Anyone else bothered by the death of Saddam Hussein? No doubt, he committed horrendous crimes during this tyrannical reign. But as I watched reports of his death last night, I had a pit in my stomach and yes, even felt sorry for the man. Am I crazy? Would I feel differently if I had been a family member of one of those 100,000+ Kurds who were gased to death by Saddam?
My unease probably stems from my disagreement with the death penalty in general. Living in Illinois where 13 men formerly on death row have been exhonerated suggests to me that our justice system is not infallible enough to responsibly carry out justice through putting someone to death. Obviously, in this case, there's no doubt of Saddam's guilt. But still, it just doesn't seem right to me that causing the death of a person in any way brings about justice in this world.
Apparently, according to an article in the New York Times, the Vatican and the European Union agree with me. Here's an excerpt:
"Erkki Tuomioja, the foreign minister of Finland, which holds the rotating presidency of the European Union, said: “The European Union has a very consistent stand on opposing the death penalty and it should not have been applied in this case either — even though there is no doubt about Saddam Hussein’s guilt over serious violations against human rights.”
In an editorial, The Guardian newspaper in London said: “The death penalty is an unacceptably cruel and unusual punishment, even in Iraq.”
Indeed, the Vatican went so far as to call the execution “tragic” — echoing expressions of revulsion by Muslim leaders, both in the West and in the broader Islamic world.
“A capital punishment is always tragic news, a reason for sadness, even if it deals with a person who was guilty of grave crimes,” said Father Federico Lombardi, the Vatican spokesman. “The killing of the guilty party is not the way to reconstruct justice and reconcile society. On the contrary, there is a risk that it will feed a spirit of vendetta and sow new violence.”
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Watch for the Light
My apologies to those who check my blog regularly for updates. I haven't had much to say lately, at least that's how it feels. But I'll try to squeeze something meaningful out of this vacuous brain of mine.
Part of the problem is that this time of year depresses me, and I'm reluctant to bore you with my melancholy wallowing. My therapist would tell me of course I'm depressed. December 23 is the date of my mother's sudden death (and three years before that, to the day, my grandmother's death). So it's been 6 years now, and I can't believe it's been that long. January 28 (today) would have been my parent's 50th wedding anniversary.
On top of the sad memories of my mom's death, my husband thinks the Chicago weather has something to do with my depression. This time of year the clouds cover the sun for days, and he's going around telling all of our friends that my face is getting longer and longer with each passing sunless day. (thanks for sharing that information, honey.) I told him we should move to Arizona. He said New Mexico would be his preference. Or the coast of North Carolina. Whatever. I just want to see the sun....
The sun did come out for a while on the 24th. David and I went ice skating and it was perfect. The sun sparkling on the ice. Not too cold. It felt good to exercise in the midst of our holidy gorge. Then we went home and I fixed butternut squash risotto for dinner, and we had Christmas eve service on the couch (David wasn't feeling well so we couldn't make it to Midnight Mass). We read from an Advent book titled "Watch for the Light".
Christmas Day my inner Martha Steward emerged and I baked and baked and baked cookies -- chocolate and peanut butter "Buckeyes", Spritz, Reindeer fodder (mixture of Kix, Trix, Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, Rice Krispies, Mixed Nuts, coconut, and covered with melted white chocolate). Okay, sounds gross, but it was a hit at the Christmas dinner we had with our friends, the Millers, and their two daughters and other friends. The problem was, I made way too much of it and the leftovers have been sitting around the house since Christmas until we dumped all of those extra peanut butter balls and reindeer fodder clumps in the trash today. We're vowing to eat salads for the next month as penance.
The highlight of my Christmas has been listening to Sufjan Stevens' Christmas collection -- 5 DVDs in all. I told David Sufjan is quickly eclipsing Bono as my "Rocker Crush". He said Sujan is way too young for me, but I don't care. If you bought the collection, be sure to read his essay about how he came to hate Christmas, and then love it again. It's hilarious. In fact, he made the 5 Cds in the set as "peace offerings" to his family after he failed to make it home for Christmas for several years (because it brought back too many bad memories). There's something about listening to Christmas carols in a new, refreshing way that makes them more meaningful.
I always feel better once the holidays are over. Christ has arrived. We have hope. A fresh new year. The days start getting longer. In a few months we start looking tentatively for signs of spring. The sun has to come out sooner or later.
