Oh no I've said too much

I remember hearing, once, that hate isn't a real emotion. I mean it's real in the sense that you can feel it. Real in it's effect on the body and even worse, it's total control of the mind. But unreal in it's origin. It's more of a bi product of another emotion. It's where we go when we don't want to admit that we've been hurt. Ignored. Humiliated. Wronged.

I was told today that my post "Purpose" was mean and I found that a bit surprising. Perhaps I read a little too much Sedaris? I clearly don't tell Charlie, however sweetly you had imagined, to" sit fucking still". I would never...You must know me better than that. And the "fuck em" part- that wasn't anger. If I was mad, I would have said "fuck them" ya know? Apparently the subtle differences in diction are lost among most. My apologies. I knew a return to writing wasn't going to go smoothly.

But now that I'm on the topic of anger and frustration (yes, I know, a rather rocky transition, but I'm admittedly rusty) I'd like to tell a story, like I set out to do. A story of discrimination and salvation. Religion and morality. Rejection and acceptance.

I was in first grade the first time I heard about God. Kids at school talked God and not wanting to be an outsider, I listened intently and pretended like I knew what? who? they were talking about. It doesn't take long to figure out that a imperceptible nod of the head and long periods of silence can get you pretty far. It's speaking that gets you in trouble. So I shyly listened.

My best friend in the world, Faith, came from a religious family (which I'm hoping you figured out by her name, but who knows? You thought I cussed out my baby!). Her dinner table was in the center of the dining room and I clearly remember the formality that accompanied dinner. Place-settings. Large plates. Cloth napkins! Grace.

We didn't say grace at home. Sometimes, my dad would proclaim jokingly, "Before we can eat, we have to say grace" and we would all shout "Grace!" in unison. Or he would quote his favorite saying, "Father, son and the holy ghost, whoever eats the fastest gets the most" or some other defamation of what I later realized was a holy moment. Whoops.

I remember eating dinner at Faith's and what stands out the most was grace. So this is grace. Her father would ask who wanted to lead and I remember putting my head down and sinking down in my chair, like I did at school when I didn't know the answer. Please, please, please don't pick me, I thought. And there must be a God because thankfully, he never did. Whomever was chosen to lead in thanks, would always add me to the prayer which made me feel special and honored. Grace wasn't so bad.

And the more people I met, the more I realized that this "God" guy was pretty important. Kids that believed in God were good kids. Parents liked these kids. And as a kid, all I wanted to be was liked.

I enrolled in a Christian day camp with Faith. What fun! I remember sitting in a small amphitheatre, wooden seats and a dirt stage, and watching kids play "Chubby Bunny" by stuffing as many marshmallows into their mouths as they could and then trying to gurgle the words, "Chubby Bunny." Wow! Being a Christina was fun! We were taught how to braid leather strips into key chains, sing songs about God, and given bags full of jolly ranchers. Parents picked up their kids at the end of the day and looked at me like I was something special. This was definitely for me.

On about the third day, we were each handed little orange bibles with bumpy covers, like a basketball  had been deflated and cut into little pieces. I imagined God taking the time to glue them together just for us. We were special, after all. I opened the book and was amazed at the tissue paper pages. I felt them crinkle between my fingers as I turned the pages and wondered how long it would take to read it. It was the longest book I'd ever owned and I couldn't wait to delve in.

After we all had our bibles, a teenage boy began to talk. He explained to us that when we were ready to be saved, all we had to do was ask Jesus to be in our hearts. After that, he would always be with us. We would never feel lonely or afraid and from then on he would protect us and love us. Oh, how I wanted that! There were times when my parents were fighting and I felt alone and to think--- all I had to do was ask Jesus to be in my heart, and I would never feel that again. This really did seem like the answer I had been searching for.

We were allowed to spread out and take time to think but I didn't need time. I knew that I was ready so I ran to a solitary tree, closed my eyes, and asked Jesus to be in my heart.

But I didn't feel anything.

I was told I would know. I would feel his love.

