Happy sort-of anniversary to us. Our anniversary is actually August 13, but we were married on a Friday the 13th. When everything's happy between us, I think of how un-superstitious we were. When we go through the down times that every marriage faces, I think what were we thinking!
Friday, June 13, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
So Much for the Spirit
Some of the funniest things seem to happen to me at church.
Our small Catholic parish consisted of two church buildings for decades before we moved to Oswego, Kansas in 1996. Several weeks ago one of those buildings was condemned and now we are combining into one church family in my town. Because our church building is two blocks from our house, the changes have not affected me personally. But I can feel the grief rolling off of those who have lost their church building one town over, the location where they were married, the structure in which their children and grandchildren were baptized, the spiritual home that held so many warm memories.
Last week we missed 9:00 mass, so we attended 10:30 mass. Most of the people attending at 10:30 were from the condemned church, including the choir. In true Solomon form we arrived just in time to follow Father Larry toward the altar so closely that we looked like part of the procession. Usually we sat towards the back, but for reasons known only to Carl, we marched up to the third row. Well, I didn't exactly march, but it seemed like a good verb for a procession.
That particular Sunday morning I was in more pain than usual, so I took a darvocet before leaving for mass. I also wore a form-fitting, ankle-length, mustard-yellow dress that I hadn't worn recently and, since I couldn't find the, um, proper underclothing, I wore none. I know. Too much information, but bear with me here. It comes into play.
I held five-year-old Hannah in my lap during the gospel reading that Sunday, which told of Jesus' saying, "Everyone who listens to these words of mine will be like the wise man who built his house on rock." Then Jesus continued to tell of the foolish man who built his house on sand. It collapsed. Ouch. That could have pulled the scab off of any healing that might have begun.
Father Larry did a beautiful job during his homily immediately following that gospel reading. He explained how the house was actually the person's faith and spirit life, not a building. I don't remember everything he said now, over a week later, but I recall that he complimented everyone because, in spite of their physical house being condemned, their faith house was still standing.
The darvocet kicked in. I was feeling the Spirit, baby. If we were one of those charismatic churches, I could've yelled preach it! and Amen! Then the choir, which I rarely hear at our church because they sang at the now-condemned church, led us in a song about "letting the healing begin." Remarkable. It was as if I could physically feel everyone around me receive healing from their own grief...or maybe it was the drugs. I sang my heart out as Katie thumbed through a second hymnal for Hannah. With each of the three verses, the Spirit flowed all the more, carrying me higher and higher. Boy, was I ready for the Liturgy of the Eucharist, a quieter part of the Catholic Mass. I could practically feel angel wings flapping around me. Does that mean I should be looking into 12-step programs?
Katie handed Hannah the hymnal just as we finished the last verse. I was soaring high in the rafters when Hannah realized they were done singing. As the rest of the congregation became completely silent, and I watched from my high place, she arched her back and let out a scream that brought me rapidly from the rafters right back into my pew. Right up front. Oh. God.
She slid down my dress onto the floor, so I pulled her, arched-backed and rigid, onto my lap. As I did so, my dress slid up with her, inching towards my knees. Holy smokes! No underwear! I could either allow Hannah to slide back onto the floor, or potentially flash my priest. So much for the Spirit.
I did somehow manage to position Hannah on my lap uneventfully and whisper sweet please-please-please-be-quiets into her ear. She screamed again just as everyone else said, "Blessed be God forever" in unison. Yes. Blessed-be-God please get my screaming five-year-old out of here.
I handed her off to Carl, who can walk without the aid of a cane, blessed-be-God, and he took her to the kitchen until she cooled off. Darvocet or no, it took another five minutes for my heart to slow. I never quite got back into the Spirit that Sunday.
After mass, as if she didn't do a thing, Hannah ran up to Father Larry and said, "Hi Fah-er Wawwy!" and gave him a huge hug. He just said, "Hi Hannah Solomon!" and hugged her right back.
Blessed be God forever.
