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."
Friday, April 20, 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
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...
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
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?
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
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.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
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?
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?
Saturday, March 24, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
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!
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!
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Seasons
I didn't sleep well last night, and when my alarm went off at 5:05, I really really really did NOT want to get up and go for my run. Especially because it was 14 degrees, the trails were surely icy, and my kids had a two-hour school delay.
But I'd told Evelyn I'd meet her at our usual place at 5:45, and she was skipping a class she likes to run with me. So I dragged myself out of my nice warm comfy bed, put on my layers of gear, went downstairs and called her, hoping she'd want to blow it off too. But she was also dressed and ready, so after hemming and hawing a bit we decided to just do it.
By the time I got there I was wide awake. It didn't feel as cold as it is, and it was so absolutely peaceful and beautiful I realized yet again the best side bonus about running. You get to see and enjoy nature at its most pristine and lovely, before anyone else. (Well, we did pass a few hardy souls, including one crazy guy riding very slowly down a big icy hill on his bike!) Just after a snowfall it is especially quiet, except for the crunch crunch crunch of our shoes on the trail. Entire fields of dried wildflowers looked like ghostly pompom trees as the sun came up.
We all lead such nonstop busy lives. I know without a doubt that if I didn't get outside several mornings a week at dawn, I'd never even notice the seasons passing by. As it is I can hardly believe it's March -- wasn't new year's day just last week? Running helps me keep track of the time that seems to be flying by. It helps me notice summer change to fall, fall to winter and winter to spring. This feels to me like a big important thing that is otherwise so, so easy to miss. I love that about running.
But I'd told Evelyn I'd meet her at our usual place at 5:45, and she was skipping a class she likes to run with me. So I dragged myself out of my nice warm comfy bed, put on my layers of gear, went downstairs and called her, hoping she'd want to blow it off too. But she was also dressed and ready, so after hemming and hawing a bit we decided to just do it.
By the time I got there I was wide awake. It didn't feel as cold as it is, and it was so absolutely peaceful and beautiful I realized yet again the best side bonus about running. You get to see and enjoy nature at its most pristine and lovely, before anyone else. (Well, we did pass a few hardy souls, including one crazy guy riding very slowly down a big icy hill on his bike!) Just after a snowfall it is especially quiet, except for the crunch crunch crunch of our shoes on the trail. Entire fields of dried wildflowers looked like ghostly pompom trees as the sun came up.
We all lead such nonstop busy lives. I know without a doubt that if I didn't get outside several mornings a week at dawn, I'd never even notice the seasons passing by. As it is I can hardly believe it's March -- wasn't new year's day just last week? Running helps me keep track of the time that seems to be flying by. It helps me notice summer change to fall, fall to winter and winter to spring. This feels to me like a big important thing that is otherwise so, so easy to miss. I love that about running.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Why This Blog P.S.
Just remembered another early reason for this blog, which remains relevant but that I tend to take for granted and not mention as much: I was looking for feedback from women of a certain age -- 40-something and beyond -- and how that makes them feel, think, act, want to live. I feel more alive and full of energy and passion than I can ever remember, and I know Gail Sheehy has made a career writing about this subject. So I was also looking for fellow travelers on this road, which is definitely a major theme of my book as well.
Why This Blog?
Just got back from my morning run -- it's cold out there. But I only had to go three miles, and have just one more three-miler this week, one last group run/walk (8 mi.) on Saturday, and a couple of three milers next week, and I'm done! Then I'll hike around Haiti, do a quick two-miler when I get back, and then the race! We did our longest distance last Saturday -- 12 miles, a personal record -- and the weather was so glorious I ran along the Potomac, from Dangerfield Island to Roosevelt Island and back, in a t-shirt. But that party's over, at least for this week.
I'm sitting here icing my shins and thinking about BillieK's excellent question: why did I start this blog? What were and are my goals for it? So brace yourselves: the endorphins are flowing and I'm stuck here for 15 more minutes so this may be a rambler...
I went back and read my first post from last May. I attended a conference on blogging that day along with 500 other people from the media, nonprofits and the corporate world, all wondering like me what to make of this phenomena, and if we could use it in our organizations. The expert panel said the best way to learn about blogs was to create one and see what happens, so that's what I did. I figured since I was just starting my novel, it could be about the writing process and hopefully an outlet for my experiences and those of other writers. I hoped it would provide feedback and inspiration, as my masthead says.
