Let’s Talk About Saints, Baby

Growing up Catholic, saints were a part of everyday life. Most of us born Catholics are named after them, in fact. We are taught to pray to them and ask them to intercede on behalf of their specialties. For example, a very common Catholic saying is “St. Anthony, St. Anthony, please come around. Something has been lost, and something must be found!” I know it sounds silly, but St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost articles. My patron saint is St. Brigid, naturally, whose feast day is on February 1st. She is the patron saint of poets, even.

When I was in eighth grade, I had a friend who recently started attending a Pentecostal church instead of the Catholic one we had been in since birth. One day, she told me that her new church did not believe in saints and in fact believed that we, as Catholics, were violating the Commandments because the number one rule is to not put any gods before the One True God. Apparently, they looked at the saints as being god’s, which, at the time, I thought was silly. I mean, I knew the difference between the One True God and those who had served him, and while we asked the saints for intercession, we did not pray to them as though they were all-powerful beings. It was not until much later in life that it occurred to me that most of our saints probably are appropriated from the old gods that came before them. Brigid is a good example of this, actually.

Anyway, when we were 17, we made our Confirmations. Confirmation is when you become a full-fledged member of the Church. One of the aspects of this ritual is to choose a Confirmation name, which must be a saint or a name from the Bible. I chose Bernadette, not for any particular reason other than the fact my sister’s name was Bernadette. I am pretty sure she chose her confirmation of Brigid for the exact same reason. My friend Beth had no desire to make her Confirmation, and was forced to attend classes and masses by her mother. When it came time for her to choose a name, she chose Dymphna after St. Dymphna, the patron saint of mental health.

I had never heard of her until then, and I found her to be intriguing. Apparently, Dymphna’s father suffered a mental breakdown after her mother’s passing, and began to look at his daughter as though she were his wife. When she ran away to escape him, he hunted her down and killed her, but not until after she established a hospital in a small town in Belgium. Still, today, this town takes in “borders-” folks with mental health problems who come and live and work in the town.

When I was at my father’s the other day, I found a small white box upon his desk. I opened it to see what I knew to be a St. Dymphna relic. A relic is an item that has come into contact with a saint. Some relics, like bones and blood and hair are called first-class relics and owned by the Catholic church and are stored in various churches throughout the world. Other relics, such as clothing, are second-class relics and easier to come by, especially if you have clergy family. The most common relic is third-class, which is an item that has touched higher class relic. So, in theory, say you had a scarf. If you went to a church with a first’class relic and touched your scarf to it, that scarf would become a third-class relic. Anyhoo…

I have no idea what class this is, but we have had clergy friends and family, so I am not surprised that I have found it. Dad says he believes mom received it when she started working in mental health, but I find it very strange that she never told me she had it. I would have been so interested! In fact, I AM so interested!

I am not sure what that seal on the inside of the box says, but I can make out the word “Roma.” I popped the back off to make sure it had the red wax papal seal that makes it a real relic. Sure enough, it was there along with some numbers. I am not sure what the numbers mean, as one was a set of three and the other was a set of two. I am pretty sure the set of two is the number 65, and some research tells me that the relics are dated, so I am going on the assumption this one is from 1965.  It reads S. Dymphnae V. M, which means St. Dymphna, virgin and martyr.

I will likely simply stash this treasure in my jewelry box, because that is where I put precious things. Someday, I am sure, K or E will be going through my jewelry box and ask what it is. Hopefully, I will be around to tell them, but if not…point them in the direction of this blog.

In conclusion, I don’t know if saints and their powers are real or nonsense. I don’t know if it’s all just appropriation and lies. Either way, I like the idea of having Dymphna in my corner. Happy Friday.

Ostara and Me

Flipping finally!

Yes, I look out the window, and I see snow. I don’t love it. However, what I do like is I know that under that thin blanket of ice, there are crocus that started blooming in my yard last week. I was thoroughly delighted by these little friends. Look at them!

Yay!

This time of year is always a little bit tricky for me to navigate, especially since my conversion from Catholicism to Paganism. As the church did with so many of our holidays, they pilferred Ostara (which is today) from the Pagans and called it Easter. The eggs, the Springtime, the fertility and rebirth concepts, the concept of spring cleaning- all Pagan. All methods or reasons of celebrating Ostara, which is the first day of Spring. Which is today!

