To Mother's Day or Not to Mother's Day?

Mother's Day has come and gone here in the UK, in March in fact, and it went with very little notice in my family.  My husband is not a gift-giver, and I am much more interested in the liturgical holidays.  Oh, I'll take flowers if they're offered, without a doubt, but that can be for any reason or no reason at all.  And, as my family can attest, I've a healthy enough sense of self-indulgence.

For some, Mother's Day can be one of painful mourning; for those who've lost mothers or children, or have no mothers or children.  For others, it can be an excuse to act insufferable and entitled.  Masha, Jenna, and I have been talking about how our culture approaches Mother's Day and what the repercussions are thereof.

Masha loathes Mother's Day, which, I admit, is stronger than my feeling for it.  But I love the reasoning behind her passionate dislike.  She writes

I don't like Mother's Day because its fake.  It's a commercially created and socially enforced lie to women that her value comes primarily through her ability to birth; that her vocation as a mother is 'the hardest job in the world;' and that because of all this she is owed the veneration, affection, and affirmation of not only her family, but society at large.

Now, I have a healthy respect for the stay-at-home mom because, as one who has worked and raised a child, in my experience it was in many ways easier to leave my son somewhere where he was safe and well-cared for and go be among grown-ups, earning my own money, and working according to a fixed, predictable system.  I also appreciate that it's no small accomplishment to balance motherhood and career.  But to say that to bear or raise a child is the defining aspect of womanhood is inaccurate, and possibly very damaging.  It is also a fallacy to believe because a woman can reproduce, she is somehow a saint that is owed our veneration.  We know all too well in this fallen world that having a child doesn't make you a parent.

I appreciate mothers and motherhood.  I see how it lifts and transcends, forms and challenges.  It can make someone a better, more patient person.  It can teach one the antithetical virtue of our society, that of self-sacrifice, and for that it is extremely valuable.  But it is not the only thing that can transform and beatify and direct toward holiness.  And it's not the most important thing.

Rather than motherhood, I wonder if we should not celebrate femininity as a whole.  And I do not think that femininity is independent of motherhood.  I am grateful to know women who are more motherly than some women who have children.  This type of woman does mother--whether by tending a garden, writing poetry, mentoring a younger person, or gathering spiritual children in her womb of prayer.  All these things are mothering--fostering creation, being open to the fecund spirit--or rather, Spirit, as Our Lady was at the Annunciation.  Being open to God's will in their lives, being docile in a way that is shockingly empowering, taking the hand of God and helping to shape creation in a way that means it will never again be the same, changing it for the better.  They are co-creators with the Almighty.

Masha says (emphasis mine):

I want a celebration of motherhood, but one that celebrates motherhood in it's place among womanhood's other roles and blessings.  I'd like to see Mother's Day drift and spread out into something almost pagan, something Marian, something holistic . . . we are not a Catholic culture, and I don't expect to change that, but within the Church, why can't we honor the many faces of the Theotokos: virgin, mother, consort/spouse, lamenting one, and wise old woman of Ephesus - Queen of Apostles . . . why can't we take on May Day again on the first, or the feast of her Queenship on the last of May . . . and use the day to honor the women in our lives who bear God to us - however they do so.

There's something very me-ish about the modern Mother's Day, in that way in which most secular holidays are.  The Church, as usual, has the antidote.  Her holy days are outward-facing, pointing us to ponder on the saints and the mysteries.  But like proper Christian paradox, in the losing we find ourselves again.  Our roles and missions are drawn up into the celebrations and given back again as benedictions.

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For further reading:

Why I Hate Mother's Day by Anne Lamott
There's More than One Way to Be a Mom at A Knotted Life
Tuesdays with Mary: Ever-Virgin

Flower Seasons

May 1, Feast of St. Joseph the Worker, St. Walpurga, May Day, and Mary's Day.

Last evening, we celebrated St. Walpurgis's Eve with a romp on the beach.  Afon ran straight for the cold waves, shoes, socks, trousers, and all.  I had to run in after him (shoes, socks, trousers and all) but he was not dismayed.  Until later, when he realized how uncomfortable it was to be wet, even on a mild evening in spring.

When the tide is out, the rocks are things of beauty, and for all the white-sugar sand of the Gulf coast of Florida, it doesn't touch the raw, remote, mineral beauty of the Irish sea.  Pebbles are worn smooth and creamy from the patient centuries.  It's a hard kind of thing to capture with a camera, so I'm glad I left it behind this once and enjoyed being in it.  The beauty of the Welsh seashore is a dimensional thing; it's in the atmosphere, a haziness that color and line and form can't quite capture.  The mussels sprout like so many blossoms on the jagged rocks.

