The aunt

So when we got in, it was a bit of a whirlwind. My so-called, so-very-different-from-me friends were right behind me in the doorway with some of my belongings. I had my 5-month-old in one arm, a bag and my 2-year-old's hand in the other. I budged into the tiny entryway area, hesitant to track in snow or grit, encouraging my girls to go into the stranger's home. Both girls took one look at the woman in front of them, who was already wobbling toward us, not helping us with our things, and clung to me. My baby twisted in my arm, turning her head over my shoulder away from the woman she did not know, and clenching my jacket. Even my sociable, bubbly 2-year-old was wincing and finding protection behind my arm. The friends who had driven me two hours to get there were dropping my belongings at the door.

The flurry of activity and rush to get out of the January cold subsided momentarily. In the arrested moment, I couldn't dispel the feeling that washed over me that this was not going to be good. Small, needless talk was made. Whatever introductions and formalities were exchanged between the friends dropping me off and this aunt of my husband's were so fleeting and perfunctory that whatever hope of good there could have been from this new arrangement disappeared as quickly as we came in.

I feebly, desperately thanked my friends, the wife-and-husband duo I'd been living with for two months prior. My gratefulness for them bringing in my belongings was washed away in a moment of desperately wishing I could turn around and go back with them. But it was done and I knew it. We were here. Now. And it hadn't been working out between the three of us and our three kids (my two, their one), so here I was. I knew they were probably just relieved to get their house and life back; not have a living zombie of depressing emotions moping around in their house and the wife of a cancer victim to make their lives depressing. It still stung, though, when the moment for them to leave came and all of us stood in the entryway with nothing more to say and they left without pomp or circumstance. Nor telling emotion. The way they swept out of there made me wonder just how relieved they were to have me off their hands.

It was kind of a theme in my life. Needing way more emotional support than anyone could give. It made me realize that I asked too much of people. So instead of figuring out how I could fix that, which I neither had the time for or the patience (and that time in my life being when I needed someone to feel sorry for me the most,) I just balled it up and choked it down, just like every other injustice I'd learned to tolerate. I did it again just then, in that moment the door closed behind my friends, and I turned to the next endeavor. The aunt.

* * *

Did she welcome us? Smile? I don't remember. What I do remember is standing in that strange new doorway, feeling as alien and wanting to hide as my own children, praying and hoping that this would be a welcoming new start. A place to find refuge from the tsunami that was my life just then. I also remember the aunt, with her waddling gait and cold black eyes, who didn't give me a warm impression at all. If she was trying, it got lost the moment my 2-year-old started to whimper and the aunt dragged her away from me telling her to come into the house, forcing adjustment on my little girl, rather than waiting for her to warm up with my support.

I remember her taking the baby from my arms so I could take my shoes off, but when I finished and stood up--all of a minute--she was in front of me with my two children. The picture of this strange woman, who I'd only met once before then, with my children beside her, was an eerie snapshot of wrongness. The aunt looked almost... what was that look... defiant. Without being able to put it into words, I just knew it didn't feel right. I moved in towards my children to comfort them and take them back. It was a silly thought and I shook it out of my mind as I stepped further and further into this strange house, strange life, strange world to reassure my little ones that Mommy was right there. But it was just the thing that haunted me, an inaudible and undefined feeling: take them back. It was a ghost of a feeling that would stay with me for my duration there. What was that? What was that exchange? It was just another of many more gut feelings I'd learn to set aside. What else could I do with no landed immigrant status to get a job, no car, no money, none of my family around?

Not one to be easily defeated, I followed her to I don't remember where. Did she show me around first? Did she show me my room? Did we sit on the couch that day? It doesn't matter. I proverbially and literally tip toed around everyone in that house---the aunt, the uncle, their daughters, who were practically my age and remarkably normal in comparison--and tried desperately to keep a low profile so I could do what I was trying to do, and get out.

It wouldn't be that easy.

On top of everything else, and I mean EVERYTHING else, I was 21 years old. To everyone else around me, I was still just a know-nothing kid, which pissed me off. It worked against me in every way youth works against even the most level-headed, ambitious, qualified or intelligent person.

It is for this very reason alone, I digress, for why I can never and will never tell a young person that their opinions don't matter or wave off concerns I know, standing on this side of the age fence, they will outgrow with some dismissive, diminutive gesture or guffaw. Even when my ear has been bent by the same person for the same things ad nauseum and I get frustrated because I don't feel like they're doing anything for themselves to better their situation, I still shut up. I just listen. And then I try to ruffle up some inspiration with a tidbit for them or use my creative ability to offer a suggestion or two, based on the limits of their situation. (You'd be surprised about how giving someone something they can really chew on will actually enable them to see where the options are for themselves.) The fact is, you just don't know what their life is like. You can make intelligent assumptions, you can make belligerent ones, you can make generalizations, you can be as self-righteous or as concerned as you want to be, you can even be really good at understanding. But at the end of the day, you don't wear their shoes and you don't put your head to rest on their pillow. That deserves understanding.

Irony that isn't irony

When I say something, nine times out of ten, I'm serious. As in, I meant what I said. For the other one percent, I'm usually kidding around, but if you know me you can tell. My humor is not that dry, and I usually fill those "gotcha" kind of one-percenters with funny expressions, eye brow shapes, and puckered mouths. I've even taken to doing this nod thing with my nose where my chin kind of stays elevated to signal that, yes, indeed, I'm joking around.

But ten times out of ten, and when it has to do with critical subject matter, I mean serious business.

What does it take to get people to LISTEN?

The fact that I have to declare that at all makes me crazy. I don't have time for this today. I have an exciting performance tonight with the youth symphony playing at the mall! To me, having to declare or question why I can't be taken seriously speaks to the way in which I may have been perceived, perhaps depending on the way I've carried myself, and finally what weight or worth my words have. It even speaks to the possible opinions/perceptions of those who regard my miseries as misfortune I have simply brought on myself, which I have been told, which have stung, and which in actually reflection is only about 2% true.

I thought I had the right balance of seriousness and sarcasm/humor. At least the kind of balance I wanted where when I was joking, people would know and when I was serious, they would take what I had to say and digest it or at least... shut. Up.

I know, right? Sounds totally deluded. Like, WHO do I think I AM, right? Or at least what makes me feel like my words should be regarded with such weight, right?

Well it seems I there is a recurring theme of not being taken seriously in my life. I could factor in where I was, where I've been, the people around me, where they've been, what's brought us all to that point, my various inabilities to gauge when to stop joking around (my dad was big on getting us kids to realize we constantly overdid the humor thing,) my astrological sign (Geminis are known to be "childlike",) my idealistic take on some things, but at the end of the day, each time I was fighting to be taken seriously was time which amounted to the summit of experience I had in my life at those times, thus deserving (I figured) the same damned respect I've given others, even those with far less life experience. And since I do have a buttload of life experience (I've thought about doing stand-up, wondering how I would organize my material,)--every year adding a little more--I figure that someone, at least one person or a few, would recognize when to laugh and when to shut. Up.

