Story

The other day at lunch, I was talking to the social worker at my kids' school.  The topic of where she was from and where she had lived came up.  She was from Vermont and had lived in DC and NYC.  After comparing notes on living in DC, I asked her more about the circumstances of her time in New York City.  Her face lit up as she began to revisit that time in her life and remember details squirreled away in the corners of her mind.  She painted a picture of a young girl in miniskirts and platform shoes walking twenty blocks or more to work and happily window shopping the whole way.  Young, happy and energized by all the big city had to offer.  I was enthralled, being the HUGE New York City junkie that I am.  I was thrust back in time to a cleaner, safer, better city.  You know, the one in Barefoot in the Park with Jane Fonda and Robert Redford.  Oh, to be able to visit THAT New York City!  Through this woman, however, for a moment I was transported there.

I am currently reading a book set at the end of the Sixties.  I was reading about what this group of women was doing when man landed on the moon.  It made me realize that I had no idea where my parents had watched this historic event.  I could hear my mom smiling, almost holding back a giggle as she remembered.  "We were at the bowling alley with our bowling league and you were in the playroom in the back."  I laughed, imagining reporting this to anyone.  "Hey- Where were you when Armstrong made that giant step?  Oh, I was in the playroom of a bowling alley."  The rest of the story came spilling out.  All the details that had us laughing so hard.  About how it was my mom's idea as a newly married couple that they should make new friends and what else to do but join a bowling league.  How they were the worst team in the league.  How my dad would sweat profusely when he was under pressure and the team relied on him for the winning points.  The ball would always slip and land in the gutter.  Humiliating for someone who, under normal circumstances was a pretty good bowler.  I enjoyed hearing the story, picturing my parents as a young couple.  My mom and I laughed so hard.  I could almost hear her reaching back in her memory for details that painted a vivid picture for me.

Why then is it so hard for us to go from verbally telling a story, to writing it.  My point is, we all have a story.  LOTS of stories.  When we share them we share ourselves.  We can escape our bodily prison to truly connect with others.  That is why story is so important, why there has always been a storytelling tradition.  As long as there are human beings, there will be story.

Cam across this on a blog today.  It was a good reminder for me and I want to remind you too:

Your story matters. 
Tell it.

Happy Sunday,
Dina 

Easter Witness

Yesterday in church, there was a lady in the pew in front of us.  As I waited for Mass to begin, I started taking in details.  Her hair was dirty and straggly, her clothes mismatched and she smelled.  She wore a woolen scarf and had a sweater stuffed in an olive green canvas tote.  I wondered how she had arrived in this church, at this moment, together with me.

There was a kind gentleman who I recognized as the father of two of the altar servers.  He had probably been to another Easter Mass and was only here to escort his daughters.  Without them or his wife, he floated around the pews trying to make room for families to sit together.  He bounced around like a pinball as the church filled to capacity and beyond.

In walked an elegant older lady who found a place in the pew with the strange woman but at a safe distance.  The well-dressed husband arrived a few minutes later, forcing his wife to inch towards the undesirable pew-mate.  Finally, with Mass beginning in moments, the kindly yet portly gentleman ended up needing to nudge into the pew.  The woman in her lovely spring green jacket and gold bangle bracelet was forced to push down even further.  The portly man was scrunched in about half the space he actually required, much of his girth spilling out over the edge of the pew.  The stately lady tried with all her might to maintain some distance between herself and her "fragrant" friend.  So they sat there, three pretty people clumped together clinging to each other and the pew while the stranger seemed oblivious to their plight.

As the Mass began the cantor asked us to rise and greet those around us.  I froze for just a minute waiting for the woman to turn around.  How would my kids react to her outstretched hand?  How would I?  I looked up to be greeted by a sweet face with round, deep brown eyes.  I looked straight into her eyes trying to read her story in them.  She nervously but persistently greeted every person within her grasp.  She seemed to reach out with more than just her hand, as if she wanted desperately to connect with someone.

The greetings subsided and we all faced the altar.  There we were- my family, the elegant couple, the portly man and the strange, smelly lady.  At that moment, all things superficial faded away as we faced Jesus.  After all, it was Easter and Jesus had risen for that lady who was breaking my heart as much as for all the well-groomed people crowding the church.  After Mass, I would be enjoying a day with family and friends.  Good drink.  Good food.  Good conversation.  What did this lady's day hold?  It brought tears to my eyes.  Then another thought crept in that brought happy tears.  In the end, we all have one thing in common.

HE DIED FOR US.

