Just Faith, Everyday

Closets, much as I like to try and keep up with them, are often a repository of past and present fashion sins and out-of-the-way incidentals and necessities. I’ve piled Isabella’s closet so it’s starting to border on the dysfunctional , and I know I’m going to need to start doing something about it, in spite of the mounds of work I need to do at any given time of my school year, never mind during the holidays. It’s maddening. To sort takes time. To consider what’s good or bad inside that closet will require discipline of choice, and thoughtfulness: which toys should be keepsakes and which should others come to enjoy? The same for clothes--and organizing them by size. What about all those supplies I’m not using, from her infancy? And shoes that don’t fit? What can become useful again, and what do I pack away in remembrance of her early years? I’m coming to find that even the simplest things--in fact, especially the simplest-- are often the hardest to discern, achieve, work on. In ...

Learn a lesson from the fig tree. When its branch becomes tender and sprouts leaves, you know that summer is near. Mark 13:28 I remember when the fig tree leaves budded and bloomed, just before summer, just as spring got full underway, as the heat turned up as if some unseen hand had turned the knob on the oven, and the sun blared harder on our little yard, blooming and supporting all manner of flowers and leaves. It seemed like it would be forever before we could sink our teeth into succulent figs--and it wasn't until July, for Isabella's birthday, that we could gather a small bowl of them for family to try. Otherwise we'd gather them a few at a time, just enough to taste, to pair with some Portuguese cheese my Mom had just sent, or with a cookie or some cake, in the Victorian tradition of tea cake loveliness. That fruit was so astounding to me--its growth, nourishing small birds who passed through our yard. I know how it grows, but there it was, in my back yard, al...

On the way to work, I look in the rearview mirror and see the bright, beautifully shaped eyes my daughter inherited, the smile in them (or frown, or grimace), the shine of wisdom, glitter from the morning sun, from my little Sophia. Then, I get on the bus to go into campus and, some mornings, will catch that same eye and smile in the gorgeous diversity of people. Eyes made to shimmer in the sunlight--blue, brown, hazel, of all shapes and origins. Eyes which have seen both beauty and war, have seen their own share. In some eyes I see this more than others--more awareness. I wonder at the souls on that bus, where they go when they step off into their day. We share that--the day, its newness, its possibility. Each day is that way--its blessing inherent to our momentary choices, to chance encounters. What will become of us today? Where can we become everyday saints? I try to be as hopeful as I can be in my writing--I figure there’s enough negative out there for seconds and thirds...

I often find myself at the end of a weekend wondering where the time went, why I didn't do more cleaning or eliminating clutter or catching up on projects and writing. Balancing checkbooks, planning futures. That sort of thing. One recent such weekend, I wrote a poem. That's not the only thing I did, but I gave in to meditation using words and ideas. This poem became an example of what could happen when I just paused, momentarily, in life, and really allowed the spirit to move me. I often do that now in playtime with my toddler, or even in deep research about some literary work for class, but have found I don't often enough just use the space of time to dream, ruminate, and let thoughts sift through me. Turned out this poem was such an on-target take on my deep fears about having another child, about miscarriage and letting it go, about the way in which death in nature hearkens life, that seasons must and will overtake us and that we should immerse ourselves in their b...

When I read something which forces me to question the difference between horror and beauty, and then makes a strong case for the connection between them, I have to pause and consider whether I'm a monster for seeing any good or whether reality just hit me square. Lately, I have my students reading different stories, fictional and not, about war and its aftermath, and while this discussion verges on the sublime, I've been thinking that everyday wars we wage with ourselves count, too. It's odd to find beauty in a place you don't expect. Especially when that place is your deep dark place. For instance, I find it annoying about myself that I tend to whine about everyday little things, even when I promise to myself I won't do it. Of course, there may be good reasons, sometimes: not having gotten sleep; being sick; dealing with insufferable students; feeling injustice. Even as I grind my teeth I know I need to stop, and it's quite like the literal "watch...

The smallness of places can only be bad if you cage yourself within them, if you tie yourself to the posts of fear, pride, resentment, things which so easily entangle. I tied myself to a daily grind of complaining, grumbling under my breath, about Tra and his habits, about my shortcomings, about all the things we did not have. Loosening that from me allowed me to float back up, reach for brightness rather than darkness. This daily grind was my small place. I’m finding right now, as I listen to my soul respond, that my literal daily grind of work and making or saving money is starting to feel like a small space. I want so desperately to save money for my daughter’s education, to allow her the opportunity for some of a Catholic one as I experienced. I know that this foundation has taken me the longest way, still leads me down good paths. I know it would grow for her in dividends, it would be the best of investments. At the same time I want to donate my money to the many causes I kn...

