Winter Solstice

Today is one of my very favorite days of the year -- the winter solstice -- because from now on every day gets lighter just a little bit earlier. So each freezing cold morning as we head out to exercise in the dark, we know that we are now on the upswing toward warmer dawns, until June when we actually begin in daylight and it is downright hot and muggy, even at 5:45 a.m. Then the whole cycle starts over again, only then it's in the opposite direction, toward darkness and cold, which gives the summer solstice a bit of a sad quality...

Anyway, I recently got the idea to schedule a special holiday family outing just for us five, since we rarely do anything all together but by ourselves anymore. So I got tickets to Spamalot at the National Theater, and we went out for a nice dinner beforehand.

The play was silly and funny and the girls loved it, but in the end I found it more than a tad disturbing. It may be just me and my recent disgust with the state of the world lately, but I found the final message in the play, that we should "always look on the bright side of life" even when things appear to be all wrong, a little creepy. It reminded me how entertainment -- like religion -- has become another opiate of the masses.

Because while the Bush administration has been chipping away at our civil rights and undermining the very nature of our democracy in its increasingly Big Brother way, the American people are distracted by news of Brittany Spears and Branjelina. We are spoon fed more and more entertainment news – on all the major networks and in the major newspapers and magazines – instead of real news all the time. This is a classic tool of fascism. Numb people with fake, happy news and entertainment while doing your dirty work on the sly.

So I sat watching the play's finale, whose entire tone changed at the end of what had been a satire, and all the people in the audience were clapping and nodding like kindergartners at the school recital, and it was just sort of chilling. Because that message was exactly what the bad guys want us all to do – remain fat and happy, spend $500 to take our families to these silly shows, and don’t worry our pretty little heads about the fact that they are secretly wiretapping anyone they choose without a warrant; that they can lock anyone up as a “national threat” without public charges, a right to a lawyer, or a public trial; and they are trying to foment hatred and fear of immigrants and gays as yet another distraction from what's really going on -- instead of standing up and protesting their clear destruction of the Bill of Rights.

And meanwhile we continue sending money and young people to a losing war that was based on their lies and deception, and the whole presidential election race is a big fat charade too. They -- including the mainstream media -- winnow the field by creating a horserace between their acceptable choices, while marginalizing the only ones (Dennis Kucinich and Ron Paul) who are really telling the truth.

But what's a busy, stressed, well meaning voter to do? Even if you had the time and passion to try and fight, the big money interests can bury your feeble efforts through all their high-priced powerful lobbyists, who buy the politicians. That’s why Hillary and Obama and Edwards offer no different choices at all – they all feed at the same exact trough as Bush and co. Kucinich and Paul are trying to buck the system, but the major media – who actually are OWNED by the same big-money interests as the pols – marginalize them totally so no one will take them seriously and “throw their vote away” on a candidate who doesn’t have a prayer of winning. And thus, they have no prayer of winning! That’s where the system is truly corrupted, and there’s just not much we can do about it until people wake up and realize they’re being had. So discouraging.

As long as the vast majority of Americans get their news from Fox and CNN – propaganda machines that the Kremlin would envy – we're all just sheep to the slaughter. Do I sound like a conspiracy theorist nut job? Well I guess I am then -- guilty as charged.

P.S. I did actually enjoy the show and the time with the fam! :)

Branes, quantum physics and the nature of god

I was most thankful this holiday for being seated as usual with cousin-in-law Brewster, a lawyer who reads Plato for fun, and his Presbyterian minister brother Christopher, who after our great conversation last year sent me the transcript of a debate between an atheist and a Christian scientist on whether God exists. This year they took the conversation to a whole new level as we discussed quantum physics and the nature of God.

I should say they discussed and I struggled to even understand what the hell they were taking about, but it was fascinating and gave much food for thought. Brewster, like me, leans toward a view that if there is a god, it is more an energy or unity of the universe, man's quest for transcendance, than a personal deity that actually causes things to happen or cares what happens. Christopher believes God is separate and beyond us humans -- that when we transcend, we actually find and experience God.

Brewster has also come to believe that quantum mechanics, and in particular something called brane theory, supports the existence of god. This is the part I would love to to know more about, although a cursury googling brought up articles on M Theory and superstring theory that I fear might be just a teensy tad beyond my ken. (OK, so I took the History of Biology in college to avoid having to learn any actual science like chemistry or physics, which I did miserably on in high school.) But it IS very cool.

I am also thankful that my chiropractor gave me (and 20 other clients) a beautiful 15-pound turkey on Tuesday. Since we go to Gigi's for dinner every year and never have any leftovers, I decided it was high time I finally cooked a whole bird, stuffing and all -- yet another first for me this year. I brined it overnight, after defrosting it and pulling out those gross bags of innards which I'm still trying to decide how to use. Truth be told, I want to throw them out but feel that would be wasteful and sort of giving up on some important and earthy tradition of using everything on an animal that has given its life to me and my family -- no matter how vile and disgusting.

I had to include the photo because let's face it, that is one greet looking bird, isn't it? A couple of hours after feasting on turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce for lunch the next day, Maddie asked what was for dinner. I said turkey, of course. "But we had it yesterday and today already," she replied. Isn't that funny? Silly dear doesn't realize she will be eating turkey sandwiches, stew, soup and salad every meal for the next week at least.

Finish a Marathon: Check!

We did it! Jane met her goal of finishing in under five hours (4:57:46) and I met mine of finishing, period (5:48:28). I ran the practice one in about 5:30 a month ago, but I totally peaked then and yesterday -- at the risk of exagerating and being overly dramatic, which you know is so unlike me -- was a nightmare of agony and misery.

My right knee and foot (which I somehow injured a month ago during the practice marathon) started hurting at about the 10th mile, so the next 16 were just a very long and NOT fun slog of steadily worsening pain, lots and lots of pain. Several people had suggested I put my name on my shirt, and although I feared hearing strangers shouting my name would be annoying, it actually provided a huge boost. The only problem was I couldn't tell when people I do know were cheering me on from the sidelines, so I missed waving to several, including my wonderful cousin Brenda who waited for ages on an overpass with a neon pink sign, and also almost everyone at the end.

Denise came down for the weekend from RI and was a huge help. She made me a delicious fish dinner Saturday night, got up at 5:30 in the morning and drove us to the metro, and helped me get ready. She also told me of a study she'd just read about in which people who counted the things they were grateful for each day were healthier, happier, more althruistic, and had much better relationships. So all through the endless miserable miles, I said to myself, "I'm grateful for the beautiful, cool weather; I'm grateful I had the time to train for this; I'm grateful for all my friends and family who've supported me; I'm grateful I could afford good shoes and the chiropractor and health insurance for my orthotics;" etc. But honestly, underneath all that gratefulness was a steady and much more sincere mantra of "this f&%^ing sucks, this f^%&ing sucks, this f%&^ing sucks..."

My daughter Maddie and nephew Byron jumped in and ran the last mile with me, which was great. I had to run up the final hill and through the shoot alone, and crossing under the big balloon-arch finish line was definitely up there among the greatest moments of my life. When a heartbreakingly young and handsome marine draped the medal around my neck, and another one wrapped me in the blue and silver foil blanket, and another one handed me a can of pinapple-orange juice, I just broke down and sobbed. So queer.

The medal is HUGE and heavy and pretty darn tacky but I don't care -- I wore it all day and then hung it up in my kitchen window. At long last I can check this one off the list -- yeah baby! I can safely say that I will never, ever, EVER do this again, and as I sit here nursing all my aching muscles and joints, you can take that to the bank and cash it.

All my love and thanks to Jane for training with me these past many months -- now that I've done it, I can't believe I asked her to do such a ridiculously time consuming and difficult thing AGAIN. You're amazing, Jane! Thanks to Jadie for the photos, to Pancho and Denise for carrying all our stuff and getting everyone there (among many other nice things), and to Ginny and Andrew, Lynne, Jadie and Leslie, Byron, Maddie, Nancy and Tom, Brenda, and Evelyn and Stephen for coming out to cheer me on, and to Martine and Bruce for offering to have a party and for joining us (Mel too) at Iota after. I promise to stop talking about this now, and to finally stop celebrating my birthday, I swear!

And then to top it all off, the Red Sox won the World Series -- again. Unbelievable!!!

Back to the Novel, Back from Big Sky

After a three month hiatus, I'm working on my novel again. I started a new workshop with Hannah this month and have homework due tomorrow which I actually haven't done yet -- not a good sign. This is why I need Hannah -- to make me get going again. I finished 100 pages, took a break to get the girls off to college and focus on my business, and now am finding it really hard to get back into the story.