Our small Catholic parish consisted of two church buildings for decades before we moved to Oswego, Kansas in 1996. Several weeks ago one of those buildings was condemned and now we are combining into one church family in my town. Because our church building is two blocks from our house, the changes have not affected me personally. But I can feel the grief rolling off of those who have lost their church building one town over, the location where they were married, the structure in which their children and grandchildren were baptized, the spiritual home that held so many warm memories.
Last week we missed 9:00 mass, so we attended 10:30 mass. Most of the people attending at 10:30 were from the condemned church, including the choir. In true Solomon form we arrived just in time to follow Father Larry toward the altar so closely that we looked like part of the procession. Usually we sat towards the back, but for reasons known only to Carl, we marched up to the third row. Well, I didn't exactly march, but it seemed like a good verb for a procession.
That particular Sunday morning I was in more pain than usual, so I took a darvocet before leaving for mass. I also wore a form-fitting, ankle-length, mustard-yellow dress that I hadn't worn recently and, since I couldn't find the, um, proper underclothing, I wore none. I know. Too much information, but bear with me here. It comes into play.
I held five-year-old Hannah in my lap during the gospel reading that Sunday, which told of Jesus' saying, "Everyone who listens to these words of mine will be like the wise man who built his house on rock." Then Jesus continued to tell of the foolish man who built his house on sand. It collapsed. Ouch. That could have pulled the scab off of any healing that might have begun.
Father Larry did a beautiful job during his homily immediately following that gospel reading. He explained how the house was actually the person's faith and spirit life, not a building. I don't remember everything he said now, over a week later, but I recall that he complimented everyone because, in spite of their physical house being condemned, their faith house was still standing.
The darvocet kicked in. I was feeling the Spirit, baby. If we were one of those charismatic churches, I could've yelled preach it! and Amen! Then the choir, which I rarely hear at our church because they sang at the now-condemned church, led us in a song about "letting the healing begin." Remarkable. It was as if I could physically feel everyone around me receive healing from their own grief...or maybe it was the drugs. I sang my heart out as Katie thumbed through a second hymnal for Hannah. With each of the three verses, the Spirit flowed all the more, carrying me higher and higher. Boy, was I ready for the Liturgy of the Eucharist, a quieter part of the Catholic Mass. I could practically feel angel wings flapping around me. Does that mean I should be looking into 12-step programs?
Katie handed Hannah the hymnal just as we finished the last verse. I was soaring high in the rafters when Hannah realized they were done singing. As the rest of the congregation became completely silent, and I watched from my high place, she arched her back and let out a scream that brought me rapidly from the rafters right back into my pew. Right up front. Oh. God.
She slid down my dress onto the floor, so I pulled her, arched-backed and rigid, onto my lap. As I did so, my dress slid up with her, inching towards my knees. Holy smokes! No underwear! I could either allow Hannah to slide back onto the floor, or potentially flash my priest. So much for the Spirit.
I did somehow manage to position Hannah on my lap uneventfully and whisper sweet please-please-please-be-quiets into her ear. She screamed again just as everyone else said, "Blessed be God forever" in unison. Yes. Blessed-be-God please get my screaming five-year-old out of here.
I handed her off to Carl, who can walk without the aid of a cane, blessed-be-God, and he took her to the kitchen until she cooled off. Darvocet or no, it took another five minutes for my heart to slow. I never quite got back into the Spirit that Sunday.
After mass, as if she didn't do a thing, Hannah ran up to Father Larry and said, "Hi Fah-er Wawwy!" and gave him a huge hug. He just said, "Hi Hannah Solomon!" and hugged her right back.
Blessed be God forever.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
My Little Enigma
At school Hannah received occupational therapy, physical therapy, speech therapy. Watching her this summer, I'm confused when I try to determine her needs. The occupational therapist worked with Hannah's small motor skills, but at home I watch Hannah play the piano using all five fingers of both hands, playing melodies she has heard and including harmony in some instances.
At school she received speech therapy twice weekly with a speech therapist whom I appreciated and liked. I can tell by the way she consciously forms her mouth into an O or specifically places her tongue at the top of her mouth for an L that Hannah's speech therapist worked successfully with her. Yet now that she's out of school she has begun speaking in sentences, her mouth almost keeping up with her mind.
