Faith

When I was seven years old, my best friend in the whole world's father died. Her mother, previously not a church-goer, started taking the three children to church and Sunday School. Every once in a while, I would sleep over on Saturday night and go with them Sunday morning. I loved it. I don't know why. I got to wear a nice dress -- one of the friend's, she had many -- and go and colour pictures and be in a nice building. I don't know what it was about it -- it certainly didn't fit with my usual personality, which was to wear denim overalls and climb trees. Perhaps even at that age, I knew that there was something there that I needed. 

When I asked my father why we didn't go to church, he told me -- at seven -- that religion caused too many problems in the world, and he didn't believe in anything that made people kill each other. My father's family had bought into -- in a definitive way -- the idea of materialism, that we are only what we are -- mammals -- and that there was no God, no spirituality, no other. My father was an astrophysicist, my mother a biologist, and there was no room for God in our house. 

My mother's mother went to church regularly. She was a private person, and I never managed to ascertain her personal beliefs about God. I always had assumed -- because no sane person can believe in God, so I was told -- that she did it for the community. She lived in a neighborhood of many older folks, and the church had potluck lunches and a bargain basement, and it was just a good place to hang out with the neighbors.

I had my first spiritual experience when I was only 2 or 3. My grandfather, my father's father, had a small den where he worked, and he had filled its walls with family photos. My grandparents had emigrated in the 1950s, and none of their family had followed, and the pictures were their links to those precious people left behind. When we visited, they would procure a small cot that was small enough to fit in that tiny room, and there I would sleep. One evening, long after I had gone to bed, I looked up at the wall and saw one of the photos moving. I knew, somehow, that she was trying to talk to me. But being the sensible and materialist child I was, instead of listening, I ran. My mother tried to soothe me, but ended up taking the photo down from the wall so I would sleep. I remember getting up in the middle of the night and making sure, with small, shaking fingers, that the photo was indeed face down on the desk. 

I soon was too large for that cot, and stopped sleeping in that room; rarely having reason to enter and gaze on the photo, it ceased to bother me. Some years later, my grandfather died and my father packed up all the family photos when he moved my grandmother. The photo wasn't displayed at the new place. When I was 16, my grandmother passed away, and the many boxes of belongings were resurrected and sorted through. "Oh look!" my father said one afternoon. "It's that old photo of my grandmother that scared you so much." The feeling that went through me was akin to a shock, and a shiver of recognition. But now, many years later, the shock and fear of a photo that talked, something that certainly did not fit with my materialist views, was also mingled with some curiosity -- what the heck had she been trying to say?

I grew up in a town -- in a country -- where lack of strong belief in religion or any kind of experience beyond science is not uncommon. People are filled with doubt. It never bothered me. This is normal of course. This lack of a relationship with the divine, this smug sense of knowing everything there is to know through the revolution that is science -- that is reality. And yet, when I first met, at twenty, someone from another place who had a conviction -- a real, solid religious belief and conviction -- instead of feeling skeptical, I felt ... envious. I wished I had that, that much certainty of a higher power, of a higher purpose. Of faith.

Over the years I've tried to cobble together some semblance of faith. My ex husband wasn't any use, he was as much as athiest as I was, and wasn't at all supportive of my forays into faith. I talked about it with a few folks here and there, but overall -- I can't get my head around the fact that there is this guy called "God" with a white beard who watches over things. The Christian teachings -- and I turn to those first since I am nominally Christian -- do not make sense to me. I would pray, but I wasn't sure who to, and often ended up picturing favoured relations, passed away. I suppose I figured that at least I knew them, and maybe they would intervene for me. I studied art, the glorious expanses of oil and fresco, costing a king's ransom of wealth, that people would create in homage to a God that I didn't believe in. I would study them as a scientist would -- composition, expense, rationale for such an investment of time and energy and community wealth -- without ever considering the meaning that they had to those who gazed on them. I think now the most compelling question of all is, in the face of materialism that seems to say that we humans only act in the interests of our mammalian heritage -- what purpose did those expensive mosaics have, then? Certainly religion itself has no purpose, from a materialist view. But at the same time -- we have done this for hundreds of years. Thousands. If it has no purpose -- why would generations of humans have given their worldly goods, at personal survival cost, to create such masterpieces of art? 

Three and a half years ago, I sat in a church in southern Portugal in  front of one of the most delightful statues of the Virgin Mary that I've ever seen. I felt a strong urge to pray, and I did, praying for something I'd been wishing for for years: Please, Mother Mary, send me a child. 

Two months later I was pregnant. 

Oh, sure, my materialist upbringing said -- well, duh. You did all the mammalian things to get a child and you didn't do all the modern things to avoid a child, and uh ... what exactly were you expecting? But it still felt more like a miracle than anything else. I prayed again, for the baby to live, to grow, to thrive, and promised in return that I would -- gasp! -- visit a church and say thank you if that happened. That I would try and make sure that my child believed in something other than his mammalian heritage, as I had grown up believing. 

