MichelleLouise

The Upside of a One-Horse Town

2012-02-12T15:04:00.000-08:00

Well, the last few weeks I’ve been sucked into watching American Idol. All it took was one bad night at work and a cold, and here I am, already selecting my favorite contestants and setting up the DVR to catch the episodes I will miss at work.

Recently, I was attempting to enjoy this guilty pleasure when my husband walks in and says, “Ugh, how can you watch that show?! It’s so predictable...When a contestant comes on and they start playing sad music and telling a sob story about how their grandma died and their cat died and they lost the family farm…but how they’re trying to overcome it, they’re going to be good. When they play the funny music, you know they’re bad... That’s how it goes... now you don’t have to watch it.”

Alright, thank you, Oscar the Grouch.

I continued to watch anyway because, frankly, watching a mindless talent contest is a nice way to unwind at the end of the day without problems, crappy plotlines or political and social rhetoric. I can just.watch.

And yet, as I sat engrossed last week, eating ginger snaps and hanging my head over a vaporizer, I noticed another trend. There seemed to be all these nice country kids from small towns who work in family businesses and maybe even play in a family band—and there they were, wanting to come to Hollywood to score their big break.

I recently listened to a podcast by Fr. Andrew Damick called “The Transfiguration of Place: An Orthodox Vision of Localism (pt.1).” Fr. Damick begins by discussing the idyllic Shire from J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series. He describes the Shire as more-or-less the ideal portrait of community, a place where everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you came (oh wait, maybe that was Cheers). In other words, the Shire is the prototype community where everything about life—from commerce to politics and everything in between— is local. All of life happens in one little place where everyone knows and has relationships with each other.

Contrast that to our current “global community” where we are pushed to be concerned as much about the politics and economic situation in South Africa as we are about the local election and heads of lettuce growing in our backyard.

In discussing this relatively new phenomenon of “global economy,” Fr. Damick poses the question,

“But why does that matter? Why shouldn’t I give my 1000^th of a cent to a produce farmer in South America and another 1000^th to a Malaysian chairmaker?”

He answers his own question:

“It is because we do not really depend on one another. At least not very much. I have no sense of loyalty to them. Or responsibility for them. Our interdependence is so diffuse that there is almost no possibility that any of our hearts would be stirred to gratitude or admiration for the work we do for each other. We cannot even look each other in the eye.”

In her book Acedia and Me, Kathleen Norris describes the ancient “demon” of acedia.

She writes in her book’s prologue,

“…[Acedia] installs in the heart of the monk a hatred for the place, a hatred for his very life itself, a hatred for manual labor…

...This demon drives him along to desire other sites where he can more easily procure life's necessities, more readily find work and make a real success of himself...

...He goes on to suggest that, after all, it is not the place that is the basis of pleasing the Lord. God is to be adored everywhere."

In a sense, I think of acedia as, in part, the demon of "the-grass-is-always-greener-on-the-other-side." The demon of I-want-to-be-anywhere-but-here. The demon of dissatisfaction. Acedia is more than that, and more complicated, but I think that's part of it.

I see this demon at work in myself—in my own hatred of place— in my own dissatisfaction for the tasks set before me. After flinging headlong into motherhood from the glory of studenthood, I find myself despising the piles of dishes, loads of laundry, and accumulation of s-t-u-f-f to clean up…daily. I find myself yearning to be doing MORE than menial chores, MORE than my part time secretarial job; something MORE interesting and MORE exciting. After a trying week of feeling buried in the mundane, this hatred of place burns inside of me and I want to get.out. I want to go to exotic places, meet interesting people, have riveting opportunities. As the character Belle sings in Beauty and the Beast, "There must be MORE than this provincial life!!"

"There must be more..."

I wonder if it is this dissatisfaction that drives people to audition for contests like American Idol, move to other countries, pray for the day they can pack their bags and leave whatever one horse town they came from. I wonder if it is this yearning--(this demon of acedia?)--that makes people restless in the Shire and wanting to hop aboard trains, planes, and automobiles to get out and go places, expanding the "community" into the global phenomenon it has become. Tired of growing and eating the same old greens from our backyards, we decide to ship in exotic greens and fruits from other countries to satisfy our desire for something new and exciting.

As Kathleen Norris writes (Acedia and Me, p.3),

"...I think it likely that much of the restless boredom, frantic escapism, commitment phobia, and enervating despair that plagues us today is the ancient demon of acedia in modern dress."