Carl has given Hannah a fishing pole with a big bright bobber on the end. She calls it a pishing pole and says she catches crout instead of trout. We don't correct her because it makes us smile. She sits outside on my lawn chaise lounge chair at least twice every day, usually wearing very little, and casts her pishing pole into the crepe myrtle bush across the driveway, then successfully reels it in and starts over again.
Piano playing and casting a fishing pole are two things that a typical five-year-old cannot do. Her memory is excellent. When I'm looking for something, she often finds it for me because she remembers where she saw it. She's remarkable in so many ways.
Yet, she cannot regularly follow two-step directions. In fact, I have to be diligent if I want her to complete a one-step direction unless she's personally interested in completing it. She still bites herself, still has unexpected meltdowns (like the one in church last Sunday--ooh, I have another blog entry now), still cannot even begin to read. She's not even 100% potty trained.
She's my little enigma, pulling me down this life path that I never planned, but which I find marvelous in it's mysteriousness.
At school she received speech therapy twice weekly with a speech therapist whom I appreciated and liked. I can tell by the way she consciously forms her mouth into an O or specifically places her tongue at the top of her mouth for an L that Hannah's speech therapist worked successfully with her. Yet now that she's out of school she has begun speaking in sentences, her mouth almost keeping up with her mind.
Carl has given Hannah a fishing pole with a big bright bobber on the end. She calls it a pishing pole and says she catches crout instead of trout. We don't correct her because it makes us smile. She sits outside on my lawn chaise lounge chair at least twice every day, usually wearing very little, and casts her pishing pole into the crepe myrtle bush across the driveway, then successfully reels it in and starts over again.
Piano playing and casting a fishing pole are two things that a typical five-year-old cannot do. Her memory is excellent. When I'm looking for something, she often finds it for me because she remembers where she saw it. She's remarkable in so many ways.
Yet, she cannot regularly follow two-step directions. In fact, I have to be diligent if I want her to complete a one-step direction unless she's personally interested in completing it. She still bites herself, still has unexpected meltdowns (like the one in church last Sunday--ooh, I have another blog entry now), still cannot even begin to read. She's not even 100% potty trained.
She's my little enigma, pulling me down this life path that I never planned, but which I find marvelous in it's mysteriousness.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Pruning
This is my favorite season to be outside, and my blogging shows it. I enjoy pruning plants more than any other element of gardening. In springtime the monkey grasses need cut to the ground to make way for new growth, the decorative grasses need the same, the bright yellow forsythia bushes have since turned to green and now is the time to prune them back if I want them to have free, flowing branches rather than a formal bulb of yellow buds next spring. The spirea need the same.
My dianthus need deadheaded, my daisies need cut and brought inside for enjoyment and the baby trees need cut out of bushes and flowerbeds then killed with stump killer before they take over the space.
I didn't have a great interest in gardening as a child or even as a young adult. This desire to prune feels metaphorical as I near forty, wanting to remove the dead, useless stuff from life, and even some of the weaker, good stuff, to make room for the fantastic, to allow the flowering branches to flow naturally in this next season of my life.
My dianthus need deadheaded, my daisies need cut and brought inside for enjoyment and the baby trees need cut out of bushes and flowerbeds then killed with stump killer before they take over the space.
I didn't have a great interest in gardening as a child or even as a young adult. This desire to prune feels metaphorical as I near forty, wanting to remove the dead, useless stuff from life, and even some of the weaker, good stuff, to make room for the fantastic, to allow the flowering branches to flow naturally in this next season of my life.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Happy? Or Sad?
Several times daily Hannah asks each of us, "Happy? Uh-sad? (Happy? Or sad?)." I cannot hide my emotions from her because she holds a hidden barometer inside herself. I've posted about this before, but this quality continues to grow and mature. I wish I could rip it out of her, but instead I know that I only continue to teach it to her.