We wait. And watch for the Light.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Why write?
From Orhan Pamuk's Nobel lecture 2006 (printed in the December 25, 2006, New Yorker):
"The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is: Why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can't do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to konw what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, In Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, andi n the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all of life's beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but -- as in a dream -- can't quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy."
"The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is: Why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can't do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to konw what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, In Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, andi n the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all of life's beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but -- as in a dream -- can't quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy."
Thursday, December 14, 2006
When God shows up...
I recently got in touch with an old friend, Larry Wilson, who's been struggling to find work as and editor/writer. After years of steady fulltime and freelance writing gigs, Larry suddenly found himself without work to support his new wife. For over a year he's been praying...and suddenly this week God showed up.
This made me start thinking about God, and waiting, and my recent experience with God showing up. I left my fulltime corporate job at the end of May to pursue freelancing -- again. Yes, I've been in this place so many times. This is my third time in the freelancing world. Hopefully I'm here for good this time. But you never know. Anyway, when I left in May I was confident I would have steady freelancing work right away. I had developed many contacts while at my corporate job and was assured of work by several of these contacts. I felt it was time to leave the security of the corporate paycheck and to "shake things up". My job was going well, but creatively and spiritually, I felt dead in my grey cubicle. I felt like if I didn't take this chance to launch out on my own again, with three months of severance pay to help me get started, that I would be in the corporate world forever. And I wanted to get back to writing things that had meaning. My goal was (and is) to find a balance between great-paying marketing / web site / advertising writing, and not-so-great paying articles and books that have meaning.
In all of my times of freelancing, I've learned that being self-employed forces you to trust God...and that often he doesn't show up until the last minute. I've been getting work, but not as much as I thought. All summer I had times when I was busy, but then would have 2 weeks or more with no work. In the past few months I've been wondering how in the world David and I would pay the huge chunk of taxes we'll owe Uncle Sam on April 15. I was working enough to help pay the bills, but not enough to save the money we need for April. Then, last week I got a call about a freelance job. They need a steady freelancer for 20 hours a week for the next four months. Their goal? To get all of this work done by April 15. Tax Day. Hmmmm. Frederick Buechner once wrote that we have a choice. We can either chalk these types of things up to coincidence, or God. I choose to see them as God working in my life.
No, it's not very exciting work. But it's work that will allow me to relax about money for awhile so I can write the things I want to write about. Last week I also got a call from a Christian magazine that wants to publish an article I sent them. It's the first step in getting back into the publishing world...the Christian publishing world which I, to be honest, turned my back on for several years.
It seems the older I get, and the longer I'm on this Christian journey, the periods of waiting are longer. But I've found that while I'm in the desert, I've become more trusting. Because it seems without fail, God does show up one way or another. Maybe not in the way we expect, but he's there. And in the end my faith has grown.
This made me start thinking about God, and waiting, and my recent experience with God showing up. I left my fulltime corporate job at the end of May to pursue freelancing -- again. Yes, I've been in this place so many times. This is my third time in the freelancing world. Hopefully I'm here for good this time. But you never know. Anyway, when I left in May I was confident I would have steady freelancing work right away. I had developed many contacts while at my corporate job and was assured of work by several of these contacts. I felt it was time to leave the security of the corporate paycheck and to "shake things up". My job was going well, but creatively and spiritually, I felt dead in my grey cubicle. I felt like if I didn't take this chance to launch out on my own again, with three months of severance pay to help me get started, that I would be in the corporate world forever. And I wanted to get back to writing things that had meaning. My goal was (and is) to find a balance between great-paying marketing / web site / advertising writing, and not-so-great paying articles and books that have meaning.
In all of my times of freelancing, I've learned that being self-employed forces you to trust God...and that often he doesn't show up until the last minute. I've been getting work, but not as much as I thought. All summer I had times when I was busy, but then would have 2 weeks or more with no work. In the past few months I've been wondering how in the world David and I would pay the huge chunk of taxes we'll owe Uncle Sam on April 15. I was working enough to help pay the bills, but not enough to save the money we need for April. Then, last week I got a call about a freelance job. They need a steady freelancer for 20 hours a week for the next four months. Their goal? To get all of this work done by April 15. Tax Day. Hmmmm. Frederick Buechner once wrote that we have a choice. We can either chalk these types of things up to coincidence, or God. I choose to see them as God working in my life.
