03.31.09
Posted in Images of Mary, Musings at 8:44 pm by ginny
Wiper of Noses. Chief Cook. Occasional Scribbler. Seeker of Insight.
As I brainstormed a list of titles for myself, a Catholic writer mom, these are four that popped into my mind. They are not the sum total of who I am, of course (thank goodness for that!), but each one is a little fragment of what I do. They say something about who I am, what I stand for.
Of course, my lame impromptu list of titles cannot compare to Mary’s. In Catholic tradition, she’s known by all kinds of fabulous names: Our Lady of Peace. Mystical Rose. Seat of Wisdom. Cedar of Lebanon (yes, really!). Her list of titles is the work of centuries. As Christians over the years have engaged with Mary in prayer and reflection, they’ve found new ways to express what she does, who she is, and what she stands for.
And you know what? This long list of names makes perfect sense to me.
After all, no woman — least of all Mary — can ever be captured in a single phrase.
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03.29.09
Posted in Really random at 10:08 pm by ginny
Sunday night. Just finished watching the last episode of Cranford. All I can say is: wow. If you’ve seen this amazingly perfect miniseries, you know why I’m speechless.
If you haven’t seen it, oh, how I envy you! Your homework is to find the DVD and watch it. And be prepared to think of very little else until you have finished it.
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03.28.09
Posted in Really random at 11:09 pm by ginny
Want to know my recipe for a perfect evening alone? It has three key components:
1. Cup of tea
2. Comfy couch
3. Television adaptation of a British literary classic
It’s true: I’m a major literature geek, so I love any and all BBC miniseries featuring women wearing corsets. Over the years, I’ve seen tons of these literary adaptations. Like any other red-blooded English nerd, I’ve got a few personal favorites: Daniel Deronda, The Forsyte Saga, the iconic 1995 Pride and Prejudice, to name a few. It would be fun to analyze why I like these miniseries so much. I think the great costumes and gorgeous English scenery has something to do with it. It’s just so dang easy to lose myself in these wonderful dramas.
At the moment, I’m lost in Cranford. I got this DVD from the library a few days ago, and I’m hopelessly hooked. It’s a marvelous story — lots of interconnected stories, actually — of a British village in the 1840s, and the various characters who live and love and learn together. It stars Judi Dench (boy, is she good!) and a whole fleet of other fabulous actors, many of whom look naggingly familiar (thus far, I’ve recognized Soames’ mother from The Forsyte Saga; both the squire and the stepmother from Wives and Daughters; Lydia from the Colin Firth Pride and Prejudice; Charlotte from the Matthew MacFadyen Pride and Prejudice; yes, I could go on). Truly, though, this series is a treat. I’m less than halfway through, and already I’ve laughed [often], cried [once], and marveled [continuously] at how well the BBC does this kind of thing.
‘Nough said. I’m going back to the TV. Can’t wait to see what happens with Miss Matilda (Judi Dench) and her past flame … or with the young doctor and the girl he loves …ah, the delicious drama of it all.
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03.24.09
Posted in Feast Days and other fun times, Images of Mary, Musings at 8:14 pm by ginny
NOTE: Tomorrow, March 25th, is the Feast of the Annunciation.
It was a day just like any other for Mary, the young girl from Galilee.
Until – all of a sudden — it wasn’t.
Out of nowhere, there was an angel in the room, and a shocking offer: “You will be the mother of the Savior.” Most surprising of all, there was Mary’s jaw-dropping courage as she accepted this seemingly preposterous proposal.
When I wrote Mary and Me, I talked to Catholic women of all ages about their thoughts on Mary. A common theme that emerged was admiration for her swift “yes.” Many women were struck by the sheer boldness she showed at taking on this mission, especially with the limited information she had at the time (I mean, if you were Mary, wouldn’t you be dying to ask a few logistical questions?).
I was especially struck by the words of Sister Pat, a woman in her sixties who has pondered this moment often. “It dawned on me that [Mary's] attitude toward God and the will of God was not an overnight phenomenon but that it had to have represented the pattern of her behavior choices up to that moment.” I’d never thought of it that way. It makes perfect sense, though. This was not an isolated “yes” to God. It was one of many.
This is why the Annunciation speaks to everyone, without exception. Religious or not, there’s not a soul alive who doesn’t know the experience of facing a choice, of suddenly being at a crossroads. And the choices we make in the Big Important Moments are so often born from the choices that we’ve made all along, in the little, not-so important moments. I think that’s why I worry so much when I see teenagers do things like copy a homework sheet from a friend. “It’s just a little assignment; it doesn’t really matter,” is often their way of thinking. Many of them don’t realize that the little choices we make in our daily lives really do shape the people we become. We think that we are making the choices; instead, these choices end up making us.
I have no idea what little choices Mary made in her life that prepared her to make this massive, world-altering one. But I’m glad she said yes. And I’m grateful for the feast that we celebrate today, this Annunciation. It’ll never get old. It’ll always give me something new to ponder.