I’ve written many times about my Catholicism during the holy week, and I will not do that this time. I cherish some of the memories I made during that time when I was young, but they are in the past. For the present, and the future, I will experience this time as a personal moment of rebirth and renewal. Our little slice of the planet begins to grow and change now, and that is a change that I welcome each year as it banishes away my sadness that comes with the winter months.

So today, I will be cleaning my house. No, it does not sound like a typical celebration of a holiday, although we all know before we host holidays we tend to clean the hell out of our houses. Alas, no one is coming here, but I will spend the day cleaning out anything that I do not need or want anymore. When I am done, I will do a smoke cleanse of the house, and set up new protection wards. Seems more like work than celebration, but the point of what I practice is and always has been intention. I will clean with intention, to wipe away the dirty and used to make room for the clean and new.

I cannot help but think of the 30+ years in which I was gripped by the burden of Christianity. That is not to say I believe religion to be a burden, however for some people it can be. Some people find joy and love and faith through the Christian god, and I applaud them for that, but this is not where I find my joy, love, or faith, and I have not for a long time. What I have found in the past two years is those qualities gently folded into every aspect of my newfound spiritual practice. How can I not embrace that when it is in front of me?

Anyway, happy Spring. I know that for us Buffalonians it does not feel that way at the moment, but I assure you it is coming! We are so close to the finish line of winter weather, we just have to hang on for a few more days. I hope it passes quickly for you and yours, and then when the skies finally clear and the sun breaks into your face, you will feel the joy, love, and faith that I felt when I saw those crocus poke out of the snow this morning. Happy Tuesday!

Celebrate spring!!

The Lenten Sacrifice

Last night, Mark said that he noticed I no longer celebrate Lent. Initially, I had a snide response in my head about the deconstruction of Christianity in general, but I let that slide and simply said “no, I do not.”

For those not in the know, Lent is the 40 days prior to Easter Sunday, starting on Ash Wednesday. These 6 weeks are symbolic of the time Jesus spent wandering in the desert. The final week is the big one, beginning with Palm Sunday, continuing through Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and finally Easter Sunday. There are important traditions and rituals associated with each of these days. As a good little Catholic and a good little student in a good little Catholic School, I spent a great deal of time learning about Lent and the sacrifice of Jesus. We were told to sacrifice our own vices during these weeks, which led to many children detoxing from television or chocolate.

I haven’t given anything up for Lent in a good long time. Probably, not since high school, when I was last forced to participate in such shenanigans. Another caveat of Lent is that one is not allowed to eat meat on Fridays. I am sure I have been told the reason for this a million times, but I am also sure that it was so stupid I blocked it out of my brain.

And then there is the high holy week, with its feet washing and its stations of the cross and its mourning of Jesus and its celebration of the Resurrection.  Do you know what I do on Easter,  now? I eat Polish sausage. That is about the only tradition I have carried with me to this point, and it certainly is not a Christian one. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know where it comes from; we’re not even Polish.

I don’t know why him saying that I don’t celebrate Lent any more rubbed me the wrong way. I suppose it was because for two years I have been actively practicing spirituality, not religion, and it frustrates me when people do not see the difference between the two. It frustrates me sometimes when people think I am Catholic, still. I don’t necessarily mind, but I don’t want someone to have an impression of me that is false. I have a friend whose mother will go to her grave believing me to be a Christian, and I will let her live that fantasy. Because if I did not, she would treat me poorly. She would look down upon me.

Because when you are not a Christian, most of them look down upon you. That is one of the sad truths that I learned through my deconstruction. If you truly believe that others are not going to get the glory of God’s heaven because they have not accepted Jesus into their hearts, then that means you think you have somehow earned more than others. And we all know how I feel about those who think they are better than other people.

This morning a friend posted something about how people who let church folk turn them from God do not really have a relationship with their deity, moreso the relationship lies with the church. I can tell you that for me, it was a combination of priests and nuns and good old-fashioned lay people that turned me from a good little Catholic church-going girl into the heretic rebel Pagan you see before you. My relationship may not have been with God, it may have only been with my church- of course, since my deconstruction, I have found myself closer to a higher power now than I ever was praying on my knees at the church’s altar. Although sadly, since I do not subscribe to a singular practice, I am lke Jesus in the desert for 40 days- alone in my quest for spiritual enlightenment.