But maybe I'm not worth taking seriously. Who knows. Hard to say. I don't really care. Save for how it frustrates the ever-lovin' bagoomus out of me. I just got another message from a guy I knew a long time ago, who tried taking advantage of the vulnerable situation that was me back then, who I deflected, thwarted off multiple times, deleted, blocked off, chopped off just after stating my position of "NO!" clearly and bluntly, and eventually was able to forget. Leave it to Facebook to open new avenues of "connecting with friends" !@#$%! Besides angering, it's humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

I don't have time for this crap. I don't have the time to keep looking back, nor the desire to keeping looking back, on a former line of living that involved serious, grievous, erred ways of thinking and relating to others, especially on account that I still have yet to grieve the loss of my marriage and am concentrating on this wonderful, relatively new relationship I'm in now. It feels amazing to be this loved! The things I have learned! The ways I have grown!

But even if it wasn't this to aggravate my running theme of people in and out of my life not respecting boundaries, it would be something else, somebody else, and I'm sick of it. Maybe I'm being foolish to think I am wise, but then if I am a fool, I should rejoice because there will come the day where the foolish shame the wise.

Spring fail!

It's days like these that just make me want to brood. Cloud cover and still tons of snow on the ground hamper the mood of seasonal change, just when the weather was starting to be sunny and melty. It's as though the snow and gray themselves are a heavy blanket over my shoulders and face. Argh.

I'm really okay with not having a job to go to and having the time to write during the days, smoking my cigarettes, and deciding what I want to truly do with my life, jumping up sporadically to do laundry, housework, or go snow-shoeing, but it's been a bit of a mental struggle to be okay with it. I have worked every day of my life since I left home, in some fashion or another, knowing and feeling it was never okay to just sit around and laze around on my bum (which is what I would rather do!) I have also never had this much sit-around time.

(Click on the various photos for fun facts.)

I go to my French course, take bassoon lessons once a week, and play with the youth symphony (above photo is of the conservatory), but those are in the evenings, so the day time has seen me grow more accustomed to spending time on the computer, reading, and practicing. I've always scoffed at these kinds of people--the person I am being right now--who don't have day jobs on account of some artistic excuse, but even if I could let that go (or change my position on it--after all I am artistic and idealistic,
what use is there in denying it?), there's the whole question of what I am contributing to the overall well-being and betterment of my own life and consequently, those lives which surround me when not bringing in money, not furthering my education (save for some mastery of the French language), or doing anything of worldly substantial value.

Blown glass museum in La Baie

It really speaks to the idealistic side of me, the side of me that is tired of taking on 'petty' jobs (even to help myself reach the ends to the means), when I say they're not really helping me. It's idealistic, if not a little deluded, to say such a thing because I did learn a lot about myself and others, even my capability to encourage others, be a better leader, be better at serving others with all the other jobs I've had; and I am not above any job or any person. These were jobs where the most education involved was a high school diploma (which is what I have, so I speak carefully) and those with more were the kids coming back for summer jobs, yet off to bigger and better things.

What hampered things somewhat was the locale, isolated, left to its own devices, the closest neighboring city being four hours away, and the dwindling population/reduced number of choices of available jobs, never mind higher education. (Where I was, they tried, but it didn't coincide with my music, and I just couldn't relent, no matter how much the locals raved.) I'm sure that added to my experience dramatically because when I think about the differences between a thriving big city and a small, northern, isolated bush-town, I am almost convinced that my options would have been a little greater in number and the chances of feeling good about a means-to-the-ends side job (the job that helps me get through school or advancement of any kind) would have been higher, even if only for the difference in size and despite overall economy.

But none of these jobs were entirely fulfilling because I was not maximizing... something. My intellect? My capacity to understand intricate instructions? My craving to be challenged? I had some level of those factors in all of my previous employments, but even when I rose to the occasion, there was always someone else who was there first, who did it longer, who did not appreciate that some newbie coming in could keep up, or something wrong with the way I performed a task. In fact, I realize how much I had compromised the ways (and manners) in which I thought, acted, and talked after experiencing conversations and interactions with others outside of the place where I was living. I could use the language I used once upon a time (the one with the "big words" that I was made fun of), I could talk about abstract concepts without getting the Glaze-Over or the Old Stink Eye, or even worse, the good, old change-the-subject tactic. Even getting back into music and sitting under the conducting of a professional with other professionals (yes, these kids are professionals) reinforced the 'maybe I used to be smart' thought with "oh, effing sweet! I know what they're talking about!" and brought me the relief of a thousand years. I'm really not crazy and over my league after all--I'm just who I am! I really am that person! This kind of stuck my idealistic theory in the ground like a general with his flag that I do need an educated job.The worst thing about these realizations, though, is that I sound like a complete effing snob. A real pretentious snipe! And this exactly the reason I hunkered down and took on jobs that I felt were a little humiliating. I had no more qualifications on paper that could land me a higher-paying job, I was not (and still am not) above any job, and at the end of the day, I was damned lucky to have any job, regardless of position on the globe and with respect to global economy. I have ex-military brothers qualified to get into law enforcement of land security/patrol-type jobs who struggled to keep their jobs when the economy took a dive. I remember my mom agitatedly reminding me that I was not above any job, too, when I was pregnant and young. Maybe it was just the situation and my attitude that gave her a little panic about my idealism, or maybe it was a plain lesson in life, but it has stuck with me all these years.

At the end of the day, though, snob or not, unreasonable or idealistic, those jobs were not fulfilling. Or at least not in a way where I could go home and leave work at work for a general majority of the time. And let's face it, I'm 31 years old. I'm too old to be fluffing around. Getting another job like that, here, seems counterproductive to what I was trying to do by coming here in the first place. It seems like I'm waiting for the perfect job to come to me, rather than going out and looking for it, even though that is not entirely, exactly true. I've always been of the mindset that a person has to make their life what they want it to be, rather than standing around waiting for it to just fall onto their laps, although I haven't necessarily practiced it. But in the end, after all the go-get-it, dive-in, make-it-happen Cazares attitude to life I've had, after 7 months of feeling self-conscious about what I've done or not done to significantly add to my life, which I will share with my girls, I know I'm being groomed for something even in spite of seeming like I'm not taking all of the grooming into my own hands. While it doesn't feel like it now, I know I'm learning something about life and how I'm going to go about it on my terms, without apology, exhibit the strength I'm trying to teach my girls about going after what they want (living what I preach), and not relenting to what others would have them (or me) do, like I did before. I've had so many new experiences, met so many new friends, and such a healthy outpouring of such different mindsets (keep in mind, I spend my whole adult life in that small town, forming a shell of collective, amassed opinions as my own guide for how to live there) that I feel refreshed and more installed of the real me than I've felt in years.