From failed marriages to overdosing on media to changing careers to exploring endless hobbies to slogging down gasoline to travel to every exciting bend in the river, I wonder if the demon of acedia fuels our desire to escape into the Fantasyland of Anywhere-but-Here, into an abstract global "community" that strips us of our incarnate humanity in favor of a community that is more of an abstract concept.

When we speak in biblical terms of this global community, phrases like “feeding the sick” or “clothing the naked” or “helping the poor” can easily refer to conceptual people in the sense that they are people we hear about in other countries who have needs but not necessarily faces. People we can help in an abstract, monetary sense, but we can’t actually interact with or touch.

As Fr. Damick points out, “Our web of economic dependence is essentially anonymous. I don’t know any of them and they don’t know me… Public life has become about policies and publicity but there is little in the way of the palpable.”

And in Christianity, in simply being human, the palpable is a big deal.

As Fr. Damick says, the word “community” has taken on various meanings in our modern context, but it is rare for “community” to actually refer to "a group of people who all live and work and worship in the same place."

He goes on to say that our "communities" are now typically created based on shared interests and preferences, but we do not actually DEPEND on each other in a physical way. Our lives are compartmentalized into different spheres: church people, work people, friends, family...but often these groups do not overlap much. Our communities are built on something intangible, as Fr. Damick points out:

"We supposedly live in a global village but if so, then it is a village where no one knows each others' name and where no one sees each other, and yet we trade bits of information and currency...We are being presented with the illusion of community, with the virtual reality of community, yet without the solidity of it, without the incarnational warmth and nearness of real community."

This illusion of community is a spiritual problem, according to Fr. Damick, because one of the implications of Christ’s incarnation is PLACE.

He says, "Christ was not incarnate in a universal body, killed upon a universal cross, in a universal city. No, He had one body, taken from one woman, crucified on one cross, in the one city of Jerusalem. Christianity was always meant to be local, evidenced by the small churches built in many places throughout its history...Yes, Christianity is a universal faith, but it is not a mass faith of faceless consumers who buy into a bland religious product."

Essentially, Fr. Damick is pointing out that globalization is dehumanizing because we were meant to be communal beings in a CONTEXT, in the physical place where we live out our physical lives—not in a virtual world or a diffuse, disparate community that spans the globe. That's why the fall is so tragic, he explains, because humanity was exiled from a PLACE. He quips that when God created man, "He placed him into a garden, He did not plug him into in ethernet chord."

And so, when we deny our necessity of being connected to a place, when we outsource our most vital needs, we diminish our capacity to be fully communal beings.

St. Athanasius said, “God became man so that men might become gods.”

In effect, St. Athanasius was speaking of the incarnation: that God became man so that through his humanity we would have a means of becoming divine, of attaining theosis or unity with God. And, that we would have a means of, paradoxically, becoming fully human—that is, a person made in the image of God.

Fr. Damick points out that, if there were a spike in fuel costs or the collapse of our currency, our ability to survive and thrive would come down to relying on relationships with physical people in a physical place to meet our physical needs— not on an abstract consortium of virtual and distant exchanges of information and stuff.

Recently, I sat in a lecture hall listening to a talk that discussed, in part, our connectedness to others. During that talk, I thought about my friends sitting around me, and was filled with gratitude to know these are the gloriously neurotic, weird, and crazy yahoos (like me) who would be around if the bottom dropped out—no matter how small or wide-reaching the implications of such an event might be. At one point, the speaker said, in effect, there is no such thing as “individual person” because, to be a person necessitates communion with others.

And yet, I think the spirit of acedia makes me bored and tired of these people in this place with their respective sets of problems. I grow tired of them and search for other activities and opportunities to fulfill me; I seek out new and exciting people to be around. And yet, when I’m constantly on the move, I miss out on the deep gratitude that comes from abiding in a place with a group of people who have stuck with me through good times and bad.

These people. This place. This work. THIS is what God has given me.

I believe the spirit of acedia says, “Bah humbug” to all that…where is the American Idol audition? Where is the exotic menu? Where is the escape button to get out of this one-horse town?

But to look at the life I have and say, “Thank you” with deep peace and gratitude in my heart…THIS is what I am striving for. This is, I think, the peace and calm that comes after the stormy ravishing of acedia—and a struggle that is possibly for some, maybe all, lifelong.

