Liturgical Living: Fat Tuesday, and Last Minute Plans for Lent

March 4, Feast of St. Casimir, patron of Poland, Lithuania, bachelors, kings, and princes; also, Shrove Tuesday.

Matthew 6:25-27

Today, we ate chocolate chip pancakes slathered in pure maple syrup, butter, and Nutella and lapped up the left-overs with pan-fried, greasy bacon.  What can I say?  I like to put the "fat" in Fat Tuesday.

Nothing like waiting 'til the last minute to prepare for Lent.  Those who follow regularly know we're in the middle of an overseas move.  When I woke up this morning and the full weight of 40 days could no longer be pushed aside and filed into the back of my mind, I almost panicked.  I've hardly given a thought to my Lenten plans, other than to half-heartedly resolve to the traditional Byzantine fast again.  I'm already anticipating the stress and bustle of the move weakening that resolve.  (Defeatist, much?)  And that makes my anxiety spike almost instantaneously.  I have to have a good start to something.  You see, I'm the worst kind of perfectionist--the kind that would rather not even start a project I won't master.  What a control freak!  It's a good thing Holy Mother Church doesn't depend on my readiness, nor does God's grace.

So I sort-of prayed.  The kind of SOS prayer that is more of a sending out of emotional feelers, and God responded very quickly, and very clearly, with a wordless answer:

Peace.

Peace so often escapes me, and why should it?  It's there for the asking.  If only I wouldn't get in my own way and let anxiety control me.  I didn't choose a word of the year in January, but I can be late to the party.  The Harry Potter book club is honing in on love this season, but I see no reason why peace shouldn't be my larger theme for 2014.  Peace and love can't exist without one another, so much so that they've become a platitude to slap on with a bumper sticker.  The truest, most obvious things are often the things we take for granted.

I'm still going to attempt fasting, because it did me good last year, but I'm choosing to make "peace" my overall focus during Lent.  Peace.  Stillness.  Resting in the bosom of God.  Stopping whatever I'm doing when I feel the anxiety begin to mount, to look at my precious son and will myself to be here.  Why am I getting stressed?  I'm alive, and the sun keeps rising, and the oranges are blossoming, and there's salt in the ocean and snow in the Arctic, and the world is wonderful-wonderful!  I'm much, much too young to be in a constant crisis-panic-survival mode.  What gives, anyway?  If all one has to do is reach out and pluck happiness like a fruit, why wouldn't he?  I'm going to at least try.

As for the rest of my Lenten spirituality, I aim to let it ebb and flow from peace.  Maybe I'll get in the meditations and spiritual readings; maybe I'll make it to Mass more than once a week; maybe I'll even grow in virtue and in discipline.  The only thing I do know for sure is that I won't get very far with any of that without peace.

Be still, and know that I am God.

Blogging, and a Sort-of Manifesto

Feb. 28, Feast of St. Hilary, pope from 461 to 468, and guardian of the Church against the heresy of Monophysitism.

Masha's recent post about why she blogs is, like all things M. writes, enjoyable and thought-provoking.  I'm gonna pull a Chesterton here, and rather than reply in her combox, I'm going to write her a whole post about why I blog.  I've sketched this out before on here, but my reasons are always in flux, so it's good to go over it again periodically, to take stock, to feel things out.  Sort of like how I do when I reflect on the direction of the blog itself.

I started blogging back in 2008, on Xanga, because some of my college friends were doing it.  After a while, I outstripped them in commitment, and when their accounts had long gone dead, I was still pounding away at the keyboard every day, detailing unnecessarily the ins-and-outs of my daily life.  It started as an answer to Ray Bradbury's challenge to write at least 2,000 words a day, but it became a chronicle of my life at the time and a means to shape the person I am today through discussion with and formation by like-minded people and the igniting of lifelong friendships.  It also got me in trouble on more than one occasion, for I was eager and honest and loud-mouthed, an idealist who tended to want to pin down "the right answer" to every riddle life presented; that's a fault I'm still struggling with, I'm afraid.

I fell out of Xanga after I graduated college, and gave it up altogether when I went to grad school.  Then in 2012, I attended the Catholic Writers Conference online and started to learn about all these things people were expected to do if they wanted to become published authors.  One of those things was to start a blog.  At the time, I didn't realize that it was meant for the blog to tailor to the exact topic of the would-be published novel, so I started a general lifestyle blog, under the loose genre of "mommy blog," with heavy Catholic and literary tendencies.  I read up on how to run a successful blog and how to gain a following.  I became an avid reader of other lifestyle/mommy/Catholic/literary blogs.

It wasn't difficult to get back into blogging.  I like to write; writing is how I think and how I make connections.  Hence why the ideal academic pursuit for this girl is to write long, rambling theses on the hows and wherefores of things other people have already written.  I love it.  This time, however, because I was not limited to Xanga, I found an even more like-minded community to socialize with on the net.  Enter a period of booming internet activity.

Now, writing is my first love, and it's also, I believe, with the unquestionable belief of one who has questioned it for too long, what I was made for.  Think of Jonah in the whale, and that's a slightly less troublesome experience than what I've been through to get to this point of acceptance.  But just because it's my vocation (other than motherhood, obviously) doesn't mean that it's going to be easy.  Our circumstances were such that I didn't have the luxury of pursuing writing as a full-time career because I had to have a way to support myself and my family.  All Jonah had to do was agree to be God's messenger, and the whale spit him out.  Me, I couldn't live to obey God's will in the first place if I didn't attempt an income.

So, think I, wouldn't it be nice if somehow the two things could be combined?  I look around and notice that businesses have spontaneously emerged from successful, casual blogs.  There are even those who have gone on to publish books, when publishing a book was never their goal in blogging to begin with.  And thus my dilemma: why do I blog?  I know I blog because I love it; I love writing, I love sharing, and I love the growth and learning that comes from it.  But I can't really blog like I want to (or get on with that first novel, for that matter), if I have financial needs to consider.

It puts me in a weird position: I'd like to make money blogging, even a little, and then eventually have that filter out into publication.  But I can't shake the residual feeling that I'm somehow prostituting myself and my talents if I ask for money for it; even if I was going to be doing it anyway, maybe especially if.

The good thing about our upcoming move is that I don't need to work to get by; I've gone back and forth with myself and others about the wholesomeness of depending on the UK welfare state, but the fact of the matter is that nothing can be done about it, so why torment myself?  In the meantime, I have a good year or so that I will legally not be allowed to work and still won't have to worry about feeding my family or keeping a roof over our heads.  And things have come together in such a way around here that, even if I hadn't been leaving, the jobs I was working would have come to an end pretty soon.

I think the final moment of decision for me was, when looking up an author about a six months back, I came upon a bit of biography that told how, during a time of extreme trial in her life, she resolved to live off of government benefits for a time so that she could write her story; a story that had been wanting to be born for a while, and which, she felt, would never get the chance to live if she didn't write it now.