And now I'm here where I get a chance to rest and see the gray clouds and talk about them, as well as wrap up to go do some housework, which is just as relaxing as writing because it's productive.

Ice-breaking Coast Guard boat (La Baie)

Le Pyramide de Ha! Ha!--made of yield signs

Ice fishing cabins organized over La Baie

The bridge in Chicoutimi


La Petite Maison Blanche--one of the only little houses to survive the 1996 flood in Chicoutimi;
The Saguenay Symphony played its season premier opener here last summer

Overlooking the Chicoutimi River

Life is hard, but hope is vital

Life is hard, you know that? It doesn't matter who you are, where you live, what your background, what your ancestry, what kind of job you have, how much money you have or don't have, life is just damned hard.

Consider the following:

1. A country whose leader is refusing to step down and turning on his own people with military force, even despite an international warning to back off (several countries working together at an emergency summet in the U.N. this week), which hangs on a delicate balance---this fool's pride/arrogance/deranged-ness. An entire people, innocent and wanting change, prospectively attacked, the families of those people potentially suffering--all the very real effects of extremist behavior that have happened in the senseless taking of lives in the history of the world. Yet this man in power is so.... what?.... so within his own fucked up sense of right and wrong, entitlement or demonstration of force that the situation has become the very fragile potential to singularly ripple through dozens, if not hundreds or thousands (depending on how it unfolds) of relatively innocent human beings? How does one person get to that fucked up state of mind? Even much more than that is how do similarly insane people get so much power?

2. Two girls whose dog gets put down after only 8 years with her due to a chronic degeneration of the hips. They have to learn about loss and about the hard things of the world over a Skype session, just months after their parents split up. Meanwhile their mother can't even be there to hold them. They have to learn about what they can and cannot control, true responsibility, and grieving from a truly personal place. They are only 10 and 12.

3. Men and women who come home from war only to discover their world was not like they left it, even in the most ideal situations where the spouse has guarded over every detail of their lives and waited faithfully with devotion, but keeping in mind for every one good setting there is an unknown, multiplying number of shitty situations, far from ideal and end in heartbreak, domestic warfare, mental issues, post-traumatic symptoms, and inability to keep jobs. Even the ones in the middle who manage to come home and live productive lives, they are never the same. War kills the soul.

4. The kid whose vivid memory of his dad leaving him at 2 years of age and being bullied on the playground surging into the scars of adulthood. He grows into a respectable man who knows and lives responsibility, taking on the tasks of life with fervor and with reverence, but the pain of rejection is never far, and so he has to work twice as hard as anyone to overcome fears that would not otherwise cripple another. He has to differentiate between realistic concerns and irrational fears more analytically. It plays into all of his relationships.

5. The mom who is teaching her toddler to use the toilet, hitting and missing, having to clean up messes, having to pull from a basic parenting skill set but more or less flying by the seat of her pants to ensure her own parenting is what she wants to make of it, including the love she gives and all the things she does to encourage her little one. She realizes this is a part of growing up and is excited for her Baby, but it pulls at her heart strings because she knows these years are precious and fly by too quickly.

6. The spouse who watches over the other in a hospital because he/she is sick, dying, or somewhere in the middle. Day after day of looking into an even more uncertain future than those simply struggling to make ends meet. Life and death is on the line, their point of relativity changes, accomplishment and success are suspended or at least take on new meaning.


The point to my Depresso Rambling here is that none of this is without hope. None of it! The very real problem is that it seems hopeless, feels hopeless sometimes, but that's because we give up first. We really do. We feel defeated because we see trends in society, percentages of failure (rather than success), get balled and bagged down by our own experiences, the news, other people's experiences, wondering at last if there is anything substantial about this life. But that's just what that the negative forces of existence are expecting us to believe. Because it draws our attention away from all that is positive, good, right, light, and loving. At the very least, we are at war for our souls--trying to save them from despair and there being an exponential increase with people (and groups) who are trying to help us win that war (think of any proactive group you've heard about, types of really exemplary people our generation alone has known, the importance of taking care of ourselves, the return to hope and love), but there still being a host of crap in the world that would fight us no matter how much hope we hold onto.

You don't have to be an emo to understand these things, either. While I confess to a few random emo 'moments' in my early twenties, I've generally been a hopeful person. Even when I was going through all that I went through (which was mind-numblingly boggling, intense, angry, contemplative, bargaining, unresting, and unfair--and probably more than any emo could make up) I refused to give up on my beliefs. I didn't feel good about it because it didn't change my situation and it didn't make me not angry or not resentful---and the much cooler choice would have been to wall up and tell the world to fuck off---but I believed in the promise we were given in and around 2000 years ago and had seen so many really, super-drenched good things that such things were proofs in and of themselves that something so much better than this life existed. How can a person refute an inexplicable silence in a whirlwind of storm in the heart where, when pleading for these impossibly grave things to pass, an inexplicable wave of peace settles over the core of the body, allowing tears and relief to flow? It only happened for a moment, but it was just the morsel I needed to carry on. True story.


The fact is, very few believe that kind of stuff anymore. It's time to turn our heads back to our Creator already.

Souffrance

What is suffering? What do we know about suffering? Why do we suffer? Why can some of us deal with it and some of us not?

Well I don't have the answers. I don't know any more than any psychologist. And quite honestly I believe that at least half of psychologists have barely the same or worse ability to deal with their crap than the rest of us--talk about the blind leading the blind! Not all of them, but enough. Don’t get me wrong, psychologists and psychiatrists are also human beings who are no less prone to life full of hardships and the struggle that comes with us trying to heal from them (or not—some just don’t live by their own wisdom) and they are a valuable asset for the least and the most of us, but it is rather hard to stomach getting help from those who cannot help themselves. I would know. On two accounts. 1) Receiving advice from those with personal, massively scarred history that was still bleeding OR could not even begin to draw from any relatable prior experience; 2) giving advice when I was struggling with my own inner toils. In the end, I still believe in the healing their profession brings and studies in that field to date which bring a scientific method to overcoming our personal wounds.

Anyway, I don’t have the answers, but I have done a lot of thinking about it. In these past 7 months, with my daughters living over 2,000 miles away, it has been its own kind of hell and I've had lots of time to think about the decisions I've made that brought me here (to this point in my life, to this particular location on the map, everything.) No mother has ever been as upset in the world as I have been for having to apply theory to reality: understanding that children need the freedom to make choices, giving them that choice, and having to follow through--allowing their choice to stand. The pain of their absence re-roots itself like a knife in the soul every single time they experience something I can't be there for. And though all things in life change and will change, especially as the cycle of life renews itself, it must be stated that sometimes there are just no other ways out.