Has it met my goals? Absolutely! I still can't figure out how to create links to the people and groups I mention, and how to post photos and graphics on the left and right sides, instead of in the middle, but a more tech savvy friend has offered to help me with that when I get back from my trip and start working on my new business. I actually hope to create and manage a blog for AHC, my current employer (for just TWO MORE DAYS!) for a monthly fee. I think I could help them get conversations going about their projects with people in the community, and also link it to their fundraising efforts. I'd like to do this for other clients as well. Not many organizations, especially nonprofits, have the staff to create or keep up a blog -- that's a big concern I've heard at subsequent conferences.
As for my writing, I'm definitely enjoying posting and receiving feedback. Not all my posts are about writing; more often than not I go off on a rant about something that bothers me, or something I really like. But I see all of it as more grist for the mill.
So what do you commenters think? Should I focus more on writing itself? Should I ask more questions? Be more specific about my novel?
Along those lines, my assignment this week was to choose a scene in my novel and write about "the moment," a short, specific moment, maybe captured in a photograph or a memory, that you tease and stretch out for several paragraphs, slowing down time. At the end of it the narrator will have a marked change in perception or thought, an epiphany may be reached. I actually used my reaction to the word "fond" for this exercise, which is what prompted that post, or vise versa. (Unknown to you, I sometimes post things on the blog that I've worked on for my class. Multitasking!) I plan to use it at a future point in Liza's relationship with Henry, a colleague she becomes close to while experiencing problems in her marriage. But she's not there yet -- in the novel they've just had lunch for the first time. Now she's off to Rhode Island for the family Christmas, where her husband's newfound sobriety will start to unravel.
Another question: I'm not sure how much to reveal about my novel on the blog. If I tell too much, will no one will want to read it once I've finished?
I'm sitting here icing my shins and thinking about BillieK's excellent question: why did I start this blog? What were and are my goals for it? So brace yourselves: the endorphins are flowing and I'm stuck here for 15 more minutes so this may be a rambler...
I went back and read my first post from last May. I attended a conference on blogging that day along with 500 other people from the media, nonprofits and the corporate world, all wondering like me what to make of this phenomena, and if we could use it in our organizations. The expert panel said the best way to learn about blogs was to create one and see what happens, so that's what I did. I figured since I was just starting my novel, it could be about the writing process and hopefully an outlet for my experiences and those of other writers. I hoped it would provide feedback and inspiration, as my masthead says.
Has it met my goals? Absolutely! I still can't figure out how to create links to the people and groups I mention, and how to post photos and graphics on the left and right sides, instead of in the middle, but a more tech savvy friend has offered to help me with that when I get back from my trip and start working on my new business. I actually hope to create and manage a blog for AHC, my current employer (for just TWO MORE DAYS!) for a monthly fee. I think I could help them get conversations going about their projects with people in the community, and also link it to their fundraising efforts. I'd like to do this for other clients as well. Not many organizations, especially nonprofits, have the staff to create or keep up a blog -- that's a big concern I've heard at subsequent conferences.
As for my writing, I'm definitely enjoying posting and receiving feedback. Not all my posts are about writing; more often than not I go off on a rant about something that bothers me, or something I really like. But I see all of it as more grist for the mill.
So what do you commenters think? Should I focus more on writing itself? Should I ask more questions? Be more specific about my novel?
Along those lines, my assignment this week was to choose a scene in my novel and write about "the moment," a short, specific moment, maybe captured in a photograph or a memory, that you tease and stretch out for several paragraphs, slowing down time. At the end of it the narrator will have a marked change in perception or thought, an epiphany may be reached. I actually used my reaction to the word "fond" for this exercise, which is what prompted that post, or vise versa. (Unknown to you, I sometimes post things on the blog that I've worked on for my class. Multitasking!) I plan to use it at a future point in Liza's relationship with Henry, a colleague she becomes close to while experiencing problems in her marriage. But she's not there yet -- in the novel they've just had lunch for the first time. Now she's off to Rhode Island for the family Christmas, where her husband's newfound sobriety will start to unravel.