That author was J.K. Rowling.  That story was Harry Potter.

Ultimately, the reason why I blog is this: I have stories to tell.  Whether they are stories of daily events, the beauty of the Faith, experiences I want to share in hopes of helping others, or the more sacramental stories, the fairy tales--the ones that take form in the deepest part of my psyche, the imagination, that is most like God.

Readers, thank you for sharing this journey with me.  Thank you for your prayers.  Thank you to those (you know who you are) who have given financially to ease my earthly burdens.  It occurs to me that prayers are certainly no less essential than money; and if I'm not ashamed to ask for prayers, why should I be ashamed to offer a service or skill in exchange for a fair income?  I'm still working it out as to how exactly I want to go about doing this, if indeed I still do--since, like I said, at least for a period of time, I'll not have to worry about making a living.  But I can't rely on that lasting forever, nor should I.

Still, if it were up to me, I would write and write and never ask for anything in return; because being able to write is itself such a privilege, and a gift I'll never stop thanking God for.

Why do you blog?  What keeps you blogging?  If you're a blogger who makes money with your blog, how did you come to the decision to monetize it?  Do you have any advice for the rest of us?

------------

If you liked reading this, try these posts as well:

Conscientious Blogging  //  The More Things Change. . .  //  10 Tips to Getting Noticed in a Link-Up  //  Blogging as Community  //  Getting Back into Rhythm

{Guest Post} Expressions of Love: Holding onto the Gay People in Your Catholic Life

by Anonymous

My friend first mentioned his boyfriend in a passing conversation.  He spoke so casually that I’m not sure he realized I hadn’t known he was gay.

If you asked me to describe him to you, the first word to come to mind would probably be sincere.  I say that because it’s the first word I used to describe him to myself, and I went so far as to define it: sincere means more than merely honest; it means well-meaning.  Wanting to do right.  My friend displays that heart in huge quantities through hard work, an unusually sweet openness, patience, good nature, great warmth, and loyalty.

It’s one of the reasons I first loved him.  There’s a disarming sympathy about him; there’s an eagerness, which sometimes looks like a painful anxiousness, to please.  I’ve loved him almost as long as I’ve known him—loved him as you love someone who reminds you of yourself at your most likable, and at your most vulnerable.

He’s not the first gay person I’ve known and loved.  But he is the first gay person I knew and loved as a person before I knew he was gay.

This sets him apart from my gay relatives, all of whom—though I love them dearly—are intense enough to leave me a little shy.  Perhaps because of my comparatively timid personality, I hadn’t really thought through whether I had walls up against getting close to same-sex-attracted friends and family.  Not until those walls shuddered and failed against the sudden, forceful expansion of tenderness.

For the first time, looking at my friend, I experienced—not just empathized with, but fully experienced—why people on the other side of the gay rights wars are fighting.  I understood the power building up in my chest, ready to blow at any provocation. It was the power of five fiercely protective words: “Nobody better hurt my friend.”

But, said a ballsy little voice in the back of my head, you’re Catholic. What about saving his soul?

Yeah, said the fierce power.  I’m Catholic.  Now remember what I went through to join the Church.

There’s nothing in this world that schooled me more in empathy than the process of converting to Catholicism.  I left my Protestant family and friends with a keen sense of betrayal when I was confirmed. They left letters taped to my door; they phoned and argued with me, which they called debating and I called fighting.  They tried calm persuasion, emotional persuasion, anger, attack, surprise attack, insistence while slamming fists into palms, and tears, and when none of that worked, they made sure I knew they were brokenhearted.  Though we’ve made peace and moved on, I’m rather bitterly aware of how not compelling those tactics are, of how much resentment they create.

As important of a life lesson as that was, it’s not one I care to see inflicted on my friend.

I have learned through severe pain that it’s possible to be very devout, very sure of oneself, even very sincere, and very anxious to save someone—and very wrong.  That has made me pretty agnostic about my own opinions and even, to some extent, my beliefs.

I have also learned to loathe the polarization over the gay rights question.  One pole overlooks the fact that the law was made for humans and not the other way around.  Respect for human dignity, care for human needs, must come first.  The other pole more or less insists that expressions of love cannot be wrong, which would be a funny joke if that idea didn’t destroy so many lives.  Hell, adultery can be an expression of love. Where do you draw the line?

Every conflict seems to confirm the poles in their own errors and their mutual hatred.

I believe in the Church’s moral teaching.  But that teaching includes these lines, lifted directly from the Catechism of the Catholic Church:

[M]en and women who have deep-seated homosexual tendencies... must be accepted with respect, compassion, and sensitivity.  Every sign of unjust discrimination in their regard should be avoided. (par. 2358)

And as frustrated as I’ve sometimes been with gay rights activists for dirty political tactics, hypocritical name-calling and shaming, the self-righteousness with which some of them attack anyone who attempts to champion morality—they’re hardly entirely wrong.  Withholding natural expressions of love and loyalty from gay friends and family is unjust discrimination.  Speaking truth without first, last, and always showing love is a failure of respect, compassion, and sensitivity.

If my friend asks what I believe, I’ll tell him.  I’ll do my best to give a balanced picture.  Maybe something like, “The Catholic Church calls any pursuit of sexual pleasure sin except when it’s one man, one woman, married, loving and respectful on both sides, and entirely open to life.  It’s a tough standard; I have a hard time living up to it, and I’m straight, married, and childless!  My friends are all over the map, and I do mean all over it.  Anyhow, the Church warns us not to discriminate with our love.  You know I love you, right?”

In the meantime, I’ve prayed for him as long as I’ve loved him, which was a good year before he used the words my boyfriend in my hearing.  Was he afraid he couldn’t trust my response?

“Aw,” I said.  “What’s his name?”

“Adam.*”

Then I’ll pray for Adam, too.  I hope he’s good to you, friend.





* name changed

Seven Quick Takes: Volume 28

Dec. 21, Feast of St. Peter Canisius, priest and doctor.  This remarkable Jesuit almost single-handedly re-evangelized Central Europe, founded dozens of colleges, revitalized Catholicism with his prodigious writings, and laid the groundwork for the Catholic Reformation north of the Alps.  Declared a Doctor of the Church in 1925, he is patron of Germany, the Catholic press, and catechism writers.  Also, east of St. Thomas the Apostle in the Extraordinary Form of the Roman Rite.

I've got out of 7 Quick Takes lately, mostly because I'm really bad at them (ask an absentminded bookworm professor type to do anything "quick," I dare you!), but there are some days that I just have a lot of little things to say, and this is one of them.  So, without further ado:

-- 1 --

I waffle between under- and over-exaggerating my struggles.  What one day seems to be a true-to-life, honest examination of what's-happening seems on other days like a drama queen performance; what is judicial silence and determination of irrelevance on good days seems like prideful denial on bad ones.

