Like a Prayer

Like a Prayer

Occasionally radio stations in Phoenix decide to play a little old-school Madonna mixed in with the essential Billy Idol, Steve Miller Band and Journey playlist. When this happens, I get very excited and will inevitable dance within the confines of my seat belt. Exhilaration sweeps over me as I jam out to a little, “Holiday” (“If we took a holiday. Oh yeah, uh huh…”) or “Borderline.” (“Feels like I’m going to loose my mind…”) I know these songs by heart from my early adolescence and I have stopped being ashamed to say that I still love them. The other day the FM dial gave me an even bigger treat. Madonna’s, “Like a Prayer” came on and I actually really listened to it. Let me rephrase. It was the first time I really listened to it since I was 15 years old and sitting in religion class.

"Life is a mystery..."

At the Catholic all-girls high school that I attended, it was requisite that all students enroll in “Old Testament” their freshman year and, “New Testament” their sophomore year. It was within the Gospel teachings of Jesus that I learned, in depth, the art of music video analysis. For about six weeks at the end of my tenure in, “New Testament” our teacher, Ms. M., had us view the Madonna, “Like a Prayer” video. I am not saying that we saw it once and were to write an essay to support the Vatican’s denouncement of both Madonna and Pepsi products. What we were tasked with amazes me to this day. 

Ms. M. would push play on the VHS and then pause the video and throw out to the group of disinterested girls in plaid, what she thought to be a provocative question. Silence. “I need participation! This is counting toward your grade!” The female Eddie Haskels were first with a response, “I think Madonna really loves Jesus?” Ms. M. was unconvinced, “Do you really think so? I am going to say that more is going on here! Let’s watch again!” The rewind button was pushed, and then the video was resumed. Within a minute it was paused again. “Do you see the Stigmata? What is she telling us? What does it mean?” Silence. After a tense few seconds I sarcastically responded, “She is becoming Christ-like.” (The term, “Christ-like” was always my fall back and usually guaranteed me an “A” when used as an analogy for any protagonist.) Ms. M. searched my face for authenticity. I stared her down. “That’s wonderful! Absolutely! Madonna is becoming like Christ!”

The other parts of the video were equally exhaustively reviewed and scrutinized. Weeks went by and I would drag myself into my 2^nd hour class and wonder how in the world this had anything to do with the New Testament. One day one of our star tennis players, who I was always intimidated to talk to because she was tan, pretty and walked like she had just gotten off a bull, approached me and asked, “Is Ms. M. really going to make us watch that video again? I mean is she like a dyke or something? I swear she wants to ‘do’ Madonna!” (Maybe that’s why I didn’t talk to her.) Needless to say all of the students were done analyzing this video and the semester could not have come to an end fast enough.

Now, sitting in my car and listening to the music from a generation ago, I paid close attention to the lyrics and it hit me. I think Ms. M. was actually tapping into the song’s overt mystical religious message. I wonder if my teacher had experienced these types of religious experiences and had no place for them. She was lay faculty working in a Catholic school and Rome had just condemned the “Like a Prayer” video because its sexual innuendo. There was no safe place for her to express what was obviously being triggered by this music. I see her plight as tragic.

I just read something about not being able to experience the spiritual without the corporal. It makes sense. Look at Sufi Whirling. Also known as Whirling Dervishs. These ascetics can send themselves into religious ecstatic states through their movements. This is one example of accessing God through one’s body and I know that God needs to deliver His message into our bodies. I don’t think there is another way. Denial of the sensual has done more harm than good over the years and I think Ms. M. was just another victim.

I leave you with a quote from the poet Milton Klonsky,

“Sexual repression, as it blights the human spirit, breeds pestilence in society.”

Think about it in your prayers.

 

Summer "Camp"

Summer "Camp"

Our two oldest children went to camp today. Sleep away camp for 6 nights. Lizzie (our 7 year old) will join them mid-week. I am so excited for them for many reasons; they will participate in games, rock wall climbing, swimming, crafts, hiking, and other fun group activities. Both of them were very happy to leave this afternoon as they bounced into our friend’s van, said their farewells, and headed north to Prescott.

I can imagine that they will make new friends and strengthen existing relationships. I picture them laughing during the games, feeling exhilarated on the rock wall and perhaps being dejected during a round of dodge ball. I can only really pretend that I know these feelings as a child. My own childhood did not include child-centered activities and it most certainly did not include camp. I spent every summer vacation in Las Vegas.

Our "family" car.