Another question: I'm not sure how much to reveal about my novel on the blog. If I tell too much, will no one will want to read it once I've finished?
Monday, March 05, 2007
God and the Poor
I'm reading a book about my latest personal hero, Paul Farmer, a doctor and medical anthropologist from Harvard who -- in his 20's and 30's -- created a very successful health care system, despite insurmountable odds, in Haiti, and has since spread the model to Peru, Russia and other extremely poor countries battling AIDS and multi-drug resistent TB. He was determined to create solutions to the outrageously wrong distribution of wealth in the world, and the fact that the rich, who have good housing, good nutrition and clean water, have access to the best health care, and the poor, who have bad housing, bad nutrition and dirty water, get lousy health care, if any at all. It's completely upside down, an AMC as he calls them: area of moral clarity.
So when I read that a 12-year old homeless boy died in Montgomery County two weeks ago of an infected tooth, because not one single dentist out of 26 contacted would provide him the care he needed for free, I realized that if it can happen in the richest county in one of the richest states in the richest country in the world, what chance do places like Africa and Haiti have?
Then I saw a video of Bono receiving the Chairman's Award from the NAACP this week -- check it out, it's on YouTube -- and he addressed this very issue in the most eloquent way. Here's what he said, and here's an idea of God that I can definitely get behind. Paul Farmer, a lapsed Catholic like me, thinks this way about God too...
"Whatever thoughts you have about God, who he is or even if God exists, most will agree that God has a special place for the poor. The poor are where God lives.
God is in the slums, in the cardboard box where the poor play house. God is where opportunity is lost and lives shattered. God is with the mother who has infected her child with a virus that will take both their lives. God is under the rubble, in the cries we hear during wartime.
God, my friends, is with the poor and he is with us if we are with them. This is not a burden, this is an adventure. Don't let anyone tell you it cannot be done. We can be the next generation that ends extreme poverty!"
Cool, huh?
All it takes is a commitment to high quality, universal health care for the poor. All it takes is the rich giving what they have to pay for it. All it takes is big fat drug companies giving their drugs to poor countries for free. They make so much money they can easily do that. All it takes in this country is for the rich and big business to give up just a few of their unnecessary tax breaks and put the money into health insurance for all. They'd hardly even notice -- so what's the big deal? How much money do they need anyway? It's disgusting that they fight ideas like this.
So when I read that a 12-year old homeless boy died in Montgomery County two weeks ago of an infected tooth, because not one single dentist out of 26 contacted would provide him the care he needed for free, I realized that if it can happen in the richest county in one of the richest states in the richest country in the world, what chance do places like Africa and Haiti have?
Then I saw a video of Bono receiving the Chairman's Award from the NAACP this week -- check it out, it's on YouTube -- and he addressed this very issue in the most eloquent way. Here's what he said, and here's an idea of God that I can definitely get behind. Paul Farmer, a lapsed Catholic like me, thinks this way about God too...
"Whatever thoughts you have about God, who he is or even if God exists, most will agree that God has a special place for the poor. The poor are where God lives.
God is in the slums, in the cardboard box where the poor play house. God is where opportunity is lost and lives shattered. God is with the mother who has infected her child with a virus that will take both their lives. God is under the rubble, in the cries we hear during wartime.
God, my friends, is with the poor and he is with us if we are with them. This is not a burden, this is an adventure. Don't let anyone tell you it cannot be done. We can be the next generation that ends extreme poverty!"
Cool, huh?
All it takes is a commitment to high quality, universal health care for the poor. All it takes is the rich giving what they have to pay for it. All it takes is big fat drug companies giving their drugs to poor countries for free. They make so much money they can easily do that. All it takes in this country is for the rich and big business to give up just a few of their unnecessary tax breaks and put the money into health insurance for all. They'd hardly even notice -- so what's the big deal? How much money do they need anyway? It's disgusting that they fight ideas like this.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
I Hate the Word "Fond"
Where have all my commenters gone? Did I offend you with my last post, with the idea that my character may have a scandalous affair with a priest? Come on, statistics show that about 65% of priests are gay, and about 80% do not believe in celibacy. It's not that farfetched. What's farfetched is the church's insistence on pretending these realities don't exist!