I also joined a writers group in DC, and next week they will critique my first 50 pages. I am quaking in my boots. I realize this is not the great american novel, or even deep enough to be called contemporary american fiction. It is probably best described as a beach book, or a bike book, as my friend Meg said, because it would be a good story to ride your exercise bike to. I was deeply disappointed to hear this, mind you, but consoled myself that beach and bike books aren't all bad. I decided this will be my starter book, my novel "lite," and the next one will be the real McCoy. I wishfully think I have it in me - it just isn't ready to come out yet.

So I let Meg read it this summer -- she was the first. Her feedback was good and helpful, but having these strangers read it and comment on it with me right there in the room next week is terrifying to consider. So let's change the subject, shall we?

I just got back from five days in northwest Montana, and I now understand why they call it big sky country. You look up and the sky is so vast and endless, from horizon to horizon, all around you. It's just so damn HUGE. Ringed with the Mission Mountains, the Swann Mountains, Glacier National Park, Blackfeet Reservation, and all the way into Canada, it just goes on and on and on. It is stupendous. I will never do it justice, but here are just a couple of the amazing views. One is of the vista at Many Glacier, an old inn inside Glacier that we drove eight hours round trip to see.

The sunset picture was taken right off Jane's deck in Somers, at her beautiful mountainside home called Achewa that overlooks Flathead Lake. We ate fantastic meals, ran up and down her neighbors long, steep driveways (at about 4500 feet altitude, I think), rode horses at the Bar W Ranch in Whitefish, visited Kila, where her friends Alice and Michael homesteaded the most magical 80 acres I've ever seen, and hung out in the hot tub, looking up at bazillions of stars in that great big sky. It was glorious.

To check out Achewa and Michael's incredible woodworking and life story, visit www.achewa.com. I simply cannot figure out how these darn links work.

I Ran a Marathon Today!

26.2 miles baby, yes I did! It was the most beautiful, cool, crisp fall day, not a cloud in the sky. We started at 6:35 a.m. and I finished about 10 -15 minutes after Jane at 12:05. I can't believe I did it, and it was just NOT that bad. I felt healthy and well prepared and just did it. My feet and lower legs were really sore but now I feel great.

Maddie's getting ready for homecoming so I'm taking her to another girl's house for pictures and then was gonna come home, have a quiet night and watch a movie with Ginny. (Pancho and Cassie are at Nickie's family weekend at Elon.) Jane said, "You mean you're not going out to celebrate with some drinks? That's what I'm doing."

I suddenly realized, duh, I could brag about this all night! And as anyone who knows me is aware, I am not exactly one to hide my light under a bushel, so I have reconsidered. Drinkypoos (possibly free ones due to my amazing achievement!) at someplace fun are definitely now in the plan...

23 Miles, and Doubt Revisited

OK, I know I promised not to dwell on my boring running regimen anymore, but I just have to write down the momentous event that happened in my life today: I ran 23 freaking miles. Technically, I ran/walked 23 miles, but the important point is, at mile 21 I truly believed for the first time that I can finish the marathon and meet my most challenging goal in this midlife-crisis year.

I also decided today that this is the most challenging goal I've ever set for myself, and running 23 miles was definitely the most difficult thing I've ever done. (Maybe having babies is up there, but such a distant memory it seems all soft and nice and lovely now.) At mile 15 I almost gave up, because I've been sick for over a week with a bad summer cold. Please excuse the graphic details, but I have mucus in my head and lungs which definitely affect my aerobic capabilities. Last weekend I ran the Rock & Roll 1/2 Marathon in VA Beach -- which by the way is a BLAST! -- and I really struggled then too.

Today, I think I learned what it means to "dig deep." I finally understand what the word 'endurance' means. Whenever I heard or read people saying you have to dig deep before, I automatically thought, 'Oh I am so not the kind of person who digs deep.' I'm a total wimp -- if I hit the wall, I simply decide it's time to call it a day and that's that -- no big internal tug of war; no guilt or sense of shame at quitting. I've done my best and now it's time to stop whatever it is that's making me so damn tired.

But when I almost quit at 15 miles, good ol' Jane said, "OK, I think maybe you're right. You'll just have to do it next Friday while I'm out of town, because you have to do the whole 23 before we do 26, our final training run, in three weeks." I went into the community center, got some water, ate some Goo, and thought to myself, "There is no f$%^ing way I'm coming out here next Friday ALONE and doing this again. If I have to crawl or drop dead on the trail, I've simply got to do these last eight miserable miles today."

So I did. And it really sucked. But the amazing thing is, it wasn't that much worse than all the other long runs we've done. I now actually believe I can do this -- as long as I don't get sick or injured, knock on wood. A big day. And now that's it -- even I'm sick of these nauseating stories about running.

So on a completely different topic (and my personal favorite -- religion), recently released letters reveal that Mother Theresa, the soon-to-be saint of Calcutta, spent the vast majority of her adult life doubting the existence of God. She wrote of her complete sense of loneliness and isolation, her belief that the God she prayed to every day (and who she had of course "married" when she took her vows as a nun), very likely wasn't even there. Her doubts and the despondency they caused are shocking to believe, especially when you think that despite them she continued doing the most difficult, selfless work for the most marginalized untouchables in the world until her dying days.

This may be sick and twisted, but I find the fact that one of the most admired, truly good people in the world, who is often held up as an unquestionnable example of a modern saint, had massive doubts about the whole works: Jesus' divinity; whether he was really listening to her in any kind of personal way; whether she had a soul; or whether it was instead just a bunch of stories.

I find Mother Theresa's doubts enormously satisfying. They make me like her and admire her far more than I ever did before. They make her real, and they also of course point out that if someone like MT doubted the existence of God, then how is it not perfectly understandable that we mere mortals ask the very same questions.

On that note, I'd like to share an interesting tidbit I found recently, although I can't remember where. It's called God is Clincally Insane:

According to two senior Church of England bishops, recent terrible floods in the UK are expressions of God's wrath at excess consumption -- or possibly excess ‘gay friendliness.’ "We have a responsibility in this and God is exposing us to the truth of what we have done," the Rt. Rev .James Jones, bishop of Liverpool, told The Telegraph.

"We are reaping the consequences of our moral degradation, as well as the environmental damage that we have caused." said the Rt. Rev. Graham Dow, bishop of Carlisle. "The sexual orientation regulations [which give greater rights to gays] are part of a general scene of permissiveness. We are in a situation where we are liable for God's judgment, which is intended to call us to repentance." According to the Telegraph, Dow "expressed his sympathy for those who have been hit by the weather, but said that the problem with ‘environmental judgment is that it is indiscriminate.'"

Now just hold on a minute here. God left thousands of innocent Britons homeless-- to say nothing of other recent flood victims from Texas to Pakistan -- to make a point about something those people had nothing to do with? A point no one, except a handful of clergymen, seemed to get? If God is powerful enough to cause floods, why isn't he powerful enough to target his smitings to, say, the annual meeting of Exxon shareholders or Friends of the Incandescent Light Bulb? Surely God is aware that environmental catastrophes hit the most vulnerable hardest. The CEOs and superconsumers in their 4000-square-foot mansions have insurance, to say nothing of Hummers in which to make a quick escape to their condo in the city.

As for the gay thing, if a human being somehow managed to flood whole neighborhoods, destroying the lives of multitudes, and when asked why replied that he was furious, just furious, at growing tolerance for homosexuality, we would think he was insane. And he would be.

So maybe God exists, but is clinically mad. That would explain just about everything.

Twenty Miles!

I did it. Felt pretty good through 18, slowed down quite a bit for the next two, but finished strong. That's all I'm gonna say -- I ran/walked 20 long, hot, seemingly endless miles this morning -- in four hours and seven minutes. Now I'm going to eat, take some advil and take a bath.

Mood: Melan

It's hard to believe less than two months ago I was celebrating the summer solstice with such good cheer and optimism. August isn't half over and I feel so melancholy, which I always do as summer draws to a close. It just seems to be happening earlier this year.

Two of my girls leave for college in less than two weeks -- I cannot imagine life around here with both of them gone. Cassie's absence left a gaping hole last fall, but with Nickie in her senior year, she and her friends filled the house with their laughter and activity, and her and Maddie's busy school and social lives were a constant distraction and joy (when they weren't keeping me up at all hours, trashing the house and making me nuts). With her and all her great pals leaving soon (including Hannah and Brian, who showed up for breakfast and a chat an hour ago and are watching TV in the other room as I write this), it will be so very quiet for us and Maddie, our now-only child. I honestly cannot think about it for more than a few seconds without deep sadness washing over me and my eyes filling with tears.