I hope I didn't upset anyone too much by my "confessions" yesterday.  It's hard to know how to say it.  I've been put into place by dear ones who remind me to be a reverse Pharisee by denying need when need is real is not the Christian way.  Especially if I'm not at the place spiritually where I really don't care about my own suffering (pray that I get better at that, won't you?).  But it's all relative.  When I see what others are going through--a mother of two under two who just found out this Christmastime that she has cancer; a dear friend whose husband is dying; a coworker who admits she has never felt happy in her entire life; a relative who spends Christmas alone because her only son died years ago--I realize my issues are drops in an ocean of suffering.

So somewhere between everything-is-fine and the-world-is-ending, there's me.  I just wanted to share my thoughts as an exercise in reflection, in hopes it could help others the way it helped me.  And you needn't worry: I've come to the conclusion about a year back that I would not be too proud to ask for help--but I would only ask for that help if it's truly needed.

-- 2 --

And how the Lord provides!  I should have mentioned during the mild ranting that at the company Christmas party I got a gift card to Subway and a Christmas bonus; my EBT card was spontaneously renewed when I went to fill out the forms online this week; the Saint Vincent de Paul Society at my parish got wind of things and insisted on sending three bags of groceries home with me last weekend; my grandmother wrote a generous check for my Christmas present; and my folks, though out of work for two years and struggling themselves, are still in a place where they are able to and do provide anything I might need.  The Squirt will have no lack of presents from Grandmama and Grandaddy, that's for sure!

My poverty over this Advent has truly been a spiritual one.  But even in this, there is cause for rejoicing!  For how can we merit God's graces if we don't first find the gaping lack of them?

-- 3 --

I have to say, too, that not having spare money during Advent is liberating, a gift in itself (which follows on the heels of what I concluded yesterday).  Since I don't have the resources, I can't buy gifts.  Since I don't have the time, I can't make them.  Or if I do find myself with a little extra spending money, it's going to get spent on something that really wants to be given, and not just a it's-Christmas-and-it's-what-we-do-so-I-bought-you-something-even-though-I-wasn't-sure-it's-what-you-wanted.  You know?  It's a pure philosophy of gifting, in which gifting is better for the giver than the one who receives.

I might have to write more on that later.

-- 4 --

What I'm crocheting lately:

It's sweet, isn't it?  Eventually--eventually as in when Christmas is over and I'm not rushed for time-and-money economical presents--I'm going to venture into learning how to make garments like baby hats and sweaters.  My true dream, though?  Doilies.  Lace, delicate doilies, with iron hook crochets, like what Sarah makes.  Love it.

-- 5 --

(The one my husband might not want to read!)

(Hi, cariad!)

Speaking of clothing, learning how to sew has been on my radar for a while, at first as just a fun "what-if" hobby, then as a "cool people are doing it" scenario, and finally as a "I really want to make my own clothes someday" resolution.  And I don't mean in the fashion-y sense, though it'd be fun to experiment and make things inspired by otherwise obsolete fashions or considered un-cool by today's standards.  But also because things have been developing over the last two years in a direction of greater self-sufficiency and homemakery--or at least, my attraction to them has.  And certain shifts in income and lifestyle seem to support a change in that direction.

I've always had an inexplicable attraction (one of many) to spinning; and as I've picked up my crochet hook again this past autumn, I've let my mind wander along the story of production.  Even yarn from Walmart can rack up unnecessary expenses, if you're talking about really making things to supplement what you would ordinarily buy from a store.  With the handsome spindle given to me by a friend, I can spin my own yarn.  But I still have to buy the wool, and that's not something that's easily accessible either.  So get a sheep, I say to myself--or at least a cat or a dog or something, and use their fur to make your own thread, to crochet your own things.  But while we're at it, why not keep chickens, so we can have our own eggs, and maybe poultry.  In fact, why not throw in a farm?

-- 6 --

I know it seems incompatible with the prim, preppily dress girl in these photos, but my interest in semi-self-sufficiency--via either farming, urban homesteading, or community gardening--has steadily grown.  It started with an affection for rural life and peaked my interest as distributism when reading Chesterton.  Now I've come to know, on varying degrees of intimacy, families and individuals who are learned in, striving toward, or who actively maintain this alternative lifestyle.  The best part is that it's lock-in-key complimentary to the liturgical lifestyle we're already pursing.

In my internet wanderings, I've come upon a resource called the New Catholic Land Movement.  There is a greater dignity in seeing the product you have created, rather than doing abstract work for a symbol of a symbol of wealth (checks are imaginary money, and money is just made out of paper, and that paper is supposed to symbolize the gold in the national vault--wha??); or earning your daily bread by just spreading around ideas and things, rather than creating them--or worse, using and destroying them.  I see all these exceptional, lovingly and quality made items on Etsy that I actually covet, and I think, 'the only thing that keeps me from making those things myself is that I'm busy blundering doing unrelated things in order to make money so that I can eat and clothe myself and my family.'  But wouldn't it just be simpler and more satisfying to remove that nonsense in the middle and just do something that has an immediate, practical, and good end--like planting seeds for food, or keeping sheep to spin thread, or building the things you need like furniture and shelter?  A life like that wouldn't be devoid of luxury altogether, and I there's no question that there'd be a need for poets and painters, but the two types of vocations are much closer in their purpose than the modern world seems to imagine.

That's sort of the philosophy of distributism.  I know the romance would melt away for me soon enough, with hard winters and dependence on the hand of God, but I've already had to train myself in doing without, especially this past month.

-- 7 --

Last but not least, Soul Gardening is hosting its inaugural incentive offer.  Donate any amount to keep the grassroots ministry going and they will send a free copy of the award-winning "Eastern Bound" CD.  If you haven't yet, sign up to receive this quiet little journal; it is truly a must-have for any mama, stay-at-home papa, homesteader, homeschooler, or person who feels the occasional loneliness of isolation and wants lifting up by the black-and-white printed spiritual communion of the Church on earth, Catholic or no.  And oh my, the illustrations are so humbly breathtaking!

Join Jen at Conversion Diary for 7 Quick Takes Friday!

Advent Unplugged: Not What I Expected

Or, Nobody Likes a Pity Party but Everybody's Still Invited

Dec. 20, Friday of the Third Week of Advent.

. . . and it wasn't even a coach before midnight!

I know Advent's not even over yet, but I'm already feeling Christmas burnout.  And I've stayed well away from the secularism and commercial bustle of the season this year.  I've almost had to, as a matter of working-mom survival.

My early Advent reflections had me on board with Molly and Christy and Masha and Haley about switching off and tuning in for this season of quiet expectation.  If I didn't have the resolve to follow through, daily life has made me follow through, but with its own, twisted sense of humor.  (Hyperbole, but still. . .)

In addition to Ordinary Time liturgical living and feast days, I wanted to be on top of daily Advent meditations, a Christmas novena, giving to those in need, spending more quality time with my son, attending a daily Mass or two, and choosing or making thoughtful, meaningful gifts for those closest to me.  I don't have the finances to provide everyone I would like to with Christmas gifts this year; but I would have liked to be able to give the gift of creative and loving effort, or at least time and friendship, and even that has been lacking.