Anyway, that's what I love about novel writing -- being able to explore these topics with my characters. But that's not the subject of this post.
Someone told me they were fond of me today. I HATE the word "fond." I would honestly rather have someone tell me they hate my stinking guts -- at least that has passion! Fond is mewey and icky and half-hearted. Fond is how someone feels about their maiden aunt, or how people feel about Melanie Wilkes in Gone With the Wind. You know you should love her because she is so good and so kind and so saintly, but she's just no damn fun. I'll take Scarlett -- ya gotta love her or hate her, or both -- any day. And I would definitely rather hang out with Scarlett; she's funny and strong and always where the action is. She has her moral lapses, but she lives her life with such passion and determination, how can you not admire that?
Fond is like "bless her heart," how polite southern ladies talk about someone they don't really like or feel sorry for, as in: "How's Clarice?" "Oh, she's fine. She's put on that weight again, bless her heart." You don't want your southern friends tacking "bless her heart" on the end of any sentence about you. That's the kiss of death. And that's how "fond" always sounds to me.
Is that weird? Do you agree or disagree? Am I wrong to feel such loathing for the word fond?
Anyway, that's what I love about novel writing -- being able to explore these topics with my characters. But that's not the subject of this post.
Someone told me they were fond of me today. I HATE the word "fond." I would honestly rather have someone tell me they hate my stinking guts -- at least that has passion! Fond is mewey and icky and half-hearted. Fond is how someone feels about their maiden aunt, or how people feel about Melanie Wilkes in Gone With the Wind. You know you should love her because she is so good and so kind and so saintly, but she's just no damn fun. I'll take Scarlett -- ya gotta love her or hate her, or both -- any day. And I would definitely rather hang out with Scarlett; she's funny and strong and always where the action is. She has her moral lapses, but she lives her life with such passion and determination, how can you not admire that?
Fond is like "bless her heart," how polite southern ladies talk about someone they don't really like or feel sorry for, as in: "How's Clarice?" "Oh, she's fine. She's put on that weight again, bless her heart." You don't want your southern friends tacking "bless her heart" on the end of any sentence about you. That's the kiss of death. And that's how "fond" always sounds to me.
Is that weird? Do you agree or disagree? Am I wrong to feel such loathing for the word fond?
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Haiti Wahoo Style
So things are looking good on the Haiti front. First, I met Pere Leroy, the parish priest and de facto mayor of the village we are going to. I attended a couple of meetings with him and translated for him at mass Saturday evening. He's awesome -- very funny, charming and handsome! Not to mention practically a saint for devoting his entire life to improving the lot of the people of Medor for the past 8 years. I can't wait to talk to him about my problems with the church and newfound freethinking ways -- that oughtta pass the time, huh?!
Also, I happened to mention my little issue with using a spider-infested latrine at night, and asked him specifically where the convent was in relation to the rectory, to see if I could get there easily with a flashlight. And guess what -- he had no idea we were planning to stay in the convent and insisted we all stay at the rectory with him and his flush toilet. So no nighttime prowls for me -- yeah!
Next, a couple that is coming on the trip have refused to stay overnight in Port au Prince because of the kidnappings. We decided to stay just one night near the airport because our plane gets in too late to make it to the end of the road to Medor before dark, and also to meet with the Unicef guy we've asked for money for the water project. Instead, we're driving two hours outside the city and staying overnight at "Club Wahoo" -- a tropical resort on the beach that used to be a Club Med! And now we have to stay there one night on the way back too, so we can meet with the Unicef guy at the airport the next morning before leaving.
I have very mixed feelings about this. On one hand I am totally psyched for the whole "roughing it" thing. While I love to exercise and play outside, I'm not what you'd call outdoorsy, like a camper, say. So I've been really excited about challenging myself that way. In fact, I'm wearing my cool new hiking boots right now, trying to break them in slowly. (And of course, it WILL go slowly if I sit here and type instead of actually walking around in them, ha ha.) I'm also semi-ashamed to admit that I'm looking forward to wearing my cool new hiking pants, which unzip to make shorts. If you know me you know this isn't exactly my fashion style, but in the right setting I think they'll be perfect. Yes, I'm afraid I can be that shallow.