It's also much cooler and crisp today, almost fall-ish, or like summer in New England, which is how summer is supposed to feel. That too makes it seem like the season is coming to a close -- that and the fact that camp is finished, fall sports are about to begin, and I've already started buying books and uniforms, getting physicals (and their endless forms) completed, and helping organize and pack two kids to move away.

I remember even as a child, the last couple weeks of summer always felt sad and bittersweet, the melancholy end of one season and the beginning of a new year. Fall seemed much more like the true time for resolutions, the chance to start fresh -- that's why you got a new outfit, new shoes and new supplies for that all-important first day.

Still now in the workaday world of adults, in politics, on Wall Street, on farms and in factories, people come back from their August vacations ready to start anew -- we all still seem to follow the school calendar, long after grades have been posted and degrees handed out. People move, thousands of young people return home after working at the beach or in another state or country for the summer. Folks begin new jobs, or shift to accomodate the next season's different priorities and demands.

I've signed up for another writing seminar with Hannah, trying to get re-motivated and finish the novel by the end of the year. I've joined a writer's group downtown also, and will have to share 50 pages with them at some terrifying point in the near future. I'm also exploring -- with Evelyn, my graphic artist colleague and friend -- creating a training workshop to help nonprofits with their communications programs. We'd present it at conferences around the country and get to travel a bit, as well as hopefully attract new business. These are my fresh starts for Fall.

But as I listen to the sounds of my neighbor working in his yard, of water trickling into the pond outside my window, and feel the first cool, unmuggy breeze in weeks, I realize again that life is about to change around here in very big ways. Two daughters gone, one still here. Only one schedule to keep track of, one child's sporting events to attend. Only one child to wait up for at night, and even that rarely since Maddie is not quite 15. My parenting responsiblilties cut by two-thirds.

As much as I've looked forward to this day since they were born, prepared for it and pushed them toward it, knowing my job was to teach them how to be independent, it feels like one of my major reasons for existing is being taken away, like an arm or leg, an eye or ear, or some other vital body part that I don't feel I can live happily without. I'm sure I'll get used to it, like you get used to disappointment, bad news and other challenges. It will have its upsides as well, I know.

But right now all it feels like is sad. The end of an era, the end of a lifestyle -- no longer the busy mother of three girls. That version of me -- that exhilarating, intense, all-consuming, exhausting, source of unending worry and happiness and identity and pride, is passing away. Like these final quiet, slow, lazy weeks of summer, its days are numbered. I want to hang on, to cling like a leech to every one.

Disappointing Setback, Awesome Pie

I failed in my attempt to run 18 miles today. I was feeling good, positive I could do it. But I had overdone it on Tuesday, doing lunges up and down the street in Ginny's class, and the muscles in my legs (which I clearly don't use while running) ached badly for the next two days. That was my first mistake. My legs felt like lead the whole way.

My second was taking an endurance supplement full of vitamins and caffeine, called Rodeola. I've taken it before, but just one pill. Today I took two, thinking for 18 miles two was reasonable. It made my heart race, and after about 10 miles I started getting rushes and feeling lightheaded. I told Jane to run on ahead and I would take it a bit slower and see her at home at about mile 13.5.

Less than a mile later I flagged down a woman on a bike and asked to borrow her cell phone. I thought I was going to faint. I couldn't reach anyone, so she, a good samaritan named Groenya (Gaelic name, no idea how it's spelled) went home and got her car, came back to get me and drove me home to Jane's.

I walked down to the bike trail and met Jane as she was finishing up -- that woman is a machine. I was so upset I hadn't made it, but she convinced me it was just a minor setback, that they are quite common. I"ve gotta stick to the training program, maybe quit doing Ginny's class until the race, and get back up to speed for the next run -- 20 miles.

Jane warned me when we signed up for this that I would become obsessed with it, that it would take over my life and no-one would want to hear this crap. I know it's true. So I apologize for writing about it, and promise to keep future posts on this boring subject to a minimum.

Meanwhile, I saw the movie The Waitress earlier this week, and in it Keri Russell makes the most amazing and fantastically-named pies you've ever seen. I was so inspired I had to make one too -- crust and all. So that's what I did -- check it out. Pretty Martha, huh? And hard to believe, I know, that I am something of a domestic goddess too...

Northeast Road Trip

Drove up through New England to RI, then on to Belmont, Vermont (near Springfield, new hometown of the Simpsons), back to RI, then to Orange County, NY, farm and orchard country west of NYC. The sky in Vermont is amazing -- the clouds and color blue are definitely different there. And of course, RI is always wicked nice...

In order, these are the pond at the farm in NY; cows hanging out; a quiet dawn in RI; the house where I stayed in VT, and the local church just down the road. See what I mean about the sky?

I did a 16-mile run at the farm. We have a four mile loop from our front porch, past the farm next door, past lots of other farms, the town park, a cemetary full of gravestones with Polish names, and a Jewish cemetary directly across the street (on Spanktown Road, I'm not kidding about the name); past the "Sobiak Estate," our next door neighbors who carved that name in their stone pillars, just in case anyone doubted that their little piece of heaven was a bona fide estate, and back to our front door.

I ran around that sucker four times. Pancho was nice enough to do the two middle ones with me; for the first and last I listened to several episodes of Speaking of Faith, a great show about religion and spirituality on American Public Radio. I insisted he not accompany me on the final lap as I was feeling pretty cranky by then. I was trying hard to remember why in God's name I was doing this incredibly stupid thing. I don't even LIKE running! He helpfully reminded me it was so I could check it off "the list." Oh yeah, that.

The last mile or two, I swear all I could do was put one foot in front of the other and try not to cry or fall down. I hated that gravelly, uneven road. I hated my shoes and how they rubbed my throbbing feet in a very wrong way. I got a cramp in my side and had to walk for just a minute extra a couple of times during my walk breaks. But I kept going, and step by step, yard by yard I made it around that last stinking lap. I had been run/walking steadily for three hours and 10 minutes.

When I finished and had recovered slightly, I immediately called Jane. I think she'd been half expecting, or perhaps half fearing I would drop out at this point. I've heard that's pretty common when you get into double digit mileage, usually because of injuries. Jane says now that I've done 16, I can and will definitely finish the marathon. Suddenly those last few miles didn't seem nearly as bad, and in fact, I distinctly remembered feeling much worse at the end of the 14 miler two weeks before.

I'd been really nervous about running that huge distance alone. Now the 18 we have to do this coming Friday doesn't seem nearly as intimidating. I think 16 was a big turning point, maybe the point of no return. For the first time, I can see actually finishing this thing, which would be a surprising and wondrous event, a real red letter day. And just what the doctor ordered as this year 2007 winds down, having had more than its share of wild and woeful ups and downs.

14 Miles!

I ran FOURTEEN miles today, an all-time distance record for me and my very tired body! So although there were sadly no balloons or cheering crowds when I finished -- just Jane, my fabulous, energizer-bunny-running-machine training partner and new best pal (I love you, Jane!) -- I finally ran that damn half marathon, and then some. I am so psyched, and so sore I can barely walk. But that's what Advil's for, and I'll be fine -- and still psyched -- in the morning.

The funny thing is, I felt the exact same way for the last two miles -- like I wanted to quit, or die, at every step -- that I felt two weeks ago during our TWELVE mile run. So that's progress. And now I know I'll feel this way again in two more weeks during our 16 mile run. And then 14 won't seem so bad. I got to 12 today and thought, "Hey, not bad at all this time." So maybe this training thing actually works, huh?

Jane keeps telling me I must not think about how many miles we'll run before we start, or how many more we have to go, once we're running. She says our limits are always just beyond what we've done. She's a regular runner-philosopher, that Jane is. We take full advantage of these hours on the trail to solve all the world's problems, and of course hash out our own as well. It is a wonderful and very cheap form of therapy -- an added bonus to the joy of breaking my own personal records, which hopefully will continue to happen every two weeks for the next few months.

Please see the comments below for another good one from my faithful (and always pithy) correspondent Agent 26, aka Ginny, and my response to her very interesting question.

Summer Ramblings

I continue to have to force myself to write on this blog. My heavy heart these days just doesn't seem to go well with lighthearted blog fare. But as any writer will tell you or me, you've gotta keep writing anyway. Just GET IT OUT, as Hannah always says --vomit it up onto the page and worry about what it looks like later. Lovely image, isn't it?

