The Tuesday after Christmas my boss told me the following story:
"We were all pretty sure two of the patients were involved in some drug dealing. We even got a tip that one of them had passed something to the other in the coffee room.
"So we went to the security desk, and rolled back the tapes to the right time. It was myself, the security guard, and the team nurse.
We found them both on the tape, in the same room. As we watched one of them approached the other slowly. Something was pulled out of a pocket, and just as they were about to make contact what do you think happened?"
I shook my head.
"We saw a small elf dance her way into the room, jingle bells flying... and she got right in the middle of the drug deal. "
I started to laugh, but only because my boss was laughing.
"I mean.. you didn't walk into the room. You were DANCING. In an ELF COSTUME. And the two patients turned away from each other to look at you. You had to see their faces. And we just couldn't stop laughing.
It was unbelievable. Only at McInnis."
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christmas. Show all posts
Monday, January 4, 2010
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Rehashing Advent: The dark, the light and the Hallelujah
The Hallelujah
I was really excited this year about Jack visiting from Costa Rica for Christmas. Jack is my mother's cousin, and I met him for the first time last spring when Mom and I visited Santa Ana. He's a really fun person, and he and I are very alike in spirit and humor.
The last few weeks I have been preparing for Jack's arrival. Although he was only spending one night at my house before going to stay with my Aunt Mame, I wanted everything to be perfect. I scrubbed my apartment from top to bottom. It took five hours. I even cleaned the inside of my medicene cabinet. Did I think Jack would care about my medicene cabinet? No. But I cared. I cleaned my pantry. I bought a six pack of Coors, his favorite American beer. I put together a selection of books for him to read. I spent two days creating the most "welcome back to New England" meal I could think of, Beef and Potato stew with Guinness.
Before I left for the airport Tuesday night I set the table for two, turned the crock pot to "simmer," and put Dad's old leather jacket in my car so Jack would have something warm to wear. Everything was perfect.
Then everything fell apart. Jack didn't get off the plane. While other happy families reunited at the gate, I stood holding Dad's heavy jacket, distraught and worried. I got terse with a security guard who sent me to the wrong gate. I had Jack paged. Someone looked up his name and told me Jack had missed the flight; he was on the next one. I had two hours to wait. I sat and thought about the stew simmering away in my kitchen. I thought about how early I had to get up for work. I longed for my ipod. I got grumpy.
Once Jack arrived, things started looking up. We didn't stop talking all the way home. I forgot how tired I was, and put my early morning shift out of my mind. On the way to my apartment we passed a pizza place. Jack nearly jumped out the window of the car because he hadn't had a decent slice of pizza in twelve years. Excited for his "first" taste of American pizza, I stopped the car quickly, and he ran into the little store. Then I remembered my stew at home and started to laugh out loud.
I had spent all this time preparing and working and planning. In the end it was a good thing because my house was clean and comfortable, and Jack ended up eating some stew after his pizza anyway. But still, things didn't go as I planned.
This Advent I promised myself I'd really prepare a place for Jesus. I tried to be mindful every single day. I said I'd pray an hour a day at least. I told myself I'd find extra prayer services to attend. In the end, I didn't do that hour of prayer every single day. But I did pray more often. And I missed Mass twice but I went to a very moving yoga - prayer service at Hope Church. I also attended Taize, which I wouldn't have done if I hadn't missed Mass last week.
In and of itself preparing is not generally bad or futile. Because otherwise the apartment would be cluttered , the fridge would be gross and there'd be no six pack of Coors.
But flexibility is key in planning. It's important to keep in mind that airlines aren't always on time and that sometimes a man just wants a slice of pizza.
We can pray for Grace and make ourselves as open as possible in preparation, but it's still all up to God. Rigidity in faith, I am learning, might not be as useful as I once thought it was.
So, (ready for a corny and moralizing anaology to end this one?) I'm going to keep making stew but I'm not going to freak out about how many potatos to buy,* because in the end we might end up just getting a pizza and eating both.
Hallelujah!
-------------------------------------------
*right, Shannon?
I was really excited this year about Jack visiting from Costa Rica for Christmas. Jack is my mother's cousin, and I met him for the first time last spring when Mom and I visited Santa Ana. He's a really fun person, and he and I are very alike in spirit and humor.
