Beauty and Dance

As I write this, I am sitting in a Corner Bakery in downtown Chicago, 2 blocks from the Joffery Ballet. On a weeknight. During spring break. In a week I am working downtown several days. Why? Because I love my 15 year old and I support her dreams. It is hard to say, I support her dreams. Her dreams that she might dance, her unrealistic, less than 1% chance that she will succeed, and no one makes money in the arts anyhow but she really loves dance dreams. 

Clare started dancing at 3, like a lot of little girls. She was good, but at 3, who cares. Then at 9 she was still good. At 12 she was working really hard, but was not as good as other girls. At 15, she holds her own, but a lot of girls are better, in honesty, but she loves it. She is passionate, and she is driven. More driven than I ever have been about anything in my life, I'm kinda lazy. That is why, when her classmates are vacationing, my daughter is seeking out drop in classes all over the city. Sometimes she is so bold as to take the train and hoof it to the classes herself, but, not in the dark as it will be when class ends tonight. 

She works harder than I do for anything. Yet, I have to work harder for her to work that hard, it requires multiple jobs, lots of sacrifice and often frustration. But, she loves it. And, it makes her even more beautiful. Ballet has taught her grace in tha face of extreme disappoinment. It has taught her grace in the face of great joy, the kind of joy that wants to brag, but cannot. It has taught her how to work, and how to encourage, it has taught her that her body is a temple. It teaches her every day that that temple will betray you, and that you have to love that temple. It has taught her that no matter what others may say about her body, it is strong and powerful, it is good to her when she is good to it. Ballet has taught her how to laugh, how to smile and how to cry without ever making a sound, but through every limb and gesture. 

We are too poor for her to succeed in the same ways her peers do, private lessons, summer intensives and scholarship competitions are not in her future, but, she assures me that a good story goes a long way, and parents that sacrifice is the best story any director can hear. A mother who can sew has helped, too. Everything she has learned in ballet she is starting to pass onto another generation, through the 5 classes a week she teaches, because, she has also learned, teachers are not always those who danced the best, but are often those who are the kindest, most patient and the best learners. And, bring the beauty of joy to eager hearts.

The Simple Joy of Nostalgia

It has been a LONG time since I have taken to this page. It has been a long year, I will spare you the details, but it feels as if I am coming out of a long winter into spring. The beauty of it all is breathtaking.

I just finished reading Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis. I first attempted to read it twenty years ago, as a high school student, but, I could not. There are many books that for whatever reason, if I do not read them at the right point in life, my brain will not tolerate them. This is one of them. In honestly, I was listening to it. One of the turns my life has recently taken involves me working full time, driving all over the place, and my husband being a full time stay-at-home home schooling dad. This gives me hours to listen to books each week. I was lead to Till We Have Faces while wandering through the audio books at my library, remembering my past efforts, hoping that if I could not escape, ie I am driving, I would get through it. I did. It was wonderful, even though it was hard, I did not "get it" until the end, then, I wept, it was just what I needed.

At the time I first tried to read the book, it was because the band, Over the Rhine, named their debut album after the book. Now, I wanted to know why. This lead to a flood of memories, feelings and joys. I first started listening to OtR when I was a senior in high school, when I was falling in love with my now husband. We fought falling in love, but, you cannot resist the nudging of God. Every song put into my head a overwhelming feeling of love for Chris. Reminding me of the smells, the warmth of the sun, the chill of the nights, the adventures everything 18 year olds feel in love. I am long past that time, but again, God shows us what we need when we need it, I needed the memories. I needed to be reminded why I passionately love him.

Last night we taught an NFP class, we've taught hundreds I think, but our talk that we give on why NFP for us was the best ever. Not because we are passionate about NFP, but because the memories of our early days were fresh, out struggles, our joys, our quirky personalities and why we are married and have kids. We are passionate for each other and the love God has created.

This is another thing that has lacked in the winter of the past year. My heart has been cold, not just to my husband, and my friends, but to my Creator. And now like Orual in Till We Have Faces, my veil has been truly lifted and I am allowed to see the hand of God. The beauty of it all fills me.

And the Heavens Shall Proclaim His Glory…

For your advent pleasure and devotion, an Advent calendar using images from the Hubble Telescope. And just think, He made the heavens and the earth, and we are still, millions of years later, only now discovering their majesty.

Belloc on November

[Month of] November

November is that historied Emperor,
Conquered in age, but foot to foot with fate,
Who from his refuge high has heard the roar
Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late,
Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war,
And arms the garrison of his last heirloom,
And shakes the sky to its extremest shore
With battle against irrevocable doom.
Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels,
He flies in hurrying cloud and spurs him on,
Empty of lingerings, empty of farewells
And final benedictions, and is gone.
But in my garden all the trees have shed
Their legacies of the light, and all the flowers are dead.

