Hair

My hair is at war with itself. Tiny white wires are appearing all over my head, pushing aside the soft red hairs and grabbing all the attention for themselves. Right now, the soft reds outnumber the wiry whites, but it’s only a matter of time before the white ones win. And then, my head will be full of white antennae, some curling at their beginnings and stubbornly straightening out at their ends—others bending at sharp angles, refusing to be tamed by mousse, spray, gel, or cream. Each one acts as a neon sign flashing embarrassing announcements like, WOW SHE’S OLD! LOOK AT THE LINES AROUND HER EYES! or YIKES—SUN DAMAGED SKIN!

I’m hoping that the battle will last a while longer. I found my first white hair on my 29th birthday, and promptly plucked it out. As the years progressed, I began to realize that this was not a practical or attractive solution. Luckily, I have enough blonde streaks in my hair to mask the white strands for now, but their rebellious refusal to bend to the will of my brush leaves me realizing that in spite of technological advances in make-up and skin care, there is no stopping the march of time.

The hair on my head is not nearly as perplexing to me as the hair next to my mouth. This year, to celebrate my 40th birthday, my face decided to start growing hair next to the sides of my mouth. Luckily, it is an invisible blonde color, and it is baby-soft, so it’s easily concealed. But why is it here? What brought on its arrival? White hairs in my head, I understand. Stretch marks on my skin after having 3 babies, I understand. But this sudden, startling appearance of mouth fuzz perplexes me. What’s next? Chin hair at age 50? Ear hair at age 60?

I went to the salon this morning, and listened with rapt attention as the stylist praised my hair for its color and thickness. She said the white hair was completely unnoticeable. “It will be a long time before you have to worry about that,” she reassured me. OK, so maybe she was trying for a big tip, but I chose to believe her. I didn’t push my luck and ask her about my facial hair. Maybe the key to enjoying 40 is to see only what I want to see and deny what I don’t. A little bit of self-delusion and denial never hurt anyone, did it? Of course not. How could it?

Violent Dreams of Spring

Late winter is a
desperate time when warm and
dry is but a dream

I want to feel pine
needles beneath my feet not
dirty months old ice

enough with the dark
and quiet contemplation
I want brainless bright

I want sleeping seeds
to wake the hell up and tear
the cold ground apart

Indulge Me

This has been kicking around in my brain ever since I first read about it online a few weeks ago. The Catholic Church is bringing back indulgences. Seriously. Pope Benedict and his men fear that we have gotten away from an awareness of sin in the world. And they want to bring back traditions that are uniquely Catholic, things that set Catholics apart from other Christians.

Apparently, the best way to do this is to reintroduce God as a jailer with a stop watch in one hand and a calendar in the other, keeping track of who has to spend how long in purgatory. Yes, that’s right—purgatory. That’s making a comeback, too: that dark cave of suffering where we are denied the company of God until he decides we are sufficiently chastened and sorry enough to join Him in heaven.

When I was growing up in the post-Vatican II seventies and eighties, purgatory was not something we focused on in CCD classes. I knew that it was technically still on the books, but didn’t worry about it. I have always thought that there might be something to the idea that all souls go through some kind of transformation as they pass from this life to the next, and that’s how I thought of purgatory, if I thought of it at all.

My grandpa talked about praying for the souls in purgatory, and coming from him it sounded like an old-fashioned, romantic notion.

My favorite history class in college was called Reformation Europe. I loved the Erasmus-Luther debates. Although I found Erasmus to be more persuasive, I found Luther to be an absolutely necessary voice. He pointed out excesses and hypocrisy, and cried out for a more direct relationship with God. And he liked beer, which I found endearing.

OK, so the pope is not advocating the selling of indulgences, but when we start parceling out salvation bit by bit to those who perform certain tasks a certain number of times, are we really that far from it? Do we need to cling to such a custom to feel more Catholic, to set ourselves apart from and above the rest? If our Pope and bishops have the power to take off days, weeks, months, even years from our purgatorial sentence, well gosh, then, we must be the One True Church, right? We can ignore the Reformation and Vatican II and just go back to the way we were, when everything was so much holier and simpler. What a perfect way for an increasingly archaic, reactionary, chauvinistic hierarchy to appear more relevant!

