply a supporting role.

If I allow for a willing suspension of disbelief, I know that Timothy is a magical being sent to prepare Cindy and Jim for parenthood. Indeed, soon after his short visit, they adopt a young girl. But as Timothy departed from them, he said they had always been ready for parenthood. Were they? Were/are any of us?

Are we ready to subvert our own desires and needs for the care of this little one? Will we be able to use our own experiences to teach him or her without projecting our own agenda? Will we be able to train his or her growth without stunting it?

It’s not about us. It’s not about the perfect child. The idea of perfection is a box in which we cannot place our child. Nor can we do it to ourselves as parents.

anxiety, Living

Call in the Astronomers

I hate a whole week’s worth of list staring at me. Seven entrées marching across the menu of my life. A calendar scattered with to-dos and appointments bookended by trips to and from the bus stop.

A thousand grains of sand – insignificant events – piled up to smother me.

I cannot compartmentalize, tackling one manageable item at a time. Trivial, minute tasks threaten to overwhelm me simply because they come all at once. Like a student with an IEP, I need my work broken into more manageable chunks and fed to me one at a time so I don’t choke. But I don’t have a case manager. I am my case manager and I can’t ignore the subsequent steps I know are coming for the sake of the present one or my sanity. Just like I can’t fall for the set-my-clock-fast-so-I-won’t-be-late trick. I always subtract the minutes and fight against that clock trying to fit squeeze every second for what it’s worth. I see right through the subterfuge.

And then I remember the words of a visiting priest this past Sunday. He reminded us that there are millions more stars in the sky than all the grains of sand in the world. If even the mass amounts of sand are dwarfed by the all the stars in the sky, how small are we? How infinitesimal our blip on the radar of the universe. How trivial our concerns and worries and to-dos that seems so life-altering when we encounter them.

This is not unlike the advice my therapist gave me a year or more ago, which still proves relevant: The 10-10-10 rule.

Will this matter in ten minutes?

Will this matter in ten months?

Will this matter in ten years?

Yes, in ten minutes, I’ll probably still be worrying and obsessing over it, but in ten months or ten years? Doubtful.

Our visiting priest also quoted a South African astronomer, who when a world war was imminent and battle lines were being drawn, told policymakers and strategists, do not call politicians or soldiers to solve the world’s problems, call in the astronomers. How much grander is the universe than our little corner of it? How petty even multinational concerns in the grand scheme of all creation?

I have a newfound love for astronomers. I think we should employ them in all things personal and global. What a different world it would be if we gazed heavenward from time to time instead of always being bogged down by the drudgery of the corporeal. After all, we are all made from dust and to dust we shall return. And we all know dust is way outnumbered by stars.

Legacy, Living

Gratidão

There are many things for which to be thankful:

The kickass song by a local ska group* for which this blog entry is titled.

Education – without which I wouldn’t be annoyed that I have to shift around the above two sentences so they don’t end in a preposition.

A Facebook meme that focuses on something positive and productive for once – albeit every single day of this month.

The light of a skylight encircling me and my laptop as I write.

The tenuous hold we have on this earth.

The tenacious grip of a frail relative determined to hold on.

(Oops, broke that rule about prepositions)

Humor and its ability to help us carry on.

(Despite conventions 😉 )

A full-on arms-and-legs-wrapped around hug from a toddler.

A gentle hug from my first whose head now nestles into my midsection she’s so tall.

The shy smile of my middle daughter whose quiet strength is not to be taken for granted.

Love – strong, old and new, ever changing, enduring.

The wistful look of an elderly woman – reminding me of the immense gifts right under my nose.

Remembrance, reminders, traditions that connect the present and the past and put us in better mind for the future.

* The Agents

Chopping Potatoes

and other metaphors for motherhood

Author Archives: Jennifer Butler Basile