So no, I no longer celebrate Lent or any of the holidays surrounding it. Easter Sunday is the day I reserve for the start of spring, and little else. I will not give up my vices so that I can share in the suffering of Jesus, I will not avoid meat on Friday for whatever stupid reason they told us in the Bible, and there’s a really good chance I will never go to the Stations of the Cross again. All of that is okay though, because I have found my own path to enlightenment, and I assure you it is much brighter than the dimly lit trail I traversed through Catholicism.

Anyway… I guess that is it for today. It is officially Saint Patrick’s Day weekend, and it is about 9:00 a.m., which means it is time to get myself in gear for the parade and parties that will take up my next two days. I wish you all a lovely weekend, and of course, happy Saint Patrick’s Day!

Emphasis on the Holy

There was this tiktok trend recently where you asked the men in your life how often they think about the Roman empire. Most men that were asked and made into videos said they did daily or at least weekly. I asked around and got similar answers. People were pondering why so many men thought about this so often, and the men were willing to give explanations from things such as the Roman empire being similar to the American empire, as well as basics such as plumbing and roads.  What did surprise me a little was that I didn’t see anyone reply with the reason that I think of the Roman Empire on a daily basis.

No, I am not a man, but I am deeply involved in this trend given that I do indeed think about the Romans often. This has nothing to do with their contributions or parallels to society, and everything to do with 15 years of indoctrination. I don’t so much think of the Roman Empire, as I do the Holy Roman Empire.

You cannot be raised Catholic…literally called Roman Catholic…and not learn about the Romans in detail. We are taught that Peter was the rock the church was to be built upon. And we were taught that that happened more or less, but we were also taught about Paul, probably more than any other figure in the Bible other than Jesus himself.

To summarize, this Roman citizen, Saul, was off to kill some Jesus followers, when the Lord came to him and changed his ways. And name, apparently.  When he arrived in Damascus to start with the murdering, he told the people there that he had converted, and the Lord had pretty much put him in charge. And so, Paul started writing his letters to all the people that were following Jesus, organizing and laying out all the rules for Christianity and spreading the gospels. 

See, I went to St Paul’s School. So, we learned a lot about Paul, probably more than other Catholic school kids did, but I remember a focus on him at some point every year during religion class. When I don’t remember learning however is that all of this took place about 5 to 10 years after Jesus died. We were under the impression that all of the apostles were chilling together at the last dinner- and yet Paul is considered an apostle, and he never even met Jesus.

So when you really look at the situation from an outside perspective, it is silly. Why did the people of Damascus trust someone who came there with ill intent yet claimed to have changed his ways without any real proof other than his own word? True, one could argue that he never harmed anyone and turned to spreading the word of Jesus, which could be held as proof. However, what he really did was take the word of Jesus and twist it to fit his narrative. The letters he sent out were filled with rules that supposedly came from God, but for which he had no basis. He wrote most of the New Testament, and much of it did not really recognize Jesus’s followers at the time. He essentially commandeered the church, and it is around that time that Roman Catholicism started to take shape.

No, I’m not going to go into an entire history of the Catholic church with you. Although it is fascinating and I highly recommend doing your own research. This is just an example of one of the many reasons that I myself think about the Romans. And again it is never because of the way that their empire relates to what is happening in my world right now, or the fact that I truly love them for their plumbing and their roads and their other contributions to society, but really the only thing I think about when I think about the Romans is the HOLY Roman Empire, emphasis on holy, because that is what we were told to call it. And I think about it daily, because I went to schools that made me think about it daily.

I was talking to one of the kiddos about religion the other day. I don’t remember how it came up, but she mentioned hating going to church as a child with her grandparents. She recalled when her grandfather wanted to get her baptized, and everyone was against it. Now, I had no control over whether or not these children were baptized, and I had no say in the matter whatsoever, but of course I am grateful that they we’re not positioned as I was at such young ages. Through this kid’s own research of life, she has decided that she does not believe in a god, although she does believe in an afterlife very similar to the one that I subscribe to. This I found very interesting, considering that I never told her anything regarding my belief structure, yet that is the hypothesis she came to on her own.