Painting “The Annunciation” by Henry Ossawa Tanner
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03.21.09
Posted in Adventures in Parenting, Articles and columns, Musings at 9:09 am by ginny
This gorgeous place is the Abbey of Sénanque in Gordes, France. It’s a Cistercian monastery, founded in 1148 and still housing a community of monks.
My husband took this picture on our honeymoon in July of 2002. We had the immense good fortune to be there when the lavender was in bloom: it was a breathtaking sight, one that I doubt I’ll ever forget. The abbey itself was one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever been. Hidden in a quiet valley, with shady courtyards and thick stone walls and hardly any decoration, the abbey just breathed prayer. It was enough to make one want to become a monk.
Of course, I was there on my honeymoon, so let’s just say that I was not exactly envying the monastic life. The vocation of marriage was looking pretty darn good to me, six days in.
Now, nearly seven years in, marriage is still a pretty fab thing. These days, we have two sweet little boys to round out our family. Of course, with the boys comes noise: tantrums, wails, little feet thundering down the hallway, loud toys. There’s not much in my life that resembles the cool serenity of that abbey in France. And yes — at times, I envy those monks their solitude.
You can read more about these thoughts in my latest Catholic San Francisco column: Little Sips of Solitude.
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03.19.09
Posted in Feast Days and other fun times, Musings at 1:06 am by ginny
St. Joseph is one of those saints who has slowly worked his way into my heart. He’s not a flashy saint; he doesn’t have an action-packed story, like Joan of Arc or St. Michael. He didn’t suffer a gruesome and memorable martyrdom like St. Agnes or St. Stephen. He was just a guy trying to live his life and raise his family.
Except, of course, that his son was the Son of God, and his wife was told by a heavenly messenger that she’d been chosen to be the mother of the Savior. That family must have been, shall we say, a bit intimidating. Did St. Joseph ever feel like he wasn’t up to the task? Did he ever feel like he wasn’t as holy as his wife and foster child?
He was human, St. Joseph, so perhaps he did. I think it’s a mistake to think that the saints never doubted themselves. In St. Joseph’s case, it’s all the more poignant because he never planned this life for himself. He was just going about his business one day, and then he learns that the woman he is betrothed to is pregnant. To top that, he learns that her child is the Son of God, and that he’s to be the father figure that this God will look up to here on earth.
A big job, that.
I guess, in the end, what I really love about St. Joseph is the way that he went with the flow. In the space of a dream, his life is suddenly radically different from the life he always thought he’d be living. There was a lot that he let go of, I’m sure, in taking on this family. There were probably plans and hopes and expectations for the future that fell by the wayside.
That can happen to all of us, really. There are so many curveballs, good and bad, that are thrown at us in this game of life. We may think we’ve got it all carefully planned, but sometimes, we find ourself on a course that astonishes us; that scares us, even. We don’t quite know how it will all end, so we just take it one day at a time, giving life our best shot, going on hope and trust.
Much like St. Joseph.
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03.16.09
Posted in Musings at 3:42 pm by ginny
In honor of St. Patrick’s Day tomorrow, I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I have a very bad case of Irish Envy.
I think it dates back to my Catholic elementary school days, when a girl named Maureen came to school on March 17th wearing an Irish beret. It was just so darn cool. She looked jaunty and insouciant (words that I did not know back then, but which I certainly would have used if I had).
In those younger days, I sensed that the Maureens and Colleens and Seans in my class had a special claim to March 17. When our teachers decorated the bulletin boards with cutouts of leprechauns and Irish dancing girls poised midair above a field of shamrocks, I felt envious of the fact that certain classmates could claim this fun holiday and I could not. My own ancestry — Polish, German, Scotch, English – just did not inspire the same level of public gaiety. There were no saints from MY ethnic background that prompted everyone in America to wear green and party (It’s Saint Casimir’s Day, everyone! Rock on ! )
In later years, I just kept finding More Reasons to Love the Irish. As I embarked on my college career, I learned the Emerald Isle has given birth to some of the greatest authors of the English language. Take James Joyce, whose short story “The Dead” contains the most staggeringly beautiful ending of any work of literature ANYWHERE (save, perhaps, The Grapes of Wrath). Who wouldn’t be proud to call Joyce a compatriot?
When I was in college, my sister’s boyfriend introduced our family to an Irish band called Men of Worth. The cassette tape outlasted the boyfriend, happily, and I was hopelessly hooked on Irish folk songs. Is there any music that is just plain happier? And sure, I may scoff at the overblown staginess of the Celtic Woman concerts on PBS, but their CD gets a heckuva lot of play in my car.
Ah, yes: there’s also the beer. My first acquaintance with Guinness, inexplicably enough, took place in an Irish pub in Marburg, Germany (a blog posting in and of itself). Beer is not exactly my drink of choice these days, but I do think back to that exploration of Guinness with a happy glow of nostalgia. It was a good drink during some very good times.
