Wellspring

There was a very large mother at the Quiz Bowl today with her baby plastered to her barely covered, florid breast, from whom I looked away in shock. Was it grotesque? I looked back at her more than once, trying not to seem to watch her baby wallow in warm intimacy and how she hugged her other child to her other side. There was so much of her, belly, arms, breasts, hunched there on her chair with quiet dignity and depth in her dark eyes. 

Can I Keep It This Way?

I haven’t told anyone about my blog. I’m whispering into the ear of the world, a little girl pulling down to herself her grandfather’s big, bristly ear, cupping warm hands around it, filling it with her warm, wet breath. Is it possible to continue like this? There are a few links out there from years ago when I tried to promote it without seeming to. It was the promotion that kept me from writing in it, though, preoccupied with who might be reading it. It’s better this way, like a secret. If you’re reading it, if you’re not a bot, whether you’re a stranger or someone I know, maybe I can bypass social niceties and speak straight to your heart. 

Wedding Day

Chiara Luce, you felt pain when they told you you would die. It wasn’t what you wanted. (At first.) I have felt pain too, Chiara, my heart a chalice full, and I have asked, “Will there be a remedy?” You had remedy. Your remedy was death, and you gave assent. But I want to know, will I see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living?  

If I told you my pain, your heart would go out to me, just as mine does to you. I don’t know what it is like to have a fatal disease, and I don’t think you know what it is like to be thrust through the heart with the lance I have.

I have tried to heal myself. I have tried to be done with the pain. I have blamed myself and my attachments. But in the end I have no choice but to give myself to the process of whatever I am going through. Even if the only thing that needs to happen is for me to be stripped of my attachments, I can’t make it happen myself. I have a sense there will be remedy, but that it will be very slow in coming, in very tiny steps, and that I must rest and be grateful for each one. 

I am resting here on the back stair now, watching the trees dressing themselves in green for spring, and I do feel gratitude, because I sense something you must have sensed too, Chiara, as you lay dying, and I pray I give myself to it as you did, with docility, no matter how hard-won:  He’s dressing me too, but in white, and for himself.

Little Flowers

You have to, young woman, you simply must, go on being beautiful in the world, even though your image is blasphemed and debased all around you. Please go on with your loveliness walking quietly among us. We are thirsty, we are thirsty, and it burns. How can you bear the pain of your degradation? Only smile, and your beauty will be like a cool stream and a sun shining over everything. 

The Natural

He was screeching and writhing when his mother was working on the splinter in his foot, but when my dad took over, such a calm fell that all we could hear were the wind chimes there on the porch, played by the gentle hand of the breeze in the afternoon sunlight. My friend had been picking at the splinter ineffectually. My father took the little foot firmly in hand, saying, “Yep, that’s a deep one.” He expertly picked the skin open with the bent but sterilized pin, just enough to expose the end of the fat splinter so he could grasp it firmly with the tweezers. When the little boy yelped, my dad agreed with him, “Yeeahh, that hurts.”  Besides two little yelps, though, the boy rested under my dad’s capable hands. 

There was something my father was especially suited to offering in this situation, and I want to try to put into words what it was. When I had gone in to ask his help, even though he had supervised his grandkids and their friends all day on the water slide, he had risen fresh as a daisy, differently than if I had asked him to fix a car or a toy. He is always ready, and very able, to help. But something about our circumstances out there on the porch called for his strength in a special way that doesn’t make me admire him as much as just love that he himself in all his particularity exists. He can build things and fix things. That’s cool! But he can also pull out stitches and clean a wound. And even more, you should see him with a baby. I’ve never seen a crying infant that was not soothed in his hands. He is uniquely gifted at wordlessness.

But sometimes he seems to want to be known for words, for wise words, like he thinks it would be better if he were very wise and knew the things to say, if he were a match for the complexities of a voluble woman. Don’t get me wrong; it’s good for him to try to do things that are hard for him. Good for him for working at those things. It can be an act of love.  But I want to express to him the depth of appreciation I feel for who he is without any adornments. If I could only express to him how quiet it was on the porch when he showed up, quiet, but with music.

Baby Moments

My baby loves soft things.  When you hand her the pink and white afghan my mother crocheted her, she grins and buries her face in it deliriously.  If she's on the floor and starting to get tired or hungry, one of the kids will keep her happy a little longer by giving her Big Bunny, the over-sized stuffed rabbit with its downy fur.  And whenever she's nursing or trying to go to sleep, she puts her hand on the soft part of my arm, running it up and down, up and down, soothing herself and me at the same time.   It reminds me of when I would put my oldest to sleep, seven years ago now.  I would sit with her on the back porch, watching the shadows lengthen in the field behind our house - when you only have one, you have time for such luxuries.  Eventually I would feel her tiny hand dribble down the side of my arm as she lost her hold of the conscious world. 