Not just the beautiful.  Not just the church-going.  For ALL of us.  He offers that gift to this strange woman as freely as He does to us.

Happy Easter to her.
Happy Easter to you.

Dina

Constrained and Free

 Found this on a blog tonight and thought I would give it a try:

Write whatever is happening around you WHILE you are writing (sometimes that’s the very best) OR whatever DETAILS you remember about your day or a specific experience.

Next, try not to clarify or explain what you want to speak through your post too much. (Try not to force a theme or message.) Just write your experiences.  What did it make you think?

Then watch how your ordinary and extraordinary experiences speak all on their own.

So here goes:

 I am sitting with Elise on my bed.  I am reading a blog post that is so beautiful it breaks my heart.  Like hearing the first giggle from your baby.  Like a moment you wish could be suspended in time.

She is wearing an I "heart" NY shirt.  A classic.  A sentiment I share.  I love when any of my kids wears that shirt as we have many floating around the house, worn thin and passed from sibling to sibling as they are outgrown.  First worn too big as pajamas.  Then just worn and worn.  She has a silver tinsel halo on her head.  She is waving a plastic pink scepter.  It is perfectly topped with a dollop of marabou, so soft and fluffy.  As she waves her scepter she is weaving words into poems and songs.  They are silly.  They are serious.  They makes us giggle.  I am struck by how free she is.  Not constrained by conventions of language or dress.  Paying no attention to what makes sense.  Playing with words like notes on a piano keyboard.  Striking them just to see how they sound.  "Feathers float to the ground as cows begin to nibble them.  And then you be and then you do.  And that's how it go-ed."

Oh to be that free.  To be oblivious to the rules.  I am always glancing at the person next to me, wondering if I am getting it right.  Mostly measured, usually constrained.  It can be tiring.  There are moments of breaking free and finding the real, true me.  The whole me.  Not a portion that has been checked against all the rules and deemed okay.  Just me floating to the ground, light as a feather for one breathtaking flash of light then I am nibbled away by that pesky cow.

And then I be and then I do and that's how it goes!
Dina

Love Song for my City

Last night Mark and I went to a wedding in the French Quarter.  The Mass was at St. Louis Cathedral,  a magnificent setting for a wedding.  Trumpet sounding, crystal chandeliers sparkling, Latin phrases in gold proclaiming the glory of God all enhanced the event.
After the ceremony it was a short walk next door to the Cabildo.  As we left the Cathedral, bells began to  peal proclaiming the happy event.  The large group of wedding guests attracted the attention of tourists wandering the area and I felt like we were in a scene from The Princess and the Frog.  At that moment, I felt blessed to be living in New Orleans.  There are many moments like that for me.

When my family is together on the parade route, a band marching by, drum beat pounding in my heart, I feel blessed.
In Audubon Park with a live band playing surrounded by friends all dancing, eating, drinking and taking time to enjoy life, I feel blessed.
When I see tourists gazing with awe at stately homes on Saint Charles Avenue as they enjoy a streetcar ride, I feel blessed.
Looking out at the Mighty Mississippi from the view afforded by the Aquarium of the Americas, I feel blessed.

Living in New Orleans is living a life enhanced.  It's as if someone slipped a stained glass window before your eyes, changing your view of everything for the better.  Colorful, vibrant- that's life in the Crescent City.  Strange, exotic- that's life in the Big Easy.  Dazzling, breathtaking- that's life in New Orleans.   

I could go on and on about my beloved city but I will have to leave it as a snippet for now.

If you are living here, take a moment to think of your reason to be thankful.  If you live away, come visit and see life from a new perspective.

One last thought- if New Orleans was a taste there are tons I could offer but I think it can be summed up nicely by the appetizer we were offered upon entering the wedding reception:

ARTICHOKE BEIGNETS

Wow!  Life in New Orleans is delicious.

Happy Sunday from my beautiful city,
Dina

Things I know (but don't always put into practice)

1.  The day is always better when I begin with writing.
2.  The day is always better when I end with reading.
3.  I am NOT marrying the coffee creamer so I shouldn't spend so much time choosing it.
4.  Slow and steady wins the race.  Also known as ...A little bit is better than all or nothing!
5.  Comparing myself to others is not helpful in any way.
6.  I can do what I put my mind to.
7.  It's okay to ignore the rules sometimes.

Seven is a lucky number so I will end there.  Happy Friday!
Dina

Back in the Saddle

 My daughter was going to a swim meet today.  Swim meets begin at God-awful times so I found myself awake in a quiet house with a little time on my hands.  Perfect time to write.