It's less than a week before Christmas, and I'm not even sure if cards are going to go out this year.  Fortunately for Catholics, Christmas extends well into January, so there's still time for that.  Maybe.

(Oh, and wholesome, home-cooked meals for myself and my son and keeping a tidy house?  Fuhgettaboutit.)

I mean, I wanted to deck the halls to cheerful music, fill our home with good baking smells for the holy days, meticulously practice the beautiful devotions that are so numerous this time of year.  It's not like I've been wasting time internet shopping or attending Christmas parties every weekend.

Yet despite those things--though they are good ways to observe the season and a far cry better than absorbing oneself in commercials of shiny cars with giant bows on them--it occurs to me that I've had a successful Advent after all.

This month has been particularly difficult.  At one point, my debit card was declined, my EBT was maxed out, my water shut off, and I couldn't get my prescription refilled so was dizzy and cloudy-headed and scheduled to close at the deli that evening.  I canceled indefinitely my son's speech therapy because, despite being paid for by Medicaid, I had to drive an hour out of the way once a week and then an hour back to get there.  I've plunked extra money into tests trying to find out what's wrong with me and why I keep getting sick, not to mention the recurring fatigue and body aches unrelated to viruses; so far, the results have been a big FAT NOTHING.  (So I'm imagining it?)  I resent that all these weeks--the four weeks that lasted an eternity when I was young, so that Christmas never seemed to come--have flown by without any sympathy for my convenience.

The latest flu-cold-thingy has forced me to to bed and quarantine in my leisure hours, so I've been able to reflect a little.  There would probably have been a time (like, this summer) that I would have pushed myself to do everything; and if I didn't, I would have moped and felt guilty and disappointed about it.  But I'm not going to do that, and I haven't been.  As for the things that do happen, I'm making an effort to put them in perspective.  Allow me to post this exercise to the internet for everyone to see:

I haven't enjoyed the traditions of the Church's seasons to the fullest like I wanted.
God makes sure that my intentions and offerings are pure by frustrating my plans.

I haven't been able to put together thoughtful little gifts for coworkers, friends, and family.
God graciously makes me aware that my poverty is not only material but spiritual, and that true gifts come through His grace alone, for which I take no credit.

I am sick and poor and weary.
I am whole and well fed, with a roof over my head, clothes on my body, books to read, a healthy son, access to the Sacraments, freedom and talents, and loving friends and family.

I've failed to keep my Advent devotions and novenas.
Prayer does not have to be formal or beautiful but is any sort of communion with God that comes from a deep need in the soul reaching out to Him.

So this Advent hasn't turned out the way I planned or wanted.  It's drained me and hasn't been the restful season it's meant to be.  But in His own mysterious way, God has chastened me.  He's given me a pretty obvious lesson in humility (again).  Instead of feeling sorry for myself because my cell phone's screen goes blank at will and during every phone call; my glasses are old and I haven't updated my prescription in over five years (contacts--I wish!); the underwire of my only bra from Walmart is broken; I haven't got a single thing for the Squirt this Christmas, much less gone Christmas shopping; and my friends must be feeling pretty neglected at the lack of communication, birthday party attendance, and season's greetings . . . I'm gonna let it go.

That's my Advent.  Instead of wallowing in it, I'll lie it all down before the manger.  (Frankincense-and-myrrh are nice, but what do you get the God who has everything?)  Christmas is coming, ready or not.  And thank God for that!  Because if He waited for me to be ready, He'd be waiting a long, long, long, really long time.  Alleluia!

Liturgical Living: What to Do about Father Christmas?

Dec. 10, Feast of Pope St. Miltiades (Melchiades).  Tuesday of the Second Week of Advent.

I grew up acquainted with Santa Claus.  Christmas Eve was better by far than even Christmas Day because the expectation and the ideal of the luxurious presents in colorful disarray beneath evergreen boughs was by far better than the reality--though that was pretty good, too!  And what could have incarnated and represented this sweet expectation better than Santa Claus?  That mysterious resident of Faerie, good-natured but not permissive, who defied all science (though not the logic of the human heart) and visited every single house in the world in one breathless night, bestowing gifts to good children in homage to the Christ Child?

I knew Santa was sometimes called Saint Nick, but I learned of the historical saint much later.  As I fell deeper in love with the Faith, I was tickled and proud that our own dear bishop should be the source and inspiration for my beloved childhood friend.  Interest in foreign cultures and anthropology introduced me to many delightful traditions regarding Nicholas and Christmas--including the medieval liturgical celebration of his feast on December 6th, still observed in some European countries.

Meanwhile, Father Christmas, understood to be more or less Santa Claus's British counterpart, endeared me to him in the sacred stories of my adolescence.  To this day, the phrase "always winter, never Christmas" gives me delicious chills, causes me to crave Turkish delight, and attracts me to wardrobes.

Now my own son is coming of age, that holy age of unbridled imagination.

Last year, Father Christmas left him candy and presents in an over-sized stocking; last week, Saint Nicholas tucked sugared oranges and miniature candy canes into his little shoes.  I want to submerge him in the alternative lifestyle that is the Church calendar and teach him the mysteries of human story; for for me, the realm of Faerie and the Truth of the Faith are not mutually exclusive.  On the contrary, I don't believe I could even approach one without the other.

an illustration of Father Christmas at the North Pole by JRR Tolkien

So I was a little dismayed to read this article on CatholicCulture.org, one of my favorite resources for liturgical living:

Many people think that Santa Claus is St. Nicholas "in disguise." Actually the two figures have nothing in common except the name.

That threw a wrench in my dewy-eyed, fanciful plans for integrating the magic of my childhood with the magic of the Incarnation.  If Santa Claus is merely a sanitized, Protestant-scrubbed, secular shell of the real Saint Nicholas, how can I justify continuing the tradition that weakens the life-giving and salvific richness of the Catholic Faith?  Yet I wouldn't deprive my own son of that poignant joy of Christmas that nurtured my imagination and cultivated my soul in preparation for greater mysteries.  Who, indeed, says it better than Chesterton:

What has happened to me has been the very reverse of what appears to be the experience of most of my friends.  Instead of dwindling to a point, Santa Claus has grown larger and larger in my life until he fills almost the whole of it.  It happened in this way.  As a child I was faced with a phenomenon requiring explanation.  I hung up at the end of my bed an empty stocking, which in the morning became a full stocking.  I had done nothing to produce the things that filled it.  I had not worked for them, or made them or helped to make them.  I had not even been good–far from it. And the explanation was that a certain being whom people called Santa Claus was benevolently disposed toward me. . . .  What we believed was that a certain benevolent agency did give us those toys for nothing.  And, as I say, I believe it still.  I have merely extended the idea.  Then I only wondered who put the toys in the stocking; now I wonder who put the stocking by the bed, and the bed in the room, and the room in the house, and the house on the planet, and the great planet in the void.  Once I only thanked Santa Claus for a few dolls and crackers, now, I thank him for stars and street faces and wine and the great sea.  Once I thought it delightful and astonishing to find a present so big that it only went halfway into the stocking.  Now I am delighted and astonished every morning to find a present so big that it takes two stockings to hold it, and then leaves a great deal outside; it is the large and preposterous present of myself, as to the origin of which I can offer no suggestion except that Santa Claus gave it to me in a fit of peculiarly fantastic goodwill.