Norris writes (Acedia and Me, p.6),

“I have come to believe that acedia can strike anyone whose work requires self-motivation and solitude, anyone who remains married ‘for better or worse,’ anyone who is determined to stay true to a commitment that is sorely tested in everyday life. When I complained to a Benedictine friend that for me, acedia was no longer a noontime demon but seemed like a twenty-four hour proposition, he replied, ‘Well, we are speaking of cosmic time. And it is always noon somewhere’.”

And yet, to experience God-given victory over this demon is worth it, so I hear…

As Norris concludes in her book's prologue,

“No other demon follows close upon the heels of [acedia] (when he is defeated) but only a state of deep peace and inexpressible joy arise out of this struggle.”

Deep peace and inexpressible joy…Mmm…I feel its pull already in the warmth of communion; I can almost taste it.

Warmth=Dallas TX.

2012-01-27T08:33:00.000-08:00

Warmth.

That is how I would describe my weekend in Dallas, TX at the 2012 Orthodox Christian Missions and Evangelism Conference.

After spending Thursday night slipping and sliding in the snow that the Northeast made up for after an unseasonably warm beginning of winter, and being jolted awake by a roaring snow blower circling my apartment at 11:30 at night, I was ready for the warm, dry blast air Texas had to offer.

We boarded our plane on Friday afternoon (after a gut-wrenching first-time-leaving-my-baby-for-the-weekend goodbye earlier that morning) and by 1:30 pm the snow and pine landscape drifted into white cap clouds below us.

Toto, we’re not in the Northeast anymore.

Friday night we planned for my husband to attend the first two sessions of the conference and me to spend the evening visiting with family who live in Dallas. I was elated to know someone in the area, to be greeted with open arms at the airport. I couldn’t help but think of the psalm, “Surely goodness and love shall follow me all the days of my life…”

My husband and I parted ways, he for checking-in and me for family and Mexican food. You cannot go to Texas and NOT eat Mexican food. What they say about Texas is true…from the portion sizes to the size of homes and restaurants… everything.really.is.bigger.

So, it was no surprise when, as we loaded up for Holy Trinity Greek Orthodox Church in Dallas on Saturday morning, we were greeted by a beautiful monstrosity of a parish—several layers of stuccoed roof supported by large pillars winding their way around from below the enormous frescoed entrance icon down the mammoth vaulted walkway over to the spacious parish hall.

Orthros was held at 8 am in the Holy Trinity chapel, which I’m pretty sure was about as big as our whole parish back home. Billows of incense spun in rays of sunlight streaming through the chapel’s front windows during the service, a seemingly tangible sign of prayers arising to God. What I loved most about orthros was Greek chanting in Texan accents. Ha. Nothing like it.

The morning readings from the Gospel of Luke (12:8-12) and St. Paul’s letter to the Philippians (1:12-20) seemed fitting for what I found to be a major theme of the conference. Through sessions with conference speakers Fr. Peter Gillquist, Fr. Evan Armatas, and Fr. Joseph Huneycutt, Orthodox Christians were both challenged and exhorted to actually SPEAK about Christ (sessions can be found on Ancient Faith Radio HERE).

Now, for a shy little weeny like me, this IS an actual challenge. And to be honest, this is where this blog post gets tricky, in a sense. Part of me wants to discuss the sessions, dissect evangelism strategies, and give a report about how Orthodox Christians can work together to build a stronger church. But—something about that feels contrived, not my way of doing things on this blog. Reflection, yes. Preaching, maybe not. I don’t know the complete history of the faith, the answers to the hard moral, controversial, and theological questions, and I can’t say exactly why the church is the way it is in this country and in the world.

What I can say about this conference is that we met some really kind-hearted people. We met a couple who will be received into the church--God willing--on Lazarus Saturday; a couple filled with excitement for this new step of faith.

We also sat by a married couple from Holy Trinity parish— the wife born into a Greek Orthodox family, the husband a convert. They shared with us their table and their lives.

I learned about the wife’s days in a Young Adults League, her love for Byzantine chant, her story of faith—growing up in Texas, living off of peanut butter and jelly during fasts, getting married and having kids. The husband joked with us, talked about politics (and religion…oh, the wonderfully real social etiquette faux pas) and also shared his conversion story. When all was said and done, the wife left us with a gift, a CD of Byzantine chant and an icon of Christ healing the paralytic.