So fortunately, my children will think of the Romans in a light differently than I do, perhaps for contributions or parallels or perhaps even for their gods and goddesses that we have buried with the mono-god. Or, maybe they won’t think of them at all, because other pressing matters will be in their heads. I often think that it is ridiculous that I was given 40 minutes each day devoted to religion, when we could have used those 40 minutes to learn of things I really needed, like how to buy a house or pay my taxes. Fortunately, my heathen children go to public school and I don’t have to worry about that.  Happy Wednesday, friends.

40 Days

One of the Catholic Church’s favorite things to play is the waiting game…we have Advent, the four weeks prior to Christmas, and then we have Lent, the 6 weeks before Easter.

We.  I still, automatically, type the word “we.” I mentioned to Mark this morning that Catholicism is very much still a part of me even though I have shirked the religious aspect. I suppose I am still a cultural Catholic in many ways, all due to my indoctrination into the church at a very young age. For instance, during Lent one is supposed to observe abstinence from meat on Friday’s. Even now, more than a decade after leaving the church, I feel guilty eating a pepperoni pizza on a Friday in March. The whole shebang starts with Ash Wednesday, which was yesterday, wherein the faithful get a cross made of ashes upon their forehead. From dust you come, to dust you shall return. It is a symbol of repentance and belief as well as mortality. It is to symbolize beginning of the 40 days Jesus spent wandering the desert.
The ashes are made from burnt Palms from the previous years Palm Sunday, and you are not supposed to wipe them away. So it was completely normal, you see, for me to be in a school full of children with dirt on their foreheads one day a year.

And oh! Then there’s the activity of Lent, and not just of the food variety. During Lent, one is asked to give up a pleasure or a vice as a sacrifice and act of repentance. So, every year we all had to give something up. I remember one year when a schoolmate of mine’s mother moved their television set out to garage for the entire 40 days, forcing her kids to give up TV. I routinely gave up candy, which was simple because I wasn’t allowed candy in the first place. I don’t think my mother ever took this into consideration, she was always just happy that I was “working on my weight.” When I was in high school, there was a girl who gave up Lent for Lent, as she was Pentecostal and attending a Catholic School. I recall her getting some heat for this comment, which I found to be brave and bold and intriguing. When I left school though, I stopped giving things up. I stopped eating fish on Friday’s, and I stopped getting ashes on my forehead.

Obviously, if you are a regular reader, you know that I am a bit of a pagan nowadays. So, it probably surprises you none at all that I am going to tell you that the Christian’s stole Easter from the pagan’s Spring Equinox festival. Much like the feast of Saint Brigid, which I recently wrote about, Easter was appropriated from the pagans.  Shocking turn of events, am I right?

This morning Carey asked me about Ash Wednesday. She thinks she noticed more crosses on people’s foreheads this year than ever before. Myself, I didn’t see a single one. But that’s probably a good thing because I was still triggered all damn day.

As soon as I realize it was Ash Wednesday, I thought of years of arguments with my mother, starting from when I was 16 and taking confirmation class. Her and I were so close, finally, to seeing eye to eye spiritually, but I knew I would never truly take her away from her home, which was the Church. When we had her funeral, it was a great big Catholic Mass at a great big Catholic Church, attended by girls who went to Catholic School with her, and many Catholic nuns who knew her well.  When Father Bill, a former priest at my elementary school, invited everyone up for communion, my father rose and accepted it. I looked behind me and I realized no one else got up. Not me or my sister; certainly not my husband or kids, none of whom were eligible to receive it anyway. I don’t even think I saw any of my friends move, and it reminded me of an article I read once about a spiritual awakening supposed to occur on planet Earth in the early to mid 2000s. I made a note in my phone to write a blog about this observation, but of course that was in between the funeral Mass and breakfast, so the note kind of got lost in the shuffle. But the article expressly said that we would throw off the shackles of religion. We would learn to live spiritually and harmoniously without it. Future generations would be taught that it was a general mistake, which only brought about greater division, and kept us as humans from reaching our greatest potential. Geez,  do I wish I could cite this article for you, but I got it off MySpace in 2004. Anyway, I think that’s happening now.

