I don’t know what to call this post. I think I ought to write it first and see what pops up. [going back, i hate the name, if anyone has a better one, throw it out there]
I cannot believe it is Holy Week. Churches that do not celebrate Holy Week are missing out. This is the what is lovely and beautiful about the catholic (with a small “c”) life. My church has worked to tug me back into the world of spirit and heart with the very structure of my year transformed. At the same time there are so many things going on that elicit emotional response. I am left smack dab at the cross.
Before we go any further everyone who reads this must listen to, at least, a moment of this music to fully put you in my mood.
I Eagerly Await Easter
It is my favorite time of the year for this very reason. All our emotions and our daily activities and what we eat and what we say (none of those all*lui@hs until Easter) are transformed to get us ready to meet Christ on the cross and await his blessed resurrection. It is a time of reconciliation. It is a time of getting in touch with that which is deep and spiritual and who you are at your core. I tether my rope to Jesus. It is all I know. I totally get and respect those of you that don’t. I hope that your tradition offers this sort of visceral, spiritual experience. What I don’t get are other Christians who don’t get into Lent and Holy Week, as a thing. It makes the whole thing that much more rich.
Spiritually, I am in love. I am in love with God. I am in love with our church. I am in love with the people at my church. I eagerly await celebration of Holy Week. Thank you Trinity Escondido. I am so happy to be a part of your parish.
Yet…the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak.
What does this mean? Well, it means that in the midst of this amazing pull to my Lord, I am mired down with Earthy things that are made so much more.
First, the grandparents. I am crying all the time about them and I don’t have to deal with them one iota. My mother is a Gosh Darn saint. Today, my grandparents are moving out of their apartment near my parent’s and into assisted living. Even writing that makes me cry. I am so overwhelmed with the inevitability and necessity of this decision that the morality of it is lost.
My mom is at the foot of the cross. She is done. If she had to do this for one more second, I believe we would have to institutionalize her. When I was a kid, I saw my mom cry two or three times. She was not a crier. Now, she will cry at the drop of a hat. She cries if any little thing goes wrong. Her pail is full of tears, they keep spilling over.
My grandpa is a three year old, my grandma cannot walk. There is no way my mother can take care of them. There is no way she can manage it. And, at once, I am so sad that we have to do this. My grandma told me, “I just cannot believe it has come to this.” Neither can I. It is unbelievably distressing that we are dividing up their stuff like dogs on meat. I am ashamed that I so desperately needed certain items of furniture that I willingly put my snout in the scrum. It is unbelievably distressing that they have to live like that. Really, no one wants to live in assisted living. It is the shits. So these wonderful, amazing human beings have to live out their last years like this. It adds up to more nightmare for everyone because my mother did wait until the bitter end. She cared for them until there was no options otherwise. I just cannot believe it has come to this. I am dividing and casting lots for the clothes of Jesus.
On top of that, there is an even more Earthy problem that I can’t stop obsessing about. In the midst of Jesus on the cross and my grandparents being reduced to infants, it is pretty lame. It is pretty shameful that I am even mentioning it. Here it goes. Since I had that surgery and got that pump removed from my arm, in the span of 3 months, I gained over 20 pounds. No clothes fit. I am upset and I don’t like the way I look. The worst is that no matter what I do, I feel like I can’t lose it. On the contrary, my weight is on a runaway train. The more healthy I try to eat, the fatter I get.
So, by comparison with where I was, I am fat. However, I am willing to admit that I may be coo-coo. I am completely out of touch with my body. I cannot bear to do yoga. I have a dying urge to weigh every woman I know because I have lost touch with what I look like and what is attractive in women. I am reading this book, Hitler’s Furies. It is amazing. I highly recommend it. They start talking about what the “Ideal Nazi Female” body was like. For your enjoyment it was 5’9″ and 160 pounds. So, I go online and I calculate pounds per inch of height because I am a bit shorter, and I realize that I embody the Ideal Nazi Female. Ironic, in a terrible way. Really? Our society demands some skinny bitch and the Nazis liked women who could eat a burger once in a while? Wow.
So Easter….my grandparents…my weight…how does it all fit together in the end? Heck if I know.