One thing this conference affirmed for me was the power of story—to heal, to edify, to teach, to share—and so much more. And, in terms of faith, I believe stories are so powerful because although they may be crafted, they are REAL. Our aptitude for “evangelism” may ebb and flow with audience, personality, and comfort level, but everyone has a story to tell. And no matter who you are, you “evangelize” with story in the sense that you speak to what you believe by describing what has shaped you and what matters to you.

When I was taking psychology classes, I read about existential psychologist Rollo May’s last book Cry for Myth, which attributes our society’s loss of values to not having “mythical” stories that shape our lives (that is my dilettante understanding, anyway). We feel our lives are meaningless when we have no story to give them meaning.

Each night, I watch my son become engrossed in the pages of books like Jamberry; Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb; Good Night Moon…and I see story already mattering to him, already shaping him.

Maybe I cannot save your soul, or the culture, or the world. But dang it, I can tell my story.

And so can you.

One thing Christianity has offered me is a story to live by which redeems this messed up, wacky world and the life I’m leading in it. The Christian “myth” offers a story of creation, of Paradise lost but redeemed again through Christ…and this story is played out in the lives of real people.

Through stories we connect, we learn, we change. And so, no matter who you are, I think your story is worth telling.

What is your story?

May the icon of Christ healing the paralytic be a charge to all who take it to heart: to lift up lives crippled by meaningless with the healing power of our stories.

Thank you, Molly Sabourin, for this prompt!

Dealing with Disappointment

2012-01-19T09:57:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of my Uncle Jim...he and my dad back in the day...

The house was beautiful.

…Well, sort of.

The wallpaper was hideous, shouting in the kitchen with large patterns of red, orange and green; in the dining room a multitude of brown flowers crawled on the walls. The carpet was nasty, the porcelain claw foot tub and sink in the bathroom were rusting over and unusable.

And yet, despite the outdated décor, dirt and grime, the place had a certain charm. Beautiful woodwork, large airy rooms, plenty of storage. I told myself not to get attached; not to start visioning.

But it was hard NOT to picture myself working in a little garden brightening a corner of the fenced-in yard while my son played with his friends (and maybe even a little brother) someday. It was hard NOT to already breathe in smells of spice that might fill the cozy kitchen as I would turn an ear toward the direction of the attic playroom to monitor little boys thumping around. It was hard NOT to picture a happy life in a settled home.

We were ready to put in an offer. All we had to do was bring through our tried-and-true homeowner relatives to see what they thought.

Well, that was the end of the dream (what’s that they say about expectations being the root of all heartache?). For every bit of lemonade potential we could squeeze out of the fixer-upper, all our families saw was a lemon. The electrical work was a mess, who-knows-what might be under the ugly wall paper (mold? Asbestos?), the floors were uneven, it would take our life savings to redo the bathroom. As we walked the floor plan of the house, my bright-eyed smile deflated.

Sensing my dejection, my husband commented, “Michelle, what’s that written on your face?”

To which I could only reply, “Nothing. I’m just listening.”

If I said how I really felt, I might burst into tears. After going through a third home and again being heartbroken, watching the beautiful vision of my future rise and fall, I was ready to toss in the towel. We were doomed to apartment living forever. We would never get a home.

On our way out, the realtor commented with his characteristic calm, “Everything happens for a reason.”

Sighing, I figured he was probably right. I walked out through the screened in patio, letting the door slam on my dream.

Disappointment.

It is my perfect house with all the problems…

And more than that…

It is putting an offer on a house that just sold…

It is seeing the one you love in the arms of another…

It is finding another negative line on a pregnancy test…

It is positive results when you thought you were—finally— healthy…

It is getting stuck in a dead end job after busting your rump to get a degree…

It is the promotion they gave to someone else, the too-small shoes, broken down new car, burnt cookies and casserole, decimated seedlings…

It is moving away, losing your house, your elderly parents falling…

It is the promise of a brilliant white winter that turns brown and washes away in the rain…

It is all these things and more…

Disappointment.

For me, disappointment is often living in sin with its wanton lover, jealousy. Often times, it seems that I am buckling under the weight of moldly disappointment born in brown winter when everyone else finds a snowy field for frolicking. In the wake of disappointment, I grit my teeth and congratulate the person getting everything I want, seemingly easily and freely.

