09.28.08
Posted in Uncategorized at 4:35 pm by ginny
So yes, life is crazed these days, with a newborn and a two-year-old. But I’m still carving out some time for scribbling and blogging. I’ve found that writing and mothering complement each other beautifully. Both require creativity, both are deeply spiritual, and both involve making massively courageous leaps of faith.
(Pause as I check on my crying newborn).
Okay, here’s one big difference between writing and mothering: writing doesn’t require me to change poopy diapers. That’s kind of nice. But then again, writing doesn’t sit in my arms with a satisfying weight, smelling of newness and sleep and innocence…. and Luke does.
And that’s even nicer.
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09.15.08
Posted in Feast Days and other fun times, Musings at 8:09 am by ginny
No one could call the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows a happy one. It’s the weeping Mary we honor today, the mother who saw her son being brutally tortured and executed.
Oddly, though, it’s a day that has a lot of meaning for me. Three years ago, on September 15 — talk about eerie timing — I suffered a pregnancy loss that rocked me back on my heels. That loss completely changed my relationship with Mary, ultimately for the good. At any rate, I made it through the pain of that experience, and two years ago I had the joy of giving birth to my son, Matthew.
As happy as I am to be a mom, though, there are times when I love him so much it hurts. In those moments, I realize that this love makes me deeply vulnerable. Being a parent means that there are, suddenly, so many new ways in which you can be hurt. The sorrowful Mary is a stark acknowledgement of that fact.
Years ago, I happened to see Queen Elizabeth give an address at a memorial service for the victims of 9/11. In her deliberate tones and polished accent, she made a statement that jolted me awake: “Grief is the price we pay for love.” I can’t think of any other line that is at once so devastating and yet so true.
Those words remind me of the play Shadowlands, by William Nicholson, in which the writer C.S. Lewis struggles to accept the fact that his wife Joy is dying of cancer. During a happy moment together, she talks frankly about her inevitable death, and Lewis tells her she is “spoiling” the moment. “It doesn’t spoil it,” she says. “It makes it precious.” A few lines later, she tells him, “What I’m trying to say is that pain, then, is part of this happiness, now. That’s the deal.”
We wouldn’t have this feast day if Mary didn’t love her son so much that it hurt. I think it’s fair to say that there’s some of Our Lady of Sorrows in each one of us. Like her, we feel pain because we first felt love. That’s the deal.
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09.12.08
Posted in Musings at 10:37 am by ginny
If all goes according to plan, my baby will be born next Tuesday. Of course, how often do things go according to plan — especially when kids are involved?
So my bag is packed and ready to go. I lope around the house slowly, trying to do things that don’t take too much effort. My nesting instincts are in full force; I’m dying to scrub out the bathroom, rare in itself (how often do I actually WANT to clean the bathtub?) but I can barely bend over, so the grime stays.
I’m also spending lots of time with my son, who is about to be displaced as Only Child and Center of His Parents’ Universe. Poor little guy; he has no idea what is about to hit him. We read books and sing together and play ball in the backyard — I kick the ball so I don’t have to stoop to pick it up — and I just can’t stop hugging him. It’s bittersweet; I’m excited to meet this new baby, whom I love already, but wonder how his or her arrival will impact my relationship with Matthew.
But even if I’m spread a bit more thin — okay, a lot more thin — than I am now, I know that my love for Matthew won’t change. I also believe that one of the best gifts a parent can give a child is a sibling. I know that, initial jealousy and adjustment aside, the arrival of this baby will be one of the best and most exciting things in his life.
In ours, too.
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09.07.08
Posted in Feast Days and other fun times at 9:33 pm by ginny
(http://www.webweaver.nu/clipart/birthday.shtml)
I’ve always been a sucker for birthday wishes. As a kid, there was something so dramatic about having a birthday cake set in front of me, its candles dripping wax into the frosting while I came up with a quick, silent statement of my heart’s desire. It was always exciting: would I get all the candles out in one breath? Would my wish come true? It was hard not to think of it as a magic moment.
Thinking back over the last three decades of wishing, I notice that they fall into general categories. They didn’t all come true, but some did:
Up to age 12 or so: I wished mainly for things (a pink Barbie house, a Strawberry Shortcake doll).
Ages 13-18: I tended to wish for new experiences (a leading role in the school musical, acceptance to the college of my choice).
Ages 19-27: This was a long stretch when I wished for my dream man to enter my life — prefereably a Renaissance Man who was fully conversant with the works of Jane Austen and who had a high Ruggedness Quotient. (NOTE: At age 27, I found him. He doesn’t know Austen, but he does clean up the dinner dishes, which is more than a fair substitute.)
28-33: I wished that the aforementioned man and I would someday have a family of our own.
34-35: I wished that I’ll always be grateful for the many previous wishes which — amazingly and miraculously — did in fact come true.
It makes me wonder what Mary’s list of lifelong birthday wishes would be like. What did she wish for at age eight, at fourteen, at twenty-five? Normally I’d dive right into a writing exercise like this, but I’m about a week from my due date (see wishes for ages 28-33, above), and need to direct my energy into washing the newborn clothes we’ve pulled down from the attic. So I’ll just think about Mary in the moment: what is she wishing for today — right now?
Here’s what I think. I think her fondest wish is that we take the time to get to know her son. I think she’s wishing for all of us to be jolted awake by this extraordinary man who ate dinner with outcasts, who smashed stereotypes, who rocked the boat of our prejudices and narrowness. She knows that if we really look at him, we’ll find someone who exhorts us to grow beyond ourselves, to give up the petty grudges that we’ve savored for years. We’ll find a man who calls us to look ridiculous in our willingness to forgive and to love others, hard as it seems at first, because that’s when we ourselves are actually the most balanced and the most at peace.
So happy birthday, dear Mary. May this be the year that your wish comes true.
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09.04.08
Posted in Books about Mary at 10:53 pm by ginny
Here where I live, it’s beastly hot. It’s the kind of heat that makes you turn away from window displays of fall fashion with something like revulsion (they put a wool sweater on that mannequin? What were they thinking?). Earlier today, I administered emergency transfusions of water to my patio pots and flowerbeds, hoping I can extend their lives for another few weeks at least. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.
But when these flowers do dry up and die, there’s always next spring. That’s the great thing about gardening: second chances.
Maybe next year will be the year that I actually plant a Mary Garden. I’ve got the Mary statue; she’s currently standing on the patio, next to a pot of orange margiolds which have thus far survived the inferno. And I’ve got a great guide: the book Mary’s Flowers, by Vincenzina Krymow. It’s a wonderful collection of legends about the various flowers that, over the centuries, have been connected in some way to Mary. Who knew that lilies of the valley were called “Mary’s Tears,” or that lavender’s signature scent is said to be the result of Mary using the lavender bush as a drying rack for Jesus’ sweet-smelling clothes? I sure didn’t. The legends are lovely and charming — and yes, some are outlandish — but they’re all fascinating. The book itself has gorgeous color illustrations and well-written meditations on Mary’s character and life.
Oh, and it turns out that the name marigolds comes from “Mary’s Gold.” Apparently, early Christians put the orange blooms around Marian shrines, offering her the flowers instead of coins. I guess that little corner of the patio is a Mary Garden after all.
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