Monday, March 22, 2010

Lordy, Lordy

Dear Friends,

My apologies for taking so long to write. But I have a great excuse.

I TURNED FORTY.

That’s right. The Big 4-0.

I’ve been alive nearly 14,600 days. 350,400 hours. Let’s not even get into the minutes and seconds.

But, damn! What a ride it’s been.

From the comfort and chaos of Weston Village Apartments and the iron clutch of Sister Veronica Ann’s freakishly strong hands, I now reside safely in the warmth of my loving soulmate’s embrace, surrounded by the most fabulous of friends, and blessed to be called “Mom” by four uniquely charming little individuals.

My birthday itself must be counted as one of the best days of my life. I was surprised by my dear, beautiful, forever friend, Stacy with a well-planned, secret, all-about-me day. With the generous help of some of my best girls, I was transported (blindfolded) for a manicure and pedicure, lunch at The Sanctuary, an hour and a half spa massage, party preparation at the Hotel Jeffers, hair and make-up with the uber-talented Angie, and pre-party cocktails with the girls who light up my life. Jody came from Chicago in her hot ass pants. Molly brought her beautiful family -- and her radiant spirit -- from Fort Wayne. Andi brought -- well, perhaps I shouldn’t mention EVERYTHING she brought online. But the flowers -- and her tried and true friendship -- were spectacular.

I’ve never felt so pampered. Or so loved.

And then.

My sweet, spicy husband threw the party of all parties -- complete with a red carpet arrival. His sisters and brothers and parents came to celebrate. Mine did, too. Friends and family from all corners of my life were there.

I was humbled. And a bit drunk.

Now, I embark on the next decade of my life’s adventures. By the time I’m trading the 40s in for the 50s, I will be a published author -- hopefully, a household name. But the things that will never change? My friends. My family. The core of my life.

Miss Mary Claire begged a shopping excursion from Stacy and bought me a beautiful new shirt and a fancy bracelet -- with her own money.

George gave me a duckling made out of melting beads. He made three, but misplaced two. He’s promised to send them my way when they show up.

We have adventures awaiting us. We have promises on our horizon. So, at 40, I will gather up these pieces of my heart and take them with me wherever I may go.

Chris, Sam, Gus, Mary Claire, and George will be with me in person.

Everyone else, I’ll carry within my soul.

As my lovely plaque from Molly reads,

“The whispers of our lives want us to take notice. They may be just whispers, small voices tucked deep inside the pockets of our hearts, but we must hold their possibilities close to our chests and allow them to step into the light.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you loved ones for making this such a memorable day.

Onward, 40. We have dreams to find.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Home Churching

We joke about “home churching” our kids when friends ask us about our religious beliefs. “Home churching is a lot like home schooling,” we explain. “Except that diagramming sentences takes a back seat to God.”


But a quick conversation with my BFF this morning made me think a great deal about why this truly has become our modus operandi.

I was born with Catholicism coursing through my veins. I attended Catholic school for eight years. I wore the plaid, pleated skirt (with my athletic shorts underneath for those high-intensity kickball and dodge ball games), genuflected when appropriate, confessed (most of) my sins to my beloved priest, learned the Ten Commandments under the watchful eye of Sister Helen Therese. I am Catholic. I will always be Catholic. It is part of who I am -- just as much as my blue eyes come from my wayward father and my sense of humor comes from my witty and sarcastic mother.

For all eternity, I will be grateful for my Catholic upbringing. I cling to the traditions and teachings of my youth more than I willingly admit. Do I believe everything the Catholic church teaches? Not by a long shot. But I believe in the beauty, the wonder, the tradition, the mystique of Catholicism. Always have. Always will.

Chris was raised in the Methodist church. He won’t admit to it now, but as a teenager, he did the Methodist church tour as part of a singing duo known as “Christian and Quick.” (And he’ll KILL me for posting that.) I reveal that detail, however, to illuminate the fact that he was not just a Sunday morning Methodist. He was a METHODIST. His belief system was as integral a part of of his youth as mine was.