I wonder why I am obsessed with death lately--not in the way you’re thinking just now, reading this sentence, but in the existential, philosophical way, the way which adds that protective layer we need when we think about the inevitable. I listen to Joan Didion on audio books describe the suffering involved in losing your child, and of course it touches me, it makes me think about the delicate balance between the here-and-now and the beyond. It’s unnerving to consider it--Isabella, in all her youthful and playful beauty, seems to me to be immortal, and it’s sobering to see this little bit of myself in her and know she will come, some day, to an end, as will I. That’s always hard to face, though I think my current obsession comes with preparing myself, with tempering my soul, with facing reality in a way that leaves room for awe and wonder and not fear and trepidation. Life is for living, after all. I guess what makes this process difficult is suffering. There’s such a variety of...

The kinds of fights most of us like to avoid are often as quick and easy as a Southern summer storm, descending upon the land with vengeance in its thunder and lightning and downpour. As I get wiser (notice I did not say older) I find that I'm learning more than I thought I would from this: the inevitable tousle over something. Anything. Sometimes everything. Makes me think of times when the adults in my world fought in front of us kids, how I hated it, how it broke my heart then and sometimes still does, especially when disagreement involves witness by children. The sadness of bile and bitterness seems wrong for a child's eyes and little soul. Yet, conflict and its resolve are what children must see to know, to understand, to build the spiritual tools necessary to overcome. What I have learned after so much witness is that experiencing conflict is like language immersion in another country; the language of forgiveness comes in letting go of old grudges and griping (I'v...

Anyone who knows me knows I adore my family. I know how far my heritage has made me who I am, and often, being so far from them, and so far from the Portuguese enclave in which I came of age, I miss the smells, tastes, outlooks, and sounds of Portuguese life. I miss the compassion, love, and understanding of my mother and father, siblings and cousins, aunts and uncles. I feel, to some degree, severed from them, especially now that I have taken this massive step to set down roots in the South. My saving grace has been forging new family here, since I set foot on red clay. The family I have made here through that same love and compassion given me as a child has made possible who I am today, and I am forever thinking about them each step of the way. Each friend who coached, encouraged, and made me feel extraordinary--or challenged me to get my head out of the sand--pushed me forward. So many different communities contributed to my well-being in this very moment, I'm stunned re...

RECORD: To learn by heart; to commit to memory, to go over in one's mind The day I got back from my surgery we had to pick up Isabella from daycare, and when we got home, she saw how I struggled out of the car, and decided that taking my hand was the thing to do. She slowly walked with me up to our porch, kept looking up at me as if to check on me. So small, so new to this world--but she knows what kindness is. Compassion seems to be both a learned and instinctual thing, I am finding, as I raise my daughter and come to learn a few things about myself. My ear is always attuned to turn of phrase and etymology, and the verb "record" caught my fancy recently. To record is what I hope to do with my family history, what I have done on a little digital device, what I do each day when Isabella delights me with her innocent glee (and I snap photo after photo). The spiritual meaning is there in the etymology and I have always missed how it connects to mercy, in both Engl...

On a quiet, reflective hike at the State Botanical Garden of Georgia , I found myself considering the way some plants bend in an arc toward something--water, or the sun, or each other--and found myself wondering, why do they do that? I’ve been interested in the plants popping up around my house--the delight in finding I have gardenias growing by my front porch, and a bountiful hydrangea bush in our backyard. I am clueless about gardening (I’ve killed a few house plants), but I want to get to know what being a true gardener means. What tools do I need, and what do I need to know about plants of different types and with different needs? How does a good gardener know when her seedlings are growing as they should? Or when they need a little nudge? Motherhood hasn’t been dissimilar, and Isabella seems to be growing fairly well. There have been plenty of times I wasn’t sure how to “water” her or what to do to make her grow right, and I am sure I am in for much, much more. On the othe...