I think Chesterton would also agree that what the article on Catholic Culture finds distasteful is that which makes Santa endearing and recognizable in a profound way.

Behind the name Santa Claus no longer stands the traditional figure of St. Nicholas but the pagan Germanic god Thor (after whom Thursday is named).  To show the origin of the modern Santa Claus tale let us give some details about the god Thor from ancient Germanic mythology. 

Thor was the god of the peasants and the common people.  He was represented as an elderly man, jovial and friendly, of heavy build, with a long white beard.  His element was the fire, his color red.  The rumble and roar of thunder were said to be caused by the rolling of his chariot, for he alone among the gods never rode on horseback but drove in a chariot drawn by two white goats (called Cracker and Gnasher).  He was fighting the giants of ice and snow, and thus became the Yule-god.  He was said to live in the "Northland" where he had his palace among icebergs.  By our pagan forefathers he was considered as the cheerful and friendly god, never harming the humans but rather helping and protecting them.  The fireplace in every home was especially sacred to him, and he was said to come down through the chimney into his element, the fire. (See H. A. Guerber, Myths of Northern Lands, vol. I, p. 61 ff., New York, 1895). 

Here, then, is the true origin of our "Santa Claus."  It certainly was a stroke of genius that produced such a charming and attractive figure for our children from the withered pages of pagan mythology.  With the Christian saint, however, whose name he still bears, this Santa Claus has really nothing to do.  To be historically correct we would rather have to call him "Father Thor" or some such name.

The article dismisses the modern American Santa Claus as drawing his identity from "the withered pages of pagan mythology," which, I must admit, stupefies me.  Are we talking about the same powerful mythic tradition that taught Tolkien to glorify God Almighty in Middle Earth; that gave C.S. Lewis cause to pause and consider the existence of Truth and the Fall in the soul-shattering phrase, Baldur the beautiful is dead, is dead--?

But surely if Santa Claus has his origins in Thor, he can be found earlier than the 1800's poem and capitalist propaganda.  What about Father Christmas?  He has a totally different name.  Could he have been adapted from Santa Claus, or Santa's predecessor, Saint Nicholas?  And who was that guy in Dickens who appeared with long beard in laurels and robes, with rosy cheeks, calling himself the Ghost (read "spirit") of Christmas Present?

the Ghost of Christmas Present in Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol

References to a spirit of Christmas go back to the early renaissance.  Ben Johnson has a character appear in a masque reminiscent of medieval mystery plays, in which abstract ideas and attitudes were personified.  He wasn't a giver of gifts--that element belongs to Saint Nick--but a merry-making lord of sorts, a mysterious emissary from an Otherworld that occasionally overlaps with our own during a liminal time (an acceptable time)**, the threshold of winter.  In this guise, he is reminiscent of an enchanted Bertilak in Sir Gawain and the Greene Knight*--which would put his origins back even further, overlapping him with the likes of the Green Man, who is interpreted to be a symbol of the cycling back of life to rebirth in spring.  And what a fitting role for Father Christmas, who heralds the crowning glory of Advent--Advent meaning "coming," and a sometimes synonym for "beginning."  What is the coming of Christ if not the new beginning?

What I found is that the article was right, after a fashion.  Santa Claus, e.g. Father Christmas, and Saint Nicholas are not the same.  Nor does either benefit from the mistaken identity of Macy's famous fat man.  Each is significant, and each has his role to play in Christendom.  Before Advent of this year, I had a sketchy but certain idea that Saint Claus would be our family tradition.  Now I feel differently.

Both are important to the kind of formation in Faith I want for my son: Saint Nicholas, the friend in Heaven and model of Christian charity and steadfastness; Father Christmas, the amalgamation of that most accurately and truly expressed in a benevolent and sometimes dangerous man who, like nature, God's own creation, points to mysteries beyond himself and a reality not yet fully grasped.

We'll have both visitors in my home this year--and, I hope, many, many years to come.  Now all I have to do is figure out the Easter Bunny.



*  Also, Harry Potter's Hagrid, anybody?
**  Kairos tou poiesai to Kyrio.  "It is time for the Lord to act."  When time touches eternity; eternity reaches down into and pierces time.

Liturgical Living: an Alternative Lifestyle

Oct. 1, feast of St. Thérèse of the Child Jesus, Doctor of the Church; popularly known as "the Little Flower."

Hope you've noticed--I've been making note of the feast days for each blog entry these past weeks.  It's a habit I first encountered in a young adult book (highly recommended), Catherine, Called Birdy by Karen Kushman.  In this journal of an English adolescent and daughter of a poor country knight, Birdy conveys her society's saturation with the liturgical seasons.  The book made a lasting impression on me: first, as a novel worth emulating, if I ever wanted to write and publish a story of my own one day; and second, as witness to the beauty and rhythm of the seasons observed by the medieval Church.

In my desire and resolutions to live a more liturgically-focused lifestyle, I've found an excuse to take up Birdy's practice.  And though we've been extremely busy these past few weeks, what with new jobs, colds, fundraisers, and speech therapy appointments, I'm not unhappy with my novice's attempt to live liturgically this Ordinary Time.

Making hot cross buns for Holy Cross Day.  I substituted maple syrup and almond milk, and left out the currants.

They came out delicious!  Even though the crosses made them look more like fortune cookies.

So how does one incorporate the feasts of the Church into everyday life?  In this, I've found two main sources helpful: CatholicCulture.org is an excellent online resource to the liturgical year, with brief introductions of saints and feast days and links to recipes, activities, crafts, and prayers; The Year and Our Children is also helpful to have on hand.

This September, there were hot cross buns for the Exaltation of the Holy Cross (Sept. 14).  I cooked up a huge pot of farfalle with peppers and Italian sausage in memorial of Saint Padre Pio (Sept. 23).  We sang "Good King Wenceslaus" on St. Wenceslaus's day (Sept. 28) and baked tea cookies to honor the English tradition of free tea shop treats on this old saint's feast.  And though I would have liked a devil pinata for Michaelmas (Sept. 29), we made do with Saint Michael's the Archangel's prayers for attacking our colds and defending our good health.

While the secular world moves through its cycles, we are aware of the deeper meanings behind berries and bonfires.

The Harvest Moon is always the full moon nearest to the autumn equinox--this month, Sept. 19, Feast of Saint Januarius.