The last few weeks I have been preparing for Jack's arrival. Although he was only spending one night at my house before going to stay with my Aunt Mame, I wanted everything to be perfect. I scrubbed my apartment from top to bottom. It took five hours. I even cleaned the inside of my medicene cabinet. Did I think Jack would care about my medicene cabinet? No. But I cared. I cleaned my pantry. I bought a six pack of Coors, his favorite American beer. I put together a selection of books for him to read. I spent two days creating the most "welcome back to New England" meal I could think of, Beef and Potato stew with Guinness.
Before I left for the airport Tuesday night I set the table for two, turned the crock pot to "simmer," and put Dad's old leather jacket in my car so Jack would have something warm to wear. Everything was perfect.
Then everything fell apart. Jack didn't get off the plane. While other happy families reunited at the gate, I stood holding Dad's heavy jacket, distraught and worried. I got terse with a security guard who sent me to the wrong gate. I had Jack paged. Someone looked up his name and told me Jack had missed the flight; he was on the next one. I had two hours to wait. I sat and thought about the stew simmering away in my kitchen. I thought about how early I had to get up for work. I longed for my ipod. I got grumpy.
Once Jack arrived, things started looking up. We didn't stop talking all the way home. I forgot how tired I was, and put my early morning shift out of my mind. On the way to my apartment we passed a pizza place. Jack nearly jumped out the window of the car because he hadn't had a decent slice of pizza in twelve years. Excited for his "first" taste of American pizza, I stopped the car quickly, and he ran into the little store. Then I remembered my stew at home and started to laugh out loud.
I had spent all this time preparing and working and planning. In the end it was a good thing because my house was clean and comfortable, and Jack ended up eating some stew after his pizza anyway. But still, things didn't go as I planned.
This Advent I promised myself I'd really prepare a place for Jesus. I tried to be mindful every single day. I said I'd pray an hour a day at least. I told myself I'd find extra prayer services to attend. In the end, I didn't do that hour of prayer every single day. But I did pray more often. And I missed Mass twice but I went to a very moving yoga - prayer service at Hope Church. I also attended Taize, which I wouldn't have done if I hadn't missed Mass last week.
In and of itself preparing is not generally bad or futile. Because otherwise the apartment would be cluttered , the fridge would be gross and there'd be no six pack of Coors.
But flexibility is key in planning. It's important to keep in mind that airlines aren't always on time and that sometimes a man just wants a slice of pizza.
We can pray for Grace and make ourselves as open as possible in preparation, but it's still all up to God. Rigidity in faith, I am learning, might not be as useful as I once thought it was.
So, (ready for a corny and moralizing anaology to end this one?) I'm going to keep making stew but I'm not going to freak out about how many potatos to buy,* because in the end we might end up just getting a pizza and eating both.
Hallelujah!
-------------------------------------------
*right, Shannon?
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Rehashing Advent: the dark, the light and the Hallelujah
The story of the darkest parts of my Advent seems disheartening.
But the truth is that the moments of Light far outnumbered those two dark weekends.
The Light
"They're here!" The supervisor is smiling. I'm munching on chocolate covered pretzels and trying to finish my charts while planning report for the next shift. I'm mentally preparing a list for the next morning, "find G. a coat," "remind W. to fast for blood labs," "urine test results for S."
"Ah! Already?" I start munching and documenting faster. My shift is over but I'm staying late because of the guests who have just arrived in the second floor patient lobby. I need to get down there.
I step off the elevator and walk around the corner to the Atrium. The snow on the windows is glowing, reflecting the many lights from inside. The angel at the top of the Christmas tree oversees the scene, as a few patients mill about and some take seats in rockers and on couches. Denny, the street team NP is talking to a group of children, two of them her own, while her husband tunes his guitar.
When the music starts and the children begin to sing, everyone is silent at first, but then one by one they join in the singing. Slowly the room fills with more and more people. Nurses, aides, and patients leave what they're doing and gather around to listen to the carols. Although the music is mostly upbeat ("We Wish You a Merry Christmas," and "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer,") I see many of the men and women wiping at their eyes clandestinely. I wonder how many of them see themeselves or their own kids in the bright, innocent faces.
The nurse next to me wipes her eyes. The housekeeper wipes his eyes. I wipe mine.
The children do Silent Night, a request from a tired but happy looking woman sitting on a couch with her friends. Then they sing a few songs from The Sound of Music before launching into a rendition of Jingle Bells with a second verse they wrote themselves about getting injured while skiiing. Their lyrics elicit genuine laughs and delighted applause from their audience.
