Jeans Fit

The hole broke through a few days back, my right knee poking though one of the last pair of intact jeans in my closet. No surprise, given their age and the floor time they see from me, but disappointing. They weren't favorites (that pair is threadbare but intact), they weren't fancy (Lands' End basics from a few years back), but they were without holes, and they fit. I've been a few years hoping jeans that fit would magically appear in my closet, but no luck. My mail-order solution of ordering a new pair each year broke down when Lands' End changed their styles to ones that must fit the rest of women in the Northern Hemisphere but don't fit me.

I'm not a shopping fan. There was a point in my life when I sought opportunities to get to the mall, but no longer. A dear friend agreed to accompany me on this quest, a shopping task I ranked lower only than shopping for bathing suits and bras. After trips to Eddie Bauer (too long and wide), Ann Klein (how low can jeans go?), and The Limited (lower, I guess!), we ended up at GapKids. On the boys' side.

It's time to admit that I'm shaped like my father, straight up and down, no hips. No problems birthing babies, but no hips to hold up those low pants that fill the racks these days. I'm not looking for sympathy, but it's been a frustrating few years in the pants department for the straight-yet-female set, thus why my need for jeans has grown so acute and my desire to shop is lower than usual. The girls' department works to some degree, but I'm not the embroidered-flower-around-the-ankle-type, so the choices are limited. The clerks were helpful with sizing but somewhat bemused. I, however, was relieved to have found Jeans That Fit, my holy grail. I left with just one pair, carpenter jeans with rather cute front pockets, no holes, and a great fit. I am slightly curious whether I'll see my son's friends in identical pants(and rather certain they won't notice), and fully delighted to have found jeans that fit this hipless chick.

Mass Effects (Part III)

I thought I'd prepped the boys for communion, but it's a challenge to adequately prepare a seven-year-old for a ritual like that without his memory of communions past to assist him. Last summer's water communion at our UU church bore no resemblance to the Catholic Church's version!

As the priest invited up those helping serve communion, I bent toward my younger, explaining that we'd sit down while the others processed forward to receive the bread and wine.

"Why do they get bread and we don't?" my constantly hungry and fair-minded child inquired.

"Catholics believe in transubstantiation -- that the bread and wine transforms into the body and blood of Jesus. We're not Catholics, so we're not invited to join since we don't believe the same thing," was my initial response, drawing a curious look from my son. Encouraged by his interest, my whispered lesson continued,"Other Christians believe the bread and wine simply remind one of Jesus, and most will allow others outside their faith to join in communion."

He continued to search my face for more information. "Sit down, and let the others go by." This seemed to be the information he needed most. He sat, and we let others pass by into the communion line.

While I'm not sure he gave a whit about my delineation between the variations of Christian beliefs and bread, body, wine, and blood, he did learn that we were to watch, and he was okay with his role as observer rather than participant. I sat back, sang along with the congregation, and joined him as observer. Since my movement away from Catholicism through the Episcopal church and on to Unitarian Universalism, I've attended only a few other masses, and those were funeral masses. Those times, most of the congregation sat through communion, and those times, I had my grief as my focus and communion was in the background. Explaining the sacrament clarified for me how complete my movement away from Catholicism is. I no longer identify with that tradition, yet its presence in my past shapes and colors my present faith. I sense nothing lost by my conversion yet so much gained by the richness of my past.

Mass Effects (Part II)

It's like riding a bike. The prayers and responses rolled off my lips, and my limbs recalled the rhythm of sitting and standing. My friends' church choir brings sacredness to the room throughout the service, drawing a holy presence that I felt in my heart. I do appreciate the mystery of ritual in the Catholic church.

While moved by the music, I found myself listening closely to the words, wondering if their meaning would resonate in my soul as they had many years previous. Music is a path to the spiritual for me, and despite holding different beliefs that directly expressed by the songs, I found the music lifting me to a higher plane. Further into the Mass, however, I hit the curb and lost my balance.

The RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults) group were to be presented to the bishop later in the day, but they also appeared with their sponsors during this Mass after the homily. While appreciating the dedication these men and women were making to their faith and Church, I felt acutely uncomfortable hearing their sponsors questioned as to their charges' commitment and efforts. How can anyone else know what dwells in one's heart? How can one attest to the faith of another? While I've seen this ritual many times, one year as a sponsor, I hadn't witnessed it since leaving the Catholic church about five years ago and don't recall questioning it previously.

Indeed, how can another person validate anyone's belief system, sanctifying it beyond what the individual and his or her Ground of Being can do? Why is a person, lay or clergy, needed for a person to make that leap? Initially, I thought the public nature of the event was my sticking point, but further reflection led me to my struggle: how could another human be a mandatory conduit between a person and the divine?

I don't question that people and all of creation can and do facilitate links between the individual and the divine, but I fail to reconcile with that being as a requirement for connection, salvation, or fulfillment. Not even as a practicing Catholic did I feel certainty in that bit of doctrine, but only now outside of the Church does the thought discomfort me so much.

I firmly believe in the divine, in something beyond me that encompasses the universe. I rest peacefully knowing my vision of the divine need not be the same as the men and women in the RCIA program, yet feel certain we share a spiritual truth beyond creed and doctrine. Back on my bike, and on to communion. Stay tuned.

Mass Effects (Part I)

This afternoon, the boys and I arrived home from restorative visit with some dear friends from Ohio. I caught up with a companion from seventh grade onward while our children furthered their skills in Rock Band II and Monopoly. We spend Saturday at the Air Force Museum in Dayton, a destination desired my my guys for quite some time and generally enjoyed by all. While I remain a champion of peaceful conflict resolution, I was repeatedly amazed at planes in the museum's three large hangers.

This morning, we attended their Catholic church, a change of pace from our usual UU experience. Raised a mixture of Catholic and Methodist (attending both many Sundays of my youth), I chose Catholicism at age 12 and continued with the Catholic church until about six years ago. A few years of a liberal Episcopal experience led to a few years without a church and deep questioning about my beliefs. I found a home in a Unitarian Universalist community a year and a half ago and have never felt more truly at peace in a religious community.

After a bit of prep with the boys on Lent, Mass, and why we wouldn't be taking communion, I decided we'd join our friends at Mass today. While both boys were baptized Catholic, only my older recalls any of his time in the church. Our friends' church is university-based with a large non-student congregation at the service we attended. The sanctuary, while large, is non-imposing and quite spare and not at all like the century old meeting house my boys know so well. Despite the size, the room exudes warmth and community, very much like our religious home base. We all settled into our seats and waited for the service to begin.

War and Peace

My younger son is a war fanatic. For the past two and a half years, not so coincidentally starting when we began our study of history, he's obsessed over the wars throughout recorded time. His first true passion was the ancient Romans, specifically in the Punic Wars. I knew nothing of the Punic Wars before our year of ancient history, on of many blanks in my shoddy history education, while he was well versed in the years of that conflict at age 5. I can see the appeal of Hannibal crossing the Alps with a herd of elephants, but this wasn't but a small part of the interest to him.

So why does he love to read about, talk about, act out, and discuss war? I believe the answer is three-fold: weapons,conflict, and power. Those parts of history enrapt him, and war embodies all three.

Weapons. While I'm a pacifist by nurture and nature, I can see why a small child would delight in weapons. The catapult and trebuchet are pretty fascinating machines, but even the spear in all its simplicity captivates my son. Longbows, crossbows, swords, maces, cannons, guns, and bombs hold endless delight to him, in structure and use. All allow one to reach beyond the self with greater force than can be created by a small human body alone.

Conflict. My younger lives in conflict with his world. He's still quite convinced that he is indeed the center of the universe (aren't well all, really?) and dares anyone to oppose. He creates conflict with his brother when bored, hungry, or fatigued; holds firmly to his view of the world in spite of evidence that contradicts his view; and can't stand his own human imperfections, preferring to blame personal shortfalls on the wrongs of others. He's been at conflict with the world and himself since soon after birth.