This blog is kind of all over the place today, huh? It’s because I’m all messed up in the brain over the Catholicism, and while I quit the church in my twenties, it has taken until my late 30s to really start my deconstruction. And honestly, with my mother’s passing, I feel very little guilt regarding my spiritual path. All of that washed away when I stepped out of that church, knowing that I would never have to set foot in one again if I didn’t want to. Of course, I will attend a wedding or funeral, but no one is ever going to force me to go to church again. This brings us to a bittersweet silver lining, but I truly feel in my gut that when mom died, her soul looked around and said “oh, Brig was right,” because I have more freedom spiritually since her passing then I have ever felt, and I do believe she gave that to me.

Botched Assignments

Since I was Catholic for 25 years, I acquired a couple of goddaughters. One being my sister Bernadette, of whom I was not technically godmother, because I was not old enough in the church’s eyes at the time. But they made an exception for me, giving my good standing in the church and in school. I really was quite the exceptional Catholic at age 13 . So when she was a couple months old and I was nearly 14, I dressed up and went to church and we had a ceremony initiating her into Catholicism, and making me promise in front of God and the congregation that I would raise her in the Catholic Church as a spiritual guide. A couple of years later, D was born and we went through the whole thing again, with me promising much more reluctantly to make sure she stayed a good Catholic. Well, she turned 21 the other day. She is the legal full adult now…although I still wouldn’t rent her a car. I started to think about the fact that I left the Church, and sort of stopped guiding those I was supposed to be guiding. I wondered where she stood spiritually, because I know my sister didn’t pan out the way my parents had planned. Both of their daughters left the church, and became flaming pagans. So naturally, I had to check in with D to see where she was. Turns out, exact same story.
Forced when she was younger, bailed as soon as she could, took up an interest in Wicca. Not practicing, but definitely investigating. So in the end, I didn’t so much end up raising a couple of good Catholics soldiers, so much as a couple of heathens…just like their godmother.
[  ] I remember being young and thinking about the possibility of having children. This was never forefront in my brain, but was more of an implied future that I, at the time, didn’t really think I had much say in. But still, I picked out names, considered what colors I would paint bedrooms, and mentally considered godparents. As time went on however, my options dwindled. People who I would have chosen left the church, and it made me consider why. I mean, I had my first problem when I was about 8 with Catholicism. That would be the day that I learned I could never be a priest. See, in school we were taught about the sacraments- we were told that when you got older, you were called to one of two sacraments: Marriage, or the Holy Order. The Holy Order seemed pretty cool, mainly because my aunt was a Sister of Mercy and I saw the way she lived. She got to share a house with her best friend, go on lots of trips, and spent her time working with the church- which, again, as an 8-year-old who had been Catholics since the day she was baptized, this sounded rad. The thing is, however, I was a preformer. I was not interested in the second-banana role of the nun. I wanted to be in the spotlight. I wanted to say Mass. And then my very loving Aunt Ka very gently told me that was not an option, as I was a woman, and thus the first seed of doubt that I was in the wrong game was planted. But I held off on expressing my contrary reviews even as they grew with age. What would have happened? Would my mother have disowned me for wanting to give up the Church and turn from God? Would I have had to leave my friends and switch schools? Would I have had to give up teaching the littles at Religious Education, something I really did love doing? So, I kept my mouth shut. I was very happy to be asked to be Bernadette’s godmother, and at the time that really meant something to me, religiously. It was a little different when D came along. Her mother, Beth, was not quite simpatico with the church at the time, but *her* mother was….and is…hugely involved. When D  was about two or so, it was agreed that she would be baptized at our church. Beth chose me and her brother Tom as the godparents. I remember asking her why, with my doubts, did she choose me? She replied something about how we were best friends, and she was a single mother, and if there was anyone that was going to take care of her baby should something happen, it was going to be me. The Church describes godparents as the leaders of a child’s spiritual upbringing. Some people define godparents as a sort of backup, just in case. My own parents did that in two ways for me. Ka was my godmother, and while she would never be able to take me in should the worst happen, my godfather Uncle Terry and his wife Sue, certainly would. And so, I became both those things to a baby D. Beth knew I wasn’t going to make her Catholic, but she also knew I would always have that child’s back. I think my parents felt similarly, because while I am Bernadette’s godmother, one of the best Catholics I know is her godfather. He is a humble man, so he probably doesn’t feel the same way I do about it, but him and his family exemplify what good Christianity is, and that has always given me hope.
[  ] So no, I don’t go to church anymore. And neither do my godchildren, mostly for the exact same reasons that I left, and it would appear we all found the same answers in the same place. So maybe, in the end, I did exactly what I set out to do

Wells of Power

If you didn’t read Monday’s blog, please do.  Anyhoo…

The tarot card reader told me I needed to change my perspective.  She told me I was looking at it all wrong, and that if I would just tap into the well of power that I already knew existed, things would be fine. She was not the first to say this to me. 