Even so, she remains carefree and spontaneous, naked in body and spirit, incapable of hiding anything. I just finished reading The Memory Keeper's Daughter, in which a main character has Down's Syndrome and consequently shows every emotion, hugs everyone she meets, lives life in a childlike manner regardless of her age. Hannah behaves openly that way, hugging every child she encounters, talking to people happily though few can understand her. She assumes everyone likes her and consequently, most do.
At about 6:00 yesterday evening I finished the laundry I had begun and put away my mess. I went outside to check on Hannah and Carl, but couldn't find them anywhere, though both vehicles were home. Finally I found them at the neighbors' house sharing an impromptu barbecue on the new deck that Carl helped them finish last Sunday. Hannah, wearing only panties, danced on the deck with her mouth wide open, living entirely in the moment, happy to dance and sing and make people smile. Originally I felt mortified. She was practically naked, fairly filthy and barefooted.
I've grown to realize I'm the only one who cares. The neighbor playing the music kept asking Hannah what song she wanted next. Everyone chatted and drank beer and margaritas, laughing at Hannah and egging her on. I watched for a while, then called home to have Hailey bring some clothes over. She brought a light blue and yellow sundress that Katie wore as a little one, in which I dressed Hannah, then enjoyed the party.
The "D.J." (really a neighbor playing music on a CD player) played music from the sixties, seventies, eighties--every decade to the present--by the light of a dozen Citronella candles purchased at the Dollar store. Each decade's music prompted us to visit about our lives in that era, what we had accomplished and experienced. As I looked back over my life, I realized I have enjoyed many different things, that my life has been full.
I attended college, sang in a so-so rock-n-roll band (but, hey, we got paid), played tennis, experimented in some things I probably shouldn't have but lived to tell, married, travelled to France, Spain and Portugal, started a business with my husband, snow skied, water skied, white-water rafted, vacationed twice in the Bahamas, struggled with chronic illness, developed some wonderful friendships, let some friends down...I've had a rich life and I'm not even forty yet, though almost.
"Happy? Uh-sad, Mom?" Hannah asks me.
Happy. Definitely happy.
Even so, she remains carefree and spontaneous, naked in body and spirit, incapable of hiding anything. I just finished reading The Memory Keeper's Daughter, in which a main character has Down's Syndrome and consequently shows every emotion, hugs everyone she meets, lives life in a childlike manner regardless of her age. Hannah behaves openly that way, hugging every child she encounters, talking to people happily though few can understand her. She assumes everyone likes her and consequently, most do.
At about 6:00 yesterday evening I finished the laundry I had begun and put away my mess. I went outside to check on Hannah and Carl, but couldn't find them anywhere, though both vehicles were home. Finally I found them at the neighbors' house sharing an impromptu barbecue on the new deck that Carl helped them finish last Sunday. Hannah, wearing only panties, danced on the deck with her mouth wide open, living entirely in the moment, happy to dance and sing and make people smile. Originally I felt mortified. She was practically naked, fairly filthy and barefooted.
I've grown to realize I'm the only one who cares. The neighbor playing the music kept asking Hannah what song she wanted next. Everyone chatted and drank beer and margaritas, laughing at Hannah and egging her on. I watched for a while, then called home to have Hailey bring some clothes over. She brought a light blue and yellow sundress that Katie wore as a little one, in which I dressed Hannah, then enjoyed the party.
The "D.J." (really a neighbor playing music on a CD player) played music from the sixties, seventies, eighties--every decade to the present--by the light of a dozen Citronella candles purchased at the Dollar store. Each decade's music prompted us to visit about our lives in that era, what we had accomplished and experienced. As I looked back over my life, I realized I have enjoyed many different things, that my life has been full.
I attended college, sang in a so-so rock-n-roll band (but, hey, we got paid), played tennis, experimented in some things I probably shouldn't have but lived to tell, married, travelled to France, Spain and Portugal, started a business with my husband, snow skied, water skied, white-water rafted, vacationed twice in the Bahamas, struggled with chronic illness, developed some wonderful friendships, let some friends down...I've had a rich life and I'm not even forty yet, though almost.
"Happy? Uh-sad, Mom?" Hannah asks me.
Happy. Definitely happy.
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