That being said, it is not them I blame. No way, not for one singular, tradable moment in the world. I blame myself in adequate measure. I blame myself primarily for letting my own life get to a point that I felt like leaving drop, stock, and barrel--with them--was the very last but only, critically singular option there was. I also put fault with a few other things, other situations, and yes, some people in equally adequate measure, adequate to mean ample but not overdone. But this is not about that blame. This entry isn't even about what I can and cannot control, or how hard it has been to stay the course without having been able to fully explain these things that have taken me years to come to. It's about suffering. Everyone suffers, even if not continuously.

And what suffering brings.

Is it supposed to bring something? Interesting thought, isn't it.

Generally, yes. It is. Suffering was designed for something, and not just to make us feel like crap and emotionally paralyzed. If we go back to the first account of human suffering, we could take Adam and Eve in the bible, when God kicked them out of Eden and told Adam he'd have to sweat and work his butt off to bring home the bread ("till the land") and to Eve she'd have to experience pains in childbirth. Immediately, obtaining food and bearing children, things that God was just going to give them for nothing, were to become the rewards for the hardship.

But Adam and Eve didn't get away with such a clean break. They had to learn how to make clothes, take care of their children, one of whom ended up killing the other, and surely a great number of other things that we could read in the book of Genesis in the bible, or only speculate on as their lives unrolled until they died. Through their choice to disobey, they came to know suffering.

But God did not abandon them. Through their choices, they lost paradise, they had to suffer, but they were not alone. Their creator was still there with them, manifesting Himself with them, speaking to them, and giving them morsels of relief, companionship, and establishing an order.

The NON-depressing part of this new routine Adam and Eve came to know, of what we now know as the daily grind, is that because of this first stupid oops, a plan of hope which was set to unfold was engaged. Yes, even with evolution of man or creation and the thousands of theories to befall or explain our existence on this planet—all human explanations, mind you—there was suffering (suffering to get what we needed and then what we wanted), but just as instantly there was hope in being told (by God himself, through prophetic persons, and later by Jesus himself) that a saviour was coming. A new hope to be relieved of our suffering. Even people who didn't believe it or thought the news of some promised man to come ('future king', 'saviour of the world', or other such terms so foreign on the tongues of secular or pagan crowds) was far-fetched were aware that Jesus was someone people believed in; and were no less prone to suffering than anyone else.

So he came. This light of the world, prince-of-peace fellow came into the world. And he suffered. He suffered so bad—more than any other person in the entire world because it was physical and emotional torture of literally, all ages—for the sake of every person in the entire world to have existed or would exist, whether they accepted him or not, giving every single human soul all the chances they could handle in their lifetimes to choose (or not to choose) to make heaven their final destination—an infinite afterlife with a loving, majestic god, his loving son, the spirit that unites them, all the angels and saints, Mary, Queen of Heaven (just to name a few), loved ones, with experience of love so full and brilliant, it encapsulates the soul, saturating a soul with the kind of bliss it could not contain. (Imagine that high school crush falling in love with you, a major epiphany in your life, a warm towel after a shower, the glee of going to your favourite musician’s concert, and the sun in your eyes altogether in one heap of emotion times a billion, I’m guessing.)

In that ultimate price, ultimate suffering, and ultimate redemption, humanity was given multiple chances to make that choice on their own, multiple choices of right or wrong, to screw up, to get it right, to learn, to grow, but every single time a choice that was completely and totally his or her own until death. He suffered for us as a human, among us in our very corporal humanity, so that if we ever chose to come to him, to see him in our lives, to invite him into our hearts, or even just to open ourselves to the hope of his message (which you can’t argue was pretty damned convincing and loving) for even ONE second, we could never accuse him of not understanding us.

At the very least, Jesus was so central a figure in history that we measure time according his existence on earth. B.C., or, before Christ. All of us humans, only on this side of the A.D. fence, know what life is like on this side of the fence--since the days of Christ. Whether we are Buddhists, Christians, Taoists, Catholics, Muslims, protestants, the hardest core atheists, agnostics, white witches, satanic followers, extremists, diplomats, peacemakers, scientists, fanatics, communist, socialist, democratic, common man, simple, however instrinsic, intelligent, bright, handicapped with disability, whatever country, whatever creed, whatever race, we ALL measure time in A.D.

We only know the values that came from life after Jesus was on earth, every generation imbedding their own take on the next generation, based on what they were taught, since the dawn of time and of the days of Christ, regardless of faith, in spite of or in connection with any given moral set. His existence has created more controversy over beliefs and system of choice than any other figure in all of history or time, even to say that the ancient religions prior to Christ were also affected in some way after Christ because they are not all practiced in their purest forms today, if there is such a thing.

Confucius in all of his wisdom still doesn’t quite stir up the kind of animation that Jesus did. There were far less divisions of basic faith systems before Christ than after (generally derivative of Christianity) and all matters of creed and belief were changed in some way, even for those who could say their beliefs were not changed because no one in all of history has sparked so much debate and reflection as this one man. Whatever calendar we measure by, whatever inaccuracies are in those calendars (Gregorian, Julian, Aztec, Chinese, etc.), whatever variances in the time line created by Before Christ and everything Anno Domini, it is all still measured by that point in history, and when we have to work together as a world, we still arrange meetings, conferences, summits, roundtables by the calendar, the calculator, and the clock that was configured A.D.

God knew this.

But he gave us the choice. To believe as we choose, to be inspired by the precepts of others or swayed by fallacies, to discern between them, to ignore them altogether, to pretend like none of it matters or choose nothing at all. He gave us the choice between right and wrong and with that, the right to choose the same thing over and over again, to stop choosing, even the choice to reject or accept his very proof of love for us (an only son, the only truly pure thing he had to give who was the only soul capable of taking on the literal weight of the world for the stains of many.) He gave us all the choice to accept love, too, a concept evermore declining in the world’s society, the choice to accept mercy, compassion, loyalty, holiness, and devotion, even in a world today where consolation, touch, emotion, and vulnerability have been tragically abused. He gave us all the choice-making freedom we could handle from the very first day. And he did it for a love of a people he created, even those that would reject Him or “just” break his laws.

He did not grandstand Adam and Eve on the day of their sin, with his almighty power, to make them feel scorned and shameful, nor did he damn them. He asked them one simple question, which he already knew the answer to, and which implied accountability as much as truth. “How did you know you were naked?” The consequence of their choice to eat the apple was immediate awareness of their bodies and subsequently to hide themselves and to explain to God why they were hiding. God was teaching them this accountability, which any parent might recognize as the root of the lesson, but he did it with love.

Their self-consciousness was not to be the only consequence of a seemingly harmless act, but also their removal from Eden and engagement with suffering and the suffering for the rest of humanity. Suffering became the price we would pay for our disobedience, not just one time but repeatedly over time, not just individual but also communally, and not just for Adam and Eve's mistake but also for our own.