But the idea is a good one. I sometimes have a hard time writing about the heavier side of life, the darker side of my brain, as if my job is to amuse and uplift, instead of just to write. Why I feel this way, in my writing and in my relationships, is perhaps a good question for another day. Right now I just need to write.

Sharon's funeral last Saturday was a heart-wrenchingly, heart-breakingly sad affair. The minister was Ok, although I definitely felt there was too much emphasis on God, on Jesus and on what he wants or what he means. But thankfully there was also plenty of emphasis on Sharon, on who she was and what she means, which offset the god stuff in a very positive way.

The family had sent an email around inviting anyone who wanted to talk about Sharon at the service to prepare something and let them know. I couldn't imagine how anyone could do that, honestly. So at the service when I saw her daughter Laura stand up, cross before Sharon's flower-draped coffin and head to the alter, the very first one to speak, I was astonished and amazed.

That 18-year-old girl gave her mother the most wonderful eulogy -- she got through the entire thing without falling apart, and she did her very strong and loving mother proud. She finished by telling us how at the end she asked Sharon if she was scared, and Sharon responded, "No, are you?" When Laura said yes, Sharon asked her what she was afraid of. Laura said, "I'm scared because you're my mommy and I need you." And Sharon told her, "No you don't. You'll be just fine."

That is exactly what Laura needed to hear, that she was strong enough to handle this and would indeed be just fine. Sharon gave her that one final gift, the confidence to go it alone. To survive the incredible grief of losing her mother and go off to college and be fine. Sharon was so brave and smart and such a wonderful mother, right to the very end.

Maddie left for a month of summer camp on Sunday, and I had a particularly difficult time letting her go. She loves camp and I know she'll be fine (as long as she doesn't get too involved with any of the boys!) but when I think about how short Sharon's illness was, a month seems like an awfully long time to let your child -- and youngest child -- go.

Since then things have been pretty quiet around here. My work clients have been otherwise occupied and not in need of my services so I've had some time to catch up, get organized and work on my own writing. I've had fun compiling quotations as headings for each of my chapters, and I've continued with the actual story.

I had coffee with another local writer who I met through a neighbor, and she invited me to join her writers' group in DC, as well as form another one with her here in Northern Virginia. She attended a publishers conference in NYC this summer and pitched her book, and several agents want to see the first three chapters. She now wants to rework the whole thing before sending it to them.

That prompted me to go back and read my story, which I found full of gaps in what's driving my character. I know her so well I have to remember that my readers do not. So I've added some more stuff about her background, thoughts and motivations, and plan to add even more. But I am the queen of rewriting and have to force myself to also just get the story down and keep moving FORWARD.

I leave next week for a sojourn in the northeast: driving first to Rhode Island for a short visit with my old pal (since high school!) Denise, then driving to Vermont with my old pal (since grammar school!) Meg, to stay with my other old pal (and Meg's sister) Nanci, who rented a big cool farmhouse for a month while home from Cairo, where she lives. Then back to RI to visit my mom and the rest of the Beauregard clan for a few days, then driving to the farm in New York for a week of quiet R & R, and hopefully lots of writing.

Oh, and a milestone this week: I played my first round of 18 holes of golf, albeit very very badly. I played nine holes last Sunday and another nine Tuesday night, so with the 18 on Wednesday I played 36 holes in one week -- woo hoo! I totally, embarassingly STINK but I just LOVE the game, even though it makes you want to kill yourself 90% of the time. Hitting a great shot is like a drug -- once you experience it you want so so bad to get that feeling back again. And hitting dirtball after dirtball makes you question your entire worth as a person and purpose on this earth, truly.

Ok, as you can see, when I titled this post a ramble, I meant it. But I think it has served its purpose. Time to get back in the saddle and on with the job at hand -- life, for one thing, and the writing life, for another. Time to buck up and get the work done. Happy trails.

Sharon

Sharon passed away this morning just after 8:00 a.m. His beautiful, loving wife, as Jeff described her; Laura and Tom's beautiful, loving mother; our beautiful, loving friend.

Those two words pretty much sum Sharon up. She was beautiful on the outside, for sure, and even more beautiful within. Always smiling, always kind, so healthy and strong, quick to laugh at life and its many funny moments, quick to help a friend.
Here's a photo I like of her with Laura that Nickie took in Budapest.

Jeff, Laura, Tom and Sharon's mother were with her at the end, which brings great comfort to know.

I keep thinking of the image I posted in April from a guru/guide in California:

"The human personality self could be likened to your left thumb as
you are sitting in a cathedral where there is beautiful architecture,
and colored glass, and holy sounds being made by a choir. If you
turned your attention fully to your thumb, you would not notice any of
that. You would only notice your thumb.

As a soul, you are sitting in a cathedral of eternal love, and
perfection, and creativity, and beauty, and goodness. And, a certain
part of your attention is focusing on your thumb. In other words, what
you experience as you-as-a-human is a small portion of the attention,
or the awareness, of you-as-an-eternal soul. The rest of the awareness
of you-as-an-eternal-soul is blocked out from your human awareness.

When your body meets death, that 'sliver' of soul consciousness
that has been focusing on its thumb is turned back to the full
attention in the cathedral. What you experience as you simply stops
being small, and it becomes large. It does not vanish. So, your human
self does not vanish. It simply wakes up to its existence as an
eternal soul. Nothing is lost."

This is how I want to think of her, waking up to the full stupendous wondrousness of the whole cathedral -- with who she is and all that she is having gotten that much bigger, more beautiful and overflowing with love and peace and joy. That's how I want to think of Sharon from now on.

Happy Solstice!

It's the first day of summer, my very favorite day of the year, and I'm with all those crazy people in Stonehenge this morning -- 24,000 druids, pagans, drummers and partygoers -- who welcomed and celebrated the sun on this longest day -- yeah! I also love that for thousands of years this was the big pre-Christian holiday and celebration: of life, of Spring, of renewal, of fertility, of love and lust and all things hedonistic and spiritual at the same time.

Actually I love the whole three months leading up to this red-letter occasion, when the sun rises a little bit earlier each dawn, allowing us early morning people to exercise and write and otherwise operate in daylight instead of darkness. To see the sky go from black to gray to pink to red to blue-gray and then blue by 6 a.m. is amazing! It makes you feel happy to be up and alive, but bittersweet to mark yet another change of season on this fast-moving merry-go-round we're all hanging onto.

Another bonus is I'm here writing a happy post today instead of a gloomy one. Despite the ongoing story of Sharon's illness, I do feel more hopeful and lighthearted for a change. One reason may be that I just picked up my business cards from the printer, and I love them. (Thank you, Evelyn!) They make it seem absolutely real that I've started my own company and now have three actual clients -- yikes.

Also, my youngest child graduated from 8th grade yesterday and moves on to high school in the fall, as both her sisters go off to college. Oh lord, only one child and a high schooler -- my life is changing faster than I can process these days.

Also, I've made a new deal with myself to write just two pages of my novel every day -- that's a chapter a week. I figure I can always squeeze out two pages, no matter how busy or tired I am, right? So there are no excuses not to. Although come to think of it, I didn't do it today. OK, right after I finish this...

And finally, I'm running 12 miles with my marathon partner Jane on Saturday. We're into the double digits now and it ain't gonna get any easier. Except that after this we get a break and only have to do six next weekend. Then 14,7,16,8,18,9,20,10,23,8,10,26!!, then 8,8,8 and then the big day. In this program you run the full thing before the day of the race. So if all goes well I'll actually run TWO marathons this fall, and then I will shut up about this, cross it off my list, and never do anything so utterly stupid and tiring again as long as I live.

Happy summer solstice -- go out and do something crazy.

No Good News

I haven't written on my blog in almost a month, because every time I log on I see the prevous posts about Sharon and I just plain lose heart. How can I write about interesting or good things happening in my life, or about whatever idea or question pops into my head, when my 47-year-old friend, who was completely healthy and in the prime of her life just two months ago, is lying in a hospital dying.

Sharon's first round of chemo didn't go well at all. She'd been in and out of the hospital with an infection, but they had already waited so long to start treatment that they decided to go ahead and try traditional chemo, instead of waiting to start a clinical trial at Georgetown. Within a few days she was back in the hospital, sicker than ever. They've now decided as a family not to continue treatment, to just focus on keeping her as comfortable as possible. She's not seeing any non-family visitors, which I can totally understand.

So this means I and everyone else who knows and loves her will very possibly never see her again. It's a shocking, incredible and much-too-fast turn of events, even for an illness we all knew was agressive and incurable. It's so terrible and tragic and impossible to understand and absorb.