I've always counted the seasons of Wales in flowers.  The sign of winter's waning is marked by the coming of the snowdrops.  We arrived in March, just in time for the daffodils.  They're season fades for the time of the bluebells, and they are even more numerous than Saint David's flower.  Soon the hydrangeas will harken the summer.

But there are many, many flowers here, the apple blossoms, tulips, dogwood, and primroses.  I think this is a Kazan Flowering Cherry.  They appear in lush poms and snow torrents of true-pink petals.  The trees are here and there in Colwyn Bay, but this one is at the entrance to Tan-Y-Coed gardens along the Old Colwyn river.

Answer Me This, and Easter

April 23, Easter Wednesday.

We've caught colds again.  At least I think it's "we" since Afon has been fussing non-stop for the past few days, culminating in an all-out bedtime melt-down on Tuesday night.  And then I woke up this morning with a sore throat, stuffed up head, and achiness.  I'm considering trying the virgin diet to see if I can pinpoint any dietary allergens that may be pummeling my immune system.  That's three times ill since we arrived here on March 12th.  Does that seem wrong to anybody else?  (I'm also a little bit paranoid that the walking pneumonia didn't heal completely.)

Haley from Carrots said she gets sick when she ingests too much sugar.  I should be able to say that animal products aren't the cause of my weak constitution after Lenten fasting, except that moving and adjusting to cultural differences meant that I wasn't the best at abstaining this year.

I did find that drinking more water seemed to help with the dizziness from before, though, so thank you for the suggestions!

Updates on my health are all very boring, however, so let me distract by going on about yet more personal things that may or may not be interesting to anyone but my immediate family.  'Cause I'm just not as interesting as Kendra, and I can't help it.  Really!

1  //  What did you and your family wear to Mass on Easter Sunday?

I was able to put together a white-and-navy, with a dash of red ensemble for the little family.  Unfortunately, we didn't get any solid photos.

Almost. . .

There you go.

I had red shoes on to match Afon's collar.

2  //  Easter Bunny: thumbs up or thumbs down?

I've discussed this before, and this year, we're leaning almost completely towards thumbs down.  It's not for religious reasons or fear of taking away from the true meaning of Easter--as I am a pretty obstinate believer in Father Christmas--but because I don't see all that much magical about a gigantic, un-blinking, two-leg-walking rabbit.

No, thanks.  Easter baskets and egg hunts, I'm all for though.

3  //  Do you prefer to celebrate holidays at your own house or someone else's house?

That's tricky to answer because I have favorite aspects of both choices.  I like entertaining, along with the cooking and decorating, and the hospitality it fosters.  I like doing things my way and overseeing every little aspect of the celebration to make it exactly how I loved and/or wanted it to be as a child.  I don't, however, enjoy the stress of preparation nor the clean-up afterward.  For that, a holiday at someone else's house is ideal.

4  //  What is your favorite kind of candy?

Oh, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, no contest.  But when I'm feeling out of character, I might crave Twizzlers.

5  //  Do you like video games?

Yes, and I think it would be yet another distraction in my life if we owned a console or hand enough extra spending money to buy computer games.  As it stands, I can waste plenty of time on the internet and Netflix, thank you very much!

6  //  Do you speak another language?

No.

At the zenith of my high school Spanish classes, I might have been able to speak conversational Spanish if I'd ever had the opportunity to outside of the classroom.

At the end of my stay in Rome, I was able to speak conversational Italian.  I might be able to reignite some of that if I were totally immersed again.

I'm trying to learn Welsh because my husband is nearly fluent.  But I am not.

16/52

April 22, Easter Tuesday.

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

Afon: with characteristic pout and dirty mouth at the park.

All of Holy Week leading up to Easter was sunshiney and warm.  Easter Sunday was gray and overcast.  So it goes.  Tired from Easter preparations, we spent the day inside lazing about and eating large quantities of chocolate and drinking fizzy drinks (American: soda).  On Easter Monday, John's family and best friend came over and we had a nice visit, with my mother-in-law's homemade cheese scones and peaces and custard for dessert.

Happy Easter!  He is risen!

Liturgical Living: Not Like Any Other Night

April 18, Holy Saturday.

I spent most of the day Thursday cooking a (sort of?) traditional Sedar meal for our little family.  I've celebrated a Sedar meal before but never hosted one myself, but living intentionally and liturgically this past year has given me the courage to attempt bigger and bigger projects.  Also, I couldn't have done it without the Academy: my husband, John, who went out twice to different grocery stores to fetch me ingredients and the normally functioning oven, a great improvement to the Florida stove that burnt everything if I didn't shave off a fifth of the baking time in every recipe and the fire alarm that sounded at the slightest provocation and slight rise in temperature, not to mention normal steam and the occasional sparse smoking.

I got all the recipes from CatholicCulture.org, which has become a staple resource in my intention to live liturgically.