I went to Lilydale many years ago, a Spiritualist community in south western New York.  The medium I saw told me I was psychic.  At first, I thought maybe this was a gimmick she used on folks, after all, I’d never had a reading before.  But then she asked me if I just knew things.  I do, all the time.  She told me there were spirits there wanting to speak through me, not just to me, but I couldn’t hear them because I wasn’t quite in tune enough to their frequency.  She told me I was the most psychically in-tune person In the group I was visiting with, and I should consider studying…maybe even there at Lilydale someday.  I assumed, still, this was a ruse of some sort…a way to drum up money for the community.  But at the end of the day, no one else in my party was told they had a gift; just me.

Then, Salem last week.  The reader was on the money about everything, so I’m going to assume she’s right about perspective, too.  I wrote a piece in my Patreon about how the Salem Witch Trials affected me when I was young, and how it was difficult for me to understand why I was so deeply saddened over something that happened hundreds of years before I was born.  And not like how I was over learning about a war, or even learning about the Irish potato famine with which at least my heritage identified.  No, it was the Salem Witch Trials in 3^rd grade that made me cry unexplained tears.  A couple of years later, my parents and I took a vacation to New England and went to Salem, and I remember my excitement and joy and how I gobbled up every morsel of information presented to me.  I wanted to see and do everything, but we were only there for a couple of hours.  I do recall a live reenactment of Bridget Bishop’s trial…which leads me into my name.

I was named after St. Brigid of Kildare. I knew no Brigid’s other than myself, though a couple of “T’s” (that’s what I call the “Bridget’s,’) crossed my path.  When small, I loved that my name was similar to one of the “witches,” so when my parents suggested we go to the reenactment I was delighted.  Then, in high school, I read a book one day, on Celtic folklore…just for funsies.  What a rabbit hole that turned out to be!  I discovered that there was not just a masculine god, but a feminine goddess…many of them in fact…but the main one, the goddess of the country of my ancestors?  BRIGID.  With a damn “D!” 

Naturally, I needed all the information on that immediately, so off I went to the library where I learned all the things as a child.  It was right around this time that I learned that St. Brigid of Kildare may have been a real person, but it is far more likely she is someone that the early church in Ireland used to appropriate the goddess form Celtic belief structures to lure folks to Catholicism, which is of course exactly something the Church would do.  So, from that point on, I started the practice of remembering who shares my name when I am feeling powerless: a might powerful goddess. 

Anyway,

The tarot card reader told me I needed to change my perspective, and I have.  I won’t lie, I have felt a complete shift in my perception of the world in the last few days, which has made me question many things. Part of me, the part that is trained to silence myself, says these are all silly thoughts and to pay them no mind.  But the part of me that knows, the way I knew where our car was parked that time it was stolen, or how I knew that there was a spirit talking to me when I was five, or how I knew that my best friend was throwing me a surprise party for my 16^th birthday, or how I knew Mark was going to propose….in that way, I know-there is indeed a greater power within, and perhaps it is time to cultivate it. 

Church on Sunday

“Going to Church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.” – G.K Chesterton. 

I was raised Catholic, as the seasoned reader may already know, and spent about fifteen years in Catholic school, going to church every Sunday with my family and every other Friday with my classmates.  Around age 25, I completely dropped the “act” I’d been running since I was fifteen and first saw the quote above.  I’m not saying that one quote changed my outlook on things…it just gave voice to an opinion I could not find words for. 

I remember being young and telling my Aunt Ka, a Sister of Mercy, that I wanted to get married at the Botanical Gardens because it was the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.  She told me that I couldn’t, that I was Catholic and therefore had to have a wedding inside a church…I could have the reception outdoors, though, she claimed.