On the other hand, I suspect the comforts and luxuries -- hot showers! -- of Club Wahoo will be a sight for sore eyes after six days without such niceties. I'm pretty sure I won't be complaining then.
And finally, all this thinking about Haiti and meeting Pere Leroy has given me a fabulous idea for my next novel -- a sequel! I've been appointed the trip scribe, with responsiblity for chronicling all of our work, meetings and experiences. But mingled in with test results of e-coli content in water sources and the first-hand account of a little boy who literally walks for two hours each way barefoot to Medor every day so he can attend school and get a hot meal, will be the seeds of Liza's next journey. Still 40-something (the great thing about novels is you can let your favorite characters never grow old) and still searching for meaning in her safe, suburban existence, she'll go on a mission trip that just might change her life. It'll include my favorite religious themes of course and maybe even a scandalous liaison with a handsome priest -- wahoo is right!
Also, I happened to mention my little issue with using a spider-infested latrine at night, and asked him specifically where the convent was in relation to the rectory, to see if I could get there easily with a flashlight. And guess what -- he had no idea we were planning to stay in the convent and insisted we all stay at the rectory with him and his flush toilet. So no nighttime prowls for me -- yeah!
Next, a couple that is coming on the trip have refused to stay overnight in Port au Prince because of the kidnappings. We decided to stay just one night near the airport because our plane gets in too late to make it to the end of the road to Medor before dark, and also to meet with the Unicef guy we've asked for money for the water project. Instead, we're driving two hours outside the city and staying overnight at "Club Wahoo" -- a tropical resort on the beach that used to be a Club Med! And now we have to stay there one night on the way back too, so we can meet with the Unicef guy at the airport the next morning before leaving.
I have very mixed feelings about this. On one hand I am totally psyched for the whole "roughing it" thing. While I love to exercise and play outside, I'm not what you'd call outdoorsy, like a camper, say. So I've been really excited about challenging myself that way. In fact, I'm wearing my cool new hiking boots right now, trying to break them in slowly. (And of course, it WILL go slowly if I sit here and type instead of actually walking around in them, ha ha.) I'm also semi-ashamed to admit that I'm looking forward to wearing my cool new hiking pants, which unzip to make shorts. If you know me you know this isn't exactly my fashion style, but in the right setting I think they'll be perfect. Yes, I'm afraid I can be that shallow.
On the other hand, I suspect the comforts and luxuries -- hot showers! -- of Club Wahoo will be a sight for sore eyes after six days without such niceties. I'm pretty sure I won't be complaining then.
And finally, all this thinking about Haiti and meeting Pere Leroy has given me a fabulous idea for my next novel -- a sequel! I've been appointed the trip scribe, with responsiblity for chronicling all of our work, meetings and experiences. But mingled in with test results of e-coli content in water sources and the first-hand account of a little boy who literally walks for two hours each way barefoot to Medor every day so he can attend school and get a hot meal, will be the seeds of Liza's next journey. Still 40-something (the great thing about novels is you can let your favorite characters never grow old) and still searching for meaning in her safe, suburban existence, she'll go on a mission trip that just might change her life. It'll include my favorite religious themes of course and maybe even a scandalous liaison with a handsome priest -- wahoo is right!
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
KB Concepts P.R.
My response to the last comment reminded me that I have big news which will have a huge impact on my writing -- I quit my job! I've resigned from the wonderful, flexible job I've had for the past 8 1/2 years doing P.R. for AHC Inc., a nonprofit affordable housing developer. I've had the best boss imaginable and done a variety of interesting work. But the job was becoming more and more demanding, and harder to ignore during my time off, and hence harder to focus on my own writing.
So I'm making a change. I've decided to start my own consulting business, KB Concepts P.R. I'll offer my services to nonprofits only, doing annual reports, brochures and awards, media relations, special events and photography. My current boss already offered me a job taking photos at an event!
My last day at AHC is March 8th. Then I'll go to Haiti for a week, run a 1/2 marathon, celebrate my birthday and work seriously at finishing my novel. At the same time, I'm setting up a home office and thinking about logos, accounting systems and new clients. I plan to exercise and write my own stuff in the mornings, see clients and work on my business in the afternoons.