At that point my chest began to ache. I pressed my hands to my sternum as hard as I could. I felt so much love and so much hope that I could barely breathe. I looked around at everyone gathered. People from all walks of life, different faith backgrounds, varying degrees of hardship, tragedy and trauma. I was suddenly very, very sure of God's presence.
And I knew we were all going to be ok. In that moment I wasn't worried about whether I had gotten to church on time last week. I understood completely that God doesn't "love" as a verb alone. God is love.
When those kids started singing and we all joined in, our world stopped for a few minutes. The patients stopped smoking or watching tv or doing laundry. The nurses stopped charting and pouring and reading and fussing. Jim stopped sweeping. The security guard put down his newspaper. And like the Whos of Whoville we joined all our different voices in song. And in that song there was love. And where the love is, there is God. And in that moment, I became sure of it.
I continue to watch the patients in the crowd. In the corner a man in a hospital johnny appears to not be listening. His eyes are far away and trained on the ceiling. But he is tapping his foot. Beside me a small woman who has seen three friends pass away in the past two month, (all of them patients of ours) grabs at my arm with one hand and rubs her eyes with the other. "It's been a hard year," she whispers, not for the first time. "Every time I get my life on track someone else dies."
The nurse next to me whispers back, "it's time for a new beginning ... a fresh start."
Yes. Yes. Yes.
But the truth is that the moments of Light far outnumbered those two dark weekends.
The Light
"They're here!" The supervisor is smiling. I'm munching on chocolate covered pretzels and trying to finish my charts while planning report for the next shift. I'm mentally preparing a list for the next morning, "find G. a coat," "remind W. to fast for blood labs," "urine test results for S."
"Ah! Already?" I start munching and documenting faster. My shift is over but I'm staying late because of the guests who have just arrived in the second floor patient lobby. I need to get down there.
I step off the elevator and walk around the corner to the Atrium. The snow on the windows is glowing, reflecting the many lights from inside. The angel at the top of the Christmas tree oversees the scene, as a few patients mill about and some take seats in rockers and on couches. Denny, the street team NP is talking to a group of children, two of them her own, while her husband tunes his guitar.
When the music starts and the children begin to sing, everyone is silent at first, but then one by one they join in the singing. Slowly the room fills with more and more people. Nurses, aides, and patients leave what they're doing and gather around to listen to the carols. Although the music is mostly upbeat ("We Wish You a Merry Christmas," and "Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer,") I see many of the men and women wiping at their eyes clandestinely. I wonder how many of them see themeselves or their own kids in the bright, innocent faces.
The nurse next to me wipes her eyes. The housekeeper wipes his eyes. I wipe mine.
The children do Silent Night, a request from a tired but happy looking woman sitting on a couch with her friends. Then they sing a few songs from The Sound of Music before launching into a rendition of Jingle Bells with a second verse they wrote themselves about getting injured while skiiing. Their lyrics elicit genuine laughs and delighted applause from their audience.
At that point my chest began to ache. I pressed my hands to my sternum as hard as I could. I felt so much love and so much hope that I could barely breathe. I looked around at everyone gathered. People from all walks of life, different faith backgrounds, varying degrees of hardship, tragedy and trauma. I was suddenly very, very sure of God's presence.
And I knew we were all going to be ok. In that moment I wasn't worried about whether I had gotten to church on time last week. I understood completely that God doesn't "love" as a verb alone. God is love.
When those kids started singing and we all joined in, our world stopped for a few minutes. The patients stopped smoking or watching tv or doing laundry. The nurses stopped charting and pouring and reading and fussing. Jim stopped sweeping. The security guard put down his newspaper. And like the Whos of Whoville we joined all our different voices in song. And in that song there was love. And where the love is, there is God. And in that moment, I became sure of it.
I continue to watch the patients in the crowd. In the corner a man in a hospital johnny appears to not be listening. His eyes are far away and trained on the ceiling. But he is tapping his foot. Beside me a small woman who has seen three friends pass away in the past two month, (all of them patients of ours) grabs at my arm with one hand and rubs her eyes with the other. "It's been a hard year," she whispers, not for the first time. "Every time I get my life on track someone else dies."
The nurse next to me whispers back, "it's time for a new beginning ... a fresh start."
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
Also! It's not too late to donate!
If you missed Improv Asylum's No Rest for the Wicked Funny 24 hour event you can still donate to the cause on the Globe Santa website.
Remember, all the donations go directly to buying presents for kids whose families are having a tough time affording holiday cheer. This year I found out that one of my friends was one of those kids. She hadn't known either, her mother told her now that she's grown.