Nothing.

I felt like the same Ali except a little more confused and a lot more disappointed. Maybe if I prayed about it, I thought. I just needed to give it time. Days went by. Weeks. Years.

I tried to be a Christian again when I fell in love. His mother was the deacon of a large church downtown. His father ran a smaller church in the community. I went with him. Prayed. Talked about God.

Nada. It just didn't make sense to me.



I was angry hurt that I seemed to be discounted because I didn't have faith. I wanted to explain that I do have faith. Faith is more than just god.

I have faith in so many things. I trust and believe in people and this, I think, takes more faith than in any deity imaginable. I know people are flawed. I see people make mistakes and I trust in them anyway. I believe in intangible ideas - love, hope, kindness, redemption, forgiveness despite an earth that is quickly destroying itself.

I have faith in my husband and his immeasurable patience and kindness. In my family and their ability to accept me for all that I am - and more importantly, all that I am not. I have faith in my friends and trust that they will reserve judgement in my confessions of imperfection.

I have faith that Charlie will grow up in a world where he doesn't feel the need to believe in something that doesn't make sense to him just because it's easier, and that if he does believe, I have faith that I will be able to encourage and love him in that endeavour without judgement.

Faith is so much more than god.

Amen.

California (Boy)

Charlie is a native of California. I kinda like that. Never being able to claim that title for myself, I feel lucky that my little man visited the beach at a week old and has been back countless times since. He even LOOKS like a little surfer boy with his sandy blond curls and his ocean blue eyes. Add the backdrop of the turquoise waves and dolphins bouncing up and down (did I mention we saw dolphins?) and it's almost laughable. Picturesque for sure.

Yesterday I bought Charlie his first pair of flip flops. It almost felt like a right of passage of sorts. Here in California, flip flops are standard year around. Sundresses and sandles. Jeans and sandles. Pajamas and sandles. You get the picture.

I picked out a cute camo pair and strapped them on Charlie's little feet. What did he do? Squeal in joy and li-ter-ally (yes, Debbie, literally) ran around the house. Who knew the boy could RUN? Nothing says California like a 13 month old running in sandles.

Purpose

As an English teacher, I understand purpose in terms or writing. Before you can write anything of substance, you have to decide your purpose. Your audience.

In the blogging world, this is difficult. I originally started my blog in 2008 to work on writing. Writing was my purpose. I would chose a simple event and elaborate. Create a story. Write. Then, I got pregnant and writing took a backburner to documenting. What I looked like at 20 weeks pregnant. 23 weeks. 37.

I tried to return to writing but I was so goddamn tired. Who can write when you can't even think? When you're lucky that you were able to shower and feel human. No more writing.

Looking back, that was the EASY part. Funny how that works. Now I can't even take a crap without Charlie sitting on my lap, squirming to get down. I try to explain to him sweetly, "Mommy is taking a shit, honey. Can you sit still for one fucking second?" but he never seems to understand.

I tried to find a way to block certain users from reading my blog because real writing can't be censored but I also don't want to be judged. It left me feeling stagnant. I can't write and worry so I decided something that I should have a long time ago: Fuck em.

Here is my return to writing.

You have read 14 books toward your goal of 25 books.

14 of 25 (56%)

 

Great work, you're 2 books (4%) ahead.

 

 

Just finished "A Man in Uniform" and "Ishmael". Haven't really had much time to write (and still don't) but before I get too far behind in my reads, I thought I'd document my latest.

 

Shout out to my hubby who actually went to a bookstore (probably the first time he went willingly) and chose a book for me. He said he read through lots of them and had a hard time deciding (so sweet) but that he finally picked "A Man in Uniform" because he noticed that it was based on a true event and he could picture me researching the actual event and comparing notes -- which is exactly what I did! This book was a quick read because I was dying to figure out how it would turn out. The author added lots of scandal to keep it juicy and I definitely would recommend this book to everyone. I especially like books that create a story around a true event because then I learn a little bit about history AND get to enjoy a fabricated story. Good job, Danny. Oh - if you're thinking about reading it, it's based on the 1894 Dreyfus Affair - German spies, Infilration, French coverups, kept women, military espionage --- good stuff.