I have babies on the brain.  I guess I should; I've been staring at one non-stop for going on a year.

Babies do the funniest things when they nurse.  Lately, mine has started whacking me in the chest, over and over and over again.  She's only an infant, but after awhile it starts to sting, or at least annoy. I don't think it's a sign of angst.  I think she just enjoys how it makes the satisfying sound of a good high five.  My older two would always clutch a fold of my skin and knead it, knead it, like dough.  All of my babies have enjoyed sticking their little forefinger into my mouth and then curling it around my lip or my bottom teeth, which can be painful if you're not good about keeping their nails trimmed. 

(2013)

Thoughts on a Child

How is it possible that a baby can come out of your body?  This is on my mind, having just experienced it for the fourth time.  It is barely any more comprehensible to me than when I was anticipating it happening the first time.  So wonderful when it's over, you don't by any means want to go back and do it over, but your mind keeps going back again and again to when it was happening, to an experience so mysterious, the rising up from darkness of an until-that-moment hidden human person.  You understand what David meant when he said his body was formed in the depths of the earth, in the secret place, and he was known even there, but not by his mother.  Only God sees into the womb, all our technology notwithstanding, fathoming the infinite worth of one human child, heretofore nonexistent.  Here I am; all I can do is stare at her face, which I could do for hours, in wonder. Where did she come from?  What kind of miracle caused her emergence from non-being to being?  Could one act of love cause this flesh and blood reality?  Dear God, I pray it was an act of love and not boredom or angst!  I'm afraid the Catholics have it right.  An activity that has the potential to create the existence of a human being is not for merely recreational use, even between spouses.  To block its life-giving potential is to trample holy ground.  And certainly to destroy its fruit, no matter at what early, tiny stage, is to blaspheme the sacred.  I think you can tell all you need to know about a society, and about a person, by their attitude toward children. Should there be fewer of them?  Should their presence and even their existence be conditional on our convenience?

It sounds narrow and close-minded, even to a lot of my conservative friends, to question the idea of birth control.  But I do have an inkling the Catholics are onto something here.  It does beg the question, I mean, whatever is sex for anyway?  It might be worth exploring the idea of it as a holy encounter, with each and every meeting bearing a potential life force.  That is how real the giving of ourselves is meant to be.  Love is meant to be so substantive it can actually take on flesh and live and breathe and make a mark on the world.  This view might be worth exploring, to find out if it is limiting or freeing.  Perhaps the most expansive freedom is found in limiting ourselves.  Maybe we are only really free when we are free to forget our own convenience in the ecstasy of pouring ourselves out as Gift, when we are free to be like God and can participate in his divine life, which  is self-giving.  When a pianist has limited himself by hours of study and practice, then he is free to play anything he wants on his instrument, even the most soaring and beautiful intricacies, unimaginable by the beginner playing "Here we go, up a row, to a birthday party."  But even that simple tune is sweet in its humble attempt to become better.

This is part of what is drawing me to the Catholic Church, to the ancient faith.  Yes, I am saved by faith in Christ.  But life in Christ doesn't end with my profession of belief.  Life in Christ only begins there - it continues on as I practice and practice becoming more like him, so I can truly be prepared to one day enter and enjoy his divine life, so I can begin to enter it here and now on earth.  Because of course, dying to yourself doesn't feel like ecstasy at first.  And look at me, I don't even have the right to say much about such things at all.  I'm not even to the point of self-renunciation.  Looking at Mother Teresa makes me cover my face and bow my head.  No, I'm still stuck on not watching too much tv and not eating too much ice cream in the evenings.  To truly give Christ everything, to do something really special for love of him, what does that even look like?  The question is - what does it look like for me?  That's all I need to know. Each of us will answer that differently.  My answer has something to do with these children of mine, and even before that with this husband of mine. What can I give up today, just a little more than yesterday, for them, out of love for Jesus? The answer has something to do with laundry and the dishes and undivided attention and a little less fiddling with my iPhone. Can I give up just a little more, and just a little more, and even beyond that, take pleasure in nobody noticing it?  For a world-class diva like me, someone who is pretty sure she knows how most things ought to be done (and who is usually right!), to submit my will, to obey just for the beauty of obedience, to, for love of Christ, let things be done a little less than ideally, that will be a miracle when I see it happen.  I can try just a little more, just a little more, each and every day.