It takes a lot of courage for a parent to sit and write to Globe Santa. It can take a lot of courage for any one of us to ask for help.
So let's make it easier for Globe Santa to say "yes."
Remember, all the donations go directly to buying presents for kids whose families are having a tough time affording holiday cheer. This year I found out that one of my friends was one of those kids. She hadn't known either, her mother told her now that she's grown.
It takes a lot of courage for a parent to sit and write to Globe Santa. It can take a lot of courage for any one of us to ask for help.
So let's make it easier for Globe Santa to say "yes."
Friday, December 4, 2009
No Rest for the Wicked Funny
Tonight at 7pm Improv Asylum will turn on the stage lights.
And they won't be shut down until 7pm on Saturday night.
We are performing twenty-four consecutive hours of comedy, and all the proceeds are going to Globe Santa. There is a $20 suggested donation, and a $10 minimum to see the show.
The mainstage cast, along with the NXT cast will be performing for the full 24 hours.
To break up the evening, various guest comedians and Boston celebrities will also be gracing the stage. The schedule is on our website here.
Because the tickets let you come and go as you please, you don't have to spend the whole night with us. But some people will... so if you've never seen Pat Healy perform as Uke Springsteen, I suggest showing up before 10pm to get a seat!!
And they won't be shut down until 7pm on Saturday night.
We are performing twenty-four consecutive hours of comedy, and all the proceeds are going to Globe Santa. There is a $20 suggested donation, and a $10 minimum to see the show.
The mainstage cast, along with the NXT cast will be performing for the full 24 hours.
To break up the evening, various guest comedians and Boston celebrities will also be gracing the stage. The schedule is on our website here.
Because the tickets let you come and go as you please, you don't have to spend the whole night with us. But some people will... so if you've never seen Pat Healy perform as Uke Springsteen, I suggest showing up before 10pm to get a seat!!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Starting Advent - ex tenebris lux
This Sunday was the start of the season! Advent marks the beginning of the Church year! A time of starting over, and making ourselves new again! Happy New (church) Year!
It may come as a surprise to people who know me but I usually don't pay attention to Advent at all.
Growing up in a Catholic town it seemed that Advent was for children, and Lent was for adults. Advent was cheerful, warm and fun. Every day we opened a new door on the Advent calendar at home. Every week we lit a new candle on the wreath at school. We sang carols at church. We gave each other secret gifts.
In contrast, Lent was cold, dark and scary. The music at church was about blood and death. And although I participated in abstaining from meat, and putting money in the rice bowl instead of spending it on sweets, I dreaded Lent coming each year, and couldn't wait for it to all be over. I had no idea why the adults didn't just cancel it.
As I grew up, I began to appreciate Lent more for its spiritual benefits, but I became removed from Advent. Preparing for Christmas became stressful the way it is constantly depicted in secular culture. My Christmas ends up being wonderful and magical, but I always arrive there wondering where the hell I've been for four entire weeks. At Christmas Mass every year I am a little sorry that I skipped Advent, because I feel like I've been dropped off on Christmas instead of finding my way there.
But not this year. This year I want to recapture some of the actual anticipation and joy I felt as a kid before Dec. 25th. I want it to come from an honest place so that my energy isn't forced, and my holiday spirit isn't sicky-sweet or abrasive. I want to be able to share that energy and renewal with other people when they need it the most.
And I'm going to do it all by observing a mindful Advent.
I know a lot of my friends and family have no interest in religion, and rest assured I don't mean to force (too many)* angels and shepherds on you in the next four weeks.
But I am going to try to check in here at least once a week on how I'm doing with Advent. It's a resolution that I'm hoping will keep me on track with my other resolutions.
Advent is a journey from darkness into light. I could use some light. And if you could too, I hope you'll come with me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Angels and shepherds still included, and the qualifier "too many" to be defined on an individual basis by participating bloggers while supplies last. Management is not responsible for rogue shepherds or rowdy angels.
It may come as a surprise to people who know me but I usually don't pay attention to Advent at all.
Growing up in a Catholic town it seemed that Advent was for children, and Lent was for adults. Advent was cheerful, warm and fun. Every day we opened a new door on the Advent calendar at home. Every week we lit a new candle on the wreath at school. We sang carols at church. We gave each other secret gifts.
In contrast, Lent was cold, dark and scary. The music at church was about blood and death. And although I participated in abstaining from meat, and putting money in the rice bowl instead of spending it on sweets, I dreaded Lent coming each year, and couldn't wait for it to all be over. I had no idea why the adults didn't just cancel it.