However, it was not without recompense. We would eventually learn that it was not the punishment of a wrathful entity, but part of the plan of a loving god—the way it had to be so that humans could come to appreciate Our Father for his love and forgiveness. (How much more do we appreciate good days because we have bad days?) God himself promised aid and protection all throughout the history of the bible as long as we remained devoted to him, but in our freedom to choose—free will—humanity chose repeatedly to concern themselves with themselves, rather than God, and so therefore were defeated or chastised or ignored by God.

With the suffering and resurrection of Jesus, a new order of love, life, suffering and forgiveness came into effect and we could put our suffering to different use. Even if Adam and Eve, the tree, and the serpent are all just primeval analogies for the way man began and simply give us a general base of morale, there is still a more powerful being than us who taught the first lesson in responsible decision-making and that consequence always follows choice. In the plan he designed, the plan he created with love out of love because He is Love, he gave us choice because, in love, it was to be all the sweeter when the subjects he loved chose to love him back.

A staggering moment of many

What was he thinking? Was he thinking it sucked to be sick again? Was he afraid for his life? Did he think about dying? Upset, shocked, defeated most definitely. Was he worried about his kids? His wife? (In that order?) Did the numbers cross his mind? Numbers like 30%, the pieces of paper that were electric and rent bills, days of life lived, 1 year of marriage, 6 months of remission cross the desktop of his mind in a flash before his eyes? It's no wonder I balled my eyes out listening to "Seasons of Love" at the broadway performance of "Rent" in the city less than a month after his hospital release. It was our first post-hospital date. F-- rights: Measure your life in love.

He was only 23. He turned 24 in the hospital. Following the news we received that one fateful night, we didn't talk much. Dialogue was refrained and minimal for the most part. Maybe because we knew there wasn't much that could be said. Maybe because we were too scared to. It's hard to say, even after all this time. A lot was exchanged through knowing looks and reading body language. For the words that were exchanged, it was tactical communication--make sure arrangements were made and that we knew of our own arrangements. That's all.

After leaving the northern town we hardly had time to attach to, the 8-hour ride a blur, we sat in the hospital admissions waiting area. My father-in-law was there, I think my mother-in-law, and our two children. I was still nursing at the time and wondered when the baby would get hungry while praying that I could keep my toddler occupied. By miracle and by grace, she didn't fuss once. At least I don't remember if she did. I think we waited around 4 hours to get through admissions.

The last time we were there was the prior week, being led through a series of halls and waiting rooms before the critical moment of seeing the doctor. For the first time in a long time, I didn't have my girls under my arms while my mother-in-law held them and we followed the nurse into an exam room. It is a room I will never forget.

There was no point in dramatics, no point in questioning. The look on the doctor's face said it all. I wanted answers. I was thinking about my girls in the waiting room, the maddening inconvenience of it all, my poor husband whose legs were dangling over the exam table, desperately needing to throw blame somewhere. I was feeling an absolute loss of control over every single facet of my life. I felt the swelling of heat and anger rise in my throat, the urge to cry and then to scream because no amount of purging would release the knot in my chest, which I would learn was not to go away for a very long time. I opened my mouth to start the barrage, but something of a feeble muttering fell out instead. I was so surprised to hear how weak my own voice sounded.

Being the daughter of a nurse, I knew a fair share of technical vocabulary, how not to be a pushover, and that it was important to ask questions, but it didn't make a very solid bravado. Words and numbers and procedures blurred together. The doctor had done this before. He delivered each stage without sugarcoating the facts but knew that it was not the time to let his years of having to tell patients and families the same devastating news steel his interior and be removed from compassion.

Consultation. Hmph. That's a word for going to the boutique and getting the girl behind the counter to give you make-up suggestions. That's a word you use when you are building a house and considering a loan. It's a word that suggests advice and a choice to follow or agree to that advice, or not. What we got was not advice. It was a professional, life-threatening ultimatum.

We would take the challenge. We would be a family no matter what. And I would show him that he made the right choice in a wife. I ignored the thought that made me think of the damning, cruel twist of it all--of being married so young, being acosted by life so hard, and wishing to flee. I hunkered down, I found my resolve, choked my tears, and braced myself for war. I would cry later. I had a husband who needed me.

The third time

Just a short time after the special area groups conference concluded and all the northern province teachers were back in class, the oncologist called. For the first time in our fledgling marriage, we were just getting settled into our first home, a small apartment. My husband's first year teaching school was off to a promising start. Our 18-month-old was adapting to being the older sister, and our baby girl was already displaying personality up the wazoo.

I came into the living room just in time to see his face change. I didn't know who was on the phone. A week had gone by since the conference and also his 6-month checkup. His doctor was in the city down south, but he had gotten his job in the north, so it became prudent to do both at the same time. I waited until he could talk.

I don't remember my exact reaction.

I just remember being angry. I remember crying. I remember there being a swirl, I couldn't get my thoughts together. I think I remember giving him a hug. I wanted to hold him more than anything.

I remember the fallen look on his face, the margin of defeat, as though a thief had just come and robbed him blind and then set his house on fire.

I remember storming back and forth, down the hall to the laundry room, making trips with our clothes, angrier every time I came back through our apartment door. It wasn't fair. I was angry. Hurt somehow. Confused. I tried to push my love through those screens to comfort my husband, give him support, but it was a thwarted, minimal endeavor when I just wanted to scream. I slammed the basket down harder every time I returned, throwing laundry into drawers or on the couch, some folded, some unfolded. Being a fairly health woman my whole life, I surprised myself by getting so worked up I felt major body ache while climbing into bed.

Then came the consultation, for which we had to travel back down south for, confirm the news with the oncologist, see a small presentation about the treatment and procedure they would do on my husband's cancer, and return home only to get hit with the reality that we would not be able to keep our apartment or even sublet it. At all. We had one week.

The treatment was to be in-hospital. Chemotherapies- yes, multiple -were going to be administered via a PICC line (what was that?) An autologus bone marrow transplant. T cells. Blood counts. IVs. Plasma. Visiting procedures. There was much information to take in. In the room where a few rectangle tables were pushed together to form a "U" in front of a television on a rollcart, the air was somber. All my mother-in-law and I could do was look at each other with a number bouncing off our heads: 30%. It was all the doctor could give us for success of cure. It was a number that hung in the air worse than second-hand smoke in a bar. We had a week to come back and get my husband moved into the cancer ward at Health Sciences.

Into people's basements, garages and school staffrooms went our stuff. All of our belongings were thrown into boxes. I could barely think straight. I hadn't even had time to think about post-partum anything, writing a budget for our new lives with new income, or get out of my poutine-eating, cookie-dough-eating slob self before being hurled into a world that meant entire uncertainty. Where would I live with my girls, what were the most important items to bring, what was I supposed to do? What would happen to our belongings? Why did I feel like we were refugees fleeing in fright?