Hilaire Belloc

Why I need my husband

It may seem obvious, but given the number of single mothers I know, I wonder if husbands are out of vogue. Mine is gone for the week, and I feel like my right arm is missing. He only travels once a year, maybe twice, thankfully.

Why do I need him? First of all, he is there to help me find, oh, I don’t know, everything. I’ve sent him probably 12 text messages looking for stuff today alone. Not even half the time does he know where the item is or even what the item is, but just having him to ask is helpful. Another reason is the kids. This is a big one. They have too much energy for me, I’m more the “let’s sit and read quietly” kind of mom. They are more the “let’s run around screaming and kicking like a bunch of lunatics” kind of kids. My husband must have been that kind of kid, and he can deal with them around 5 pm much better than I can. Another kid related thing, I cannot fix playmobils, legos or Star Wars figures. If they break this week, look out garbage bag! he has the ability to fix toys, I have the ability to throw away toys. The kids things can go on forever, but lastly, he can tell a 12 year old girl that she cannot wear high heels and a short skirt with authority, I just turn a funny color and freak out. He freaks out in a different, powerful over my dead body sort of way that makes the 12 year old sulk off and never wear said heels again.

Just another thing I need him for, he listens. The little boarders here need to be told 900 times just about everything. he listens to me even when I am talking to the television, and he warns the kids to not join in those conversations. He never complains about the way I look, which honestly, he could. If I look like a bum, which I always do on days I work, he doesn’t notice, if I look nice, he doesn’t ask why I’m dressed up, like a certain 12 year old. I could look like death, and he would still think I’m beautiful. God Love him.

I could go on forever, and ever, and ever ( he puts up with that, too!). I love my husband, and cannot imagine life without him, especially after the 18 years we have been together. I hope someday my kids find a spouse as faithful and loving as mine.

Last in this World, First in the next.

I heard about this from a Facebook friend, and was moved to tears by the beauty of it.

Know your farmer, Know your food

I know my farmer, his name is Jamie, and Karen, his mom, delivers my eggs, cheese and veggies in the summer. I've known Eric, and Paul, the people at Plow Creek and Donna, they are my farmers, or have been in the past 7 years. The USDA is launching a program so that more of you can know your farmer too. Nothing compares to being able to ask how to get rid of squirrels from the guy who battles them all week, or to ask if beets ever go out of season, after the 12th week of them straight from the person who is mulling tilling them over.

Eating Local is not just about food, it's about people. My farmer needs to farm to pay the bills, and has decided not to take the "easy way" by planting cash crops (corn, soy). By buying local, I am helping a family keep a farm out of debt that has been in the family for generations. Corn looks like quick cash, but costs them the farm. Buying local helps my farmer live here, where I live, though it is mostly urban. Knowing my farmer means knowing a person, and their joys and struggles to provide food, it means asking how they are doing, it means rejoicing with them that it has been a good season. You cannot eat the food without offering a prayer for the person, whose face you know, that grew it. I know my food is truly the work of a person hands, because I shake those worn hands each week.

Another Unlikely Good Word on Religious Life

By this point, most people are aware that Oprah had the Sister of Mary Mother of the Eucharist on her show. All reviews I have heard are that it was good and made the life of the sister look wonderful. This week, on Chicago Public radio's Eight Forty Eight show, writer Judy Valente talked about life in the Benedictine Monastery. She ended her story with

"With a dwindling number of men and women willing to enter monastic life, it’s easy to dismiss monasteries as hopeless throwbacks to the past. But for me, monasteries offer a window to the future …a future our world so desperately needs. One that stresses community over competition, service over self-aggrandizement, quietude over chatter, and simplicity over constant consumption. It’s what keeps me coming back again and again to these incredible Benedictine women, and to this monastery tucked away on a hill."

Not a bad way to say it, "a future our world so desperately needs"

Faith in Action

This was posted on the American Chesterton Society Blog and is SO worth sharing.

We helped with a project for a missionary in Angola last year, I think this year, the kids and I will be scrounging our pennies to support this project. The actions of a few can bring hope to many.

The simple joy of Soup

Soup, a hot liquid, a plain and simple food that warms the heart and soul. I love soup, I make it far too often, but, there is something about the making and eating of it that makes me so happy. I have a reputation among some for my soups, its pretty much a given that if you give birth ,I'll give you soup. Every mama needs homemade soup.

But what is it about it? I've been thinking about it. What other substance can please a picky eater? What else can turn a whole lot of nothing into a great meal? What else says I hope you feel better like soup?!Soup is love in a bowl. Even a "quick" soup says I love you.

I've probably written about this before, but with old age setting in, the memory goes!