As I grew up, I began to appreciate Lent more for its spiritual benefits, but I became removed from Advent. Preparing for Christmas became stressful the way it is constantly depicted in secular culture. My Christmas ends up being wonderful and magical, but I always arrive there wondering where the hell I've been for four entire weeks. At Christmas Mass every year I am a little sorry that I skipped Advent, because I feel like I've been dropped off on Christmas instead of finding my way there.
But not this year. This year I want to recapture some of the actual anticipation and joy I felt as a kid before Dec. 25th. I want it to come from an honest place so that my energy isn't forced, and my holiday spirit isn't sicky-sweet or abrasive. I want to be able to share that energy and renewal with other people when they need it the most.
And I'm going to do it all by observing a mindful Advent.
I know a lot of my friends and family have no interest in religion, and rest assured I don't mean to force (too many)* angels and shepherds on you in the next four weeks.
But I am going to try to check in here at least once a week on how I'm doing with Advent. It's a resolution that I'm hoping will keep me on track with my other resolutions.
Advent is a journey from darkness into light. I could use some light. And if you could too, I hope you'll come with me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Angels and shepherds still included, and the qualifier "too many" to be defined on an individual basis by participating bloggers while supplies last. Management is not responsible for rogue shepherds or rowdy angels.
Monday, November 23, 2009
On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me...
...a fir tree full of sharks....
David and I went to Ikea last week to find a new carpet. We failed in our mission but managed to secure a bag of frozen meatballs as well as some nice place mats, and a series of photos of this rare shark conifer.
I wrote every single day last week but posted very little of what I worked on because I hated it.
Updating may be similarly spotty this week because as you are reading this I am picking my (original)* college roommate up at Logan airport for a week of shenanigans.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Once I moved off campus I roomed with many, many different people, friends and ferrets. I need to specify that Jen and I lived together in the dorms for two years because it is just more accurate that way.
David and I went to Ikea last week to find a new carpet. We failed in our mission but managed to secure a bag of frozen meatballs as well as some nice place mats, and a series of photos of this rare shark conifer.
I wrote every single day last week but posted very little of what I worked on because I hated it.
Updating may be similarly spotty this week because as you are reading this I am picking my (original)* college roommate up at Logan airport for a week of shenanigans.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
* Once I moved off campus I roomed with many, many different people, friends and ferrets. I need to specify that Jen and I lived together in the dorms for two years because it is just more accurate that way.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about? Sure, Charlie Brown...
This Christmas post from one of my favorite blogs, A Day in the Life of an Ambulance Driver, was one of the best things I read all week. It says everything I would want to say about this time of year, and the work that people in public service positions do.
In addition, it references the verses from the Gospel according to Luke that are used in the final third of A Charlie Brown Christmas when Linus delivers his spotlight speech. Predictably, one of the most powerful scenes I remember from my childhood and to this day one of my favorites to re-watch.
*****************************************************************
In addition, it references the verses from the Gospel according to Luke that are used in the final third of A Charlie Brown Christmas when Linus delivers his spotlight speech. Predictably, one of the most powerful scenes I remember from my childhood and to this day one of my favorites to re-watch.
*****************************************************************
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas at the Whitakers'
Christmas was full of traditions at my house growing up. The rest of the year was relatively free of ritual, so we piled everything into two days it seems. On Christmas Eve we always went to mass at St. Theresa's church in West Roxbury where I sang in the choir. Dad would come just to hear me sing, he said. It was one of the two or three times a year he'd go to church. We'd all go to Mario's Italian Restaurant for dinner afterwards. At home we would each open one present. And no matter how old we got we'd read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas. Over the years it became ironic and goofy but we'd do it anyway. Dad would build a fire and then we would all fall asleep on the high wrap around couch in our living room watching A Christmas Story or It's a Wonderful Life. My little brother would sleep on the trundle bed in my room and we'd stay awake late and get up at the crack of dawn.
But things change, and so with that in mind I bring you a scene from last night at Mom's new condo:
I looked up from the window ledge I was carefully icing and watched as Brian began decorating the top of the roof with red and blue gumballs. "Feeling patriotic?" I asked. "I like the way it looks," he said and we both burst into the first seven words of "Proud to be an American," which is all we knew. Mom painstakingly hand crafted icicles from the ledges. "That shit is bad ass," Brian proclaimed, and Mom sat back to admire her work.