No, it's not very exciting work. But it's work that will allow me to relax about money for awhile so I can write the things I want to write about. Last week I also got a call from a Christian magazine that wants to publish an article I sent them. It's the first step in getting back into the publishing world...the Christian publishing world which I, to be honest, turned my back on for several years.
It seems the older I get, and the longer I'm on this Christian journey, the periods of waiting are longer. But I've found that while I'm in the desert, I've become more trusting. Because it seems without fail, God does show up one way or another. Maybe not in the way we expect, but he's there. And in the end my faith has grown.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Changing our Minds
I used to be a part of a little fledgling community named "Metanoia". We met in this old storefront on Addison and Pulaski in Chicago that used to be the "Starlight Lounge". In fact, the sign was still hanging over the front door. There was something radical about meeting in a space that used to be the Starlight Lounge. But it was also a bit depressing. It had low ceilings and beer stains on the carpet and smelled of mold. You could easily imagine sad bums sitting at the bar, nursing their umpteenth drink of the night, but hanging around because they had no where else to go.
We tried to transform the shabby little space. Someone bought antique tables and chairs at a garage sale. We painted the walls and put down rugs and lit candles. We transformed the Starlight Lounge, but more importantly, we were there to transform our minds and hearts.
The word Metanoia in the Greek means "A change of mind. A radical revision and tranformation of our whole mental process.....whereby God takes center place in our consciousness, in our awareness, and in our minds."
Yesterday Father Cusick at Old St. Pats preached his whole homily on the word "Metanoia", and I was reminded how much I like that word and everything it means. He preached how John was given word in the desert that the Messiah was coming. Prepare the way. Make the way straight for the Lord to come and change minds...and hearts....and lives. What a message of hope!
I found this exmplanation on the Internet, by another priest:
"...What is "metanoia"? Unfortunately, in English there's not one word that translates it very well. We could say repentance, but that doesn't catch the meaning of "metanoia." "Metanoia" literally means "beyond the mind." So it's an idea of stretching or pushing beyond the boundaries with which we normally think and feel. Now when we push beyond the boundaries what we are doing is we are allowing God really to take an active role in our formation.
Repentance, metanoia in Greek, really refers to a complete change in perspective, a change in goal, a change in life itself, really!
It means new mindedness, new change of mind and change of heart in the Hebrew sense of heart---how you think.... what we have to learn basically is how trustworthy God is, and how in every single situation, no matter what it is, no matter how painful, God is to be trusted. God is always present. So God is always inviting us into more life, and so to be questioning our own ways and our own habits is a good thing--and letting go of rigidity.
Metanoia means...a change, a profound change, of mind and even character. In the Bible, in the New Testament, this change is called "metanoia," often translated repentance. But it's not a backward-looking glance of regret; it's a forward-looking vision of hope. "
Yes, there is hope in the possibility of having God enter into our minds -- changing our lives. As Anne Lammot says, "we can't heal our damaged minds with our damaged minds." We have to get out of our minds to allow God to heal us. God, please help me to get "beyond my mind!" i often lament. When I let my fears and worries, and obsessions to crowd my head, where is there room for God to change my mind -- for "metanoia?"
In this season, I pray that I can remove all of the barriers that I have constructed that prevent God from coming in and changing my mind, and my heart, and my life. To make the way straight for the Lord to come. Amen.
We tried to transform the shabby little space. Someone bought antique tables and chairs at a garage sale. We painted the walls and put down rugs and lit candles. We transformed the Starlight Lounge, but more importantly, we were there to transform our minds and hearts.
The word Metanoia in the Greek means "A change of mind. A radical revision and tranformation of our whole mental process.....whereby God takes center place in our consciousness, in our awareness, and in our minds."
Yesterday Father Cusick at Old St. Pats preached his whole homily on the word "Metanoia", and I was reminded how much I like that word and everything it means. He preached how John was given word in the desert that the Messiah was coming. Prepare the way. Make the way straight for the Lord to come and change minds...and hearts....and lives. What a message of hope!
