Today will never happen again. You will never be this young again. Don’t cling too tightly on to the last remnants of this day with clenched fingers. Instead, open your hands and release it, with palms up and fingers out, knowing that all the experiences and moments of the day, good and bad, have become part of you, like a spill of wine that can never quite be erased. You have been flavored and stained, marked slightly and changed by this day. Now, you have the opportunity to let that set and cure, to become part of you forever. You are present, lying in the stillness you’ve created to allow the spirit of this day to land on you lightly, to seep in and become another seasoning in the you who shall arise tomorrow, and be present once more; as young as you will ever be again.
Today, July 16, 2018, is what I call a “No-TV Monday.” It’s a self-imposed restriction so that I get something done. No big goals. This is about a little laundry, a little research, a little reading, a little planning, a little bit of something more than I do most days, when I allow the tail to wag the dog, as the saying goes.
In tidying a desk, I picked up a notebook–I have SO MANY notebooks lying around my house and car, some pages filled with writer’s musings and rantings, mixed in with lists of what to pack for the most recent vacation. Today, I opened a random notebook to a journal entry dated 1/5/2016, about what an easy time I was having of life around that time, no problems to speak of, except that I knew of the problems of others and not only suffered for them a bit, but waited in abject anxiety for more of my own. Why do some of us do this, and why am I unable to steer my thoughts away from that constant magnetic pull? Sometimes I read what I have written and I seem to have my shit together, but… evidently not. Just an excerpt:
“…I empathize. Which is not to say that I’m an “empath,” a buzzword I keep seeing on Facebook from obnoxious, self-centered people (you know, the exact way I seem on Facebook to other people.)
People have problems this day. They woke up with the grinding angst in their gut. They got dressed in the fragile grip of a morning dawning with anxiety. I know that feeling. It cannot be turned off by my happy memes. What can I do? What can I do? My palms are face up, hands open, helpless. I cannot mitigate another’s suffering, any more than I can eventually avoid my own. So as I’m about to yield to the emotional paralysis, the lethargy and deliberate retreat from the day because the suffering out there has dimmed the shine, I decide:
It’s not my turn today.
I will change my day if anyone needs me to, to help them, to relieve them. But if not, if there’s truly nothing I can do, tangibly, I will pray my intangible, invisible support and say the things to make it and myself available.
And then I will return to this day, this well-wrapped gift of a day where my thoughts are on the future: dinner, a visit to Florida, another summer ahead.
Today, I will live. I am alive.
January 5, 2016. A Tuesday.”
There’s another blog entry for my three-part I Am Alive mantra, which some of my nearest and dearest have heard about and mock me for, rightfully so. But, the fact remains, I am alive. I AM alive. I am ALIVE.
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— Read on pages.teamintraining.org/nc/nyc18/BTweardy
There was a big, fat, cheeky, cheerful squirrel (as is the case on most days) performing acrobatic stunts and possibly saying “na na nana boo boo!” (in the language of squirrels) as he faced Jane’s wall of glass this morning from his perch atop the vertical slats of the wooden fence.
It was six degrees Fahrenheit. I know this because my Volkswagen told me so as I drove my creaky, holiday-overstuffed body to practice yoga this morning.
These are the mornings I want to stay in bed, to plead the case to myself that if I just stay home from yoga and diet for a few days, I will feel SO MUCH BETTER about going. Because for the past 60 days or so, I have been traveling, drinking, eating sumptuous roasts and the fatted calf and the sacrificial lamb and Burgermeister Meisterburger’s turkey leg…and the cookies. And enough chocolate for an entire neighborhood’s Halloween. And I’ve loved it, but my scale says I’ve loved it ten pounds worth. And my skin is itchy. And my sinuses are sneezy. Even my elbows are fat, or it feels that way. Zippy pants make muffin top, so I had to temporarily abandon them. So I want to hide for a week or two, get myself back in order, and then come out.
If I weren’t teaching yoga now, there’s a decent chance that I would have done just that. But I can’t, because later today, and tomorrow, and going forward, I have a commitment to teach yoga. (I don’t call it a job.) A commitment that I love, and that I live. Because part of the reason I WANT to do it is to share it with others. So, as I always joke to my husband at this time of year, some days my success is that people can come to my yoga class and say, “See? She can do it, and she sure isn’t shaped like a yoga teacher!”
And that’s okay. Because that really IS a success. I’m happy to support that line of thinking.
Back to the squirrel. (“Look! Squirrel!) This morning’s squirrel was fat and sassy, but his (or her) girthy butt was out there, confident as ever. That extra fat, designed to keep him warm and fed during the winter, did not hold him back from leaping with abandon towards a nearby tree branch. It didn’t stop him from balancing and then running on a wood track maybe an inch wide. He didn’t fall, he didn’t balk.
His body didn’t forget what to do. It didn’t lose strength because it had more to carry, it gained it. His power was palpable, the sinew twitching beneath his meaty haunches.
He was also full of joy. Strong and free, season be damned. He was in a good mood.