The matzah bread was so easy and came out beautifully, if not as flat as what you can buy in the store.  I don't think north Wales has a very large existing Jewish population.)  The only flour I had was self-rising flour, and we make use of what we have around here.  Especially after spending what we did on a leg of lamb.  (More on that later.)  My father-in-law called the "matzah" rustic (compliment).  It only uses three ingredients: flour, water, and salt.  It was so easy and tasty, I'm going to make this flatbread throughout the liturgical year, I think, and season it with green herbs, like this fresh thyme we have growing the back garden, and slathered with butter.

The matzah is the unleavened bread.  And, no, it is absolutely not a coincidence that this setup looks like the host and paten at a Catholic Mass.  The parallel is utterly intentional.

Chopped apples and nuts soaked in wine with sugar and cinnamon make charoses, meant to symbolize the mortar that the Hebrews made when they were slaves in Egypt.

The egg is for new life, and the "bitter" herbs dipped in salt water reminiscent of the bitterness of our Hebrew ancestors in slavery.  (We also couldn't find horseradish.)

Before preparing this time-consuming though uncomplicated meal, I printed out coloring pages for Afon from Catholic Icing, a great resource that I'm sure everyone's already heard of.  Maybe in a few years' time, we'll cut out the figures and make the small-scale of DaVinci's Last Supper.

He thought all the apostles were "Jesus."  You know, the beards and all.

I'd never made lamb before, so I opted for well done with only the slightest bit of pink around the bones.  The recipe calls for sweet marjoram and cloves, but neither were available, so I substituted oregano and some cinnamon.  We did have brown sugar.  Lots and lots of brown sugar.

That evening, John, as the patriarch of the household, enacted the role of the leader.  There comes a point in the ceremony when he breaks the bread and puts the larger part under a napkin where it is hidden, to represent the Messiah who has not yet come.  But as Catholics, we break from tradition, and eat of the hidden bread before the ceremony ends, reciting the words of Jesus at the last supper: "Do this in memory of me."

You see, our Jewish brethren come to the table of Passover with expectation and remembrance.  They are mindful of their suffering and how God liberated them when they cried out for help.  But we remember not only the exile in Egypt but the exile of Original Sin; how God offered us His Own Son as the spotless lamb to be sacrificed, to be eaten of, to spread His Blood on the wood of the cross rather than a lentil, in order to loose the chains of our spiritual slavery.  And He invites us to eat Him, each time a Mass is said, for "my Flesh is food indeed and my Blood is drink indeed."

"You see, Afon," I said, "this is what the priest does at church on Sunday, up on the altar.  It doesn't look quite like this, but this is what it is.  Only what we eat now is just a meal.  But what we eat at the Mass is not just a meal; it is true magic.  The kind of magic that makes flesh look and taste and smell and feel just like bread and blood look and taste and smell and feel just like wine.  So that Jesus can come into our mouths and go down into our tummy and be with us for the rest of the day, closer than our own heart, and nourish us there.  Because He loves us very much."

And throughout this pretty speech, Afon banged his fork and knife on the table and relocated to the couch.  But I figure after a few years of this, understanding--or, at least, the best kind of understanding a mere mortal can hope to have of the mysteries of the universe--will sink in by osmosis.

A blessed Easter Triduum to you and yours.

A Poem for Holy Week

April 15, Tuesday of Holy Week.

The children are out of school on holiday around here, and the shiny April spring rings out with their laughter.  It's a delicate tinkling though, mostly, mingling with the sound of the river-stream, and the singing birds, and the distant calling of gulls.  The daffodil season has turned over.  Now is the time of bluebells.

There's a sort of quiet that settles on Holy Week, even when you're not looking for it.  I would say that though unconscious, the knowledge of it lingers there, in the back of your mind, except it doesn't--it's not in the mind at all, but all around, somehow.  More than anything, to me this year's Holy Week suggests rest.

I wrote a poem this evening, and Holy Week kind of runs behind it I think, like marble threaded in stone.  Or maybe not.  I'll let you decide.

A second draft:

I like to walk at evening when
today has cooled, ready to be swallowed
by tomorrow, all blue swells and valleys,
the flavor set in.   I need the clumps in me
to settle as well, like silk-rich silt
into my limbs, by skipping soles
over mud and tendons
of root-wood by the river:
the mineral smell of new grass shoots and
luscious, moist mushrooms from the morning's
breakfast--when the waking daylight hours steeled themselves
like girls gathering their skirts to cross
a terrain of potentialities.  Out of many that brush
their hems, a few will catch like burrs
on sheep's unshorn spring fleece. 

copyright L.C. Ricardo.   all rights reserved

Little Stories: Saint Patrick's Day

April 3, Feast of St. Richard of Chichester.