I found this exmplanation on the Internet, by another priest:
"...What is "metanoia"? Unfortunately, in English there's not one word that translates it very well. We could say repentance, but that doesn't catch the meaning of "metanoia." "Metanoia" literally means "beyond the mind." So it's an idea of stretching or pushing beyond the boundaries with which we normally think and feel. Now when we push beyond the boundaries what we are doing is we are allowing God really to take an active role in our formation.
Repentance, metanoia in Greek, really refers to a complete change in perspective, a change in goal, a change in life itself, really!
It means new mindedness, new change of mind and change of heart in the Hebrew sense of heart---how you think.... what we have to learn basically is how trustworthy God is, and how in every single situation, no matter what it is, no matter how painful, God is to be trusted. God is always present. So God is always inviting us into more life, and so to be questioning our own ways and our own habits is a good thing--and letting go of rigidity.
Metanoia means...a change, a profound change, of mind and even character. In the Bible, in the New Testament, this change is called "metanoia," often translated repentance. But it's not a backward-looking glance of regret; it's a forward-looking vision of hope. "
Yes, there is hope in the possibility of having God enter into our minds -- changing our lives. As Anne Lammot says, "we can't heal our damaged minds with our damaged minds." We have to get out of our minds to allow God to heal us. God, please help me to get "beyond my mind!" i often lament. When I let my fears and worries, and obsessions to crowd my head, where is there room for God to change my mind -- for "metanoia?"
In this season, I pray that I can remove all of the barriers that I have constructed that prevent God from coming in and changing my mind, and my heart, and my life. To make the way straight for the Lord to come. Amen.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
O Tannenbaum...
Well, I'm off to buy a Christmas tree today. It's been a while since I've had a tree. For a long time, I'd go to Iowa for a week at Christmas to visit my family. Why buy a tree when you're not even around to enjoy it? Then one year I was in Iowa for Thanksgiving and my mom suggested I buy a fake tree. So I bought a small, pretty, Victorian-ish pre-lit tree. I kept it on my back porch all year until the holidays, when I'd pull it out of storage, plug it in, and presto--instant, no-hassle Christmas tree. I really liked that tree. But when I moved to my new place, it got left behind. You know how it goes -- you're so tired of moving and packing things that those last possessions that won't fit into the car are left for the next owners. "Maybe they need a pre-lit Victorian-ish tree." Plus, my friend Val was helping me move and she's partial to real, live trees. She hates fake trees. So she definitely influenced me to leave the Victorian tree behind. So now I blame her for my lack of tree.
Last year I bought another fake tree on a whim. I saw this place on my way home from work, and they had trees on sale. So I went in and had a had a look. I bought a 7.5 "windswept pine" and brought it home. Once David and I put it up, I hated it. It was too big....to dark green. Just plain ugly. Plus, the branches were so stiff and too close together, so it was hard to decorate. So after Christmas it went into storage and now we're selling it on Craigslist.
So this year I think we're going to try the real thing. I know they're messy. And I feel a little guilty that a live tree is cut down in its prime of life just so we can put pretty things on it and gaze at it for a few weeks. But I think it's time for a real tree. It feels right.
For a few years after my mother died suddenly, on December 23, 2000, I didn't put up a single Christmas decoration. Christmas to me brought back memories of shock, funeral homes, and unspeakable grief. All of our family traditions were turned up-side-down. My mom loved Christmas. She'd usually put up two Christmas trees -- one upstairs, one downstairs. She'd decorate. She'd start shopping in early fall, trying to find all of us the perfect gift. She loved having all of us home for the holidays. But after she was gone we started doing things differently. That first year after her death we all went to Ohio to my sister's house for Christmas. Last year, the first year I was married, David and I stayed in Chicago, went skating, went to Midnight Mass, and just hung out together watching movies. My sister said that now having a different kind of Christmas is a good thing. My dad just tries to make it through. The rest of us are forging new traditions. And we're to the point, 6 years later, that we feel like celebrating the season again. Because it is really about Christ's birth, not our mother's death. And the hope the Christ brings. "It gets darker and darker, And then Jesus is born" writes Wendell Barry.
Maybe buying a real Christmas tree represents hope to me. I heard once that a long time ago, Christmas trees were hung upside down....to form an inverted triangle, representing God, the Holy Spirit, and Christ, who came to earth to bring us hope, life, resurrection. I like that. Maybe I'll hang my tree upside down this year. Just to be different.