Sometimes this Tarzan-esque squirrel, or another member of his brood, will taunt us through the window, luring our drishti away to follow his antics, stopping just short of jamming his little squirrel thumbs into his ears and waggling his tongue at us. He is playful but business-like.
If you’re feeling the same way as I am, hesitant to drag your holiday-plumped, pale, wintertime self to do anything physical, come on out.
You’re strong, and your body hasn’t forgotten it. You’re stable, and you will see that you can count on it. You’re flexible, in body AND mind, and that’s what will get you there. And you’re beautiful, which you will realize as soon as you join the rest of us on our mats and see the whole group of us as individual, lovely disasters.
We’re exactly where we need to be.
Have a day! No pressure!!
I just made that up. It stands for “blog entry, no editing.” So here that goes:
Why am I a practicing Catholic? (IF I am a practicing Catholic.) I humbly submit that even professing myself to be a practicing Catholic feels like an overstatement, not because I don’t consider myself one but because humility (yes, humility) prevents me from feeling that I do enough successful Catholic-ing to boast the practice, although I’d be proud to say that I am trying.
But the priests fondling little boys! But the power and corruption and cover-ups! The hypocrisy, the money, the nuns with their rulers. Yes, all of that. But “here’s what” (as Andy Cohen might say):
I belong to a family. I don’t always agree with them, their behavior, their mistakes, their opinions, their rules and criticisms, the way they raise their children or treat their husbands or what they make for dinner. I am still a proud member of my family.
I work for a company. I don’t always agree with the owners, their choices, what they wear to work, what music they play in the lobby, the style of the product they sell, the tagline they stenciled on the front door, the color they painted the walls. I am still grateful to work there and consider myself a proud member of their team.
I live in a community. I don’t always agree with its leaders, the way they enforce the speed limit on my street, the poor business decisions that have led to the empty storefronts, the rusted fire hydrant in front of my house, the lack of responsiveness to complaints, the fact that bulk trash pickup occurs only once a month. I still choose to live here and support the local economy and am proud to be neighbors with the population.
You see where I’m going here, I’m sure. I don’t have to agree with the Catholic church leadership on everything. I am but one member of this body. So yes, that might make me an imperfectly practicing Catholic, but I still call myself Catholic. You may think the Catholic church doesn’t like gays because it will only marry a man and a woman. You may think it thinks poorly of women because they aren’t allowed to be priests. You may think many things about the many things you disagree with the church about. Understand that the church has very specific reasons for its laws. And I have been fortunate enough to be educated my entire life by Catholics, lay and clergy, from preschool through high school and beyond. I was fortunate that all of these influences, all of the folks who have been placed in my path to guide me in my faith have somehow imparted to me that MY personal faith is one informed by my religion, yes, but more importantly by my prayer life, my living relationship with God–the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. My conscience is informed by my conversations with God. Which is not to say that I get to make things up, decide which rules are right and wrong for the Church, because that’s not the case. As a responsible person of faith, I read about and experience my religion, deliberately, to inform my conscience. I ask for help in prayer, and it is delivered to me in books, readings, human beings, nature, news, suffering, and joy…jobs, relationships, pets, vacations, athletic endeavors, illnesses.
I know how I feel about homosexuals, and immigrants, and bad guys, terrorists, orphans, the mentally ill, the imprisoned, Jews, Muslims, interracial couples, cops, criminals, the elderly, the unborn, the born-again, the agnostic and atheist, the current president of our country, the harassed and the rapist. Every time I need to make a decision about my words or actions about one of them, that decision is informed not by my family, my job, my community, nor my religion, but by my informed conscience. My conscience, my personal faith informed and fed constantly by my active, living relationship with the holy trinity through prayer and worship and works and participation.
I’m wrong, hell yes, all the time. I revise and reconsider, beat myself up and nod at myself in agreement. But I practice. Not just being Catholic, but being me, being human, being a person of faith and a witness to that faith. I ask for the help, and it comes. It NEVER FAILS to come, in fact. When I ask for the inspiration, the words, the thoughts to be right, the answers come. It’s miraculous, actually.
I’m not a practicing Catholic because I agree with every law of the Catholic Church. But it is this particular religion which has given me the people and experiences which have brought me thus far in faith, and I will proudly accept the challenge placed before me in prayer to stand with her in support–as I do with my family, my job, my community. I know that it is right to do so because conscience tells me so.
More than all of that, I believe in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I believe that it happened, and I believe that because it happened I am saved and forgiven. I really do believe it. And so I want a seat at that table. That table is only memorialized at every Catholic Mass with a consecrated host. I would never want to be without the opportunity to share in that promise. So, I am a practicing Catholic.
I am a practicing Catholic. And by the way, the Catholic church isn’t a building or even an organization or an institution, as a whole. It is all of those things, and I won’t even use this platform to explain the vastness of the social help given through Catholic Charities Association to people of all descriptions, but wholly it is the eyes, hands, feet, hearts, voices and strength of its members. Like me.