And there lies the rub.

When we first began talking about marriage, religion continued to rear its ugly head. As a good Catholic girl, I swore I would never raise my kids anywhere but in the arms of those who had received all the same sacraments I had. As a staunch Methodist boy, he was unwilling to comply.

And that, my friends, was nearly the beginning of the end.

So, what did I do? I prayed. I said the Rosary. I communed with the Holy Spirit, I drank a lot. I asked God for guidance.

And His answer surprised me.

Because I found myself releasing my vise grip on the beliefs taught to me via my beloved organized religion. I didn’t release my grip on my own beliefs -- just on some of the teachings that never really settled well with me to begin with.

And that was the beginning of a long journey of religious reflection.

In college, I studied Catholicism, Judaism, Buddhism, Lutheranism... If it was organized and had a name, I couldn’t get enough of it. I read the Bible -- both as an instrument of faith and as a work of literature.

My own religion, in turn, became more internalized, more private, more reverent.

But my God never changed.

I went to Methodist churches, Lutheran churches, Episcopalian churches.

And my God never changed.

My realization wasn’t earth-shattering, but it was a personal awakening. I believe in God. Not the Catholic God. Not Buddha. Not Jehovah. But God. My God. In all His many forms.

Do I believe that my God is the only God? Well, I believe that there is just one God. But who am I to say that He doesn’t manifest himself in different ways to different people across the earth? Perhaps the Native Americans saw Him as the wind and the rain. And perhaps that windy, rainy God was the same God that I rely on every day of my life.

My big personal awakening was that I don’t believe in a religion. I believe in God. I believe in a moral compass that guides my life and the lives of my children. (Well, all my children except for George. We’ll still working on that one.) God -- to me -- does not equal religion. God is goodness, kindness, acceptance, love. He is the Golden Rule.

My belief system may not be right. But I did not come by it lightly. I will never take it for granted, and I would never force it onto someone else.

I would much rather live my life, my faith, my beliefs by my actions than by my words. Will I fuck it up? Most certainly. That’s part of being human. (So is my inclination toward profanity.)

The funny thing about me is that I love to go to church. A traditional Mass thrills me to no end. I love to see how other people celebrate their own individual beliefs. I must admit I’m not a big fan of the big screen TV churches. I prefer the quaint quiet of a musty chapel and an intricately carved crucifix. But I would never begrudge anyone the joy of worshipping where they are most comforted, where they are most secure.

It’s just that for me, that some place tends to be with my kids and my husband and the other people I hold most dear. Sometimes it’s in our home, sometimes it’s riding our bikes, sometimes it’s camping in the woods, sometimes it’s playing Scrabble in Brown County. My sanctuary -- and where I feel closest to my God -- is when the “religion” part of my religion is not first and foremost.

I understand that blogging about God is like opening a Pandora’s Box. I might as well say that my political beliefs lean toward socialism and that I have sex with goats. (That got you thinking, didn’t it? You’re wondering which -- if either -- of those statements is true, aren’t you?)

So, I feel I must state that I DON’T believe my beliefs are the right way, the only way, the chosen way. I love good, honest, sincere people -- black, white, green, Asian, Jewish, bipolar, fat, skinny. It just doesn’t matter.

What matters is a kind, caring, generous heart. What matters is that we’re all taking this journey together. We’re each carving our own path, but those paths -- when you look closely at them -- really aren’t so different after all.

I’ll never force you to take my path, but you’re always welcome to join me. And if you need me to walk with you for awhile, I’m happy to meander your way.

That, to me, is what God is all about.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Adventures With Sissy-Poo

Chris is out of town for a few days (a completely different blog post altogether), so my Mom came to town to "help" me out while he's gone. Don't get me wrong -- I mean no disrespect when I include the quotes around "help." I adore my Mother. Adore her wit, her humor, her beauty, her larger-than-life personality, her warm heart.

But her health isn't so good.