And soon after The Boy arrived, I travelled to the nearby Catholic Church -- the place where, after all, they will have a similar statue of Mary -- and gave thanks to her for sending me my beautiful son. I read more about faith; I wrote down prayers to Mary and would say them on occasion. But life got busy, and when my son was sick, it was of course to science that I turned. When he has a kidney infection, praying is not the cure; antibiotics are. 

Some kind of faith, in something, however wavering and ill informed, has followed me most of my life. Some kind of connection, some kind of hope and faith and feeling of belief. Sometimes it is God. Sometimes it is a more pagan connection to earth. Sometimes it is a feeling of having a guardian angel watching over me. 

Except for now. 

For the past year or so, my sense of faith has been absent. Sometimes, with it, my sense of hope. And I feel it like a sickness, deep within me. I need this sense of faith, need it like food and water, and having never been instilled with it as a child, I have no idea where to find it. I cannot easily rejoin a church community, or pray, or visit a temple, or read a holy book. I don't know where to find my faith, and I'm floundering a little, in life. I'm feeling overwhelmed. I'm not sleeping well. I'm overly tired and worried. I'm distracted. And it comes down to faith. Not just faith in God, but faith in me and what I'm doing and who I am and who I will be. 

I miss it. So I'm searching. 

I think later this week I'll go visit that church again. Maybe it's time to try this religion thing for real. 

Women's health

Seventy years ago, my great-grandmother experienced a strange menopausal reaction. She was living on a farm at the time, and the doctor had to come from the local village. He didn't want to come. He decided that she was "hysterical" and it was just a normal "woman's issue". 

He didn't come.

She hemorrhaged, and bled to death. She was 46.

My grandfather was devastated, and never again trusted another doctor.

He's not my presidential candidate, but anyone who uses air quotes to talk about women's health issues does not deserve to lead a country. He doesn't deserve to do much, in my opinion. The only thing I'd say he's good for is to retire, because he is clearly too old to be thinking straight.

Because that kind of attitude only leads to unnecessary deaths of women. I know.

Thanksgiving

Today we are heading to my sister's for the traditional -- so it has become, now that we are adults. Regular readers will know that going to my sister's is not my favourite activities, but I go nevertheless in the interests of family harmony. This year, though, there is a teeny tiny glimmer of hope, the briefest whisper of conversation that was had with said sister a few days back that suggested that she actually realizes that there is this great overwhelming canyon of a divide between us, and even moreso that she might think that attempting to bridge the divide is a good thing.

So in celebration of what is probably yet another misunderstanding but I am thinking positive and of course this is the beginning of a new relationship for the two of us, here's my list of things I am most thankful for this year.

My child, who tries and delights me every single day. I am so very blessed by his presence.

My partner in life, who is in a very real but very subtle way saving my life right now.

My parents, who don't understand me, but who love me without limit nevertheless.

My friends, who also delight me. I wish I had more time for you -- virtually and really -- than I do.

My home, which is cluttered and often dirty, but which feels cozy and safe and keeps us all out of the elements.

My inlaws, who are wonderful people who I am glad to have part of my life.

My books, which give me endless entertainment.

My job which, while dull as dirt right now, gives me the means to have the rest of the life I enjoy and the safety nets that I like to know are there.

My imagination, which I have never really appreciated but which follows me, for good or evil, all the days of my life.

My sister, and the fact that we will always be sisters, and while we may hurt one another, nothing will change that one bond.

Days like today which are sunny and cool with crisp leaves and a nip in the air.

My backyard, with its myriad chalk pictures that we ran about like crazy people in this morning.

The love that I have.

The love I receive.

My hope for the future.

Plus ... tea, good cheese, soft bread, ripe fruit, pumpkin pie, and turkey with stuffing.

I hope you all have a great Thanksgiving. Even if you don't celebrate it like we are doing tonight.

Never say never

So I'm tired. Let's get that out of the way first. But I don't really want to dwell on it, despite the fact that I stayed home from work today to get some sleep and haven't managed to do so yet. GO ME.

Sorry about the empty post yesterday; somehow or other The Man was closing windows on my computer and managed to save an empty window. No idea how. You'd think that if the window were empty, somehow or other blogger might think ... huh ... this doesn't seem worth posting, are you sure you want to do this? But no. 

In other news, it appears that my significant other has finally warped my mind completely. You see, as a child I hated mushrooms. Hated. Them. It was family lore, how much I hated mushrooms. I refused to eat them, the taste, the texture, the smell ... shudder. I had eaten them, at other people's houses, to be polite, but they just make me want to vomit.

Anyway. So over the past five years, The Man has pined for mushrooms. He likes them. And every once in a while, when I can stomach him cooking them at home, he's forced me to try bites of them. Most of the time their squeaky rubberyness has set my teeth on edge, but I've choked them down. 

But you know? There are SO many good recipes out there that have mushrooms. If you try and eat vegetarian, which I often try to do, it can be hard to avoid them. I've begun wishing I liked them, just to eat those dishes I see on restaurant menus or in cookbooks that otherwise seem so tempting.