St. Teresa of Avila is quoted as saying, “Thank God for the things I do not own.”

And yet, for me, I am struggling to NOT live a life of jealous comparison…my covetous eye roving at my neighbor’s goods…and more than goods…

I covet not only what my neighbor has, but also my neighbor’s successes and abilities to do and be the things I want to be— often without—it seems, at least—even trying.

When it comes to salvation, we are all on our own unique track…and yet, sometimes I despise my path, wanting it to be easier, wanting it to be what I would consider BETTER.

In Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Lady Macbeth says, “unsex me here, / And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full / Of direst cruelty.”

Often, in the wake of disappointment, I can relate to this sentiment. I want to be “unsexed” in the sense that I want my capacity to care to be slashed; I want apathy to cover me like a warm blanket, lulling me to precious sleep to escape the heartbreaking cares in this world. If only I could stop caring, I wouldn’t have to endure the pains of disappointment.

And yet, that is sooo much less than the life of love God calls me to lead.

Fr. Thomas Hopko describes gratitude as the mark of the Christian life. We need to be grateful for EVERYTHING…not only what we perceive as good, but even those things which do not seem overtly good…because God makes ALL things in this wacky world work for the good…even though I don’t—or can’t— understand how He does it.

And so, having a temperament that inclines me to negativity, I recently downloaded the Akathist of Thanksgiving. This is no wussy, sentimental piece.

As the prologue explains, “It was composed by Protopresbyter Gregory Petrov shortly before his death in a prison camp in 1940. The title is from the words of Saint John Chrysostom as he was dying in exile. It is a song of praise from amidst the most terrible sufferings.”

If you can be grateful in a concentration camp, if you can be grateful in exile, you can be grateful anywhere.

Here is a part I really like, from Kontakion 4,

“How filled with sweetness are those whose thoughts dwell on Thee; how life-giving Thy holy Word. To speak with Thee is more soothing than anointing with oil; sweeter than the honeycomb. To pray to Thee lifts the spirit, refreshes the soul. Where Thou art not, there is only emptiness; hearts are smitten with sadness; nature, and life itself, become sorrowful; where Thou art, the soul is filled with abundance, and its song resounds like a torrent of life: Alleluia!”

When I put my son to bed each night, I often sing him the song, “When I Grow Too Old to Dream.” In it is this line, “So kiss me, my sweet / And so let us part / And when I grow too old to dream / your love will live in my heart.”

I believe that, as I go through life, dreams will rise and fall, being realized and destroyed, blooming and fading away with the changing seasons. But through all and in all, whether on the top of the mountain or down in the armpit of exile is God, everywhere present, filling all things, here with us unto the ages of ages.

And that is the reason gratitude is the mark of a Christian life.

Today, outside my apartment window is snow, flitting and dancing in sunlight. When I leave for work in an hour, God willing, I will feel the chill on my face…and later, when I pick up my son from the babysitter, he will greet me with smiles and snow-kissed, rosy cheeks. Today is brilliant white and bright, and I will rejoice and be glad.

Tomorrow, I may REALLY have to dig in my heels to pull some gratitude out of muck, but even if it is in the smallest flower poking through the snow…I will latch on and hope that God will meet me there.

Till We Have Faces (On "Portraits"...)

2012-01-13T07:50:00.000-08:00

When I found out this week's "The Way I See It" theme was going to be "portraits," my first thought was, "oh, I can't participate in that…I can't share my OWN portrait photos...”

But why?

To be honest, I wrestle with putting personal photos on the personal blog. Actually, I wrestle with being personal on the personal blog.

To share or not to share?

That is the question.

From the pictures I took at my cousin's wedding, to family photos, to writing about my feelings about marriage and controversial issues and my successes and failures and dreams and disappointments and...there's the side of me that wants to write… wants to share.it.all.

...but then I tell myself, "wait, be a little prudent here...when you put it on the blog, you are sharing with the.whole.world."

Well, at least the whole world with internet access, the whole world who wants to read about a suburban mother from midwestern America...which is probably NOT the whole world. But, still, the potential audience is.big.

In a way, I have been a personal blogger and writer for a long time. Although, in the beginning, it wasn't a "blog" per se. It was Open Diary. It was Xanga. And when I first started, I was a teenager. I was hormonal; I was confessional. And I learned quickly that it's not wise to share ALL.