I know the Vatican is not going to consider my input on this. After all, I haven’t gone to confession in years, I don’t make it to mass every Sunday, I voted for Barack Obama, and I am a woman, for God’s sake! But the thing is, in spite of nonsense like this, I still feel like this is my Church, but not because we hold the only key to salvation, and not because I agree with the Church on birth control, the role of women, or the church’s attitude towards the divorced.

It’s my Church because I love the language of the mass. It is full of imagery and mystery, and at its heart is a God of sacrifice and unstoppable love.

It’s my Church because it holds up as holy the bond between mother and child.

It’s my Church because the Exultet of the Easter Vigil liturgy is one of the most beautiful poems I have ever heard: O happy fault! O necessary sin of Adam, which gained for us so great a Redeemer! I love the paradox that lives in those words.

It's my Church because on Holy Thursday, we remember by reenactment the Jesus who washed the feet of his disciples before laying down his life. I can’t believe that that Jesus would act like a warden or the head of the parole board and tally up our time in purgatory.

It's my Church because On Good Friday, it shows me the Jesus who said Father, forgive them. They know not what they do. Not Father, they’re going to have to suffer for a fixed amount of time before we let them in.

I will try to keep focused on my Church, my Catholicism, and try and separate it from the Church of Pope Benedict. It’s not easy, but I’ll be damned, or at least sentenced to a long time in purgatory, if I let them chase me away.

Read the NY Times story: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/10/nyregion/10indulgence.html

More Madder has some interesting indulgence-related thoughts on her blog: http://www.moremadder.blogspot.com/

Snow Berms

Up there the evergreens
Stand fresh and fragrant
Down here is sediment

From our grinding and going

Down here is everything
We belch from our cars
And kick up from our tires
Embedded in a late winter scab

Down here if we pick at it
It only spreads more
And encrusts our excesses
In crunchy crystals

Down here are barriers
Between street and sidewalk
Neighbor and neighbor
Asphalt and shrub

Up there the sky
Is clueless with clouds
Down here I hunch
And shuffle and slide

Little Spokane Haiku

Little Spokane winds

its way through February

like March matters not

Water meanders

past banks of insistent ice

to live is to move

The Unbearable Heaviness of Being

My butt controls my life
It is the most powerful force in my universe
Stronger than gravity
Seriously, the magnetic attraction
Between my butt
And my office chair
My living room chair
My couch
My bed
Should be explored by scientists
Maybe I could write a grant

At times I use this force for good
I grade papers
I write
I read
I keep up with current events
I talk to my children
I meditate
But other times
My butt sucks me into a life
Of General Hospital
And Internet wanderlust
And bad carbs
And TLC and HGTV
And more bad carbs
And reruns of Project Runway

Sometimes I show my butt who is boss
We do yoga
And though my butt is tired
It’s a good kind of tired
And deep down my butt is glad
We go for walks
There are beautiful hiking trails
All around my house
But this time of year
My butt is more than happy
To use snow as an excuse

My butt pulls me down past
My good intentions
My resolutions
My expectations
To numb inertia

It thinks it is my higher power
And I'm afraid it might be right

I may have red hair
And more freckles than I can count
And a decent brain

But my butt
Is what
Is really in charge

Hearts and Flowers

I know you don’t like Valentine’s Day
but let me tell you why I do.
By the time I was 17,
(cue the Janis Ian song here)
I was convinced that I was not
The kind of girl that inspired flowers
or gift-giving of any kind.
I was not noticeable enough,
pretty enough,
special enough,
to spur any romantic thoughts
in anyone.
I just wasn’t that kind of girl.
And even though we were dating,
I didn’t really expect it to last.
I was so sure
that you would move on
to something better
soon enough.

So there I was,
working the evening shift at McDonalds.
And in you walked,
tall and handsome in your leather jacket.
In one hand was
a big bouquet of flowers.
Tucked under your arm
was a big wrapped package.
Just for me.
You were the most beautiful sight
I have ever seen.
And you still are.

And that is why I like Valentine’s Day.