And the helping? Well, let's just say that she helps us smile. And she helps with homework. But the driving and running and general physical labor that comes with 4 kids? Not her current forte.

Life has been tough on my Mom. After working 3 jobs her entire adult life to support the three of us on her own, she was diagnosed with MS. Then diabetes. Then heart disease. And she's in need of hip surgery, but can't go under the knife until she's been on her heart medication for a full year. And then there's the smoking.

As I've mentioned before, life at the Willis abode moves pretty quickly. My Mom? Not so quick.

She did, however, manage to fall unexpectedly to her feeble, 69-year-old knees -- directly onto my cold, concrete garage floor.

While she was going out for a smoke.

I know her legs give out because of the MS. I KNOW. But she wouldn't have been in the garage if her Merit Ultra Lights hadn't been calling her name.

There are three things my Mom would crawl -- on chapped and bloody lips -- across broken glass for:

1. Her grandchildren
2. A Keoke coffee
3. A cigarette

And due to Vice Number Three, my 72-year-old step-dad, Bob, and I had to lift her from the garage floor and get her back into the house.

And have I mentioned that my back is not really fashioned for lifting? Ever since that unfortunate basketball incident in college when my sacroiliac joint decided to completely dislodge, that spine of mine has been a bit unreliable. Fortunately, my brilliant cousin, Rick, was able to grant me the gift of walking again. But when I hobbled down the aisle as a Vicodin-fueled bridesmaid in Chris and Amy's wedding, it was still a bit iffy.

But I digress.

When Mom and Bob come to visit, they inevitably bring their dog, Odie. During this particular stay, he dragged his little Pomerian ass all over Mary Claire's carpet, leaving a brown and unsavory reminder of his obvious itch. (Ask Mary Claire to demonstrate -- she'll happily show you exactly how it happened.)

"He didn't mean it," my Mom argued. "His anal glands just need attention sometimes."

Umm. I'm not even sure where to begin with that one.

Do I address the fact that my Mom is actually defending her dog's need to smear poop all over my carpet?

Or should I focus instead on the notion that my Mom and I were actually having a discussion about canine anal glands?

Really? This is definitely a lose-lose prospect.

My Mom has always been a wee bit spicy, a tad sarcastic, a smidgen argumentative. But for every year she ticks off the calendar, that combativeness becomes more pronounced. Many seemingly benign statements become unexpected quibbles.

For example...

ME: I need to find a babysitter for St. Patrick's Day. One who can drive the kids to and from their practices. I'm going to make a couple of phone calls.

MOM: Oh, I get it. Now that I can't drive, I've become useless to you, huh?

Whaaaaaa?

On the last evening of her stay, my Mom asked if I thought she and Bob were "slipping."

And that, my friends, is not a conversation that ever truly ends well.

I think they're both showing some signs of aging. I think they're both a bit forgetful. I think they both become easily confused at times. That's normal for their ages, right? Do I worry about them? Yes. Am I going to tell her that? Absolutely not.

Oh, Sis. Former beauty queen. Current crazy-maker.

Forever beloved.

No matter how many times she makes me sigh.

Monday, March 8, 2010

Double Vision

Hey, Blogger friends! Good to see you again! For the past couple of years, I've been blogging via my private URL, www.willistribe.com. And for those of you who've been following me there -- fear not! I'm still there. Always will be.

But.

I'm going to copy all of my posts over here now, too. As an aspiring writer looking for representation and publication, it apparently helps to have a platform. (And I've learned that this is NOT something I stand on to perform my next solo.) Instead, I need to be recognized online, admired by many (or at least more than 2). Having both a private domain and a Blogger identity will (hopefully) be beneficial.

You won't have to read both www.willistribe.com and my Blogger posts. They'll be identical. Feel free to choose the medium you prefer.

I toyed with the idea of copying all my www.willistribe.com posts over here and vice versa, but decided that would be a colossal waste of time. So, if you've just found me on Blogger and you want to read the past two years of my rants and raves, feel free to catch up over yonder.

It will be a testament to our new-found online friendship.

Onward, friends!