Have you ever felt like your life is taking off in a new direction and you have very little control over these big changes and happenings? But it feels OK because somehow you know it's all good and the right way to go? Well that's been my life for the past several months and I can tell it's gonna continue this way for months to come. I'm riding the wave, embracing the changes and excited about the future. Something big is happening and I'm just gonna roll with it.
There've been a couple of other times before in my life when this happened, and I remember them vividly. I'm a little older and hopefully a little wiser now, although god knows not one bit more mature. So I'm going for it -- and just like the theater manager says in my favorite movie of all time, Shakespeare in Love, it always works out in the end. How? No one knows -- it's a mystery.
So I'm making a change. I've decided to start my own consulting business, KB Concepts P.R. I'll offer my services to nonprofits only, doing annual reports, brochures and awards, media relations, special events and photography. My current boss already offered me a job taking photos at an event!
My last day at AHC is March 8th. Then I'll go to Haiti for a week, run a 1/2 marathon, celebrate my birthday and work seriously at finishing my novel. At the same time, I'm setting up a home office and thinking about logos, accounting systems and new clients. I plan to exercise and write my own stuff in the mornings, see clients and work on my business in the afternoons.
Have you ever felt like your life is taking off in a new direction and you have very little control over these big changes and happenings? But it feels OK because somehow you know it's all good and the right way to go? Well that's been my life for the past several months and I can tell it's gonna continue this way for months to come. I'm riding the wave, embracing the changes and excited about the future. Something big is happening and I'm just gonna roll with it.
There've been a couple of other times before in my life when this happened, and I remember them vividly. I'm a little older and hopefully a little wiser now, although god knows not one bit more mature. So I'm going for it -- and just like the theater manager says in my favorite movie of all time, Shakespeare in Love, it always works out in the end. How? No one knows -- it's a mystery.
Fundraising and Chapter 5
I hate fundraising, which I've had to do in exchange for this 1/2 marathon training program. So last night I co-hosted a happy hour with another runner where for a $10 cover charge (that goes to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society) my pals got to drink for a good cause. And thanks to Jadie and Leslie, who gave me a HUGE check from their fabulous company, InterImage, I've met my goal and don't have to fundraise anymore. Thank you Jadie and Leslie!
So the homework I sent Hannah this week included the first pages of my novel she's ever read. They were from my latest chapter, and a scene where Liza goes out to lunch with a colleague whose intentions are not entirely professional. It was fun to write, especially the dialogue, like a movie playing in my head.
Hannah liked it -- she thinks I'm really cruising now! -- but she said I need to add more character tags, gestures and other things that differentiate the characters, and also add more setting elements such as props, furniture, weather and lighting, again just like in a movie scene. If you can believe this, she suggested I might want to slow the story down a bit to give the reader time to savor it. I could use that advice in real life too!
My homework assignment is to go back and add those things to Chapter 5. And now I realize I'm also gonna have to look at the four previous chapters and do the same with those. So -- one step forward and five big ones back. But it still feels like I'm going forward.
So the homework I sent Hannah this week included the first pages of my novel she's ever read. They were from my latest chapter, and a scene where Liza goes out to lunch with a colleague whose intentions are not entirely professional. It was fun to write, especially the dialogue, like a movie playing in my head.
Hannah liked it -- she thinks I'm really cruising now! -- but she said I need to add more character tags, gestures and other things that differentiate the characters, and also add more setting elements such as props, furniture, weather and lighting, again just like in a movie scene. If you can believe this, she suggested I might want to slow the story down a bit to give the reader time to savor it. I could use that advice in real life too!
My homework assignment is to go back and add those things to Chapter 5. And now I realize I'm also gonna have to look at the four previous chapters and do the same with those. So -- one step forward and five big ones back. But it still feels like I'm going forward.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
I Love Rhode Island
The thing I love most about Rhode Island is that just about everywhere you look, you can see the water. When I first moved away, that's what I missed the most. These pictures are right outside my mom's place. It occurred to me last weekend I should use it while she's in Florida for the winter as a quiet retreat and place to write.
Of course, I could never actually live in Rhode Island because that's where all my crazy relatives are. I love them, of course, but only for short visits and from a distance the rest of the time. Luckily, I don't think any of them read this blog!
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