Be careful what you ask for, you might get it

One of life's little lessons.
I live in a very nice community, my husband likes to (half) joke that we are the slums of this particular town in our little cramped condo. I often go to the park or library and get the feeling that I do not belong there with my kids, in their hand-me-down clothes. A friend once told me she felt like she needed to be dusted off in similar situations, entering the giant houses of my town, but coming from a bungalow on the South side. I thought she was silly, but I run that conversation over in my head daily lately. I know how she felt.

But just as I start feeling bad for myself, I remember a book that I read. It was a biography of Dorothy Day, upon reading it, I begged God to give me poverty so I could be as simple as Mary, and because I knew how petty and wasteful I could be. He has given me so much, I am not even close to poverty, but simplicity, yes. I asked to always remember those who had less, yet I whine and feel bad for myself. God did not give me true poverty, but he gave me what was good for me.

4th of July Memories

I think I'm getting old, this 4th I spent the whole day thinking about being a kid and what we did on the 4th. Really, it was nothing special, but something about it was to me. The 4th is one of my dad's 3 "high holidays", the former Marine is patriotic to the core, and loved being able to show it.

The day usually began with everyone sleeping in, a family tradition in my parent's house, and ended with mosquito bites and smoking monkeys. But,what fell in between, simple though it was, holds magic in my memories. Dad always mowed the lawn on the 4th. I vividly remember swinging while he mowed the lawn around me, all the while blaring his Marine Corp Band records. Sousa serenaded us as the grass flew around us. I remember the pride that swelled in him as he loudly, and not very well, sang along. To this day I can remember most of the words to Stars and Stripes Forever, and rarely lapse into verses about ducks.

Once the lawn was done, he'd smoke a cigar, usually my mother was in the house, so he made use he wasn't caught. Then, the real fun could begin, snakes. I'm still not sure why they are so fun, but we could watch him light snakes with his cigar for hours and still not get enough. Like all the men in my life, my dad liked to play with fire, so he would spend hours getting the charcoal grill "just right". Of course, this usually meant throwing in a few firecrackers, just to test it out.

Most of the fun we had is now illegal, small fireworks and the like, but back then, we would beg and plead for him to light bottle rockets. Dad is in publishing, and his proofs and film came in long tubes, which happen to be perfect for launching bottle rockets. After a while, my mother, the nurse, would come out and give us the "someone's going to get hurt" speech. Once she was back in the house, though, Dad went back to it!

The rest of the day was pretty similar to most people's BBQ, and fireworks. We always left at 7:30, in jeans that we had out grown since last required to wear them a month prior. Like I said, really, it was nothing special, but looking back, my eyes tear and I smile from the simple beauty of it all. This year is rainy and cold, but you never know what memories will be made.

Crawling out from under a rock

It's been a month since I blogged. No particular reason for the length of absence, life is just very busy this time of year. What with recitals, and communions and school projects, I nearly missed the flowers of spring.

I vowed 11 years ago to NEVER miss the beauty and majesty of spring. You see, I was stuck in the hospital pregnant with my eldest child. I went in March 13, when there was a foot of snow on the ground, and came home in Mid-May, but to total bed rest in my home. Dear daughter arrived June 5, after recovering from the traumas of surgery and lack of sleep, I saw the outdoors after spring had passed.

This year, I lamented that I missed the blooming of the trout lilies, the beautiful wildflower that carpets the woodland floor, due to my own busy life, however, I did manage to see one, as I realized my loss. Life is to beautiful to miss due to busy-ness. How often I spend time on things that lack beauty! Even the most mundane tasks of life can be filled with beauty, when done with great love, or with a little effort to see the hidden. 

Rejoice!

Regina Caeli, Laetare, Alleluia.

Quia quem meruisti portare, Alleluia, 

Resurrexit, sicut dixit, Alleluia, 

Ora pro nobis Deum, Alleluia!

O, Queen of Heaven, Be joyful, Alleluia, 

For He, whom you humbly borne for us, Alleluia, 

Has arisen, has he promised, Alleluia, 

Offer now our prayer to God, Alleluia!

Merry Christmas!

A Child of the Snows

There is heard a hymn when the panes are dim, 

  And never heard before

When the nights are strong with darkness long, 

  And the dark is alive with rain.

Never we know but in sleet and in snow, 

  The place where the great fires are, 

That the midst of the earth is a raging mirth

  And the heart of the earth a star.

And at night we with to the ancient inn

  Where the child in the frost is furled, 

We follow the feet where all souls meet

  At the inn at the end of the world.

The gods lie dead where the leaves lie red, 

  For the flame of the sun is flown, 

The gods lie cold where the leaves lie gold, 

  And a child comes forth alone.