I wanted John William to have a brother. But something told me I was going to have a girl.  For one thing, I come from Girl-Girl-Boy-Girl-Girl (I'm the second Girl), and so far, I've been replicating that quite exactly in my own family.  And then in the days leading up to Carolina's birth, I felt strongly she was going to be a girl, and it was like a voice saying, "This child is going to be a boon to you."  I already have a sense of the grace she has made manifest, and it is apropos that her middle name is Grace. She is like an extravagant nonessential lying over there in the easy chair on her belly, with her cheek squished up by her eye and her lips pursed out, sleeping away.  She is like an extra, like a liberality, a grace note.  I didn't need her.  She was lavished on me.  And I can't stop staring at her face, soaking her up, wondering where she came from.  It's a full-time job.

(2012)

Isaiah 5

As a gardener, you can see how much room I have for improvement. I have very good excuses for my neglect, and thankfully there is a special glory in my showing up and offering even these meager efforts. Without them, there wouldn't be any tomato plants on the pool deck at all. But the fact that I'm doing the best I'm able and certainly the fact that I have intentions to do even better don't change Thirsty's reality. He suffers from time to time. I have to acknowledge that. Thankfully, God has a way of using even - no, especially - the suffering to tell a story wholly unique and beautiful, and that brings him glory. It wouldn't be told at all if I hadn't brought my tomato home from Costco six weeks ago.

But have you read Isaiah 5?

"Let me sing for my beloved
my love song concerning his vineyard:
My beloved had a vineyard
on a very fertile hill.
He dug it and cleared it of stones,
and planted it with choice vines;
he built a watchtower in the midst of it,
and hewed out a wine vat in it;
and he looked for it to yield grapes,
but it yielded wild grapes."

It was a “very fertile hill.” The soil was black with fecundity, the waterings faithful and regular. If Thirsty's tomatoes taste good after my sorry efforts at staking, watering, and pruning, what results might this Planter achieve? He dug out his field, cleared it, planted it, built a watchtower, and hewed out a vat, laboring with love and preparing to make a very fine wine. But in spite of everything he did, the grapes turned out wild. They tasted sour or bitter or bland, as if no one had ever done anything for them, as if they had just grown up along a path in the woods. I can understand Thirsty's fruit tasting sour (but it doesn't!): I've barely done anything right. But he didn't do one wrong thing, and his grapes showed nothing for it.

What a good gardener this beloved is. We're the ones who aren't good. (Just look at my gardening.) This doesn't make me feel bad about myself, really, just amazed at his goodness and awed that he loves me.

(2011)

Sexual Revolution

The sexual Revolution seems to have hurt women more on the front end and men more on the back end. (There’s probably a better way to say that. I don’t mean physically.) Women feel the bonding of sex more than men do and the pain of it breaking. They feel the grief of being unwanted. But these things hurt men too, later, on the other side, when they find out they screwed up the one thing at which they most wanted to succeed. They wanted to hear, “Well done, my son” and instead a voice inside them keeps saying, “Way to go, loser. You’re not a lover, and you’re not a father.” And they know the voice is right. 

Letter to Isaac

Dear Isaac,

You were so funny.  I haven't been around you for a long time, but we were interns together at Northland, and you always made me smile.  You made me laugh.  You were delightful, a joy, and always very sweet.

I am so sorry you felt you needed to die.  I want you to know - as I'm sure you know now - you were special, not because you were gifted or "a great man" but because you were you.  There is only one of you and now you are gone.  Who can tell of your inestimable worth, the inestimable sanctity of your life?  I am so sad you won't be in this world anymore. It's a fresh shock every time I think of it. I am so sad. 

I have to confess to you I prayed for you so much last year, but the last few months, I forgot to pray for you.  I forgot to pray for you when you needed me the most.  I'm sorry.

God bless you, Isaac, and grant you peace. May you be wrapped in his mantle of love forever.

Your friend from awhile ago,

Mindy

(2013)

A Sign

I was looking up Mother Teresa’s feast day last September, wondering if it was that day or the day before. When I typed “mother,” somehow the URL for my blog came up in the search bar, even though I hadn’t been writing on it for a few years, having given up on the tortured vacillations about how much I should reveal of myself on the Internet. I would convince myself it was reasonable to reveal some, but soon talk myself back into thinking it was pretentious and self-indulgent. But maybe Mother Teresa wanted to tell me it is humility and a gift of self to risk rejection for the sake of speaking words of life, maybe even an impulse of the Holy Spirit.