I sat down to read my favorite book about writing, the one that has an assignment after each chapter.  Where was that book?  Oh yeah, squirreled away in an old armoire in a pre-holiday cleaning blitz.  Now to find my glasses.  Darn!  Where have all the pens gone?  Probably another casualty of tidying the house.  Do you see a pattern here?

At this point, my mind wanders.  Well, maybe I should do something else.  Any excuse to avoid putting pen to paper.  Okay...I'll blog instead.  But blogging means running the gauntlet of distractions like e-mail and Facebook.  It was close but I avoided them both and here I am, pounded away on the keys.

It is already a daunting task, staring at a blank screen, the cursor expectantly blinking.  Over the holidays, the tiniest seed of a thought that would linger in my mind.  It would make a great subject but the thought of fully forming it stops me in my tracks.  Other times, a grand idea would sweep over me but the thought of taking a big thought and narrowing it into a blog would wear me out even before I started.

Then there is RHYTHM.  This morning when I was stopped at every turn by a new (albeit minor) hurdle- glasses, pens, book...I realized how hard it is to get back into a rhythm.  That's what the holidays do.  They interrupt our daily rhythm.  It is always a welcome break.  Day after day with no distractions get monotonous.  As a matter of fact, during Christmas the break last so long the holidays take on a rhythm of their own.  Imposed discipline from being forced to follow a schedule slips away.  Normal cycles of eating, sleeping and working all blur like the horizon when it is cloaked in fog.  I have been trying to claw my way out since January 2nd.  I always find transitions difficult.  It seems every summer I blog about struggling at the beginning.  That struggle is in letting the rhythm of the school year give way to the very different cadence of the summer.

So here I am, caught between two rhythms.  When I am thinking and writing about a subject, I love to look up quotes about it.  I read many quotes about rhythm this quiet Sunday morning.  It was frustrating because I couldn't find one that encapsulated what I was trying to express.  I think God has planted a natural rhythm deep within our being.  It is so primal, it is almost hard to separate ourselves from it and find a way to express it in words.   The best I could find was this:

Happiness is not a matter of intensity but of balance, order, rhythm and harmony.
Thomas Merton


The holidays are a time of intense pleasure and temporal happiness.  Restoring the balance and order of daily life can be a challenge...

Especially when living in New Orleans with football and Mardi Gras threatening to sweep everyone into another rhythm altogether.

Oh well.  Guess I should just celebrate the fact that being being in or out of rhythm as well as the transitions does one thing...

KEEPS US ALL DANCING!

It's the start of the Carnival season.  Better go find my tap shoes.
Dina

Santa's Secret Story

The beginning of December means many things:  Christmas music piped in every store, tantalizing displays of holiday goodies, everything decked in lights and glitter.

One of my favorite things to do this time of year is get out the basket of holiday books.  There are books that I enjoyed as a child as well as new ones I have grown to love right alongside my children.  I was excited to see a children's Christmas book available for review from the Catholic Company and picked it right away.

Santa's Secret Story sounded intriguing.  I was excited about the idea of a book that would tie the Catholic celebration of Christmas together with the idea of Santa Claus.  It seems the secular world wants to claim him as their own.  This book shows the real story of Nicholas who sold his parents' possessions when they died so he could use it to help the poor.  It went on to describe how Nicholas helped a poor widower and his daughters by dropping coins down their chimney.  Nicholas became Bishop of Myra and was known for his many good works.  Rachel, a girl who is curious about Santa, discovers his story with the help of her guardian angel.

I know there are some Christians who refuse to participate in the idea of Santa, thinking this somehow diminishes the celebration of Jesus' birth.  I have never seen it this way.  I think it is easy to fit Santa in right alongside Jesus and to even illustrate the story of Jesus' birth with the love and giving of that "right jolly old elf".  In the story it is ultimately revealed that Santa's secret is he lives in heaven.  While I may read the book to an older child who is finally questioning the existence of Santa, I wouldn't blow his cover to a young child.  Give me the North Pole, eight reindeer, the elves and Santa's workshop.  I am a sucker for it all.  So, unfortunately, Santa's Secret Story will not be slipped into my basket of Christmas stories.  Perhaps I will save it for that time when my youngest are wondering out loud about the true story of Santa but until then his story will remain, well, SECRET.

Happy Advent,
Dina

*This review was written as part of the reviewer program for the Catholic Company.  They are a great source for Advent and Christmas religious items as well as books and gifts throughout the year.