~G.K. Chesterton

Ice Ice Baby

It is very cold and very icy here in beautiful Chicago-ish land. In a matter of 6 1/2 hours the temperature went from 47 degrees to a wind chill of -20 degrees. I cannot figure it out. I've lived here my whole life, yet, the weather still confuses me. Chicago weather is notorious for being unpredictable, to the point that my little son asked, "Mommy, why does the weather man always lie". Poor Tommy Skilling, our locally famous weather guy, accused of telling lies by a 4 year old. 

Ice has its beauty, as well. We have not had enough days of freezing temps for the rivers to ice over, but last year I snapped this. Even in the harsh cold, God gives us little gifts of beauty to be thankful for.

The beauty of being Universal

Catholic means Universal, but how often I let that simple definition slip my mind. This weeks so far I have had two very beautiful reminders. Yesterday, my parish, celebrated its annual Lady of Guadalupe Mass. Yes, it was early, and yes, we used readings of the day, but we had a special focus on Our Lady. This Mass is one of the highlights of Advent for our family. The music is beautifully and reverently done by a Mariachi band, the readings are done in both Spanish and English, and the homily is given in both languages, with a slightly different message to each language's audience. We love the liveliness of the Kyrie, the joy of the joy of the Sanctus, and the devotion of those who come and bring their rich traditions to our little suburban church. The tamales afterwards only add to the already delightful morn. 

Today due to work schedules, the only Mass we could attend together was Latin Mass. It was a stark contrast to yesterday's, but no less beautiful. No music, no liveliness, but quiet, simple beauty. We got to see the young and old, veiled and not, all kneel and adore our Lord as they received the the Blessed Sacrament. The Priest, in his few moments of English, had a southern accent. 

This is our Faith, both loud and soft, both filled with excitement and filled with calm. It is the same mass, just two very different expressions of it, both licit. I can go anywhere in the world, and though I may not know the language or local customs, know the Mass. There may be small variances, but, in any setting, "This is my Body, and This is my Blood" still bring me my Lord. 

Tired.

I'm tired, just plain old tired. I get up to early, stay up to late and have way to much to do each day. Something has to give. But What? I stay up late, because my husband works late, I get up early because I work early. I do too much because I trying to offer my kids the chance to be with friends, and to participate in the arts once in a while. 

Sure, I volunteer where I can, I could cut that out, but then, I'd have no adult interaction to look forward to. I write, but that only takes a few hours each month, if even that much. I could go to bed earlier, but I'd never see my husband, and I still rather like the old chap. Napping is not an option, I have a 4 year old boy, and he has an imaginary civilization. 

What exhausts me the most is the petty little things that happen in life, getting stuck in the middle of an argument, trying to keep the peace, and dealing with drama on many fronts. That is what I need to get rid of!! That, too, can not be gotten rid of, not matter how hard I try. My only option is prayer. Not just the quick morning offering I remember mid-shower, but serious contemplative prayer. Adoration. 

This week my parish is opening a beautiful brand new perpetual adoration chapel, and I have signed up for what I consider to be an ungodly hour. Please pray for me. I need this, not for me, but for all those who have to deal with me. I am honestly terrified that I will quit going in about 3 weeks when I decide to stay in my nice warm soft bed. It seems like a paradox that I can get refreshed by getting less rest, but it is one I am depending upon. 

"Beside restful waters he leads me;
he refreshes my soul.
He guides me in right paths
for his name's sake"

Psalm 23:1-2, Psalm for today.

Beauty

I've seriously been meditating on this all week, and hoping to write my thoughts, but then I read this. It is like someone has been peering into my head.

Some books never go out of style

Recently my daughter started reading the Anne of Green Gables series. I'm trilled, these books were my favorites when I was her age. Not only were they favorites, but I got completely lost in them, they preserved my girlhood and gave me a great love of poetry. How can a few books, especially lite reading, have an impact? Simple, they were good, and held my interest.

We read plenty of newer book, some good, some not-so-great, but again and again, my daughter comes back to my childhood favorites, The Secret Garden, the Little House books, Heidi and now my beloved Anne. Anne was a springboard book for me, Anne read poetry, Tennyson, in particular, so I read Tennyson. In reading Tennyson, I moved onto Wittman, and far more poets. I read and read, I loved the romance of it all, I loved the art in the books, I loved the time period written about, I loved escaping from my dull suburban life.

 I see my daughter excited in the same ways. Good literature can lead to whole new worlds, both real and imaginary. I see her imagination growing, as her understanding of history and culture also grow. I see her laughing as Anne dyes her read hair, and she will cry when Matthew dies, just like I did. And I see her maturing, as she can experience though the books joy and sorrow, while she is in a safe, loving home, but at the same time is being prepared for her own sorrows and joys.