My son is still young, so we've set aside the crafts for next year.  And while the recipes have been hit or miss, depending on the amount of time they take to prepare and my wellness that day, merely being aware of the liturgical season has placed a peace on me--as one who inhabits a country or climate is more secure, more aware of the lively world around her, assured of her place and role in Creation.

I still read Catherine, Called Birdy about once a year, incidentally, completely by accident.

3 Reasons I Love Catholicism, Vol. 5

Linking up (belatedly) with California to Korea.

1.  Suffering

The thing about suffering in the Church is, you never suffer alone.

I don't mean that there is always someone somewhere praying for you, though maybe not by name.  I don't mean that you can go to any Catholic parish and a Saint Vincent de Paul Society will tend your material needs while a priest in a confessional hears out your spiritual ones.  I don't even mean the Eternal Presence of Christ in the sacrament of the Eucharist, though that's hardly a mild comfort.

I mean that God Himself knows what it is to suffer; that, if we believe in the eternal sacrifice and know that all of space and time is present before the Most High, God even now is intimately familiar with (what we might call) despair.  And that when our soul's agony cries out to heaven, He weeps with us, saying, "I too have cried out to God, asking why He has forsaken Me."

If I were not a Catholic, I don't know what I'd do with suffering.  It has been Christ crucified, and His silent company, that I've clung to in times of terrible sorrow.

That, and the knowledge that in Catholicism, suffering is not for nothing; it's never wasted.  Suffering can purify.  Suffering can heal.  Through Christ's sacrifice, it is made fruitful.  We can consecrate our suffering and join it to that of Christ on the cross, who said, "Behold!  I make all things new" (Rev.21:5).

2.  Community

Excepting the Arctic and Antarctic circles, and some remote Pacific islands (Pitcairn), the Catholic Church is literally universal.  It can be found in every country in the world.  The apostolic succession set up by Our Lord and the early Church has successfully withstood heresy, rebellion, war, schism, and modernity to remain One.  That's a pretty incredible feeling.  I can wander into a small Swiss village in the Alps one Sunday morning looking for Mass and find an active Catholic parish.*  I can kneel during the consecration of the Blessed Sacrament and be joined in adoration with all the other Catholics that day all over the world, present at the same exact sacrifice.

3.  Ceremony

Human beings thrive on ceremony.  It quenches an instinct as primal as the sex drive, evident from prehistory; surviving through folklore, myth, and artifacts; buried carefully with the beloved dead.  Even atheists happily practice superstitions, and cherish family customs passed down from generation to generation.  Children revere bedtime routines to the point of insisting the babysitter follow Mommy's nightly ritual: bath, book, lullaby . . . and don't forget to tuck her in, just so!  Ceremony is not meaningless but expresses the inseverable union of material reality and spiritual truth.  Since God became man, all matter is sanctified.

The Church recognizes and celebrates this, and gives us ceremony.  She might've interpreted Jesus's command to do this in memory of Me in the simplest of terms.  Many "Bible churches" do.  But every action blesses and enriches.  So the incense and the chanting in Latin; the kneeling and fabric-draped altar; the lips touching crucifixes and colors of candles are for us as much as they are for Him we worship.  We were created as works of art, and our every act of living should be a sublime performance.

Even the simple act of blessing is a ceremony--not a mere thought of good will or a spoken word but a kind of dance.  The lifting of the hand, the touching of the forehead--down to the chest, across the shoulders--to trace a cross in the air, like a magic spell.

----------

*This really happened to me.

Theme Thursday: Faith

Linking with Clan Donaldson for Theme Thursday.

f/1.8 , ISO 400 , 50 mm

“Faith is the art of holding on to things your reason has once accepted in spite of your changing moods.” -- C.S. Lewis

This teaching of Lewis's hooked into my theological fascination when I first read of it; later on, it would anchor me.

During a particularly stormy time of my life, I couldn't feel God's existence or summon the comfort I had always found so easily before in my One True Faith.  But I could remember this: that once, in a time when I was at peace and full of clarity, I knew, without a blemish of doubt, that God was real.  And I could hold onto that, as a sailor lost at sea sets his eyes to the northern star.  Land does exist--at one time he felt it, walked upon it--and as long as he continues to follow it, it will lead him home.

Today

Linking up with the inspiring Masha at Piękno.

A secret kept, by one mama for another.  c;

Today, I am

Feeling . . .  tired!  I've been going without stopping these past few weeks, and even when I've managed to catch up on sleep I feel the tiredness of the lack of spiritual and mental rest.  But, I am able-bodied and blessed and buoyed up by the Holy Spirit and love of friends, so I'm not complaining (not at the moment, anyway!).

Seeing . . .  several papercrafts online for the upcoming baby shower.  I love DIY so much, especially the useless kind, like decorations.  You can do so much more with pretty handy things than with store-bought party supplies.

Smelling . . .  my lingering Butterfly Flower perfume from the friend's wedding I attended on Saturday--the fresh, floral scent I wore at my own wedding three years ago.  <3

Tasting . . .  popcorn, with just some oil and salt.  It's so delicious.

Listening . . .  the contented jabber of my son--little, monosyllabic shouts of enthusiasm.

Grateful . . .  for the internet.  Really.  After being forcibly kept from it more than I am accustomed, I realize how important it is for connecting me with friends and higher thinking that fuels me through the less-than-interesting and tiresome times.

Also, for civil debates and discussions.  Wish there were more of these, especially on the 'net.

Reading . . .  Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.  I've also rented an old favorite from the library, The Moorchild, but at the rate things are going, it'll be due before I put a significant dent in it.

Loving . . .  this late-summer time of year, when the light is deep, rich amber--the summer not quite yet drawing to a close, but well along.  A sunflower season.

Hoping . . .  for a cleaner home tomorrow!  For some time to write letters and catch up on reading.  For a relaxing stay on the beach this upcoming week.  For many photos of my son and grandmother together.  For love notes from my husband, and to see him again in person sooner rather than later.

29/52

"A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2013."

Whether we're going up or down the stairs is irrelevant.  It's always an uphill climb.  We like to take our time on the steps: one-two, one-two.  And sometimes we turn around and undo our progress, which Mama does not like if we are in a hurry.  We stop to examine the shoes outside of the neighbors' apartment.  We experiment by dropping our pacifier between the railings.

When I look back on the months, I am astounded.  I have been doing this, and doing it on my own for about seven months, while my husband prepares for our emigration back in Wales.  Doing it through financial hardship, and mental illness, and broken family relationships, and depression.  But also through amazing moments of grace and joys so acute they're almost painful.  I'm kind of breathless.  It's like when you've climbed a mountain, and you don't realize how far you've come until you stop and turn around; see the valleys and the roofs of houses peppered on the green, no bigger than mushrooms.

I remember climbing mountains like that in the heart of German Switzerland.  It was, probably, the most beautiful place I've ever been on earth.  Though I feel similarly about Wales, Ecuador, and Italy, so far, those ice-capped mountains are the most sublime of beauties I've yet encountered.