My parents were insistent on traveling to sin city annually to, “check out the acts.” Recreation and hobbies were not a part of my parent’s lives, at least not overtly. All events and trips had to be linked to professional pursuits. My father would say, “We need to see the competition but we will let you kids go to Circus Circus and that will be fun for you.” So, into our Renault Le Car we would pile. The 5-hour drive was often broken up with rattlesnake pie in Wikeup. Limited air-conditioning and cramped space made for a trip that consisted of discomfort and short tempers. 

In Vegas my brother and I were always happy to get to the over-sized hotel pool. We would stay at the Landmark but never in the large tower, much to my chagrin. My brother was tasked with watching me while my mom and dad reposed in the room and watched episodes of, “Kung Fu” and “The Big Valley.” When the pool attendant would ask me where my parents were, I would point in the direction of the decorative waterfall and scan the pool for my missing brother. Several times I was asked to leave the pool area if I could not produce an adequate chaperone. My inability to beat the system always landed me in trouble with my parents who were busy luxuriating in their room and saving energy for the 10:30 Burlesque show.

My Mother was and probably still is proud of the fact that she exposed me and my brother to a classic Las Vegas show called, “Fire and Ice” at the Hacienda Hotel. My mother was so pleased with herself and her parental prowess, “I bet no other kids get taken to these kinds of shows! See how lucky you are, you get to see this and other children have to go to Disneyland. How boring and ordinary!” I also remember that someone at the entrance to the showroom informed my mom and dad that the performance might not be appropriate due to nudity. They dismissed the advice.

After watching two acts of half naked ice skaters playing out what might have been a pornographic Ice Capades version of Dante’s Inferno, our family walked The Strip.  It was at this part of my vacation that I experienced panhandling, police take downs, drunkards and X-rated leafleting. I was happy to get back to the hotel room where I slept soundly except to wake up and peer out our window to discover my mother sneaking a cigarette.

The last morning of our visit was spent in the hotel coffee shop that offered a quintessential buffet. This was always a tenuous time. An argument inevitably ensued about whether or not it was worth the money to pay for both my brother and me to eat. It usually ended with my mother claiming that, “I don’t need to eat. That’s fine; let the kids eat. I only make half of the goddamn money.” My mother would pick off my plate and teach me to play Keno. I loved the Keno runners and their glistening, pantyhose and short skirts. I thought that I would like to be one someday.

Prior to departing back to Phoenix my mother would insist on playing the slots. I accompanied her as she pulled the lever on various Skinner Boxes, waiting for the intermittent reward of change clanking on the metal catchall. She would let me put nickels and quarters in the machines until casino security asked us to leave.

I hate Las Vegas. I will not return.

I hope my kids never feel this way about Prescott.

Jesus Out of The Closet

Jesus Out of The Closet

I have a small collection of crosses in my laundry closet.  Most of them are small, no larger than four inches tall and they vary in material and style. They all carry individual meaning. Some were gifts and others purchased on different trips. I thought when I started placing these symbols above my washer/dryer that I was using them as motivation to get the housework done. I reasoned, “Well, if Jesus died on a cross I can certainly keep up with the laundry!”

The crosses are also placed there to hide them. Even though the representation of the cross holds personal meaning, I have been reluctant to admit it. I can say with certainty that I am often times ashamed to be a Christian.

I would love to flippantly blame my Mother’s boisterous admonishments of Christian people and institutions for my embarrassment. Her wounded psyche projected onto me would make sense and could be an easy out. I have thought a lot about this and I think that my mother’s early theological lessons did very much impact me. However, I also believe that our society and other Christians have not helped my spiritual journey.

Being a Christian is not easy. Not solely from struggling with its theological doctrine but also because of the Christo-toxic cultural environment that has evolved in the United States. I am not going to go on an anti-right wing Christian affront, although I do believe that fundamentalism has contributed greatly to the current climate. I would like to suggest the idea that well meaning, middle of the road Christians have done little to promote the positive aspects of the religion.

“Jesus Christ” has in many ways been reduced to a cheap, dime store deity. I am sure the people I encounter who hold mainstream Christian beliefs do not know how much their “Jesus is in my heart” talk negatively impacts my view of Christianity. The words that are often times used seem like clichés that no longer hold any meaning. This seemingly empty religious talk, mixed with the largely publicized Christian Right’s message of intolerance has netted a Christianity that I am uncomfortable to admit I am part of.  When asked about my religion I am always quick to say, “ I’m an Episcopalian. I am a progressive, liberal Christian. I am open and try my best to not be judgmental.” I am always in awe of the number of qualifiers I have to use to describe my flavor of Christianity when, in essence, those qualities are inherent within its teachings.