And then when life goes on and I find myself laughing or enjoying a moment with friends, such as at Ginny's annual fitness party the other night, I realized how truly out of sync and abnormal and unacceptable this whole thing is. And yet we have no say -- it just IS. And my heart sinks, and I just get on with things, because no matter how anyone feels life simply won't stop for the rest of us. We have no choice but to carry on. And yet doing so feels unreal, and like a betrayal somehow. I know Sharon would never want anyone to feel this way, but what's happening -- as childish and whiny as it probably sounds -- is just so goddamed bloody unfair. It's just SO F$%&ING WRONG.

Life and Death Go On...

It seems so weird and awful that life goes on despite the fact that someone I know has this terrible disease and every single thing about her life is changed completely and forever. Her entire family's days now revolve around dealing with her illness and treatment, and around trying to continue living their lives with this awful reality. Meanwhile, I still go to exercise class, still enjoy my friends and family and my work, and life continues to go on without her. People still live and laugh and do whatever they do, and it feels so very sad to me.

I saw Sharon this weekend and she mentioned how much she misses Ginny's classes, misses exercising, and how she hates that her abdomen is swollen like she's pregnant. I would feel exactly the same way -- would want to just carry on with my normal life and do all the things I love to do, pack as much as possible into each day, but suddenly you can't, and probably never will be able to again. It's so so abrupt and final and awful. I feel sick just thinking about it.

Life can be hard, and we go through lots of ups and downs with our families, our kids, our spouses, our jobs, and our friends and their various troubles. But this kind of thing really does put it all in stark perspective. This is my very first experience with someone my own age getting sick like this. I guess that means I've been pretty lucky. I've experienced very little tragedy or early death first hand.

But Sharon seems very calm and positive, as she is about everything, and doesn't seem to be panicking or worrying about rushing to start treatment, taking it one step at the time. I admire that so much. I know she isn't big on organized religion, not sure if she believes in god even, and seems to have that eastern "power of now" kind of approach to life which seems especially wise and helpful and sensible at a time like this. I hope when it's my turn to face this kind of thing, I react the same way.

I've been thinking about this a lot, and when my time is up I want to just be grateful for the incredible, lucky, healthy, trauma and tragedy-free life I've led, with my family and all my friends, my work and travels and adventures, marriage and kids and experiences. I've lost my dad but still have my mom, I have all my siblings, I have my husband and three healthy almost-grown daughters who are strong enough now to stand on their own. Who would all be absolutely OK if something happened to me. That is a good feeling, and I realize for the first time in my life that I don't fear death like I used to. No longer believing in god doesn't make it more difficult at all. I'm not afraid. Something about this tragic experience has helped me to realize that, and it's a great thing to know.

Terrible Randomness of Fate

I found out last night that a friend and former neighbor, who has a daughter my daughte Nickie's age, 17, and a son two years younger, has pancreatic cancer that has spread to her liver and abdomen. She's 47 years old, is Japanese American and has always had a really healthy diet, never smoked, barely drinks, and is one of the most disciplined exercisers I know, and always has been. She has NONE of the risk factors, which makes it all the more horrible and incomprehensible.

Her husband, who is not quite 50, is a great guy who had prostate cancer and surgery this year, which was its own trauma. But he recovered and they were moving forward. He's in the foreign service, and they moved to our neighborhood many years ago, renting from another foreign service family at the top of our street. My kids were homeschooling at the time, and when they heard there were new kids on the block, they made a welcome basket of cookies and knocked on their door. Sharon told me that was a particularly tough move (foreign service families usually have to move to new posts overseas and back every few years) and her kids were having a hard time. She said the girls showing up was like angels on the doorstep, that it really turned things around for her kids and she would always be grateful for that. She is an incredible mother, an amazing cook, a funny, fun, kind and levelheaded person, a schoolteacher. Loyal, solid, hardworking, full of integrity.

Nickie became good friends with Laura, and visited the family in Budapest for two weeks when she was 14. Like Nickie, Laura will be leaving for college in the fall, but under extremely different and difficult circumstances now, which is just heartbreaking to think about.

My father and grandfather both died of pancreatic cancer when they were 60. Once it spreads, the prognosis is three to six months. Chemotherapy can improve the symptoms, which include severe abdominal pain, but doesn't stop the cancer. Early detection is the key, but almost never happens because when someone first becomes aware of the pain, it is usually too late.

I couldn't sleep thinking about Sharon, and about how random and WRONG and devastating this is. It's so upsetting to all of us who exercise with her in Ginny's classes in the neighborhood, because she is the poster child of healthy living. If this is happening to her, all of our efforts to be healthy don't protect us either, right?

I got a new road bike and went riding with a group in New York last weekend. My subgroup included two guys who were 79 and 82. They were awesome, incredibly fit and inspirational in their attitudes and enjoyment of life. I thought, "They're 30 years older than I am. Think of all the experiences they've had since they were my age now -- as many as I've had since I was 20!" It was such a clear testament to the power of healthy living.

And now this. Which reminds me once again that life is one big crapshoot. Of course it makes sense to try to be healthy, but that's no guarantee. We are all devastated for our friend, for her family, for our own impending loss of her, but also for the stark reminder that none of us is safe from this kind of news. And we're going to encounter it more and more often in our own age group now. Shocking, scary, sobering and unsettling.

Life and Death

A friend sent me this today. It comes from a psychic out in California, natch -- where else? It's an interesting idea, although I think you could substitute any beautiful place in nature, that gives you the kind of soaring inspired feeling you get in a cathedral. That said and despite my problems with religion, I do find cathedrals full of music to be amazing places. And I'm interested in this whole idea of our personality, our ego, as a separate thing from us as part of a collective whole. In this sense the soul is the same as the Eastern idea of being part of the universe, beauty, the ultimate goodness, or what some call god.

A THUMBNAIL SKETCH OF LIFE AND DEATH

The following is a question asked by a Study Group Member: "Please
elaborate on the relationship between a soul and its human self. You
have said that we do not need to worry about dying because we are
eternal souls. But, I think you have also said that the human
personality self, the personality matrix, is self aware for a short
time after death, and then merges back into the soul. So, really it
would seem that the human personality self does end. Would you please
clarify this?"

The Guides' Answer (through Ron Scolastico, Ph.D.):

"If you can understand what we will show you, then all fear of death
will vanish.

The human personality self could be likened to your left thumb as
you are sitting in a cathedral where there is beautiful architecture,
and colored glass, and holy sounds being made by a choir. If you
turned your attention fully to your thumb, you would not notice any of
that. You would only notice your thumb.

As a soul, you are sitting in a cathedral of eternal love, and
perfection, and creativity, and beauty, and goodness. And, a certain
part of your attention is focusing on your thumb. In other words, what
you experience as you-as-a-human is a small portion of the attention,
or the awareness, of you-as-an-eternal soul. The rest of the awareness
of you-as-an-eternal-soul is blocked out from your human awareness.

When your body meets death, that 'sliver' of soul consciousness
that has been focusing on its thumb is turned back to the full
attention in the cathedral. What you experience as you simply stops
being small, and it becomes large. It does not vanish. So, your human
self does not vanish. It simply wakes up to its existence as an
eternal soul. Nothing is lost."

Atheists Unite!

Julia Sweeney was on Wait Wait Don't Tell Me today. She's the actress from Saturday Night Live who created the funny gender neutral character Pat. She also has a play called, "Letting Go of God" about her journey from Catholic childhood to atheism. We should be pals! AND, she tours with Jill Sobule, a singer/songwriter who I saw at the Birchmere last year and just love -- their show is called Jill and Julia. Check out her website and blog...see my nifty new links section on the bottom right of this page. I updated my blog today to add new features; being technologically retarded, however, we'll see how that goes...

Thoughts on Faith and Growing Up Catholic

Here's the assignment I did this week for Hannah, my writing coach, on why my interest and focus on the Catholic Church in my novel. This is my very, very long reply. I hope some of you recognize the story, and that it doesn't bore you. Please feel free to comment.


I was born and raised Roman Catholic, which I consider one of the wonderful gifts and blessings of my life. Growing up catholic in the 1960’s in Rhode Island was about as Leave It To Beaver, baseball and apple pie as you could get. I grew up in a four-bedroom Cape in Lincoln that my father and grandfather built themselves – we moved in when I was six weeks old.

I had four brothers, and would probably have had several more if my mother hadn’t required a hysterectomy at the age of 30. We were only seven years apart from oldest to youngest; there was another brother two years later, but he died of a collapsed lung two days after birth.