Thinking back on it, trying to conjure my feelings of the time tends to evade me.  But this afternoon, as I was driving with my son in that deep yellow summer light, the road sped sleek and the green ground to my left fell away from it, tumbling into a small hollow.  I thought, "How beautiful for the homes and people who look out onto this every day!"  Then I looked to my right and felt again what I felt in the Alps, almost a decade ago, that sunny September: my soul was most bright and open when I faced upward.  

No matter how often I turned, panting, to look at the steep and sheer paths I had crossed, I was compelled to turn forward again, to face the upward climb, even when I was too tired to go on.  Somehow, the curve of the unseen, and the height looking like it couldn't possibly go any further--if I could only mount that summit--was my preferred direction.  At the same time, it was the knowing that it could go on and on, right into the firmament, but be more and more of the same, always up and up, that turned me toward it like a daisy with her face to the sun.  And when, at the end of the day, finally exhausted, thirsty, footsore, and hungry for oxygen, it was with disappointment that I turned away from the upward climb and headed down again.

Lewis writes in his final Narnia chronicle of the children running without ever losing breath, up and up and up the mountains, and all creation shouting, "Come further up, come further in!"  After Switzerland, I "got it," in one way.  Maybe now I "get it" in another.

Five Favorites (vol. 20)

(1) Gilbert Magazine, (2) Dappled Things, (3) StAR, (4) oh comely, (5) Soul Gardening

This week I want to share my five favorite traditional publications.  The digital word is convenient and nice for bridging gaps of geography to bring people together, but I believe in black print on paper and the feeling of a cover v'd between your hands.

Most likely, I have listed the quirky British lifestyle/artsy/creative magazine as one of my favorites before, but this is a new grouping, and so I feel obliged to include it.  Also, I couldn't think of a fifth traditional publication for which I anxiously check my mailbox every day when I know that it's that time of the month/season/year!

I know I've included Soul Gardening previously.  And so what?  It stands on its own merit as a favorite outside of printed paper!

Next week, I'm going to do my five favorite online publications.

-- 1 --

Named for the infamous G.K. Chesterton, who gave this blog its name and whom I consider my spiritual teacher and father, patron saint, and favorite writer.  Gilbert is intelligent without being dense and has much to offer even those who are not fans of Chesterton.  Among its readers are multitudes of Catholics, many Christians, some Jews, and at least one Muslim (stats quoted by memory from one of the GM's past articles, so don't hold me to it--they may have changed by now).

My favorite returning articles are the editorial by Dale Ahlquist, president of the American Chesterton Society; "The Signature of Man," a column that is a re-print of some commentary of GK's on art of his day, which is, as in all of his writing, eerily appropriate to modern times; and "News with Views," little snippets of real news events that highlight the absurdity of modern culture--chances are, you won't find reports on these sometimes-outrageous-sometimes-astounding happenings anywhere else, unless you are deliberately looking for them.

Gilbert Magazine is about 1/3 Chestertonian learning, 1/3 cultural and literary reflection and discussion, and 1/3 innocent fun--if for nothing else, pick up a copy of one for its delightful illustrations!

-- 2 --

This pristine periodical is the Catholic literary magazine in English which, if it had appeared in her day, would have certainly made Flannery O'Connor cry with joy.  Dappled Things' standards are impeccable and never have I seen it to sacrifice quality art for religious sentimentalism.  Its genres are fiction, essays, and poetry, spanning the rigid but triumphant traditional forms to the languid modernity of free verse.  Every university and seminary needs a subscription.

--3--

Saint Austen Review takes a scholarly eye to Catholic culture with regard to art and literature.  It's like if Gilbert and Dappled Things got married and had a baby, and StAR was it.  Love this one!  As in DT, don't expect fluff and ginger, nicey-nice treatment.  They mean to keep Catholic art art and judge accordingly; as O'Connor said,

. . . the chief difference between a novelist who is an orthodox Christian and the novelist who is merely a naturalist is that the Christian novelist lives in a larger universe.  He believes that the natural world contains the supernatural.  And this doesn’t mean that his obligation to portray the natural is less; it means it is greater.

--4--

From made-up covers of penny dreadful novels to an interview with the roller derby queen of England, sometimes the frivolous can be good for the soul; I mean, delighting in the daily things--in mismatched buttons, scribbling self-portraits, and making your own pasta-- is far less shallow than what we find in fashion mags and gossip columns.  oh comely is that kind of read.

Oh and the tagline: "Keep your curiosity sacred."

!!!  <3

The sparse and lovely photographs aren't bad either.  c;

--5--

I can't say enough how much of a delight this little magazine is to me!  In some ways, I'm too artsy and flower-child for a devout Catholic crowd; in others, I'm too dogmatic and orthodox for a the poet-types (which accounts for the somewhat schizophrenic nature of this blog).  Soul Gardening is a perfect marriage of both.  With little reflections and tips and rhymes that bring together Catholic mothers who value classical education, the natural world, and the importance of beauty, with icon-like, folksy black-and-white illustrations, this one needs to find its way into the hands of every Catholic woman looking for a way to add dimension and quiet communion to the daily drudge.  Thank you Mary, Ursula, Sia, and Ellie!

It's also completely free.



So what are you favorite printed publications?  First Things get your philosophy and politics ticking?  Simple Things magazine lift you up with its light-as-air advice and content?  I'm always looking for great new reads.

Seven Quick Takes: Volume 23

Joining Jen at Conversion Diary for 7 Quick Takes Friday.

-- 1 --

Happy America Day, ya'll.  Hope you had a nice one.  We did.

We bid farewell to the man of the house as he departed on an airplane back to Cymru, to continue pursuing our immigration progression and prepare the way for us to join him (I pray sooner rather than later).

After an early afternoon nap, the Squirt and I joined my folks at the annual part hosted by a prominent family.  People show up each year in the hundreds, each bringing a side dish or dessert.  Beverages, beer, and barbecue are provided by the hosts.  It's nice to see old acquaintances and to indulge in the intimacy only large parties can provide, to quote Jordan Baker from The Great Gatsby.  It really is rather like our Gatsby party . . . the small town version.

-- 2 --

We finished the night with a bloom of fireworks.  About ten minutes, which is a long running time for a private affair.  The Squirt was tired and cranky, but when the lights sparkled, he was quite and paid attention.  It wasn't until the grand finale that he made that slow, deep frown that signified he'd had enough.

Firework-gazing on soft blanket over crunchy summer grass is among my fondest childhood memories.

-- 3 --

The meal-planning initiative is only one part of a greater attempt at honing my life to holy domesticity and liturgical rhythm.  I enjoyed immensely the Byzantine fast this past Lent (as much as one can enjoy a fast--taking pleasure in a worthy sacrifice is more accurate), and I've been looking for ways to incorporate other medieval Church traditions.  I missed Saint John's Day and the fern flower, I'm afraid.  I believe I was working!