Given all this, it’s rather curious that I’ve never actually been to Ireland. I did suggest it as a honeymoon destination, but it did not fit my husband’s very stringent criteria (“somewhere with good food and good wine.”) But someday … someday. Maybe I’ll go with my kids, two little lads who, thanks to their paternal grandmother, actually CAN claim Irish ancestry. Together we will ramble over the green hills and tap our toes to pub music and enjoy the people, who by all accounts are some of the warmest in Europe.
Until then, I’ll just hold on to the fact that even St. Patrick himself was, technically speaking, not Irish (accounts list his birthplace as either Wales or Scotland). I guess he’s proof positive that you don’t have to have Irish blood to love the Emerald Island.
Irish harp graphic courtesy of http://karenswhimsy.com/public-domain-images/
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03.13.09
Posted in Musings at 11:01 pm by ginny
I’m loving my commute these days. That’s partly because, for the first time in my driving history, I have a car with a CD player. This, of course, means that I am not dependent upon the whims of our local deejays for on-the-road entertainment. If I want to listen to the soundtrack for Jane Eyre: The Musical, there is absolutely nothing to stop me. I find that quite nice.
Also, the weather here in CA has turned. After a frighteningly dry January, a soggy February, and a damp early March, we are in the throes of spring. The drive I take every morning is breathtaking. The hills are green and lush, dotted with small clumps of oaks making dark outlines against the morning sky. Other trees are blooming with white cottony blossoms: gorgeous. There are even daffodils, planted by some kindred spirit with an eye for beauty (daffodils not being in any way native to this area). I would like to heartily thank him/her for putting them there, those little bursts of sunlight on the green slopes.
I love every season; I really do. When one season shifts to another, I’m always eager for the change. But there’s something about spring that goes to the very core of me. It’s a hopeful, joyful, lighthearted time. It’s a Resurrection time. Every morning, without fail, it gives this sleepy, overextended working mom a little shot of new life.
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03.07.09
Posted in Images of Mary, Quotes and prayers, Uncategorized at 12:32 pm by ginny
If you fear the Father,
go to the Son;
if you fear the Son,
go to the Mother.
– Bernard of Clairvaux
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03.03.09
Posted in Adventures in Parenting, Musings at 9:54 pm by ginny
Had one of those days today when you get a little glimpse into what is really important.
Let me start by saying that my hubby had to work late today, for the second day in a row. It’s tough when he’s not home in the evenings. Tantrums and two boys in high chairs and raucous baths are much easier to stomach when there is backup, I always find. So, all day long, I was thinking of the evening ahead with a certain muted dread.
My mom watched the kids today while I was at work, and when we met for me to pick them up the rain was pouring down. As every parent knows, moving two children and their gear into a car in the rain, without umbrellas, is quite a feat. Even more of a feat, though was trying to figure out how the heck to defog the inside of the car, which — what with the open doors, the dampness outside, the bodies inside — quickly fogged up. I absolutely could not see clearly. This, I should add, is a rental car; my normal trusty coach is at the body shop, getting a new bumper (little rear-ender incident a few weeks ago).
So I sat, in the rain, two boys in the back seat, reading the KIA instruction manual. For ten minutes.
Let me pause to say that I consider myself a fairly intelligent person. Even though I am, admittedly, far more sleep-deprived than any human has a right to be and still be upright, I don’t think the problem was really me. I think the problem was the instruction manual, which had cryptic little diagrams and directions which seemed to assume that I possessed some secret gnostic knowledge of the vehicle. If I were an English teacher (which I am) and this instruction manual were a paper I was marking (which, fortunately for the KIA people, it wasn’t), I’d have question marks with “Clarify” written all over the margins. I would also encourage a rewrite.
Anyhow, with the help of my mother, some paper towels, and some blind pushing of promising-looking knobs, I got the window defogged. Off we went, the boys and I, onto a rainy highway, a half-hour’s ride or so from home.
And it poured on the way home. POURED. I hate driving in that kind of weather; I hate it even more when I have the boys in the backseat, and I am all too aware of how precious my cargo is; and I really hate it when I’m not in the car that I know and love and trust. There were tense moments, quite a few, and some tight gripping of the steering wheel.
And, suddenly, all I wanted to do was get home. I wanted to get home to my messy house, to an evening of the craziness of trying to change and feed and bathe my boys. That domestic insanity became something devoutly to be wished: an end point, a reward to a harrowing journey.
And when we did pull up in front of the house, the rain had stopped. I unloaded all the gear and both boys, and looked around my house with a sense of peace. I had made it; I was safe at home, with both my sweeties. The evening ahead had a cosy, rosy glow to it.
It’s always nice to see clearly.
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Of course, my lame impromptu list of titles cannot compare to Mary’s. In Catholic tradition, she’s known by all kinds of fabulous names: Our Lady of Peace. Mystical Rose. Seat of Wisdom. Cedar of Lebanon (yes, really!). Her list of titles is the work of centuries. As Christians over the years have engaged with Mary in prayer and reflection, they’ve found new ways to express what she does, who she is, and what she stands for.