As Brian began to plot the correct angle for some chocolate solar panels on the roof he started to curse, "Shit! It's going down!" The three of us watched as a sink hole appeared in the center of the house and swallowed all the gumballs. "F*ck," said my baby brother lighting another cigarette, "we should have waited for the frosting to set."
We fixed the roof but then a wall fell over. We uprighted the wall and Brian went to work on the Eastern windows, but he had been drinking a bit and the next thing I heard was this:
"What the hell is that?" (mom)
"What? There's snow on them." (Brian)
and a pause.
"It was a blizzard, ok, Mom?"
Just as I had completed the fortune cookie rock salt on the chocolate walk way there was a loud sucking noise and all the electricity went out. It flashed back on and then crashed out a second time. In the entire complex, and the one down hill from what we could tell through the windows. We pulled out flashlights and lit candles and tried to work in the dark. "Now we have an excuse for the way it looks," said Mom.
The roof kept sloping off, and so Brian and I decided we had to hold the pieces in place for fifteen minutes to let it stick. He kept letting go and shifting the table causing me to yell, "every time you let go, the terrorists win." Mom held Brian's beer up to his lips for him to drink and when I noticed Brian laughed so hard that Mom spilled the beer down his chin. "My family," I intoned, making everyone laugh harder as my side of the house shifted angles again.
The power returned and was met with mixed reviews, "Well at least we'll have a stove in the morning. But still no excuse for this house."
We stared at the house. One side of the roof was frosted, the other was bare. The frosting had huge thumb prints in it from Brian hanging onto the sides. Mom's icicles dripped to the ground like elf snot. One half of the holly branch I had crafted fell to the ground. Brian's windows still looked like someone had wiped their mouth on the side of the pastry. The roof split again, revealing the hole and shedding light on the American gumballs stranded inside.
"Well," I said, I should get ready for midnight mass.What time is it?"
"Good luck," said Brian taking a swig of a second beer, "It's flashing 9 o clock over there, and the microwave says it's zero time."
"What this house needs," I said, "is some support."
"It's not too late to throw the whole thing away and pretend we never tried," answered Mom.
Brian and I rigged some chocolate bar support beams for the roof and let it set overnight. He retired to the basement to play video games online and Mom went to bed. I fixed my frosting covered hair in the bathroom mirror and slipped out the door to go to church on my own, my first time in this new town that Mom lives in.
As I knelt in the crowded chapel surrounded by families and children, I kept picturing my brother holding onto the house, my Mom lighting his cigarette for him, her own held tight in her lips as the gum drops dropped off the windows one by one onto the kitchen floor and I thought maybe we had found a new tradition.
When I mentioned this to them later my mother's response? "Hell no."
But things change, and so with that in mind I bring you a scene from last night at Mom's new condo:
I looked up from the window ledge I was carefully icing and watched as Brian began decorating the top of the roof with red and blue gumballs. "Feeling patriotic?" I asked. "I like the way it looks," he said and we both burst into the first seven words of "Proud to be an American," which is all we knew. Mom painstakingly hand crafted icicles from the ledges. "That shit is bad ass," Brian proclaimed, and Mom sat back to admire her work.
As Brian began to plot the correct angle for some chocolate solar panels on the roof he started to curse, "Shit! It's going down!" The three of us watched as a sink hole appeared in the center of the house and swallowed all the gumballs. "F*ck," said my baby brother lighting another cigarette, "we should have waited for the frosting to set."
We fixed the roof but then a wall fell over. We uprighted the wall and Brian went to work on the Eastern windows, but he had been drinking a bit and the next thing I heard was this:
"What the hell is that?" (mom)
"What? There's snow on them." (Brian)
and a pause.
"It was a blizzard, ok, Mom?"
Just as I had completed the fortune cookie rock salt on the chocolate walk way there was a loud sucking noise and all the electricity went out. It flashed back on and then crashed out a second time. In the entire complex, and the one down hill from what we could tell through the windows. We pulled out flashlights and lit candles and tried to work in the dark. "Now we have an excuse for the way it looks," said Mom.
The roof kept sloping off, and so Brian and I decided we had to hold the pieces in place for fifteen minutes to let it stick. He kept letting go and shifting the table causing me to yell, "every time you let go, the terrorists win." Mom held Brian's beer up to his lips for him to drink and when I noticed Brian laughed so hard that Mom spilled the beer down his chin. "My family," I intoned, making everyone laugh harder as my side of the house shifted angles again.
The power returned and was met with mixed reviews, "Well at least we'll have a stove in the morning. But still no excuse for this house."