There are days when I think back onto my teen angst years, and remember certain things I’d wonder about: (who) will I marry? Where will I live? What will I do with my life and talents? Will I matter? It’s funny, but I still think in terms of (some of) these questions, except now I see them in the light of my experiences over some twenty-odd years. That space and time has tempered my soul, made me see in the way I couldn’t back then, when I sat and brooded by my stereo, taping a WBRU (college station) alternative music mixed tape for my best friend. Ah, the 80s. There have been many times along the way I faltered, then got back up again and kept trying, breaking new ground. The unknown elements--the moments when the next step seemed truly unsure--were the scariest, but I wouldn’t imagine those hesitant steps any other way now. I couldn’t have possibly dreamed up the life I have now back then: 2,000 miles, a broken engagement, Master’s degree, marriage and pregnancy away from my ...

Visiting one week after Buster’s passing, Isabella, upon seeing his grave, immediately and without prompting said, “Doggie!” In a pile of dirt and stone she recognized our beloved dog --she’d marked that moment in her mind, watched us grieve, perhaps processed it, and, if nothing else, saw this quiet, unmarked, removed place as a special one. I stood still and felt amazed at her remembrance and understanding, and in the same way, I see this understanding implicit to revisiting Triduum. I find something new to experience each year, even after a lifetime of Easters. This year, having a sense of mortality is really at the fore--I recall last year thinking, during Good Friday services, that this was a funeral celebration (the oddity of seeing Easter in this way caught me off guard). Watching Buster die reminded me of other deaths and perhaps made me cognizant of my own. If I could feel this excruciating way about our Buster, then how is it possible for a parent to witness her child’s ...

In my last post, I considered the desire we have as humans to control or master our lives, and the deep contrast in just plain trusting God's plan. I've been tested on this so much lately, in particular with regard to waiting on uncertainty. What's the point of waiting when no one can offer certainty—but then, is certainty possible, really? I have a friend right now who is battling the highs and lows of dealing with a rare disease, and she's fighting the good fight of patience and faith, waiting on doctors and nurses and her body. Each day poses a new challenge for her spirit, and she consistently maintains clarity mentally and emotionally, knowing she's only human at the same time. It's superhuman to me. Right now I am battling with the unknown about some murky results from some blood tests my doctors have been doing on me. I find myself at specialists—endocrinologist, neurologist—looking for answers that just won't come yet. It's unnerving to thin...

Sunlight comes earlier now, and nudges me up along with some melodious chirping each day. I get fresh dirt in my nails as I dig into the ground, tilling the earth around some tulips unfurling in my front yard of their own volition. Spring reminds me always of new chances, fresh growth that's inspiring: from the pear blossoms waving in the breeze, to the daffodils brazenly challenging what's left of winter to bring it--they're here to stay. Makes me smile. This kind of renewal happened within my soul as I listened to Alice Camille and attended a penance service for Lent just this past week--she reminded her listeners of the ways we need to surrender ourselves now, and always, to the next moment, how time marches on in our lives regardless of what we try to do to slow it down, control or master it. For those of us not so in love with our wrinkles, this is bad news, of course, but in truth the more important mark of time comes in the way we cherish it. Along the way the...

I think unpacking is finally in the last stages, and we've made a house moreso a home. Getting used to this new space has been something of an adjustment, and I'm reminded when I see spaces—the empty ones at our old place, and the extra ones here in the new—that with each passing year there will be things to put into that space. I'm not suggesting the things around us make us who we are, but they certainly remind us of where we've been, where we're going. Looking at Isabella's crib reminds me when I gave up my papasan chair to make it fit. Now I'm seeing a new crib, or another bookshelf full of books, or some marker of how the next part of my life will go. It's the promise of the space, you see, and the possibility—that's what's caught my eye. I think this works the same way with our souls. We see the spaces within that are full, the spaces that need filling, and we come to understand if we really take a look at ourselves, we'll not f...

Sitting here listening to the winds draw in 20 degree weather, I am grateful for this new space we've been graced with. I've decided to leave our Christmas stockings up, and haven't finished unpacking, but am nearly full speed into a new school year, and into the daily rumble that is our life. I always feel a little tinge when the Christmas season ends, and the songs remind me why: a mixture of this heady, comforting, joyful celebration, this warmth from within which protects us from the cold which blows on and on outside. So many of us long for the true peace that is "silent night," and those of us paying attention to the solemnity of the season catch in the lyrics of long-hallowed carols the purpose of the child born. "We Three Kings of Orient Are" captures this in a haunting way. The warmth of the manger, its bare protection for this little family who is in for so much more as this child grows, draws us into the song; what we get as the carol win...