Be Not Idle

“Judas left early, too.” – sign posted in a Catholic church to encourage parishioners not to leave Mass early.

NOTE: After the Eucharist (aka Communion) is distributed, Mass ends with a blessing and (usually) a recessional hymn. Catholics are supposed to leave Mass after the priest, deacons, altarboys, etc. leave the church.

When I was a kid, I asked either my mother or my father why we never left early. My wise parent suggested that we wouldn’t save any time that way. If we needed more time on earth to do things, God would give us more.

It belongs in a museum! – Indiana Jones

Like the intrepid adventurer Indiana Jones, whenever I go on an archeological dig, I know there are traps awaiting the unwary. However, in a curious twist, I’m the one who set them.

I navigate the piles of books and boxes, congratulating myself on my brilliant maneuvering.  Then I grab a review book from my writing desk and trigger a cascade of dangerous objects, including a few 32-inch souvenir pencils and a die-cast car (emphasis on die).

Today will be no different. After several months of using it as a catchall, I’m excavating the home office. No doubt I will uncover many mysterious artifacts, long forgotten. However, I’m most interested in gathering fragments of manuscripts that were used in a ceremony of obeisance to a pantheon of blood-chilling, fickle gods. This ceremony was known as the Infernal Retinue Service.

My heart is already pounding with excitement and fear.

About two months ago, my usual charities must have shared or sold my new address, so I have been getting requests. Sometimes the grab-bags of gifts and tokens of appreciation (before the fact) astound me: mailing labels with fancy foil trim, nickels (?!), rosaries, “prayer mats” that guarantee monetary results (it’s like a cross between a chainletter, voodoo, and a giant plastic mat), etc. Now the magazines have found me, offering astoundingly inexpensive subscriptions to their rags publications.

One question comes to mind when I open these often strange envelopes: Who do these people think I am?

On one hand, I seem to be a union-hating, anti-war Hispanic with a green thumb, eager to support the troops with homemade cookies that are one of 200 recipes I can get with a paid subscription.  On the other hand, I appear to be an impassioned feminist, hellbent on watching telenovelas and putting nuns through college.

I go to “Tea Parties” with hand-embroidered napkins and mock the mindless rightwingers who dare criticize the latest crop of estranged celebrity lovers whose names I don’t recognize. When I’m not supporting women’s right to choose make-up and fashion, I’m resisting the loss of natural habitat and the death of the US Constitution. I want to get rich quickly, find the loopholes that They don’t want me to know, and prevent cancer.

I want to convert my hard-earned cash to gold, real estate, or a posthumous gift to my alma mater.

But first, I want a gun. I’m going to need it to stop people from treating animals unethically.

Our lives are like lace, appearing unbelievably complicated and mixed up to others. It is essential to remember that your life has to make meaning only to you.

- Takashi Nagai, quoted in A Song for Nagasaki by Paul Glynn

I opened the last of my Christmas presents today, an Aaron Copeland CD and a few books. I thought I’d dive into one of the Tim Powers novels, but I got a little lost in the biography of Takashi Nagai, a doctor who died of radiation exposure in his beloved Nagasaki.

Glynn includes so many details, such as Japanese illustrations at the end of each chapter, that I became engrossed. He explained the meaning behind a couple of the famous one-line poems and even included an example of Basho’s haiku.  I’d read about Basho and his approach to poetry this past year when I was doing research for a class, and so it was like running into an admired acquaintance in an unexpected circumstance.

I have to discipline myself not to dive right into reading. There’s so much to do this weekend, from relatively fun chores like shoveling snow and feeding birds to the tedious tasks of semester’s end.  (And another book I’m supposed to review!) But expect a full report on A Song for Nagasaki soon.

I came home last night to find my living room furniture re-arranged and a couple rooms completely altered. It was great!

I’d hired an unemployed friend to paint the bathroom and laundry room and repair/repaint the nicks in a few places here and there. It seemed like the perfect time: his college was on break, I was visiting relatives for two weeks.

Daniel went above and beyond my expectations. He painted the entire laundry room, including the ceiling. He shampooed the carpet in the livingroom and hallway. He moved the furniture so the first thing I saw was NOT the TV but my bookcase and statues of the Holy Family. He cleaned my kitchen cabinets and mopped the floor. He even re-washed the dishes I’d left to dry in the sink!

He left me a note saying, “I wanted you to fall in love with your house all over again.”

I really can’t thank him enough.

Not only does everything look wonderful, but it makes me realize how much I’ve changed. In the past,  I would have resented him in spite of his good intentions.  I would have felt a twinge of  annoyance every time I looked at the furniture arrangement, even though it works and I like it. Why? Because doing everything myself shows I’m independent and don’t need anyone’s help.  It’s been humbling and, frankly, AMAZING how relying on others has opened up my heart and lightened the burden.

As she splashes water on herself she remembers. She likes the bath. The bath is fun. Not to mention a really great way to get clean. In fact most of the time, she doesn’t want to get out of the bath. You see, the bath time struggle is not at all about the bath. It is about obedience. She is three years old and she simply does not want to obey.

UltraGuy posted the link for this (true) story .  Grab a hankie and please check it out.

The first real snowfall came last night, not enough to bring out the shovel but more than the sun could melt. I swept the porch, walk, and car with a broom. Then I ran errands in town.

The post office, which is tiny, was packed. I had to park on the street because all nine spaces in the lot were taken. (Tiny, I wrote.) Luckily, all I had to do was check my mail and drop a letter in the slot. A little old lady held the door for me, and another woman joked about us “just making it” before noon. Of the many people who talked to me, I knew only one. But everyone was friendly, jovial, and patient.

I’m delighted by all the holiday decorations. Despite the hard times – or perhaps because of them – people have hung more lights and put up more electrified lawn statues than I’ve ever seen. Apartment windows glow with strings of lights. Manger scenes are surrounded by deer and sledding penguins. Now the kids can add snowmen.

The sense of waiting is palpable this Advent. To an extent, it’s spiced with anxiety. Unemployment in St. Clair County is 25%, and there’s the sense that everything is like well-worn sweater – only needing a tug on the wrong loose thread to come unraveled.

But there’s also the expectant waiting of every Christmas, and the familiar feeling of hope that something good is coming.

I bought boots yesterday with the help of my pal M’e. She is my second pair of eyes when I try on clothes, and she also was the “runner” who looked for suitable no-heel footwear while I tried them on.

On a sad note, I can’t pull my left foot onto my knee without grabbing my ankle and pulling. I have been working on building the muscle around my knee, but I better start doing flexibility exercises, too!

When I worked in CubicleLand,* I scoffed at my colleagues who used such terms as “shopping therapy” or “shoe addiction”.   Even in my Vogue-reading  college days, I was known for having few (but interesting) shoes and purses.

My college pals still talk about the “Brazilian Running Shoes”, or BRS. They were stylish black leather pumps with 3-inch heels. I could never figure out how a manufacturer in Brazil thought of giving them the rubber traction of a snowmobiling boot. However, I was grateful when I had to trek through snow to a Saturday night party!

The BRS, soft pink slingbacks, penny loafers, white sneakers, and Fleur-de-lis suede flats carried me (literally) from university to the working world. Imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered quite a collection! Continue Reading »

This past week was the first week of Advent, and thus the first stage of decorating for the occasion. While I was putting up the Nativity (or nacimientos), the bag holding the Magi slipped out of the box.  Even as it fell, I was thinking,  No problem. It’s in bubble-wrap bag and the carpet will cushion it.

And then it hit the base of the floor lamp with the sharp ching! of porcelain striking metal.

Oh, dear… Continue Reading »