We stared at the house. One side of the roof was frosted, the other was bare. The frosting had huge thumb prints in it from Brian hanging onto the sides. Mom's icicles dripped to the ground like elf snot. One half of the holly branch I had crafted fell to the ground. Brian's windows still looked like someone had wiped their mouth on the side of the pastry. The roof split again, revealing the hole and shedding light on the American gumballs stranded inside.
"Well," I said, I should get ready for midnight mass.What time is it?"
"Good luck," said Brian taking a swig of a second beer, "It's flashing 9 o clock over there, and the microwave says it's zero time."
"What this house needs," I said, "is some support."
"It's not too late to throw the whole thing away and pretend we never tried," answered Mom.
Brian and I rigged some chocolate bar support beams for the roof and let it set overnight. He retired to the basement to play video games online and Mom went to bed. I fixed my frosting covered hair in the bathroom mirror and slipped out the door to go to church on my own, my first time in this new town that Mom lives in.
As I knelt in the crowded chapel surrounded by families and children, I kept picturing my brother holding onto the house, my Mom lighting his cigarette for him, her own held tight in her lips as the gum drops dropped off the windows one by one onto the kitchen floor and I thought maybe we had found a new tradition.
When I mentioned this to them later my mother's response? "Hell no."
Saturday, December 20, 2008
I was underneath the tree and thinking about the stars.
For Catholics in the Unites States the official Christmas season began three weeks ago, at the start of Advent. Although for many people Christmas ends the next day, in my culture Christmas lasts until January 6th. I knew a wonderful priest by the name of Father Douglas, and he preaches at the Newman Center in Amherst, Ma and he used to stand really firm on this. He would "order," us with a gleeful look on his face to not stop the celebrating and the joy and the dancing and the carols until the 6th.
However, I'd like to take it even further than just five weeks.
In the book Jesus and Buddha As Brothers Thich Nhat Hanh writes about the Buddhist tradition of "Beginning Anew," and compares it to the Christian idea of baptism and being "born again." In a chapter called "Let the Child Be Born Unto Us," taken from an address he gave December 24th 1996 he asks all Christians to recognize that
Jesus Christ is born every moment of our daily life- not only on Christmas day, because every day is Christmas day, every minute is a Christmas minute. The child within us is
waiting each minute to be born and born again.
(A bit more info: The Globe recently ran an interesting article about the intersection of Buddhism and Christianity and reactions to the concepts from everyone to lay people to the Pope. Since I have been studying this intersection since high school when Grandminister of Funk Toro wrote me one of the nicest letters I have ever received, I found this small media piece interesting.)
I live my life mindfully. At least, I try to. It's takes discipline, and it's something that needs to be actively practiced. Because of this practice I hold the belief that Christmas and the idea of Christmas can be every moment of every day. You can interpret that secularly to mean that every day should be filled with the goodwill and inclinations of generosity that permeate "the holidays." I think that's fine and can certainly cause more good than harm. On a more theological level I would also add that every moment can be rebirth of spirit, a confirmation of purpose and a redefining of salvation. And although I experience it as a Christian, I also believe you don't have to be any particular religion to live your life that way.
Merry Christmas Saturday, everyone!
However, I'd like to take it even further than just five weeks.
In the book Jesus and Buddha As Brothers Thich Nhat Hanh writes about the Buddhist tradition of "Beginning Anew," and compares it to the Christian idea of baptism and being "born again." In a chapter called "Let the Child Be Born Unto Us," taken from an address he gave December 24th 1996 he asks all Christians to recognize that
Jesus Christ is born every moment of our daily life- not only on Christmas day, because every day is Christmas day, every minute is a Christmas minute. The child within us is
waiting each minute to be born and born again.
(A bit more info: The Globe recently ran an interesting article about the intersection of Buddhism and Christianity and reactions to the concepts from everyone to lay people to the Pope. Since I have been studying this intersection since high school when Grandminister of Funk Toro wrote me one of the nicest letters I have ever received, I found this small media piece interesting.)
I live my life mindfully. At least, I try to. It's takes discipline, and it's something that needs to be actively practiced. Because of this practice I hold the belief that Christmas and the idea of Christmas can be every moment of every day. You can interpret that secularly to mean that every day should be filled with the goodwill and inclinations of generosity that permeate "the holidays." I think that's fine and can certainly cause more good than harm. On a more theological level I would also add that every moment can be rebirth of spirit, a confirmation of purpose and a redefining of salvation. And although I experience it as a Christian, I also believe you don't have to be any particular religion to live your life that way.