Growing up in Lincoln, my friends Meg and Nanci had eight kids in their family; my friend Debbie had thirteen, with no twins. The Joyals had 17, with two sets of twins. Our neighbors, the Reynolds, had nine. Mrs. Reynolds had the first five – a set of twins, followed by a baby, followed by another set of twins – in 20 months. Those crazy Catholics! The more the church told us how bad and sinful sex was, the more we all went at it like rabbits, quite clearly!

And of course no one used birth control. My mother told me she thought she’d be struck by lightning if they did. She also said my dad simply had to throw his pants on the bed for her to get pregnant -- a very fruitful combination.

We all went to Catholic school, St. Sebastian’s on the East Side of Providence, off Blackstone Boulevard. We started at the little public school right down the street from our house, but something happened when I was six and my mom decided we weren’t getting a good enough education and that was it – off we went in our little uniforms. Mine had a navy blue and white checked skirt with matching bolero jacket and beret, and of course a white blouse with Peter Pan collar. The uniform included maroon knee socks, a maroon patch on the jacket that said “SSS,” and a jaunty maroon ribbon on the left front of the beret. I loved that uniform. It was way cuter than the other catholic schools’, with their more ordinary blue and gray or green and gray plaid jumpers.

Catholicism in the 50’s and 60’s was a separate culture, a parallel universe to the mainstream one. Throughout this whole country, in cities like Providence, Boston, NYC, Baltimore, Chicago, Los Angeles, and all the ones in between, the church built parishes and schools as fast as the baby boom grew and joined them. The children and grandchildren of all the catholic immigrants from Ireland, Italy, Poland and Portugal raised their kids in very self contained neighborhoods where you all went to the same church, went to the catholic schools, shopped at catholic-owned businesses, and socialized and volunteered and got help from Catholic causes. It was a cradle to grave support system that rivaled local governments, and it sheltered, protected and guided the children in a very loving but strict way.

Everyone I grew up with at this time, and really any Catholic I’ve ever met, remembers this strong cultural identity, this community that was about so much more than religion. Although that said, the church, the local priest, the nuns, the rules, the fear of sin and punishment, was also incredibly strong and made a huge impression too.

In addition, Catholics were looked down upon by mainstream Protestants. They weren’t allowed to join their clubs, and were always perceived as poor immigrants with too many children and weird beliefs. So we also had an “us against them” mentality that made us even more clannish. The troubles in Northern Ireland reinforced this identity. Sadly, the flip side was our own prejudices against blacks and other non-Catholics and other immigrants of that time.

Anyway, this is all just background to explain what a strong hold being Catholic has on people like me, and why so many remain in the faith despite all the many incomprehensible and unreasonable rules, such as the no birth control rule, or the fact that women cannot be priests, and that priests have to be celibate. Everyone knows these rules are crazy, and very, very few people actually follow them, and everyone knows that too. But at the same time, Catholics continue to revere the pope and the hierarchy while ignoring many of their major rules in everyday life. It’s crazy and contradictory, but true.

All my adult life I have questioned my faith, questioned not just the hierarchy and the power it has over millions of people, but also whether I believe that Jesus was the son of God, whether he rose from the dead, whether I even believe in any supreme being at all. I went through periods where I didn’t go to church for years, but once I had my kids I had them baptized at Holy Trinity Church in Georgetown just to hedge my bets, and to prevent my parents from having heart attacks.

Then when Cassie was almost six, the pull of my childhood got me, and I signed her up for the First Communion program at our local parish church. After trying a few protestant churches, I settled on Catholic because it was so very familiar and, perhaps more importantly, because it had by far the shortest services.

But it was horrible, very dour and serious and awful. The priest was so boring and our diocese is extremely conservative -- just my luck. He would actually give anti-abortion speeches during his sermons. We shopped around and finally found a groovy little liberal church on the other side of Arlington. That worked for several years because the people were wonderful and shared our values, and the priests were funny and irreverent and didn’t take themselves or the hierarchy too seriously. We loved it there, and that’s where I got involved with the Haiti committee.

For years I’ve enjoyed reading about religion, all religions, questioning my beliefs, and challenging the Vatican. I joined groups fighting for an end to celibacy, and in favor of women priests, married priests, and an end to the ridiculous rules on birth control. I felt like if I left the church I couldn’t work to change it, so this was the best option. Plus my kids had a nice community and being in the church helped reinforce our beliefs as parents about helping the poor, right vs. wrong, etc.

I continued to question and agitate, though. I challenged our priests about why everything had to be about Jesus, and about how exclusive it all seemed, the whole idea that you had to believe in Jesus and be “saved” to get into heaven. I’ve never believed Jesus stood for that, whoever he was, and think he would be appalled by what’s been done in his name throughout the centuries.

Then the pedophilia scandal hit.

I’d already read a lot about previous scandals and cases of abuse. I knew bishops and cardinals had covered up before, which was appalling. After a flurry of news stories the crises would die down and things went on as before. The church ducked its responsibility, evaded charges and never admitted wrongdoing. The victims were bought off and forced to sign confidentiality agreements.

This time, when the news started breaking in the Boston Globe, I was horrified at the stories but elated that the reporters were not letting up, that more and more damaging stories kept coming and coming. I thought, “Finally something is going to have to be done. Finally the hierarchy is going to have to address how sick the priesthood has become, how ineffective it is in our modern world, where people have so many more choices and where being gay is not such a shameful thing that their only choice was to become a priest." Because for many years that was the best group to recruit from, for sure.

Unfortunately, the seminaries also attracted sick, twisted men who didn’t know what to do about their sexual problems. They thought they could become a priest and hide from society, and the celibacy rules would protect them from their worst impulses. Instead, they continued to act out and the church simply provided them with easy access to prey: obedient children who were taught to never ever question a priest, who had more authority over you than your own parents. The church, for a variety of reasons -- not least of which was the entirely male, supposedly but not-even close-to-celibate culture and complete lack of women (and mothers) in any positions of authority -- turned a blind eye on these problems, especially after the 60’s when many priests and nuns left the church and recruitment became harder and harder.

In response to the recent scandal, the hierarchy continued to cover up. Their arrogance in the face of so much proof of abuse was unbelievable, outrageous, enraging! How could anyone keep going to mass, keep putting money in the collection baskets, keep giving to the bishops’ offices, when they were so corrupt and self serving? All they cared about was money and protecting the name of the institution. The victims, their FLOCK, were last on the list of priorities. These disgusting men – and it was ALL men – were so arrogant they knew that for most Catholics, leaving the church is almost impossible, especially Catholics of previous generations. So despite all the outrage, despite all the foot dragging and obvious lack of concern for the victims of such horrendous crimes and betrayals, most Catholics continued to go to church and defend “good priests,” and their particular parishes, and blame the stories on a few bad apples and on anti-catholic media bias.

I was completely disgusted. I joined Voice of the Faithful, a group that formed in a small parish outside of Boston in response to revelations about a priest who had been shuffled around by Cardinal Law, and had raped and abused dozens of boys in that and surrounding parishes. I wrote letters to the editor, cheered on the Boston Globe (which deservedly won a Pulitzer Prize for its coverage), and spoke out at our church, the only one in the entire Arlington Diocese to hold a “listening session” where people could vent their feelings about the scandal.

I joined SNAP, Survivors Network for Those Abused by Priests, and went to meetings locally where I heard mostly men but also some women testify, recounting horrendous tales of abuse when they were young and how much it had crippled them their whole lives. People who had been drug addicts and alcoholics, people who couldn’t hold a job, stay in school, or maintain a relationship because of the huge betrayal they felt, first at the hands of the priest; then when it was covered up by church and school officials, including other priests and nuns who knew what was going on; and then by their parents who either didn’t believe them at all, or who took payoffs from the bishops and signed agreements that they would never press charges or go public with their claims. It was so sick!

Eventually, the scandal died down, although more priests are credibly charged every single day. There have been literally thousands of victims. Cardinal Law was forced to step down in Boston, only because the people there picketed outside his mansion for weeks and months, but he was quickly given a cushy job in the Vatican where he resides in a palace, is the pastor of a gorgeous old church, and holds salons and lives like a true “Prince of the Church.”

As I grew more and more angry and disillusioned, I continued to read books by C.S. Lewis, Thomas Merton, and other theologians and scholars, trying to figure out how smart guys like these found such strong faith, when I was becoming more faithless every day. Over lunch one day, a friend suggested that maybe I was going about this the wrong way, that maybe I needed to read something written by someone who didn’t believe in God, and see if I felt compelled to defend faith in general. He suggested I try, “Why I Am Not a Christian” by Bertrand Russell.