Those who throw around “Jesus” talk so easily make me wonder if they have had any true religious experiences at all. God is scary. Yes, I can fully acknowledge that God can feel loving and transcendent and all that other good stuff but my personal experiences have not revealed exclusively positive God events. I don’t believe that Christians who glibly speak of their personal relationship with Jesus Christ actually help lead others to true conversion experiences. Their pronouncements seem like cheap talk about what should be a deeply personal, life altering realization.

So, with that in mind, I will share my personal experience with Christ. In December of last year I went on a silent retreat to a monastery.  When I had been there for about 5 hours I was sitting in my room where I had been reading. Some of it was scripture and some not. I took a break and sat silently. A feeling of terrifying love came over me. A sense of a vacuum but it was full. Tears fell readily. I knew that it was the presence was Christ. Not God but Christ; a distinctly felt member of the Trinity that I had not experienced before. It was awful and wonderful at the same time. I wanted it to stop but also for it to continue forever. A new sense of knowing mixed with complete spiritual ignorance swept over me. I felt I could die then and be okay or if I went on living something inside me would have to change. I got so scared after the experience was done that I wanted to forget it. I felt traumatized. 

Over the last months I have tried to unpack this event. I have thought a lot about whether or not the Christians that so enthusiastically talk about Jesus have had this type of experience. I often wonder if those who easily chatter about Jesus are just more developed than I am. Perhaps they have already battled these doubts and demons and have made peace with them. Then I realize that, no one talks about being traumatized by Christ and at a dinner party no one converses about standing on a spiritual precipice of complete unknowing. No one mentions the conversion paradox, the wonderful awfulness.

Today I ran across the following passage from Romans 1:16-25, “ I am not ashamed of the gospel: it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who has faith, to the Jew first and also to the Greek.”  I wish I could own this. In the mean time my crosses and Jesus are still in the closet and I think I need to work on how to get them out.

The San Damiano cross. This is one of my closet favorites.

My Crooked Teeth

My Crooked Teeth

Our oldest child, Allison, began her journey through Orthodontics today. Having just lost her last baby tooth last week, the timing of her appointment was perfect. She has been excited about this day for at least the last 6 months. Many an afternoon when she came home from school would I hear her desires for multi-colored braces or perhaps hot pink and black or maybe pink and blue. Today marked the first step of a 2-year long process that (I am sure) she will dutifully complete.

In our culture orthodonture is almost seen as a developmental milestone. The suburban moms compare when their children get braces in the same way potty training is discussed. “Well, my child’s orthodontist says she will need to be in a palate expander for at least four years and then of course braces. I guess we’ll have to take out a second mortgage! Ha!” I usually smile while covering my bottom teeth with my lower lip, and nod, and pretend to care, and hope that my crooked teeth are not revealed.

Ok, my teeth aren't this bad

When I was growing up our family’s cash flow was sporadic (at best). When extra money did present itself it was quickly funneled into musical instruments, recording equipment or ill-founded business ventures. There was never enough money for clothing or medical/dental care and there was especially no money for something as trivial as orthodontics. Once all of my adult teeth had emerged I would complain of my, “goofy looking” teeth. My mom would advise me to use my thumb to apply pressure to my misalignments and stated, “That’s all braces do anyway!” I would sit at my desk, in my room completing my lessons, and press on my top teeth. After a few months my mom proclaimed, “See it’s helping!”

My top teeth did not bother me as much as my bottoms. When I pointed this out to my father and begged for braces, he said, “Your lucky! Your top teeth are fine. Just don’t smile with your lower teeth. No one will know.” My mother quickly agreed and added, “Your teeth are not that crooked. Besides they add character and you can’t be that perfect because people will hate you. And anyway I never had braces. My mother fed me condensed milk when I was a baby and my teeth rotted out. That woman (her mother) didn’t give a shit about me! You’re lucky that I love you and tell you how beautiful you are. You shouldn’t care that much about your goddamn teeth. Stop being so vain!” Message received.

Throughout high school I envied those girls who got to play with their rubber bands and unconsciously drool when focusing on the chalkboard. I wanted to be picked up early for an Orthodontist appointment! I wanted to roll dental wax between my fingers! I wanted headgear! I wanted to talk funny once I got a retainer! I wanted straight teeth! My junior year a friend had to have her jaw wired shut. I was so jealous! She got really skinny and her teeth were straight! I told my mother about this girl’s temporary liquid diet plight and she said, “Aren’t you glad you never had to have braces? Your teeth are so nice because I nursed you. My mother never nursed me. She fed me condensed milk and…” It was a lost cause. I would have to wait until adulthood to fix my smile.