Power. Nothing like being the youngest in the family with a streak of perfection to create a quest for power. Feeling powerless clashes with each person's ego, and while some of us either gain perspective then peace regarding our place in the universe or learn to struggle less overtly, meeting this powerless feeling head-on suits my younger's mindset right now. Warring with the world and his own fallible human nature, he searches out weapons with which to settle the conflicts resulting from his feelings of powerlessness.

Weapons, conflict, and power. Whether our weapons be words or wealth, our conflict internal or external, or our power quest overt or subtle, we all share the elements of war. As I watch my younger reach for his duct tape sword or home-made armor, I know I'm seeing him play with struggles we all face and know he's relating to history and the world as works best for him now. I also have faith he'll move beyond this obsession and can see progress in this area as he notices patterns through our studies that brought nations to war and the patterns of his own behavior that bring him into conflict with others. I have faith that we all can grow right along with him.

Seeing Red

Valentine's Day brought three inches of snow and our Tang Soo Do testing day. The boys and I have studied this form of Korean martial arts for almost two years, and this test brought us to the next level of our karate studies, moving us from 4th Gup to 3rd Gup, green belt with two stripes to the long-awaited red belt. It was a proud day as well as another milestone I never would have anticipated before 2007.

We began Tang Soo Do as a "promotion" of sorts from my younger's nine months OT and PT. Faced with the choice of twice-weekly swimming or martial arts, both sports increasing core strength and midline-crossing skills, my then five-year-old elected to avoid getting his face wet. He took "Tiny Tiger" karate classes at our local rec. center with other young ones for the first three months, and he really didn't care for the sessions. After all, he was expected to speak loudly, acknowledge an adult he hadn't known for the past three years, and generally do what the group was doing in front of a bunch of parents. It was hardly a smooth transition, and I'll admit I found the "Yes, Sirs" and push-ups uncomfortably militaristic.

A few months in, our instructor invited us over the dojang for a class. My older joined in reluctantly and under a bit of duress, truth be told, but whispered, "I love this!" about halfway through that first session. Before we left for home, we had our uniforms and white belts in hand and were swelling with enthusiasm.

I'll freely admit the sport truly has pushed the limits of my coordination, but by pushing at those limits, it's moved them further out. I've never felt so strong, flexible, and able. I even almost know my right from left. We've worked together, supporting, encouraging, and correcting each other along the way. It's not all been pretty. Perhaps 39 is a bit too old for mastering a jump spinning crescent kick, or perhaps I'm just not there yet. There are days the boys fight going, and there are days I'd rather not make the drive, but we end up there, twice a week, continuing our Tang Soo journey. Stay tuned!

Practicing

For the last few years, I've struggled to develop a regular spiritual practice. Intellectually, I'm quite drawn to meditation, but I've not successfully integrated it into my daily life. I have the usual excuses -- lack of time, fatigue, two kids who are continually present when I'm conscious, but deep down I know the issue is priorities. I'm loathe to wake at 5:00 a.m., although I know I'd be uninterrupted at that hour, and I'm pretty beat at the end of the day. I guess that leaves all that time in between... Hmm.

This week, I've returned to the strand of prayer beads I made last winter. I was raised Catholic, among other things, and while rosaries weren't in use in my home, I knew how they facilitated prayer and focus on the divine by adding some structure and repetition to a contemplative time. Some online searching brought me to a page on ideas for UU prayer bead use. (http://www.uua.org/religiouseducation/curricula/tapestryfaith/spiritpractice/workshop2/workshopplan/handouts/59197.shtml). A trip to the craft store, a painstakingly long examination of the beading materials, and another trip to google "making prayer beads" and I was on my way.

Creating the strand was prayer in itself, and for awhile, I was using the beads as a meditative tool, sometimes based on the structure delineated at the above UUA site, sometimes just holding them during meditation. Over a few weeks, my attempts at quiet prayer time dwindled and faded. I've spent time on my cushion here and there over the last year, but mostly it waits faithfully by my dresser, calling quietly, while my beads sat a few feet away on the dresser, beckoning gently.

This week, I'm back on the cushion, beads in hand, quiet time with my breath between more "cognitive" meditation. I'm making it my own, finding time because it's important. I like it, and, for now, it's just right. Present moment, only moment...