 

 

The last book I just finished is "Ishmael" by Daniel Quinn and I really don't want to say too much except that I think if every person in the world read this book, we might actually be able to save the world. Dramatic? Yes. Give it a read and you'll see what I mean. Here's a quote that gives you a taste about the message:

 

"The people of your culture cling with fanatical tenacity to the specialness of man. They want desperately to perceive a vast gulf between man and the rest of creation. This mythology of human superiority justifies their doing whatever they please with the world, just the way Hitler’s mythology of Aryan superiority justified his doing whatever he pleased with Europe. But in the end this mythology is not deeply satisfying. The Takers are a profoundly lonely people. The world for them is enemy territory, and they live in it like an army of occupation, alienated and isolated by their extraordinary specialness.”

 

 

 

Last note - just for the record: Having a 13 month old is exhausting! This is the first time I have stayed home all day since summer break started (and I"m forced to because we are getting our water heater replaced) and all I want to do is go for a walk, hang out with my besties, or both! Shout out to Lindsay for making the past few days SO MUCH FUN and to Jess, Eva, and Liz for making a weekly effort to get together. It isn't until I'm stuck at home all day that I realize how lucky I am to have friends who drag my ass out of the house every day.

Dalai Lama knows all

I really like quotes. My girl, Vic, bought me this little gold journal for my 30th and I like to carry it around and keep it full of quotations that inspire me. We're the same like that. We could sit in a restaurant (and we have) and discuss quotations and literature all night long. It's like looking in a mirror with that girl - a mirror where I'm tanner and more beautiful - but a mirror all the same. I texted her this morning because I was feeling sort of down and she quickly wrote back, "Getting in the shower, call you on my way to work!" Ah, good friends.

The advice she gave? Find a quote! Ah, yes. Sometimes you just need a kindred spirit to lead you back to who you are. She's right - I just needed some words. Carefully chosen words, arranged in the right order. Simple. Powerful. True.

Here's what I came up with (spoken or written by, not sure which one, the famous Dalai Lama):

“This is my simple religion. There is no need for temples; no need for complicated philosophy. Our own brain, our own heart is our temple; the philosophy is kindness.”

And guess what, Vic? I feel better!

I then got a text from another bestie that read, "I love you and the way your heart works -- so open and free" which made me cry a little and feel grateful for - well, everything!

Sometimes when I look at Charlie - those almond-shaped ocean blue eyes, that little button nose, those uneven, oversized teeth - I  close my eyes and try to put that little face in a spot in my head that I can go back to when he's older. I want to always be able to see him like this.

And the problem is - when I see him the next day, he's already different. And I can't go back. The face I tried to preserve has already morphed into the face that is today. And he's gone.

I cry a lot about this. Silly, I know.

It gets better as they get older, they say. And it's true.

But I already miss newborn Charlie. One month. Two months. Ten months. A year.

Motherhood is wonderful, they say. And it's true. It's so very true.

Chalkboard Cupboards

Dan and I love our home but we REALLY dislike our kitchen. Since a remodel is out of the question at the moment (along with Starbucks and anything out of the "budget") I figured a chalkboard in the kitchen would make it look cute and also help remind Dan of what we have on the agenda for the week (and hopefully avoid the daily, "Wait, do we have plans this weekend?" question).

 Took a trip to the good old Home Depot and got magnetic primer (our fridge isn't magnetic so we need SOMETHING to stick a million pictures to!) and chalkboard paint.

 A before pic

Taping around the edges

Magnetic primer goes on first

Tada!

The instructions say not to write anything on it for three days so I'm being patient (although I did stick a magnent on there to test it out). Best part: Chalkboard markers!! They are brighly colored - I know you have seen them on bistro signs outside of restaurants - and easily erasable. I already bought them in every color. Fun, cheap little improvement.