That book changed my life. I felt like a homosexual who always was different but didn’t know why until I met someone else who was gay. It was like coming out of the closet! This is exactly what I had always thought, the same questions I always had, the same conclusions I wanted to draw. It was wonderful! After this I read “The Freethinkers,” by Susan Jacoby, “The End of Faith,” by Sam Harris, and his follow-up essay, “Letter to a Christian Nation,” as well as “Ethics Without God,” and other books by atheists on how to live an examined, moral life without faith in any particular God. I joined the Freedom from Religion Foundation and became obnoxious in my enthusiasm, driving everyone I know crazy.

Of course, with my youngest daughter about to make her confirmation and my two eldest in Catholic high school, I had to keep a bit of a low profile at home. I also could never tell my mother or she would die, but I did raise some interesting points. She told me she was too old to start asking questions now, it was too upsetting and to please leave her in peace with her beliefs.

So I did. But I am so comfortable with me new views, so RELIEVED to not be struggling against what I never fully embraced, it’s like a huge burden has been lifted from my soul. I feel a bit conflicted about my kids, but I’ve decided that we can talk openly about my change of heart when they are older, and have had a chance to live with their own views and contradictions for awhile. I don’t want to rob them of the comforts I got from prayer and being part of a Catholic community, which I truly treasured when I was young. Saying the rosary warded off the bogeyman, and calmed me and helped me sleep when I was older, almost like meditation. My friends and I still laugh about all the quirky, bizarre things we had to do as Catholics, about all the characters we met and all their wacky beliefs. All the times we got in trouble for so many infractions, so many venial and mortal sins! These stories are a huge part of our shared experience and shared memories.

But we were lucky. We were not abused, were not left alone with creepy, sex-starved perverts who used their power and station to rape children. My mother never left any of us alone with priests she thought were creepy – apparently she had good radar for that. At least not that I know of, that is. It’s possible my brothers, who went to an all-boys school run by Brothers of the Sacred Heart, who they often described as sadistic, have horror stories of their own that they’ve never shared.

Finally, the last straw that prompted me to quit going to church was when Pope John Paul II died and Cardinal Law was selected to give his eulogy! The highest honor possible was given to the man who had been run out of Boston on a rail for protecting and covering up for pedophile priests who had abused hundreds of children. Instead of being punished, he was rewarded with this incredible honor. The arrogance of it, the complete lack of contrition for his very real crimes, was appalling. It was clear the church had learned nothing and would never ever change. They held all the cards. They were the only game in town.

When Cardinal Ratzinger, the former head of the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith (formerly called the Office of the Inquisition!), and who had been even more conservative than JPII, and even more against modernizing the church, was selected to be the new pope, I simply had enough. I could no longer sit in the pews and give tacit approval by my presence to this institution that I was thoroughly ashamed of. It suddenly became so clear: I would never belong to an organization that excluded blacks or Jews or women, so how could I belong to this organization which excluded women from any positions of leadership; all non-Catholics from its idea of salvation; and rewarded criminals like Cardinal Law. I told my pastor that I just couldn’t do it anymore, that I would love to keep serving on the Haiti committee, but couldn’t come to church. He completely understood, and in fact told me he couldn’t believe so many women showed up and put up with it!

Now I think about faith in a completely different way. I’m interested in Eastern views, in how we might all be part of some wonderful union, part of the whole universe, and that maybe that is something like God. Or that god is simply humans’ best, highest impulse, our highest selves, which is expressed through love and selflessness, through caring for the poor and less fortunate, through fighting injustice and war and all the terrible suffering in the world. But I'm also completely Ok with there not being any God at all.

Meanwhile, I do have faith in the future, and that whether it has some higher purpose or meaning or not, my life is meant to be enjoyed, experiences are meant to be had, finding a good balance of work, service, love and pleasure. My children at least are probably glad that I existed! Whatever struggles I go through, whatever inevitable ups and downs life brings -- and it does -- I have faith, ironically, that all of this is somehow OK, that these are lessons I for some reason need to learn. And besides, compared to about 99.9% of the rest of the world, and because I was unaware of the ugly dark side of my religion throughout my childhood, I do believe I won the lottery in many ways when I was born here in the U.S. to a nice Catholic family in Rhode Island in what seemed like a much more innocent time.

Cherry Blossoms, Yoga and Writing Naked

I went down to the tidal basin before dawn on Monday to see the cherry blossoms, minus the maddened crowd. It was so beautiful and ghostly quiet, although there were photographers, walkers and other joggers enjoying the same experience. There was a huge full moon followed by a gorgeous sunrise, and I don't think I've ever had a nicer, more peacful time in DC. I wanted to go back and do it again yesterday, but I woke to thunder, lightning, rain and high winds that probably blew all the blossoms off the trees right at their peak, which is a shame.

I also went to a meditation class at my local yoga studio on Sunday. I love yoga but had never really explored meditation. I'm thinking it might be a good substitute for church and prayer, since I've given those up as spiritual pursuits. I still go occasionally as part of the Haiti committee, but I swear I don't inhale while there. Just kidding, but I honestly feel nothing of an uplifting nature from those religious rituals and haven't for a very long time.

I was inspired to try meditation by a phenomenal book I just read called "Eat Pray Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert. (For her excellent and inspiring thoughts on writing, visit her website: http://www.elizabethgilbert.com/writing.htm.) The book is a memoir of Gilbert's journey from unhappy marriage and painful divorce to finding inner peace and a new lease on life. To do this she spends a year pursuing pleasure (4 months learning Italian and eating every delicious thing in Italy); prayer (4 months learning how to be alone with her own thoughts, forgive herelf and others, and connect with her personal idea of God while studying yoga and meditation at her guru's ashram in India); and love (4 months discovering meaning and happiness in her life while spending time with a funny old medicine man and otherwise doing nothing in Bali, Indonesia). It's a journey of self discovery in three countries that begin with the letter I. She's a wonderful writer and it motivated me to check out meditation too. Yes, I know, I am truly a late bloomer in many ways.

Anyway, I loved it! I was surprised at how easily I sank into a kind of empty-headed stupor. It wasn't as hard as I expected to quiet my normally racing thoughts. The instructor suggested we picture a giant cauldron being tended by a very kind and loving wizard (so goofy, right?!), and we could get rid of any bad thoughts or feelings we had, any problems at all, by simply putting them into the pot to be stirred with all the rest into something new and better.

So that's what I did -- I threw it all in there, my worries, my fears, my anger, my sadness, my ever-present guilt, my longings -- and miraculously I just RELAXED and sat there for a pretty long while, just breathing and resting. It was awesome.

After these two lovely and positive experiences (cherry blossoms and meditation), I sat down to complete my writing assignment for the week. Hannah, my own personal and wonderful guru, asked me to write about my writing process these past few months since we've been working together: how is it going, how has it changed, what works, what doesn't; and why am I writing this story anyway. Why do I need to tell this particular story in this particular way? What's driving this need?

I hate these kinds of questions! I just want to write about someone else and not explore WHY. I want to go through this therapeutic experience without having to connect it to my own life and own struggles. But of course that's exactly what it's all about. And as usual, when I started to write honestly but fearfully about why I really want to tell Liza's story, pages of truth poured out. I exposed myself completely for the first time, the real issues I'm grappling with, which I have never put down on paper before. It was scary and surprising and cathartic. But as I pushed "send" I panicked that Hannah would be shocked, put off, maybe not want to work with me anymore.

Which of course was crazy -- she loved it! She was excited, and told me -- once again -- it's all about the writing. She's no judge, has no interest in judging or even knowing people's messy personal lives and struggles. And besides, she says nothing shocks her anymore. While I of course find it gripping, my life and concerns are probably not all that unusual or compelling to someone who's heard it all. Hannah says this isn't therapy -- in therapy you try to solve problems. In her writing course, you just want to get it OUT. Her entire goal is to get me to discover the core of what drives my story, what is it REALLY about. And now I've done it, and it's such a huge relief! I've finally started writing naked, and it's so obvious that this is really the only way to go. Everything seems clearer and easier now -- I feel like the outlines of the story are just falling into place and it all makes more sense.

My next assignments are: 1. to write about why I have such a huge problem with the Catholic church, to write down everything I feel about this subject, tell her all about the issues in the church, and why I feel the way I do about it. This will be an excellent exercise; and 2. write about what I mean when I think of the word faith. What does faith mean to me. Another excellent question, since this is a multifaceted theme in my novel as well. Cool, huh?

Faces of Beauty

So if there was a God, I think this is what it would look like, don't you?