Last year I bought another fake tree on a whim. I saw this place on my way home from work, and they had trees on sale. So I went in and had a had a look. I bought a 7.5 "windswept pine" and brought it home. Once David and I put it up, I hated it. It was too big....to dark green. Just plain ugly. Plus, the branches were so stiff and too close together, so it was hard to decorate. So after Christmas it went into storage and now we're selling it on Craigslist.
So this year I think we're going to try the real thing. I know they're messy. And I feel a little guilty that a live tree is cut down in its prime of life just so we can put pretty things on it and gaze at it for a few weeks. But I think it's time for a real tree. It feels right.
For a few years after my mother died suddenly, on December 23, 2000, I didn't put up a single Christmas decoration. Christmas to me brought back memories of shock, funeral homes, and unspeakable grief. All of our family traditions were turned up-side-down. My mom loved Christmas. She'd usually put up two Christmas trees -- one upstairs, one downstairs. She'd decorate. She'd start shopping in early fall, trying to find all of us the perfect gift. She loved having all of us home for the holidays. But after she was gone we started doing things differently. That first year after her death we all went to Ohio to my sister's house for Christmas. Last year, the first year I was married, David and I stayed in Chicago, went skating, went to Midnight Mass, and just hung out together watching movies. My sister said that now having a different kind of Christmas is a good thing. My dad just tries to make it through. The rest of us are forging new traditions. And we're to the point, 6 years later, that we feel like celebrating the season again. Because it is really about Christ's birth, not our mother's death. And the hope the Christ brings. "It gets darker and darker, And then Jesus is born" writes Wendell Barry.
Maybe buying a real Christmas tree represents hope to me. I heard once that a long time ago, Christmas trees were hung upside down....to form an inverted triangle, representing God, the Holy Spirit, and Christ, who came to earth to bring us hope, life, resurrection. I like that. Maybe I'll hang my tree upside down this year. Just to be different.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Winter Wonderland
When I was a child, my dad owned some land that had a pond. In the summer, we'd catch frogs in the shallow, green water and fish for sunfish (of course throwing them back as soon as we caught them.) But in the winter this pond was transformed into a frozen other world -- sortof like stepping out of the back of the wardrobe into Narnia. Every winter, as soon as the temperature dropped below freezing for several days, my dad announced that we were going ice skating up at the pond. So we'd dig our our skates, long lost somewhere in the basement since last winter, make sure they still fit (if not, we may get hand-me-down skates from an older sibling, who at that point may be too teenager-y and cool to go skating up at the pond), bundle up in our puffy coats and mittens, and pile in the car for the short drive up the road to the pond. Sometimes we'd take the neighbor kids. We'd drive up into the overgrown driveway, my dad would hop out of the car to unlatch the rusty, creaky gate, get back into the car, and we'd drive through tall weeds that had over taken the dirt road.
Before us kids could even get out of the car, my dad had to make sure the pond was frozen enough to hold us. My dad worries -- a lot, and he needed to ease any worries he may have about us falling through the ice. So he'd walk onto the ice, way out to the middle of the pond, and bounce up and down a couple of times. Then he'd walk to a different spot and do the same thing. This made me nervous. Sure, he didn't want us falling through the ice -- but what about him? What would we do if the ice wasn't thick enough and he fell through? But after bouncing in 4 or 5 spots, he'd walk back to the car and say, "Yep -- that ice is frozen solid -- probably a foot thick!" and we'd all get out of the car and find a spot in the weeds to lace up our skates.
Often, we'd skate at night, when the air would be clear and cold and we could see stars and the moon reflecting in the ice. My dad would build a campfire and we'd skate, practicing our spinning and backwards skating, trying to avoid the bumpy parts of the ice where twigs had frozen. We'd hear the ice boom and creak. My dad said not to worry -- it's just the ice cracking but there was no way we'd fall through. I trusted my dad, so I'd keep on skating. When we'd get cold and tired, we'd sit by the fire and look at the stars. After a few hours, we'd douse the fire, take our leather skates off our sore feet, and pile back into the car. At home, my mom would make hot chocolate and we'd sit by the heating registers and get warm. Very Norman Rockwell-ish, I know.