A few months back, I was at my favourite pasta store. They have three main kinds of filled pasta -- cheese, beef, and chicken / mushroom. I'm tired of cheese. I don't want red meat. So I get the chicken / mushroom. I take it home. I cook it. I feed it to my son. I eat it.

I don't hate it.

Now, true enough, too much mushroom flavour every once in a while gave me the skeeves, but this is the same woman who, five years previously, rejected pizza because it had tiny pieces of diced mushrooms in the sauce. Not hating it is victory!

The other day The Man and I went out for lunch sans child, and he looked at me in a pleading way and said -- would you mind very much if I got the mushroom soup? I acquiesced, and he was served the soup and offered me a bite. And ... And ... I actually kind of liked it.

This Sunday, we went to the nearby farmer's market. And The Man seized the moment and bought a large bag of end of the season chantrelle mushrooms, which he assures me are the kind of mushrooms, second only to truffles, and which we are lucky enough to have grow 'round these parts. Yesterday he cooked them up with cream and parmesan cheese for sauce for pasta. I cannot resist cream and cheese. It's like he wants me to like them or something. 

He gave me a taste. My mind still rebelled a little at the texture, but the taste ... was actually good. 

And I woke up in the night once and remembered what was for dinner tonight and was excited by the prospect of this. 

And you know? I'll never live this down. Never. I'm the one who hates mushrooms! My identity will never be the same!

Oh, and I should post this too

I ate all the Nanaimo Bars. It took five days, but I ate them all. 

It's probably not a coincidence that I've been feeling tired, sluggish and generally horrible all week, what with the blood sugar soaring and crashing all week, especially since I eat them before bed and wake up feeling AWFUL.

Hereby, I command my husband to FORBID ME FROM MAKING SUCH GARBAGE AGAIN. 

Of Bee Stings and Cars

Monday afternoon while I was sitting in my office, the phone rang. I jumped. I almost always do. For pete's sake, I write all day, no one ever CALLS me. 

I have call display, which I love, because it allows me to actually act like a writer too and ignore phone calls if I don't recognize the caller. This one only comes up with a number, and I frown and think .... where have I seen that before? And just before it goes to voicemail, I remember. Oh Yeah. That's the DAYCARE.

Yeah, awesome on the not-answering-phone thing. 

The daycare only calls when the kiddo is sick or something, so of course I lunge for the phone. The first thing they say is "It's not an emergency", which is nice, but then the second thing they say is "But we think he's been stung by a wasp."

You think??

Apparently about twenty minutes earlier my son, who had been happily playing in the daycare garden, came over to one of the grown ups and said "A bee landed on me, and I didn't like it!" He was holding out his hand, and there were tears in his eyes, as though he was quite upset, but he was neither crying tears nor wailing, nor were there any marks on his hand, so they comforted him and he went on his way.

Twenty minutes later they noticed his hand was swelling up. And so they called, because they thought they'd better see if we had any allergy problems with wasps.

We don't, thankfully. But I am of course pretty confused. How can he ALMOST be stung by a wasp?? Because you know, the only two times I've been stung by such an insect it hurts like a motherf*cker. And I'm an adult.

Anyway I head off to the daycare, glad of an excuse to leave work early, if only by half an hour. I arrive there and it is clear that his hand is swelling, and impressively so -- he has no knuckles on the offending finger, and the swelling is slowing going down his hand. He isn't too troubled by it, but he's being kept close to the daycare ladies, and when he sees me he whimpers a little bit. It's clear he's not happy, but he's far from screaming blue murder, too.

So we head home -- what else to do? And he's tired and droopy and a little freaked out by the events of the day. He's clingy and sad, and talks a lot about how the "bee" landed on him and how much he didn't like it. How he got a sting, or a bug bite, or something. I half-heartedly look for some children's Benadryl, but I don't see much point in it unless the swelling gets worse, and it isn't.

So as a consolation for having a tough day, though, I sit down with him on the couch and put on his favourite movie. Not just a short show, a WHOLE MOVIE. Cars, because he adores it and we think it's appropriate for children and of course more importantly, not annoying enough to push parents OVER THE EDGE. And he's entranced. I even -- perhaps not my best judgement as a parent -- allow him to sit on the couch and eat his dinner while watching. And he watches the whole show, even though it goes past his bedtime. The swelling, I should add, is, two hours later, almost non-existent. The next morning there is no evidence whatsoever of any stinging at all. 

Wednesday afternoon I pick him up at the daycare, and he's been having a great time. He laughs and giggles and wants to be picked up. As we walk to the car, he pretends that his finger is a bee, and buzzes me. 

"Bzzzzz" as the bee goes over my head and across my cheek and into my ear. "Bzzzzzz!" We make a game of it, me reacting in mock horror and him buzzing madly. "Sting!" he says finally. I pretend to be sad. "Oh no! A bee stung me!" This happens over and over until he then says.

"And now we get to go home, and watch Cars! Because that's how it works."