More Faces of Haiti

It's hard to synthesize and describe the range of impressions of my experience in Haiti, but I'll try. On one hand were the undeniable challenges: lack of sanitation, dirty water, sketchy food, fear of illness, fear of the mice that crawled into our luggage at night looking for food while we slept on mats on the floor! And the white-knuckled fear as we lurched and bumped down the rocky, rutted, steep, winding mountain road, 11 of us crammed into a Nissan Pathfinder because one of the jeeps had broken down -- again. Flying up and hitting our heads on the roof as Fr. Stan shouted, "Oh, Jesus!," certain we were going off the next cliff and knowing my family would never forgive me for this folly. Joking that having spent 11 hours in church over the previous three days, at least we were all gonna go to heaven, and then the others remembering what an irreverant heathen I am and worrying that instad we were all headed straight to hell.

Then there were the incredible people, eeking out a living in this hostile, hardscrabble place with everything against them. And Pere Leroy, standing on the steps of the new church that seats 3000, built of rocks that each parishioner gathered by hand, and bags of cement that they carried up the three-hour mountain road on their heads, barefooted. At first I wondered if the money wouldn't have been better spent on our clean water project, or supplies for the clinic.

But then I saw the thousands of people gathering for the dedication, dressed in their finest and on a three day holiday from their difficult lives, celebrating 14 weddings in one day -- because getting married in March is good luck and ensures lots of children, which again begs the question, and this is good WHY?? Because many children ensures that if some die, which they surely will, there are others to help with the work, and take care of their parents in old age.

Pere Leroy stood on the steps of the new church, like an early Aristide before he was corrupted, and spoke passionately about how this was the new face of Medor. That even though they were poor and black and the descendants of slaves, this building represented respect and justice and all the good things they deserved. He promised to continue working with them, fighting for them, for clean water, decent health care, and a good education. He was awesome, and he gave them all the gift of pride.

The schools are also amazing -- 730 kids, busting at the seams. In the coming year we hope to help PL build a new secondary school, and expand the kindergarten where 50 kids were turned away this year. In this remote and desperately poor place, where the schools have no windows, no electricity and dirt floors, the 9th graders spoke to us in Creole, French, English and Spanish. Four languages, all proficiently. Truly amazing.

Faces of Haiti

Finally catching up enough to start processing my trip. First of course are the photos of these beautiful, incredible people. Despite the poverty, deforestation, complete lack of government services and horrendous conditions, Haiti is still full of beauty, and its people have a pride and dignity -- not to mention sense of humor, charm and hospitality, that far outshine their circumstances.

Here, in no special order, are a young woman selling vegetables at the market in Medor, located just below the rectory where we stayed. Also, kids on their way home from school in Petit Riviere, the nearest city four hours away -- the girls all wear those cute uniforms and big bows in their hair -- and people along the rocky, bumpy, scary mountain roads we traveled by jeep and on foot. That's me with Fr. Stan, a Nigerian priest who teaches school in Port au Prince and served as our Creole/French/English interpreter, driver and awesome travel guide.

In Haiti, they say there are mountains beyond mountains: solve one problem and there's another right behind it. So you keep fighting the good fight, what else can you do? It also explains a certain easygoing, whatever sort of attitude -- kind people smiling in the face of inevitable adversity.

A Lady Who Thinks She Is Thirty

I got this poem a couple of years ago for my birthday. I think it works for any age, really (ever the optimist), and it made me a new fan-for-life of Ogden Nash.

Unwillingly Miranda wakes,
Feels the sun with terror,
One unwilling step she takes,
Shuddering to the mirror.

Miranda in Miranda's sight
Is old and gray and dirty;
Twenty nine she was last night;
This morning she is thirty.

Shining like the morning star,
Like the twilight shining,
Haunted by a calendar,
Miranda is a-pining.

Silly girl, silver girl,
Draw the mirror toward you;
Time who makes the years to whirl
Adorned as he adored you.

Time is timelessness for you;
Calendars for the human;
What's a year, or thirty to
Loveliness made woman?

Oh, Night will not see thirty again,
Yet soft her wing, Miranda;
Pick up your glass and tell me, then --
How old is Spring, Miranda?

Not Running

So it's 8:45 on Saturday morning, and instead of running through the streets of DC in the National Half Marathon, as I have trained for, fundraised, and planned on for so long now, here I sit at my computer, trying to come to terms. I got back from Haiti Wednesday night and brought a most unwelcome souvenir with me: the plague. I started the trip at a disadvantage, having come down with a violent stomach flu just a few days before. But I was on the mend and hopeful that my usual good health would prevail. Wrong.

Between the bad water, scary food, and sharing a bathroom with seven strangers (with no electricity and only cold, dirty water), I didn't stand a chance. Several people in our group got sick, almost all in fact. But I hung in, was extremely careful about what I ate, and managed to ward off major illness. Until I got home. Within two hours of being in my own house, where I could finally relax, I came down with a variety of unpleasant symptoms that led me to the doctor yesterday. I have a virus, an infection, was dehydrated and other related miseries. I couldn't walk around the block comfortably, never mind run 13 miles.

After fighting the inevitable, sure I would bounce back in time, I finally had to give up yesterday afternoon and tell my running partner Holly I couldn't do it. She was just as stunned as I would have been, wondering how the hell she was gonna go it alone. We've done all our long runs together, become great pals, were counting on each other a lot. Holly has had her own major struggles this week. She has two small boys, one she is still nursing, and her husband had back surgery after months of agony and being unable to help her with the house or kids. I don't know how she's juggled it all, in addition to going to school for her master's in ESL.

Thankfully, Rebecca, a retired marine and team captain with TNT, went over the race map with Holly at the pasta dinner last night and decided she could jump in with her at the water station she'll be manning at mile 5 1/2 and run the last 7 1/2 with her. So Holly will do great and finish strong, I'm sure. I cried all day yesterday and almost cancelled my party today. What was the point? I wouldn't have anything to celebrate. But my friends and dear ones convinced me there was still plenty worth celebrating, and I will live to run another day. Which I know, of course, but am still crushed with disappointment.

Meanwhile, as long as I'm complaining, my husband Pancho got a dog while I was away. Two days after I left, in fact. A very cute black, terrier mix that is very sweet and calm and will not grow much bigger than he already is, which is not too big at all. But the key issue here is: I am the only person in this house who has never wanted a dog! I am starting a home-based business and have been longing to be in my house, all alone, with no one to be responsible for, or to care for. I have dreamed about it and looked forward to it. I have envisioned going out to exercise, coming home and settling in with a cup of coffee to work on my novel. Then showering and working on my new business, all in the peace and quiet of an empty house -- heaven!

And now we have a PUPPY, which is like having a BABY. Pancho is gone at least 11 hours every day. The kids are gone at least 8. So who is going to care for this little creature, walk him in the middle of the day? As I said, he's very cute and sweet and I like him already. But that's not the point. I'm still mulling the point, and I'm not happy about it.

Off to Haiti

Ok, so I'm leaving tomorrow and running around frantically trying to get ready. This because instead of having the two previous days as well, I came down with a vile, nasty bug the likes of which I've never seen before. I'm better now but still am barely eating, am actually a little afraid of food. If you don't know me, I have a very close and almost lustful relationship with food, I devote a not insignificant amount of my time to either thinking about it, planning for it, or enjoying it. It is one of life's great pleasures, IMHO. Not the greatest, mind you, but right up there in the top two or three.

But not today. Yesterday was toast and tea, today I'm tiptoing around foods that seem harmless, and even they lose their appeal after a bite or two. This is so weird! Alors, on to more interesting topics.

I've had some really nice phone conversations today. I always like to talk to special people before I leave on a trip. It makes me happy to hear their voices, touch base one last time, and then go on my way. I think they're a little nicer to me too, just in case, right? -- laughing -- you never know, you don't want to forget to call and then have somebody's plane crash -- yikes. But that's the mom in me, I'm sure...

I just got a call from a friend who got the guy at the local soccer store to donate several uninflated soccer balls to Medor -- exactly what the kids want! Plus I'm bringing a suitcase full of recorders, tin whistles, harmonicas, two keyboards, a drum, and 24 matching blue pleated skirts from another friend's daughter's high school play with 24 matching tops -- school chorus or band, oui? And another suitcase full of gently-used adult size running shoes.

Now all I have to do is fit all my crap, including sheets and a towel, into my backpack and carry-on bag. This will surely be the most challenging aspect of the entire trip!

So no internet and no blogging while I'm gone, alas. Please dear readers, post a comment or two -- something inspirational or funny or whatever you feel like. Surprise me!