And what about giving into pride and vanity and all of that?

...but then, there is the pull to share.share.share. like sharing might even BENEFIT someone else.

But here is my hang up… when I share about my personal life on here, I don't believe I am completely ME anymore, per se. I am a CONSTRUCT of me, and a digital one at that. I took a class in college called The Psychology of the Internet where we had to write reflection papers about different topics. One of mine was on online relationships (the emphasis was on dating but I think friendships can apply).

In that paper, I wrote this:

"While many online daters appreciate this emphasis on personality characteristics more than appearance in online relationships, it seems like this aspect of online dating could also be artificial. That is, without the ability to actually observe someone’s mannerisms, body language, awkward pauses, and embarrassing Freudian slips that are often elements of face-to-face interaction, it may be hard to gain an accurate portrait of someone’s true personality. The extra control over self-presentation in a virtual community may facilitate more self-disclosure, but it may also create a construct of someone that is no more than a distorted advertisement."

I follow blogs.

And when I do, I start to feel like I am developing relationships with some of these people. I read and think, "He or she is so kind and witty and special, and darn it, we are pretty good friends in the blogosphere..."

But, really, am I developing a relationship, or am I just RESEARCHING you? Reading a blog and commenting on it is not the same as REALLY getting to know someone. When I read a blog, I am getting to know only the CONSTRUCTS, the self-presentations…

But, to REALLY make a friend, I believe those relationships have to move into the “real world" (going back to the essay...):

"The internet does not maintain the real-world concept of “place” in the sense that I can watch someone live and interact with others in a context bound by physical and temporal limitations. I cannot overhear someone talking to someone else online, nor can I watch them behave in a way that reveals all of their unintentional foibles and quirks.

Every statement in “real-time” conversation is intentionally constructed through text, and additional information about a person is gained through intentionally-posted photos, posts, and profiles.

These features may facilitate intellectual knowledge about a person, but they do not allow someone to know someone else in the same way as in “real life.” The nature of self-presentation online limits interpersonal online knowledge as being just that: a presentation, a construct, an advertisement of a person."

One of my favorite books by C.S. Lewis is, Till We Have Faces. An adaptation of a Greek myth, this story ends shortly after the character Orual rants to the gods and realizes she has been deceiving herself (and subsequently the gods) with the life story she had been telling herself. She offers this poignant line,

"How can [the gods] meet us face to face until we have faces?"

"Until we have faces."

This face I have on here...the words I write on here...this is my self-portrait. But it is ONLY my self-portrait...and it can't replace in-the-flesh friendships with people who know me in "real time"...

And, though I believe that what I present about myself is true, the truth of my presentation will be tested against the truth about me as seen through the eyes of God...

As I wrote in my essay,

"To borrow a movie metaphor, someone may appear to be the great and powerful Oz online, but who is the man or woman behind the curtain—or the computer screen?..Oz (the online self) may be great and powerful—but the wizard, well, he’s another story. And one that I’m starting to think can be TRULY understood offline—in real place and real time."

(images from wpclipart.com)

Why Heloise is Cool...

2012-01-06T13:46:00.000-08:00

Someone at church gave me a book called, Heloise from A to Z, subtitled "An Indispensable Home Reference Guide by America's Most Trusted Household-Hints Advisor" (I have the 1992, non-updated version).

Now, if my high school self would have known my young-twenty-something self would receive such a gift...and like it... I think the teenage me would have said, "You.are.so.LAME!!!"

But, after much reading and soul searching and a LITTLE bit of life experience that has helped me see that running a home is not only NECESSARY but also (I believe) important work, I am now grateful for this addition to my book shelf.

Anyway, under the "N" section of the From A to Z book, Heloise has this to say about New Year's Resolutions (in response to a letter from a reader):

“Instead of making New Year's resolutions and forgetting about them, she decides what her resolutions are, plans a definite date on which to start them and a definite time in which to accomplish them. For example, what date will she start her diet? If she will plant a garden, what date will she buy seedlings, when might she put them outside, and so on...”

Oh, that Heloise. She's so smart.

Make New Year's Resolutions. Set goals. Make concrete plans.

And yet, for me, does the same adage apply to goals and resolutions as it does to rules? That they are made to be broken?