My mother-in-law was not happy with my half-done packing job when she came up north to help us. The friends who ultimately agreed to take us in came to help, too. They also lived down south. After hundreds of trips up and down the stairs with boxes and furniture, a trip to the ER after my husband slipped on the stairs and busted a lamp into his palm, and a scoop of the girls, the place was empty.

The raw things

So it's like this. No one will hear this. No one will read it. And if they do, they probably wouldn't care. But that's okay. This needs to be told.

When I was 20 years old, I got married. I got married to a man who was a real sweetheart. But he got cancer. I didn't know him for very long before getting married, so him getting diagnosed was a real shock and an even bigger tragedy. I had planned to spend the entire rest of my life getting to know him, having fun exploring the nitty-gritty hardships, and feeling like it was in our power to overcome anything. I had not expected such a hard test so soon, though, that much I can say.

My daughter was 18 months old when we got married. When my husband was my boyfriend, he was so sweet with my daughter, talking with her, playing games with her, and even babysitting her for free when I had to go to work. I had already known a lot of stress in my life by then, having been a single mother who could not afford to pay rent, so finding someone who was caring and loving of both me and my daughter was not only soothing, it was all I needed for proof that surely this man must be the one. She even called him "daddy" before I was ready for it!

He wrote me a poem once, using words like "starry night" and admitted that he loved me and my daughter, because she was an extension of me. Somewhere in the eight months from date number one to our law office vows, he wrote this poem and said a lot of nice things to me, which I'm sure he meant, but those were the only memories we'd have to work from after cancer...

We had already been preparing to move to Canada at the same time we learned his cancer had come back. Yes, he had been sick with it once before, in the July of that eight-month stint we called "dating," but it had been operated on and removed. This time, instead of the remaining testicle, the cancer "metastasized" into his lung.

He was treated, went into remission for a few months, then got it again. Only this time, this very third and awful time, the diagnosis was bad and we had just had our second daughter (for he considered my girl his first.)

It was bad. It was so bad. I can't even tell you how bad it was. So bad that after he went into remission and we got to resume our lives, I cried for months without tears inside my chest. I never tore any boxes down, for fear of settling into our new apartment too much. But funny thing, just when I thought I'd get to tell my story, no one listened, so I just learned to shut up about it.

I learned to shut up about many things. I learned to shut up because I learned no one gave a shit about what you did, they only cared about how things were going in their own lives. So I trained myself to not think about the aunt that took advantage of us while living with her, the constant prison I was in having no immigration status, having no friends nearby, no family, no car, and absolutely fuckall to do or to resource while my husband was in the hospital; because, you see, all those things happened when he was in the hospital, and more. No one knew how much I was suffering because no one called me and I didn't call anyone.

But I was supposed to be strong. No place and no time to be a ninny. I've just kind of always had the sense to know people weren't listening anymore, and I've just about never been surrounded by the kinds of people who would listen. I knew they didn't exist. No one had the capacity to understand how scared I was, how nervous, how sad, angry, trapped, stressed (oh my sweet Lord stressed), lonely, isolated, unforgiven, pressured, forgotten, lost, and stupefied I was. I was just expected to do... what? I don't know. I was expected to do or be something that meant understanding no one in the world would be there for me or come to my aid; and if I wasn't, no one surely told me. I was too overwhelmed to think. I was overwhelmed to a screaming degree ALL. The. Time.

Between Cancer No.1 and Cancer No.2, we got engaged, were in a horrible automobile accident (rollover), got married, went to Nevada for Christmas, found out I was pregnant, and moved to Canada.

Between Cancer No.2 and Cancer No.3, we lived off of his two, minimum-wage jobs in his dad's house, found him a teaching job up north, had our baby, moved 800 kilometers north with a 2-week old infant and two year old toddler, and just barely settled into our shoddy apartment.

The amount of time between our first date and Cancer No.3: 1 year, 8 months

While my husband was in the hospital for No.3, I lived in two places back down south because we had to give up our apartment for his hospitalization. In the first, it was with friends who had grown tired of my presence there and offered to kick me out. In the second, it was with my mother-in-law's brother and wife, who stabbed me with raising my rent every month and tried threatening to get my children taken away, talking to everyone under the sun about it before talking to me. Turns out she was baby crazy and a 'little' mentally unstable, but I didn't know that. All I knew is that she lived in the same city where my husband was laying in hospital and offered to let me and my girls live there. I have forgiven her, but I never talked to her again.

While I was trying to suffer this aunt to remain close to the girls' daddy, I was also at the hospital every day, watching our daily mix of "Northern Exposure," "Three's Company," and "Golden Girls" while making him toast, helping him sit up, watching nurses fix his lines, asking questions, learning about stem cells and T cells, and trying to make his room as un-hospital-like as possible. Also things I did: wake up on the cot in the middle of the night to the sound of him cough-gurgle-puking; accompany him to the lower floors to make sure his pants stayed up in the halls; wash his soiled pants; sponge-bathe; clean his PIC line; hold his hand; bring the girls occassionally; meet his cancer friends; brave the death ward every day for four, very long months; and watch him sleep.

Do you know the color of a person's skin after being chemoed to death? Yellow. Sometimes bluish. Splotchy. Gray. It's the color of life going away. His eyes were so dark and sunken that with the loss of his eyelashes, I could see the whites of his eyes almost all around the whole eye. He looked liked this almost immediately and I was terrified. This was the man I married? What?

Between the house of the aunt and my days at the hospital, my life was hell. How did I get so irreversibly stuck in the bowels of life? I was filled with resentment and desperation more and more each day. Luckily, my girls made me laugh and smile. They kept me going. I had to keep it together for them.

Resuming our lives to some capacity (by which I mean being a family of four in a home and my husband resuming his teaching job,) involved transition of living with his dad for a few months to remain close to the hospital. He was not allowed to be outdoors very long and not allowed to breath or be around freshly cut lawns because asparallagus was a mold that came from cut grass and could get trapped in his freshly chemoed-to-shit lungs. He could not move around too much or he would risk opening the sutures of his freshly removed lung lobe (the upper part, about 20% of his lungs). There was no cuddling.

I waited for him to see that I was right beside him, that we could figure things out, that I stayed beside him the whole time, but he didn't say anything. I was hoping he could tell me before we got back up north how much I meant to him. But he didn't, and I figured it was because he was so ill. Poor guy. I didn't want to be making wifely demands for affection just yet.

I waited some more. I waited for him to look at me in some moment of stillness and quiet and utter grateful, sweet words of appreciation. Words that would melt all of the pain from the whispers off his lips, but I would wait until he was feeling better.

I would be waiting a long time.

One morning, after we did get back north, I was sitting on the floor with my daughters, playing with them, relieved to the point of tears, to be in my own home, with my own things, safe. But the relief was to be short lived, because after the school year started, my husband came home with a pulled groin muscle that actually turned into 5 more years of playing wait-and-see of crumbling, deteriorating bone joints.