Multum Non Multa

One of the things classical education teaches us, ideally, is to look at a thing long enough to be able to see it. It takes longer to see things than we realize, and we can’t see as many things as we think we can. If in the course of our lives we truly see a few things, we will be fortunate, and we will have begun to know what we ought. 

It takes attention, and it takes time, sometimes much more time than we would expect. There he is, standing in the kitchen, strong and a little bit stout. There is a place on the front of his shoulder that is home for the side of my face. His hair is gray. I didn’t think it was, but it had turned gray while I was looking at it, like on Easter Sunday when we sat on the back deck all afternoon looking at the leaves coming out in the spring woods and he said, “It’s gotten greener since we came out here!” 

It’s amazing the value of looking at something for a good long time. I’ve looked at him for twenty-five years, and have I begun to see him? People shouldn’t be so ambitious, running around wanting to take in so many things. If I have twenty-five years more, I will have begun to know something.

Sitting in a Chair Watching Young People Do Things

I am at a stage of life where you sit in a chair and watch young people do things, like volleyball, basketball, soccer, presentations, plays, student Q&A panels at prospective universities. As I carry on this sedentary activity, I find myself returning in my mind again and again to a certain genre of thoughts. It’s this one room in my mind that is full of poignance and a sense of the passage of time. I sit there spectating and ruminating. There is a sweetness to it, like listening to the sweet sad songs of ruined troubadours. But I am reaching a point of saturation. I need to shake it off and maybe go do something myself. 

I signed up to run in the beerlay, if that counts, where you chug a beer immediately before running a two-mile leg of an eight-mile relay. A huge group from our parish is participating. I’m on a team of four. Goodness, I hope they are as out of shape as I am. 

I signed all my kids up, too. (The kids chug soda.) We came up with names for their teams: Underage Running, The Soda Creeps (David’s brainchild; he’s nine), and, my personal favorite, Pints With Pheidippides (Thank you, Classical Education.) 

One evening last week, my tweenage daughter Carolina wheedled  a couple of us out the door for a training run, and two others ended up following. I told them repeatedly not to wake the neighbors as the five of us spilled into the neighborhood. It was 10pm. The air was crisp, and I breathed it in with relish. The first part of the run was downhill to the bottom of the cul de sac. Carolina told me she was my coach and to not stop running on the way back up the hill. Then we walked across the front of the neighborhood where it opens onto the main road and did ten jumping jacks. Then we walked to the speed limit sign and sprinted back to our driveway. We did all that twice. Then my coach said we were going to do it twice more to make a mile. 

I said, “Oh Carolina, why? It’s late. You have school tomorrow.” 

She said, “Come on. Then you can brag to all your friends that you ran a mile…but don’t get vain…though I don’t think you can be vain about that.”

I did what she said, a little lamb in the hands of my eleven-year-old, cooperating, without the will, or maybe the energy, to fight it. It was easier just to run along beside her, (though I was informed it might not be considered “running” since she could walk as fast or faster, which she demonstrated.)

My thoughts went to a different place, as well. I felt the melancholy trailing out behind me, and in its place, inside my heart, was a wholesome gladness to be surrounded by such winsome young creatures rising up to take their place in the world. I had a sense as I ran behind them of the goodness of things as they are, the irrepressible goodness of nature growing up wild and abundant. I guess I just needed a different vantage point.

A New Place

I think I see that fertility lasts about the right amount of time. There is wisdom in the design. At a certain point, you are so tired you start to think, “It’s ok. It can go.” You begin to entertain the idea that this set of downy little cheeks puffing out sweet breaths on the pillow beside you is the last set. I suppose eventually you begin to writhe less at what you see looking back at you in the mirror. The softness on which they laid their heads is sweet, but its going starts to be less terrifying and heart-breaking. Because going on like this becomes less and less feasible. 

I can see that someone could feel this way. I myself am still holding onto a name we might call our next baby, if he comes, (or she, in which case we’ll need a different name.) But I’m stubborn. It won’t be too much longer for me, and I’ll let go. It won’t be bad to let myself fall, drifting down into a new and unknown place, like my friend who stopped coloring her hair. “It’s not bad to be old,” she said.

I see the auburn in her hair gradually fading, fading, and I see her children and their vibrancy growing, growing.  It’s odd that, sinking down as she lifts them up, she seems to grow more beautiful. I’m pretty sure she’ll end up so beautiful people will want to live in her heart.