This concept was a hard no for my ten-year-old brain that wanted what it wanted when it wanted it.  I had been taught, almost daily, that God was in every living thing, including trees and grass and sunshine.  So why on earth did I need to CELEBRATE in front of statues of dead people, under a roof made by man?  It was nonsense then; it’s nonsense now.

I had a friend get married a while back and a priest came and did the vows, outdoors.  But it wasn’t an “official” wedding, according to the church.  The priest was just blessing them.  I thought maybe someday I could do something similar to appease my Catholic family…I was not yet telling my mother I was done with the whole shebang.

By the time I did get married, she was well aware of my opinions on the Church, and we butted heads a little.  She wanted some Christianity in the ceremony, and I had to keep reminding her that my husband was not a Christian, and all that would be weird for him.  Not to mention, I wasn’t feeling it either.  In the end, I got married in a little gazebo, outdoors.  The readings were all literary, the music was secular, and the officiant was my uncle who got a license online.  My mother won in the sense that I allowed her to say a prayer before the meal.  I was cool with her doing that because she mentioned Ka, who had passed by that time.  But that was it: one prayer.  That’s all the God I invited.,

But he was there, you see.He was in the trees and sun and grass and breeze.  Nature, that is where I believe God lives.

On Saturday…in the beforetime…I caught a giant fish in the Buffalo Creek.  It was a smallmouth, but there was nothing small about it.  I don’t have a picture.  Mark snapped one, but I accidentally deleted it.  Just believe me when I tell you it was a monster.  I fought the thing, hard…I’ve never really fought my fish before; usually I am far stronger. This guy gave me a run for my money.  When I finally flopped him onto shore, I felt immense pride.  Mark helped me unhook him, and I thanked him for the challenge and sent him back on his way in the stream.  Then I went home, and the world changed.

So, on Sunday, after the events, I was getting a hankering for prayer.  I’ve been arguing with my ancestor’s spirits as of late, over this mess with my mother. One of my favorite authors, Paulo Coelho, said that “Praying is talking to the Universe. Meditation is listening to it.”  So, I figured, why not try a little listening?  I’ve ben talking so damn much.

I went back to where I caught the big fish.  All I caught that day was a pumpkinseed, but it was still worth it to sit there and look and listen.  I saw God all around me, from the fish in the water to the no-see-ums buzzing about to the big tree with all the fishing line and old bobbers caught up in it.  I watched the water of the creek lap upon the rocks and focused on the word “Peace.”  I needed peace.

On the way home, I remembered it was Sunday and thought of church.  I had the same feeling then that I had when I was a child leaving Mass.  Yes, when I was small, I was relieved that the sitting still and being quiet portion of the day was over, but I also always felt that feeling you get when you visit am old friend.  Also, I always kind of felt it hearkened the start of a new, fresh week.  A clean slate.

That’s when I realized: I go to church ALL THE TIME.

Fishing is church for me.  That might sound ridiculous, but where else would I rather be on a Sunday morning? And every time I go, every time, I think of God.  I didn’t even realize it until I examined my thought pattern closely this past week.  I tend to remind myself of God in nature whenever I fish.

Now, no, I no longer believe in a stereotypical Christian God in the sky…I think God is more of a universal fabric, with an understanding that we have not yet evolved to know.  Yet…I find God in the sky, because I find him in the earth, too.

Where do you find God?

Anyway…that’s just the thoughts running around in my head right now.  That’s all for today.  Happy Thursday!

Resurrection

So, the other day, Kevin sent me this photo:

Creepy right?  Well, what if I tell you this is the whole photo:

Creepier.  Why?  Those are Cardinals.  This is the Vatican.

Created in 1977 by sculptor Pericle Fazzini, this work of art is in the Paul VI Audience Hall, where the Pope does his daily blessing if it’s raining in the square.  This is the backdrop, a giant bronze statue called “The Resurrection.”

It is supposed to be a vision of Jesus resurrecting in the Second Coming, from the ashes of a nuclear crater in the Garden of Gethsemane.  It took me a few to wrap my head around all this, honestly.  Ok, I can buy that the Vatican wanted to have a sculpture depicting the resurrection; that hardly seems news.  But then, there’s the nuclear attack thing…this was commissioned during the Cold War, so I understand the threat of nuclear attack then.  Sadly, this is truly just as strong today as it was once, thanks to a certain Euro-Asian country with an itchy trigger finger.  So, I enjoy the concept of Jesus coming at the “end of the world” to rise up and save humanity…y’know, as art.  But then there’s the fact it’s in the Garden of Gethsemane…and I truly am not sure why.  All the info I found told me that Fazzini chose it because it was Jesus’ last place of prayerful reflection.  Ok…now I understand the piece.  What do I not understand?