Funny things happen when you become an adult. All of the sudden priorities shift or at least should. My teeth fell to the bottom of my list of main concerns. House, car, preschool, and travel expenses have all been more urgent. Throughout the years I have had numerous comments about my teeth made to me by special needs adults and children. “Why you teeth like that?” and “Your teeth are folded.” I even had one child try to “fix” my teeth by grabbing ferociously inside my mouth. My profession dictates a lot of focus on mouths and those who are not cognitively or developmentally aware of the social custom of not negatively commenting on someone’s features often times are the only ones to speak truth.

I am so excited for Allison. Even though I firmly believe that the perception of braces as being a necessary developmental milestone is false, I would assert that it is a cultural rite of passage. I am beginning to feel that my teeth are a good metaphor for me: Strong, useful, in some areas patched, slightly askew, and interesting. Allison will have beautiful teeth but she will never know the joy of a child asking, “Why did your parents not get you braces?” I hope her character isn’t affected.

As a postscript I would like to thank Dr. Courtney Dunn, DDS for not only being a fantastic Orthodontist but also for giving me a blogging award. It is a recognition honor for small bloggers. You are supposed to give the award to your top 5 blogs. The problem is I only read four other than Courtney’s. So, I will try my best.

Here are the rules for the award/chain letter type thing

1.  Thank the person who nominated you – THANK YOU!

2.  Link back to the person who nominated you http://www.mommydds.com

3.  Copy and paste the award on your blog

4.  Present the award to 5 bloggers with less than 200 followers.

5.  Let them know they’ve been nominated by leaving a comment on their blog

Here are my top 4 (oops)

1.     http://rmberra1.blogspot.com I progressive, thinking Christian's perspective on social and political issues (might have more than 200 followers but I love it anyway)

2.     http://4peregrini.blogspot.com Another inclusive Christian but sometimes he talks about snakes and dragons! (might have more than 200 also, but I don't care)

3.     http://relationalrealities.com A super smart priest. You will love it! (probably has more than 200...you get the point)

4.     http://stmarycanon.blogspot.com All things Benedict.

Mr. Rob Lowe

Mr. Rob Lowe

This is not my husband but he plays one on TV

This Thursday, June 14^th, Rob and I celebrate our 15^th anniversary. This year also marks our 20^th year together. I really wanted to write something unique. You know, not the typical, he is my soul mate, the love of my life, my rock yada yada yada… Although these clichés might be true, I believe an ode to my spouse deserves more. Perhaps a brief recount of our life together done in bullet points. So here goes:

• ·      September 1992 we meet at Toga Party at Sigma Nu house at U of A. You are dressed in full Grecian robes, smell of vodka and have “suck my hog,” written on your arm; it was love at first sight.
• ·      December 1992 holiday trip to San Jose. I meet all of your friends and family and you tell me you, “love me” for the first time!
• ·      October 1993 we break up. I am physically ill for that week. We reconcile. J
• ·      June 1996 we move in together. Finally living in sin.
• ·      November 1996 you propose on a canoe on bended knee at sundown.
• ·      June 1997 we marry at Trinity Episcopal Church in San Jose and have our reception at Teske’s Germania restaurant. It was the wedding of the decade and people still talk about it.
• ·      June 1997 Honeymoon car trip throughout California. We camp, bed and breakfast, crash friend’s houses and stay at nice and seedy hotels.
• ·      July 1997 Bus trip through Mexico.
• ·      November 1997 travel to Washington D.C.
• ·      January 1998 moved to Phoenix.
• ·      September 1998 bought our home
• ·      December 1998/January 1999 travel to England, Ireland and France.
• ·      May 2000 Allison is born
• ·      March 2002 travel to Mexico
• ·      July 2002 John is born
• ·      January 2005 Elizabeth is born
• ·      June 2005 Travel to Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, Idaho and Utah.
• ·      July 2005 Lulu’s Cupcakes is incorporated
• ·      September 2006 Lulu’s Cupcakes opens for business
• ·      September 2007 David is born
• ·      April 2010 Lulu’s Cupcakes is sold
• ·      June 2012 we celebrate our anniversary and renew our vows!

That was a very quick summary of the last 20 years of our lives. Time has been good to us. We have been fortunate; our relationship is solid, our children are healthy and our friendships are lively. Life has not always been easy, and our plans have not always worked out, but you, Mr. Rob Lowe have helped navigate us through these ups and downs with ease, grace and humor. I am so happy to call myself Mrs. Rob Lowe.