Some of my resolutions for the New Year were to write everyday and to exercise every other. So, Sunday January first came and I was all ramped up, ready to start chipping away at my plans. After Liturgy, I went to a friend’s going away party, but I was determined to write after that. So I came home, ready to put the baby to bed and head to the keyboard. Well, then my dad stopped over, prepared to unclog the drain. That took longer than we expected, we started chatting, I got tired and Cupcake Wars came on. Long story short…no writing that day.

Then, Monday morning I got up, ready to exercise AND write. So, after I got the laundry going and put on my work out clothes, my husband (on his day off) came into the kitchen and pulled a root beer out of the fridge, which exploded EVERYWHERE. I told him, “You clean it; I’m working out.” Well, it took a minute of him standing in front of the mess, looking overwhelmed, before I realized working out wasn’t going to happen. So, I got out some rags and we set out to clean the mess. Well, as we pulled shelves out of the fridge, one fell and glass shattered all over the floor, getting stuck to former dirt and sticky soda. Without even skipping a beat, I just pulled out the broom. And then another shelf fell out of the fridge. I got mad and threw some towels around…but when all I was said and done, I was no fitter, but I had a cleaner floor and fridge than I had had in months.

I planned to set up my new blog later, and start writing…but, by evening, everyone was tired…so, my husband and I sat with our sleeping baby and watched The Next Great Baker…for five hours… the first time we had horsed around like that since before the baby was born. It.was.great.

Our relaxation also meant my attempt to have a stringent meal plan went out the window…as did my intentions to get ahead on housework or run errands when we were both off.

When it comes to New Year’s Resolutions, I believe Heloise. It is valuable to have concrete, personal goals because it gives my life some direction and shape…and yet, as I reflected last night on my failure to live up to mine… lamenting my ability to “start off this year right” by striving for personal growth and staying on top of things, I realized that when I barrel into my goals with a tunnel-vision that excludes the world, I am in danger of becoming a ridiculous narcissist.

So, rather than dumping all my energy into growing as a writer, taming the clutter, making the ultimate meal plan and having a lean body…I think that what I really need is to strive for BALANCE...to try to stay on top of things and make room for things I enjoy...but to be willing to abandon my agenda when my son cries, my husband is off, or my friends have a party. Balance will save me from navel-gazing into a black hole or becoming a doormat...

And, I realized that, the beginning of the “new year” for the church is not really in January anyway…so making a “new start” on January first is really sort of arbitrary. I think the truth is that EVERY day is a new beginning…EVERY day I am progressing (or regressing) as a Christian, a mother, a writer, a person… there are just seasons where growth or decline may be more apparent…just as the natural seasons reveal to us…

As plants slowly reach upward toward the rain and the sun, quietly unfolding as they grow, so do I, in truth, I think. My renewal is gradual…and my life does not restart on January first…

So, particularly on this day, the Feast of Theophany, where Orthodox Christians celebrate the blessing of the waters and remember our baptisms where we “put on Christ” and become new creations, may we remember this (a passage from the book Everywhere Present by Fr. Stephen Freeman):

“Fr. Alexander Schmemann famously made the point that sacraments do not make things to be something they are not—they reveal things to be what they truly are. This was surely the case in the blessing of the Jordan River. For God to send down the “blessing of Jordan” on the Jordan River itself can only be to reveal the river to be what it already is.”

I believe our lives are like rivers, too. May our own “blessing of Jordan” through baptism be renewed this day, revealing what we truly are.

A New Adventure

2012-01-03T10:27:00.000-08:00

So, this is my new blogging adventure.

After two years of blogging on miscellaneous topics-- and after flying headlong into motherhood-- I decided it was time to create something that would synthesize my amalgam of interests and better represent my new identity.

So here it is. The new blog.

This is a tribute to my grandma Louise (pictured in the header) who died in late October 2011, leaving behind a legacy of love in her seven children, 10 grandchildren, 12 great grandchildren-- and the many other family members and friends she cared for over the years.

This is a testimony for my new baby son--a creative look at the people, places and topics I care about; the things I want to teach him.

This is a striving to simplify my life--not in the sense that it becomes easier-- but in the sense that I keep working cut out the superfluous in order to see, to live for, what is essential.

So, in the spirit of my grandma Louise who knew what was important in life--this is my new blogging adventure for a new year. Cheers.

And, as my grandma would always say, in true German form, holding up her beer (her favorite), "I'LL DRINK TO THAT!"