Anyway, a Google search retrieved this book, which has apparently been around for a while.  Anyone recommend it?  Is it cutesy crafts or more permeating practices?  I'm open to recommendations.

-- 4 --

You know what is great for keeping the liturgical seasons, though?  Feasts and Seasons, which is aired sometimes on EWTN.  I'm all over these Saint Bartholomew's Day Honey Apples.  And the Saint James grotto might catch the Squirt's attention for a good fifteen minutes (he likes dirt, playing in dirt, rolling in dirt, eating dirt, and rocks).

-- 5 --

Another practice I'm integrating is (almost) daily walks, with the little heathen in toe, strapped into his stroller.  There's a pretty trail in the midst of the city-town, not far from our apartment building, a mile in length.  Getting there, walking down, turning back, and returning home, I'm guessing, adds up to about 2 and 1/2 miles.

Exercising used to be incredibly hard for me; I mean, my body had a physical aversion to breaking down energy, which, in all my twenty-eight years of suffering through it, I have yet to find a modern medically approved term for it (though I meet all the criteria here, modern medicine doesn't recognize this a medical condition).  Now I drink daily all-natural energy drinks, and I'm like a different person.  I enjoy the brisk walk, sweating is not synonymous with slow death, and I don't feel faint and nauseated during and after.  When we get home after the walk, I feel better, not worse.  And I believe that starting the day off with vigorous exercise energizes me for the rest of the day.  And we all know that it helps us sleep better and eat less.

Still not quite ready to jump on the running bandwagon, however.

-- 6 --

I'm looking to purchase candles in bulk because the cheapest votives available around here are $1 minimum, and they only burn for a few days.  I also like to burn candles for recreation and comfort, and as often as I do, they get expensive.  I'm guessing a parish supply store would have affordable deals.

-- 7 --

Congrats to Ms. Hannah!  She was the only person who put a bid in for my copy of the 2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction: Collect Short Stories, so she wins by default!  Hannah, please e-mail me your mailing address and let me know if you would like me to write anything special in the in-sleeve when I sign it.

Mag 171

Linking up with Magpie Tales for the visual poetry prompt.  So out of practice, but I wanted to create something this morning.

Only we can't see that
we are finished things.
Perfection renders movement impotent.
Yet concentric circles revolve,
hence the burning wheels, and each
insignificant act strokes a color--
salmon, lilac-blue--upon canvas,
so that out of flecks of dust emerges
a shining, incarnate thing,
posessing space, transparent bones,
and feathers.  The waking,
walking, singing is the same,
the way the brook rushes
but the river remains, unmoved
by generations of insects.

Seven Quick Takes: Volume 16

-- 1 --

Look!  I executed a mildly successful non-recipe on Wednesday, and it was yummy!

Egg rolls.  I think.  Here's the quick version.

Instructions for cooking come right on the Nasoya package.  You can fancy it up by adding sauteed pork, peanut sauce, and sprouts; or even go southwestern with black beans, rice, and cheese.

Out of a super-neat coincidence, I found a similar simple meal idea on Romancing Reilly.  Yum!

-- 2 --

I got the paper copy books in the mail last week, three total.  One is being reviewed by my parish priest so he can approve it for Mary's Cova, our flourishing little library.  So I have two left.  I'm pretty sure I want to keep one for reference purposes, but the other I've considered making my first Everything to Someone giveaway!

So what's gonna happen is that I'm gonna talk about it for a little while to build up awareness and then probably do a random drawing thing.  2012 Tuscany Prize for Catholic Fiction Collected Short Stories: it could be yours!  Stay tuned, folks.

-- 3 --

It's time to "come out of the closet."  I'm participating in April's CampNaNoWriMo, which is super silly because I have way more important things I should be doing, not least of which is editing and drafting the second version of the First Story, which has been kicking up its heels and being difficult lately.

I've gained a new exhilaration in novel free-writing that suffers from the restraints and discipline of editing; and I think when I come back to the First Story, it will be with a rested muse.  At least that's my hope.

On the other hand, blog talks with the astute Jenna have made me look at novel-writing as a career in a different way, and I think it couldn't be a bad thing to get a few embryonic novels under my belt to have, maybe even for self-publishing, if attempts at publishing the First Story don't go as hoped/planned.

Talking with Jenna has helped loosen me to feeling less snobby about the subjects I write, and trust that the organicness of my faith and love for real literature will find its way in, even in a less poured-over endeavor.  If I hope to make a somewhat viable income as an author some day, I've read enough about the industry to know that quality over quantity is actually the way to go.  Weird, innit?

You can donate too, and I signed up for my own page, goal $150 in fundraising; in case people were more inclined to help if it were connected to someone the actually knew.  I try to be a good citizen.  c;

-- 4 --

I joined my college friends last night for a showing of their original 30-minute film Cakewalk.  These were the friends that graciously suffered me to put my silly face in the college campus movies they made back-in-the-day, which mostly consisted of slightly absurd philosophical musings, parodies of friends, bad accents, and sing-alongs.  Oh, but those were good times!

So proud of them; even prouder to say that theirs was the best film at the showing: subtlety yet humorously written, positive without being hoaky or preachy.  Well acted, filmed, written, edited, and directed.  Appropriate for the whole family but sympathetic to adults, especially parents!  Only more good things to come from them.  And if you're in the central Florida area and have a skill, it's a rewarding hobby to get into, and the arts are more-than-suffering these days, so contact them at The Hippo Critics if you'd like to get involved.

I know, my friends are kinda awesome.  Don't be jealous.  c;

-- 5 --

Out of nowhere, this local company that I adore is hiring.  I'm applying for a full-time position as Client Relations Coordinator.  Not only would this take the strain off of us financially, I know I would love and thrive at this job.  Really.

So call every saint and praying person you know and get them to offer up for me that my sincerity and enthusiasm is clear in my application, and interview, if I am offered one.

-- 6 --

As Grace and Simon were googling "what should I do if my kid pooped in the bathtub," I google searched "how to clean poop out of carpet," and got this.  Apparently, this is a googled enough topic to merit its own wordpress page.

Oh yes, yes it is.  This happened to me not once yesterday, but twice.  The Squirt had been coming to me and asking to change his diaper over the past couple of weeks, then transitioning to taking it off himself and sending me after it.  Now he's just free-stylin' it.  He's clearly ready for potty training, though when I sat him on the big boy potty, he wasn't sure how to go about it.  Then, last night, my mom sat him on the toilet and told him to "go," and he squeezed out five little drops!!!!

He got huge applause AND a cookie.

-- 7 --

My friend Caitlin shared with me this delightful event called The Faerie Folk Festival.  Her library is participating by building a little fairy library!  Alas, it's in New Hampshire.  (More proof that I'm really too close to the southern hemisphere for someone with my hobbies, interests, aversion to heat, and taste in seasons.)

---

Now I'm off to perfect my resume; see more Quick Takes this week at Camp Patton.