Nobody I know understands what it's like to live with and 80-year-old 26-year-old. As the doctors struggled to diagnose and subsequently replace the joints, which were full of dead bone tissue and grinding together bone-against-bone due to the steroids he was given in-hospital, we had to deal with about a million doctor appointments, 1600 kilometers a pop (sometimes by car, mostly, thankfully, by plane), and having to "say good-bye to Daddy" every 3 weeks or so at the airport.

Some people know that. Some don't. But no one has an ever-lovin' clue of what my life consisted of after he was finally confined to a wheel chair in a town where there was no, absolutely none, handicap-friendly buildings; having to take the wheelchair out of the trunk and put it back in to go anywhere plus two small children in carseats; building the muscle to lift the chair with him in it to avoid potholes in parking lots; having to squeeze past people when you just don't want to intrude in busy places, tiny restaurants, church; taking out the trash, chopping the wood, carrying the groceries in, doing the heavy lifting, getting the tots in the house, plus all of the rest of the work women in isolated northern towns do: cooking, cleaning, washing, folding, sorting, checking over school work, putting the children (my precious, precious daughters) to bed, getting them to brush their teeth; and making the occassional batch of actual, real, homemade, from-scratch bread just to make the house smell good.

I just wanted to be appreciated by the man I loved. Before there was the realization that we, too, were crumbling from the inside out, I did more than just talk about loyalty and devotion. I lived it.

Curses!!

I just spend the last two hours or so working on a blog entry that I thought would be of some interest, but thanks to the faulty power cord of this computer and the power cord to my computer completely fried (along with my battery,) I lost it all! I am especially angry that I had, yes, been saving my work as I went along, knowing full well that the laptop could be powered off instantly with just the slightest wrong movement, the touchy bitch, been powered off twice when I went to shift my legs a few times while writing, restored my session with Firefox, HAD my work saved and appear when I restarted, only to find the last and final time, everything had disappeared.

Worse yet is when I went to navigate away from the page trying to be smart and checking to see if the older, fuller draft was still saved as I left it, I accidentally used the Save shortcut trying to paste the text I did have on the page in front of me to a notebook document, instead of the Copy shortcut (Control + S versus Control + C), which automatically saved the draft in front of me, rather than have any hope that the old draft was still there. No go, fool. Epic fail.

So, instead of that post, you get this one. I just wanted something big, and impressive, insightful and thought-provoking, but no, you get my blunder, all of which I might have been able to avoid. Argh! See ya 'round, punks!

Intelligence Squared: Is the Catholic Church a force for good in the world

I just had to re-post this...

December 7, 2009

Hmm. I think I'm too worked up to sort it out before going to bed, but it's worth considering, worth blogging, even at this late hour. I might mention that I feel compelled to be thorough, so this won't be short-lived.

I just watched a five-segment debate as done by BBC World (and posted on YouTube) that featured four panelists (two for the motion, two against) debating on whether or not the Catholic Church is a force for good in the world. I have to say I was immensely disappointed.

The two panelists for the motion were the Archbishop of Anuja, Nigeria, John Onaiyekan and Ann Widdecombe, a British MP who converted to Catholicism after protesting the ordination of female priests in the Church of England. The two panelists against the motion were Christopher Hitchens, who writes for Vanity-freaking-Fair, and Stephen Fry, an accomplished British TV personality and actor.

Let me reiterate. The two panelists for the motion were a well-known (to Africa) clergyman, an archbishop of the Catholic Church, THE Archbishop of Abuja, Nigeria, and at a glance the hope of an entire church to sufficiently and masterfully represent the church in its entire complex, gruesome and blessed history; and a stuffy, old British female politician staunchly rooted (or self-embedded, as it were) in staunchly traditional Catholicism (by which I mean personally [to her] fundamentalist principles.)

And the two panelists against the motion were an extremely well-articulated and accomplished writer, well known for his radical views, and frequent contributor to a haute couture magazine, among several other publications; and a perky, cheeky, left-wing television/radio personality who, to add to the controversy (or the ratings of said debate), is also homosexual.

Why could they not have chosen more articulated spokespeople for the pro side? Better yet, why did they not seek out as equally eloquent and vocal representatives for that side of the argument? It's an argument you at least know is going to heated, and at most will require adequate (matched) artillery, why not give both sides a real, running, gunning go?

Yes, I'm saying the side against the motion far outweighed the side for the motion! They did so by what appeared to be leaps and bounds. What's more is that I am personally a huge proponent of the motion that the church CAN be (and has been) a force for good in the world and was holding onto my breath waiting to hear what the rest of the world was (in theory) waiting to hear.

The sheer lack and disregard for a 'fair fight' by all those involved in assembling the debate notwithstanding, the debate itself began with the Archbishop at the podium, trying in what seems to be all earnestness to open up the doors to all the watching eyes of the world by delivering a dutiful opening statement that quickly dissolves into the all-too-familiar rhetoric by the Church. And then followed by Chris Hitchens, against the motion, back to Ann Widdecombe, who was for, and then closed by Stephen Fry.

The opening statements by both speakers opposing the motion were precisely articulated, clear and concise, eloquent. The points brought up were emotional, appealing, and spoke for a secular truth in the world. Raw emotions were brought up here.

But the opening statements of the two supporting the motion were not. They were the very stereotypical rhetoric by which the Catholic Church has been grievously known for and is perceived in current times, which only adds insult to injury in the eyes of a waiting world and, more namely, this believer. Especially when there have been motions and actions by people of the church, well-known and barely known all over the world, to have made a positive difference in the lives of others and significant impact on the history of the church (which I will get to.) None of which was mentioned.

There was little to no acknowledgment for past sins, compensation, explanation from a historical perspective, or delivery of what to hope for, what the message is (which I will also get to), what the church has done and is doing to do to progress, change and improve, what the church is sorry for. There was no mention of the past, present, or future, and furthermore, no acknowledge by either speaker of the repercussions the opposing side brought into view.

What of the emotions of the members of the church whose beliefs and vocations were betrayed by the monstrously sick actions of others--the members who have believed and acted in good hearts and real faith only to be slapped in the face by the evildoers, misrepresenting one in the same church? What of the points made by the opposition: the compensation for four ages of inquisition, for the epic horrors of slaying, brutalizing, ostracizing, and judging those with different beliefs over the centuries? What of the responsibility the church holds for its members acting out of ignorance, hate, intolerance?

There DOES need to be full-on acceptance by those most in place to own it--the hierarchy of the Catholic Church, the people who committed the crimes, and more than anything, the very souls whose dark, shrouded, and debauched judgment were the hands of these grave, grave sins. There should have been statements in the debate by the supporting side demonstrating that extensive research concludes that massive reparation must be made, that a vital, integral element of that full contrition, expiation and absolution of that reparation must include the unfailing transference of knowledge by the church to her members, so that what is known by the world can (and should have first been) known by its members and there can be NO excuse for ignorance.