Why is this in the Vatican?  It seems so much better suited for MOMA, in my mind.  It reminds me of that old Sesame Street game: one of these things is not like the others.  This is a sad, apocalyptic depiction of Christ, and while it is meant to be hopeful, I’m sorry…I just do not get that vibe.  And honestly, I don’t want to.  I think the feelings I get from this piece, such as fear, sadness, and devastation, resonate more with its features than hope.  But what do I know?  I’m not art scholar.

I just know I’ve been thinking about this piece for days.  I went to do the research this morning and also found one of my favorite things: a conspiracy theory!!  Lots of people think it’s actually a statue of Baphomet, the goat-headed demon worshipped by the Knights Templar.  Others think the whole thing is about the devil, because of the serpentine structuring.  My favorite brand of conspiracy theory is the Catholic Church kind.  Do you know why?  Because their theories have a terrible track record of actually being true.

Anyway.  I just wanted to share this with you so it can take up space in your brain the way it has been in mine.  Enjoy this image and information, and as always…

Happy Thursday. 

Lenten Sacrifice

I haven’t sat down at my computer since Thursday.  The kids were here so no work was done, and I’m pretty sure one of the kiddos broke my desk chair.  Awesome.

Yesterday, I had a panic attack.  It was around 1030pm and I could not fall asleep.  Both Mark and I had big days ahead, and I was very hungry all of a sudden.  I went in search of a snack and couldn’t find anything suitable, and suddenly, I was crying.  By the time I walked out to the living room, I was hyperventilating.  By the time Mark woke up and realized I was in panic mode, my heart started beating out of my chest, and my whole body ached.  Mark ran to find my Xanax and I took it and did some breathing exercises. 

Why was I panicking?  Couldn’t tell you, in the moment.  I thought maybe it was just stress over the fact that I couldn’t sleep when I knew I had to be up before 6am, but it really wasn’t that.  It wasn’t even the lack of snacks. It was just that I suddenly had this very childlike anger about not getting what I want.

Due to various circumstance, I have been sacrificing many things I want.  From writing advancement costs to large household purchases to simple everyday pleasures, I have said no.  And then, at 1130pm, when all I want is a couple Cheese Doodles and a good night’s sleep, the universe denies me this modest act?!  I don’t know; I just snapped. 

It’s not that I really mind, you see.  I am sacrificing for a greater goal, and that is just fine with me…most days.  But some days, my inner 6-year-old comes out and throws a hissy fit.  I just want what I want when I want it!

I don’t know if this feeling triggered my attack, but I’m guessing.  It’s how I felt in the moment when I started to cry, and I think it just snowballed from there.

I am remembering school today, because right about now we would be working on our Lent assignments, always the same every year: what are you giving up for Jesus?  I was typically urged to give up sweets, because I was fat in the 90s…before the rest of America caught up.  I knew one girl whose whole household gave up television.  I thought that was some serious commitment on their parents’ part.  Then, on Ash Wednesday we would read our little essays about sacrifice and get ashes on our foreheads and have fish for dinner.

So, if you’re a constant reader than you know I quit Catholicism some time ago, but all this stuff?  The sacrifice and the no meat and such?  Indoctrination, baby.  I can’t not think about it once Mardi Gras rolls around (which I would much rather celebrate.)

Sometimes, even as an ex-Cath, I think of some sacrifice to make during Lent.  Something small…or something nice to do for someone else maybe.  Not this year.  I’m not giving anything up, because I have been sacrificing for a very long time now.  This year I am going to reap some benefits, damnit.

Mark and I both started new jobs, so we are extremely hopeful life is about to change up real fast.  I can feel it coming, I’ve had some very prophetic dreams, and I have been told that I’m a little bit psychic (by a psychic, no less.)  So, I am currently confident in a quick end to the sacrifice.

Though, let’s be real…how quick?  Probably six weeks.  Let’s circle back at Easter.