After I left home, I forgot about skating. In fact, I learned to dislike winter. The problem is, I HATE being cold. And in Chicago, when it snows, the snow gets messy and dirty and it's hard to parallel park on the street when there are mounds of dirty snow. Plus, it's really hard to look stylish wearing clunky snow-worthy boots. And if you wear the great, sassy Nine West boots you just bought, the snow and the salt poured everywhere on sidewalks and roads to help it melt leave ugly white splotches all over the heels and toes. So during Chicago winters I learned to hunker down inside, read lots of books, and wait for Spring. That is, until I met David. Little did I know I married Wayne Gretzky.
Last winter David announced that he was taking up ice hockey. Yes, at 51, my husband decided to learn a sport where teeth are lost on a regular basis, bodies are checked, blood is shed, and bones are broken. He's been skating a lot the past couple of years -- he started going to the ice rink at the park near our condo. Or, he skates down in the Loop at Millenium Park. He even got his picture in the Chicago Tribune last winter, for a story about regular skaters at the ice rink. Until he was 16, he lived in Michigan, so he was no stranger to skating -- in fact he's pretty darned good. But then last winter he decided he was bored skating around in a circle over and over. He needed more action. So he tried a pick-up hockey game at the park rink. This just depressed him -- he was playing with 20- and 30-something guys who'd been honing their hockey skills their whole lives. I told him he needed to find and "old geezers" league. This depressed him even more. But this fall, he found a class where he could learn hockey skills....and the class consisted of guys his own age. So now he's happy. And I told him he looks really sexy in his hockey gear, which made him even happier.
Last winter I told him I wanted ice skates for Christmas. So we bought a pair and I started skating with him. At first I was nervous and wobbly. I hadn't skated in 20 years. But then it all came back, and I found myself gliding over the ice a little more gracefully each time, while David flew by me calling out pointers. "Bend your knees more!" or "Cross-over when going around a turn!"
A snowstorm blew through here a few days ago. We were supposed to get 14 inches, but Tom Skilling, our typically infallible local weather reporter (and brother to Jeffrey Skilling of Enron fame), was wrong this time. We only got about 5 inches here in the city, and it turned the city into a Winter Wonderland. The evergreen trees in the park have snow weighing down every branch, the other trees have a coating of ice, so they sparkle in the sun. The snow hasn't turned brown around the edges of the street yet, so the city looks all sparkly and white and fresh. Last night, after spending a day inside working, David and I dug out our skates and piled in the car and drove down the road to the ice rink. It was the first day the rink was open. The sky had cleared and the moon shone bright. We were bundled up in our gloves and puffy coats, and we skated around the rink in the moonlight, trying to avoid little 10-year-old girls who were practicing their spins and backwards skating. David gave me pointers, once again, on doing the cross-over turn and backwards skating. Sometimes he'd skate up to me and take my hand and we'd skate along like teenagers at the local rollerskating rink during "couples skate". I thought of those night skating at the pond with my dad, and breathed in the fresh, cold air, and was thankful, again for winter. And for a dad who taught me to skate, and for a husband who taught me to love it again.
Before us kids could even get out of the car, my dad had to make sure the pond was frozen enough to hold us. My dad worries -- a lot, and he needed to ease any worries he may have about us falling through the ice. So he'd walk onto the ice, way out to the middle of the pond, and bounce up and down a couple of times. Then he'd walk to a different spot and do the same thing. This made me nervous. Sure, he didn't want us falling through the ice -- but what about him? What would we do if the ice wasn't thick enough and he fell through? But after bouncing in 4 or 5 spots, he'd walk back to the car and say, "Yep -- that ice is frozen solid -- probably a foot thick!" and we'd all get out of the car and find a spot in the weeds to lace up our skates.
Often, we'd skate at night, when the air would be clear and cold and we could see stars and the moon reflecting in the ice. My dad would build a campfire and we'd skate, practicing our spinning and backwards skating, trying to avoid the bumpy parts of the ice where twigs had frozen. We'd hear the ice boom and creak. My dad said not to worry -- it's just the ice cracking but there was no way we'd fall through. I trusted my dad, so I'd keep on skating. When we'd get cold and tired, we'd sit by the fire and look at the stars. After a few hours, we'd douse the fire, take our leather skates off our sore feet, and pile back into the car. At home, my mom would make hot chocolate and we'd sit by the heating registers and get warm. Very Norman Rockwell-ish, I know.