Don't Get Too Attached

Don’t Get Too Attached

"Romance is divine, Yeah, but where can you hock it? When the flame is gone, You just try and pawn a tired Don Juan!" -Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend  

I don’t watch television. This is mostly due to the fact that I am entirely too busy to sit down and watch a show. When I have attempted, I find myself bored by the programming or constantly interrupted by children’s needs. On a recent vacation I was exercising at the resort’s gym and I found myself in front of a TV screen. I am usually returning e-mails or reading when I am at my gym at home, so I am able to tune out the visual noise that appears across the wall. This was not the case during my holiday workout. I was able to give all my attention to the History Channel show named, “Pawn Stars.” A lot of items were either pawned or sold and many people’s pathetic stories were told during this particular episode (which I am sure is always the case). One young man selling his Grandfather’s World War II Octant (an aviation navigation device) especially struck me. It was relatively rare and in good shape. It ended up selling for $250. The man was pleased to, “…have extra money in Vegas.” I felt sick, and then I realized that a lot of my childhood was spent in pawnshops.

My first memory of a hockshop was when I was about 4 years old. My father and I would make a weekly trek to Las Vegas from our desert hometown of Searchlight. The purpose was usually to make a bank deposit and conduct other business. During one of our ventures we stopped at a pawnshop to see what they had and according to my father, “Find what some poor S.O.B left behind.” We parked the Olds on the street and I got to feed the meter. It was bright and sunny and hot. I caught my father’s hand and we entered the single, glass, swinging door. The smell was of cigarettes, sweat and loss. I went quickly to the glass display case and pressed my mouth, nose and fingers against it to get a better look at the jewelry and guns. My father’s question was always the same, “I’m looking for musical instruments. Do you have any?” On this particular occasion the man behind the counter attempted to engage me in conversation and then offered me a lollipop. I recoiled and found a place behind my father’s leg.  “Now Dani! Don’t be shy! Say ‘hello’ and be gracious!” I knew that I would be carried to the car if I did not obey so I crept ever so slowly out and accepted the candy with a fearful smile. I did not eat it.

By the time we lived in Phoenix I was well versed in all things Pawnshop. I knew you could buy things for cheap because, “Some poor S.O.B. couldn’t get it our of hock.” I also knew that you could sell things there in case you needed some money between gigs. I also knew the locations of the, “good” shops. The ones that wouldn’t “screw you.” I also was aware that nothing was above pawning.

My mother always wore a simple white gold wedding band. On numerous occasions I would ask her where her diamond was. Her reply was, “Your father and I had to hock it for gas money and by the time we had the money to get it out, the goddamn thing was gone!” Disappointment and resignation was a common theme in my household growing up and the topic of her lost engagement ring was no different. This helped to reinforce the point the nothing was above pawning.

On my 15^th birthday I was presented with a pearl ring with two accent diamonds on either side. I opened it to much delight. My mother stated, “Instead of a class ring we bought you this. Class rings are stupid and you can get a lot more for this at a pawnshop. You know, in case you need money in college.” Did I mention that nothing was above pawning?

I made my way out of high school, through college and into my graduate program. Then Rob asked me to marry him. On bended knee in a canoe, in the middle of a lake he gave me a beautiful diamond engagement ring. I was so excited! After dinner we stopped by my mother’s house to tell her. She feigned excitement or rather her level of interest was less than what I had expected. She examined the ring and said plainly, “It’s nice. Don’t get too attached in case you need to pawn it!” “Mom!” I was indignant. Rob was confused. My mother added, “You never know what will happen. I am just saying don’t get too attached to stuff.”

Several years after that exchange, Rob and I were driving from the realtor to our just purchased home. I began to cry. Rob said, “I know it is really exciting!” My response was, “No! No! Just promise me that we will never sleep in a car and I will never have to hock my engagement ring!” Rob chuckled and said, “Oh, honey. I promise. That won’t happen.”

I am happy to say that I have never had to pawn anything. In fact I still have my 15^th Birthday present and my mother’s simple wedding band. However, when I am presented with fine jewelry as a gift, I still think, “don’t get too attached.” Perhaps on some level this was sage advice. After all, isn’t the emotional connection to diamonds and other gems created by DeBeer’s and other jewelry conglomerates? I guess I can see clearly both sides. Material items are material items and should be used as such but when they hold meaning and memories they cease to be just, “stuff.”

When people comment or compliment me on my jewelry I want to say, “Thanks! I think I could pawn it for a tank of gas.” Then I realize that most wouldn’t understand.