Merry Christmas Saturday, everyone!
Monday, December 15, 2008
Three Snapshots of my Weekend
Friday.
He's pacing in the basement room of the theater. His suit is spotless and impeccable, and his eyes are wide, and brimming with excitement and joy. He is sweating and antsy. He doesn't stop moving. All around us people are smiling because they know why he's come all the way from L.A. Upstairs there is a young lady marking the turn of another year in her life. She believes he's in Las Vegas but has been secretly hoping he'd find a way to get to her for her special day. He's planned his entrance to the second. I leave him there and run upstairs just in time to see her eyes light up at all the friends gathered in her name. But nothing compares to that moment when he approaches her from behind, and whispers in her ear. The room applauds, but around them time and place slip away and the rest of us get a small view into heaven.
Saturday.
My mother puts down her tea as the second song on the CD begins to play. "I can't NOT dance to this song," she says. And so we spend the next hour of her birthday dancing around the living room laughing like children. We kick off our socks for better traction. We sing, we tell stories. We plan the Christmas menu. But the whole time, we are dancing and dancing.
Sunday.
"I'm really worried about her," the nurse says, " I can't find her anywhere in the building." I take the elevator to the atrium. The scene that greets me makes me forget why I am there for a moment. The sky outside the huge glass panes is completely dark. Headlights sweep the glass as cars go by, but the beams never make it inside. Instead, the glow of low lit lamps give the large community room a homey warm feeling. On all of the couches, patients are gathered. Some are reading, others play chess. One man is hunched over a table using colored pencils to design a card for his little daughter. A woman in the corner picks up scratchy Christmas carols on a tinny radio. On the porch several men huddle together sharing cigarettes and stories of the street.
By the windows there is a Christmas tree. The lights on it burn steady in rainbow colors, and at the top an angel shines brightly. She seems to be guarding the men and women all around her.
I find the missing patient in a rocking chair across the room. She smiles weakly and says, "I know they must be worried, Shell, but I was hurting too much to get up. I'll go with you now."
As we slowly walk to the doors, I turn around for one last look. I notice a detail I hadn't seen. Beneath the tree is a small creche. The perfect wooden figures stand posed in a scene thousands of years old. Mary, Joseph and their baby boy- once cold and homeless, found respite.
He's pacing in the basement room of the theater. His suit is spotless and impeccable, and his eyes are wide, and brimming with excitement and joy. He is sweating and antsy. He doesn't stop moving. All around us people are smiling because they know why he's come all the way from L.A. Upstairs there is a young lady marking the turn of another year in her life. She believes he's in Las Vegas but has been secretly hoping he'd find a way to get to her for her special day. He's planned his entrance to the second. I leave him there and run upstairs just in time to see her eyes light up at all the friends gathered in her name. But nothing compares to that moment when he approaches her from behind, and whispers in her ear. The room applauds, but around them time and place slip away and the rest of us get a small view into heaven.
Saturday.
My mother puts down her tea as the second song on the CD begins to play. "I can't NOT dance to this song," she says. And so we spend the next hour of her birthday dancing around the living room laughing like children. We kick off our socks for better traction. We sing, we tell stories. We plan the Christmas menu. But the whole time, we are dancing and dancing.
Sunday.
"I'm really worried about her," the nurse says, " I can't find her anywhere in the building." I take the elevator to the atrium. The scene that greets me makes me forget why I am there for a moment. The sky outside the huge glass panes is completely dark. Headlights sweep the glass as cars go by, but the beams never make it inside. Instead, the glow of low lit lamps give the large community room a homey warm feeling. On all of the couches, patients are gathered. Some are reading, others play chess. One man is hunched over a table using colored pencils to design a card for his little daughter. A woman in the corner picks up scratchy Christmas carols on a tinny radio. On the porch several men huddle together sharing cigarettes and stories of the street.
By the windows there is a Christmas tree. The lights on it burn steady in rainbow colors, and at the top an angel shines brightly. She seems to be guarding the men and women all around her.
I find the missing patient in a rocking chair across the room. She smiles weakly and says, "I know they must be worried, Shell, but I was hurting too much to get up. I'll go with you now."
As we slowly walk to the doors, I turn around for one last look. I notice a detail I hadn't seen. Beneath the tree is a small creche. The perfect wooden figures stand posed in a scene thousands of years old. Mary, Joseph and their baby boy- once cold and homeless, found respite.
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