After I left home, I forgot about skating. In fact, I learned to dislike winter. The problem is, I HATE being cold. And in Chicago, when it snows, the snow gets messy and dirty and it's hard to parallel park on the street when there are mounds of dirty snow. Plus, it's really hard to look stylish wearing clunky snow-worthy boots. And if you wear the great, sassy Nine West boots you just bought, the snow and the salt poured everywhere on sidewalks and roads to help it melt leave ugly white splotches all over the heels and toes. So during Chicago winters I learned to hunker down inside, read lots of books, and wait for Spring. That is, until I met David. Little did I know I married Wayne Gretzky.
Last winter David announced that he was taking up ice hockey. Yes, at 51, my husband decided to learn a sport where teeth are lost on a regular basis, bodies are checked, blood is shed, and bones are broken. He's been skating a lot the past couple of years -- he started going to the ice rink at the park near our condo. Or, he skates down in the Loop at Millenium Park. He even got his picture in the Chicago Tribune last winter, for a story about regular skaters at the ice rink. Until he was 16, he lived in Michigan, so he was no stranger to skating -- in fact he's pretty darned good. But then last winter he decided he was bored skating around in a circle over and over. He needed more action. So he tried a pick-up hockey game at the park rink. This just depressed him -- he was playing with 20- and 30-something guys who'd been honing their hockey skills their whole lives. I told him he needed to find and "old geezers" league. This depressed him even more. But this fall, he found a class where he could learn hockey skills....and the class consisted of guys his own age. So now he's happy. And I told him he looks really sexy in his hockey gear, which made him even happier.
Last winter I told him I wanted ice skates for Christmas. So we bought a pair and I started skating with him. At first I was nervous and wobbly. I hadn't skated in 20 years. But then it all came back, and I found myself gliding over the ice a little more gracefully each time, while David flew by me calling out pointers. "Bend your knees more!" or "Cross-over when going around a turn!"
A snowstorm blew through here a few days ago. We were supposed to get 14 inches, but Tom Skilling, our typically infallible local weather reporter (and brother to Jeffrey Skilling of Enron fame), was wrong this time. We only got about 5 inches here in the city, and it turned the city into a Winter Wonderland. The evergreen trees in the park have snow weighing down every branch, the other trees have a coating of ice, so they sparkle in the sun. The snow hasn't turned brown around the edges of the street yet, so the city looks all sparkly and white and fresh. Last night, after spending a day inside working, David and I dug out our skates and piled in the car and drove down the road to the ice rink. It was the first day the rink was open. The sky had cleared and the moon shone bright. We were bundled up in our gloves and puffy coats, and we skated around the rink in the moonlight, trying to avoid little 10-year-old girls who were practicing their spins and backwards skating. David gave me pointers, once again, on doing the cross-over turn and backwards skating. Sometimes he'd skate up to me and take my hand and we'd skate along like teenagers at the local rollerskating rink during "couples skate". I thought of those night skating at the pond with my dad, and breathed in the fresh, cold air, and was thankful, again for winter. And for a dad who taught me to skate, and for a husband who taught me to love it again.
Friday, December 01, 2006
The next Flannery O'Connor?
I've been hearing about Sufjan Stevens for a while now, but recently became more intrigued because my nephews are fans (they even named their new puppy Sufjan). Being the out-of-touch aunt and uncle, David and I insisted that "Sufjan" is pronounced "Suf-jan", and later found out it's really pronounced "Sufian". Oh well. We're not as hip as we thought.
I recently read an article about "Sufian" in Books and Culture. and found out he's a Michigan native, went to the renowned Interlocken music school, and attended Hope College.
Here's an excerpt from the article:
"Stevens seems convinced that to own up to evangelicalism would amount to professional or artistic suicide, and he is probably right. Though Christian culture warriors are put off by his calculated ambiguity, fans and critics are captivated. The high praise he has garnered from The New York Times and Rolling Stone—let alone thousands of fans around the world—may be the direct result of Stevens' willingness to grapple, in a suitably cryptic fashion, with issues of faith. Indeed, the secular music press now views the spiritual component of his work as an asset, best summed up by the Village Voice, which called him "the Next Flannery [O'Connor]."
He definitely sounds iPod-worthy....
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