But there should have been statements that showed where the church has owned up to the sins of the past (past popes' apologies, Pope John Paul's request for forgiveness in his March 2000 address in addition to an apology.) There should have been statements by the supporting side that full and extensive research shows a full history of good in the church, that the majority of her members from the top down are working toward a more reconciled church (worldwide missionaries in third world and war-torn countries), that old, dated teachings of a wrathful God are currently and continuously being replaced by teaching a message of a loving God in a sweeping, unifying movement (vast changes in catechism curriculum, worldwide sermon content, the direction of vocation education, clergy and lay newsletters circulating with a variety of Catholic authors acknowledging this much more peaceful, loving message); and that IN that new message is one of tolerance. Of love. Of peace. Of freedom to live in the love of God. A message which teaches us to not judge because we are ALL God's people. ALL people. And there could have been specific resources of these changes and movements named, referenced, called into light, presented.

But there were none.

I even watched the Archbishop's argument twice because I had to stop watching and come back to the debate to see if a second chance would reveal something I missed; and still nothing.

There could have also been statements to direct attention to the fact that there is access to all kinds of information on spiritual enlightenment, that all souls no matter their station or religion are responsible for their own levels of personal and spiritual maturity, that we as a church have suffered the humiliation of those members but don't have to be defined by those imbeciles; and that anyone who is willing is able to harness that information. As well, the fact that there is awareness of this information and complete and total access to it at all is a step in the positive direction.

There could have (should have) been more references to the motions Pope John Paull II made to work on bridging the gap between the old, staunchy, rhetorical idioms and rituals of yore and current times through his significant contribution as pope and one of the most influential leaders in history and the hope that that offers. There should have been more references to the late pontiff's remarkably nontraditional steps outside of the Vatican circle, his contribution to aiding the end to communism, his unprecedented request for forgiveness of the church's sins, his profoundly humble address in the Novo Millenio Ineunte, which urged a universal call to holiness, all of which was delivered in the spirit of hope and reconciliation between ALL peoples.

The problem with the church--or the perceived problem by all those struggling to accept the church in its entirety (from her painful past to its blessed output and everything in between)--is that in the the true deliberation of any given topic (especially in regards to change, hope, and goodness) under a true sense of the divine accompaniment which is in true communion with the Holy Spirit also needs pure minds and pure hearts, free from any influence, to come to a deeply holy and spiritual decision; but these minds and hearts belong to human beings, who are far from perfect and even in the holiest of states, are not perfect and cannot make perfect decisions. We, as the watching masses dissolve under pressure and timelines, struggle to accept (if not right out deny) that there are reasons for deliberation. I know as a parent that the best way to make a decision concerning the children is to deliberate with my partner. Sometimes making a decision involved asking other parents around me. But I have learned in my short life that the best decisions are not made hastily and for the ones that are, it was more luck than love that made them good.

This kind of deliberation takes time and almost immediately incurs doubt because there is lack of patience. Impatience for time creates the perfect loophole for all those resisting anything the church has to say/offer/extend and it justifies the doubt which seeps into the minds of those fed up with the entire entity and gives those resisting the critical value of the church to write off the whole church. These thoughts and feelings are very human, but it must be said that one cannot judge simply because those imperfections are license for one human to judge another, or a group of humans to judge another group. If we are all trying to be better people, then better people we all must try to be, in its very principle.

To be fair, no priest, bishop, archbishop, nun, lay person ALIVE, no person, no human being on earth could have come that far and answered for the monstrosities and abhorrences that belong collectively and historically to the Catholic Church. No one person could have stood under the barrage of fire, no single human being anyway, intelligent or witty, charismatic or otherwise, and answered for the single most humanly corrupted entity of religious authorities on earth. But we did not have intelligent and witty or loving OR emotional representation of any kind. We had no way of relating to the pained masses because we did not have adequate spokespeople, nor was there a basic, unfettered acknowledgement OF that pain in the debate, of those sins, of the wrongs of the church.

There were no clear, demonstrative answers of relenting and contrition, no mention of the late pope's recognition, apology, and asking of forgiveness for in an unprecedented move towards the beginning of the millennium (though he realized, as do many Catholics the world over, that that is only the beginning of the road to healing and reconciliation), no mention of the enormously different kind of pontiff Karol Jozef Wojtyla was at all, no mention of all the good that has been done in the church by its members, no mention of the hope its upstanding and holy members gives us. Doing so to the contrary might have proved more by action than lofty rhetoric that the Church DOES see its mistakes, that the Church DOES want to move toward whole and complete body of virtuous members, toward whole and complete contrition (from the act of apology all the way to compensation for victims to perhaps a suggestion of far stricter, faster, and swifter punishment for the violators--I'm thinking isolation in a dark dungeon far below the Vatican for all perpetrators and bread-and-water-only diet), and that there are already motions and actions in place (a wide host of documents I'm far too spent to amass containing that information, but that anyone curious enough this late at night could surf and read for themselves) for showing that the Church CAN move and is moving toward a brighter, more healed future, and that the Church CAN be and is a force for good in the world.

*---
Update: those videos are no longer posted on YouTube. The owner removed them.

Why the Do-Over then...?

Well, because I had no idea, absolutely none, that what was coming was coming. No clue at all. I wouldn't have wanted it had someone told me it was going to happen, I would have rejected the notion entirely.

It is so entirely deceptive in its appearance, no matter how much I wish the world would understand. The unfolding of the treachery wounds me to tears even now. I understand how my friends feel. I understood it before they even knew it was coming, in the tender, quiet that was the space ahead of the storm. I understand how my girls feel. Their every corner and strain of their world torn; my every fiber longs for their well-being. I was concerned about how this would affect them even before leaving. I cried with them, I held them and comforted them when we landed here. I held them. I held them. I held them.

When I went back to fetch a few things, get my dog, and see my girls some two months after leaving, I saw the family picture we took. It had come in the mail after leaving. The picture was taken nearly moments before I knew I would go--that is, with things between the old us changing already and feeling more and more not meant to be, but before I even pondered such dramatic exit. I had wanted a professional family photo taken for ten years. How could I do this? My eyes fell upon the image, stacked among other wall hangings in the old entry way, and assaulted the part of my chest which still aches.

Nothing of this takes away from what my girls have been going through, how mortally this affected them. I knew it would. I prepared for it the best I could. And still I failed in one respect. In the respect of the world. But they grew, they healed, they even smiled. And my only concern is them. Not the world.

I did not see it coming. But I should have. Growing apart for years, there was refusal and denial about the actual state all around. We made it look good, but it was truly good for parts of it. It just wasn't enough. As long as we were taking turns at the wheel by ourselves and not working together to take responsibility, it would always be doomed.