The Great Blue Cry

[I had fun writing this entry for a poetry contest this week]

The Great Blue Cry

(or The Day the Internet Came to an End)

The day the Internet came to an end,

and all the cell phones fell into puddles

The day the TV sets

mades bets:

“Hey, who can play dead the longest?”

The day all the video games 

ran out of levels 

and texting thumbs

to hitchhiking were restored

   

The day a lone Googler 

Googled “Gone” 

and every gadget and gizmo with a  

suck-em-in-screen-oh-ignore-the whole-worldo

Simply Vanished

in a flash,

in big and little puffs of smoke,

leaving hands empty,

open wide

and the air alive,

buzzing with static

It was on that magical day,

Johnny Doughboy and Jane Stiflebrain

sat staring at the charred, black spot on the floor,

a smokey, sulphuric place

where only seconds before

a gurgling, growling sound erupted, 

the floor opened wide

and as for their iMac,

a sinkhole sucked it 

The ground healed up quick,

fresh carpet even sprouted

but Johnny and Jane   

were amiss, 

even stunted

“What is life without a flashing screen?” 

Johnny said blankly to Jane

“I would tell you if I could look it up,”

Jane replied, 

her eyes, her face, her brain

as plain

as her name

And so Johnny and Jane sat frozen 

for many days and many years,

their eyes zeroed in on the spot that swallowed their iMac,

hoping against hope it would one day come back

For food, they survived 

on cheese curls and Ding Dongs

For talk, they exchanged the hums and beeps and whistles 

of extinct video game songs

Their skin from the snacks emitted a pale, orange glow 

and tossed candy wrappers stuck to their burgeoning bellies

like tinsel on a tree

But they beeped and they hummed busily,

assuming they were happy,

as happy 

as happy can be

But then one day,

something blue crossed the corner of Johnny’s eye

It was on the other side of the window — 

something vast, wide and splotched with wisps

as white as cotton or snow drifts 

(if he could remember them)

Jane saw it too 

Astounded, they turned their gaze,

searching for words,

finding only a haze

of beeps and whistles

Stuttering, staring and, finally, with tears streaming

Jane called out, 

“Cry!” 

“The blue,I remember

the blue is called,

“Cry!”

“Yes, you’re right,” Johnny replied 

with words instead of whistles

He ran to the window 

He opened it wide

“I remember the Cry, 

the beautiful, blue Cry

Now stand by my side, he said,

so we can look at it forever

And drying their tears,

they did.

-- Sarah Johnson

The Spiritual Spartan

Modern man (and woman) needs a Spartan Race to feel, well, spartan (sorry, the vocabulary choices here are limited, and I'm on maybe 4 hours of sleep).

Traditional man (and woman) need only to embrace his or her vocation with all its joys and sufferings.

Instead of barbed wire, he carves out a living (solo).

Instead of a marathon, she is open to life.

Instead of crawling through mud, they wade through diapers (sometimes decades of them).

But as far as joy is concerned -- its measure and amount, I'd wager my wages (which are dished out IN joy & not in dollars), traditional man (and woman) have more.

A Vaccine for Talking About Vaccines

Take a look at the mother on the opposite side of this vaccine debate.  Now, imagine her as more than a few lines of Facebook feed.  It’s not the easiest thing to do, I know.  But if we both try real hard …  If we squeeze our eyes shut tight and push away from the computer screen (once you’ve finished reading this post, of course), we just may just get some where.

Right now, this opponent is wiping a nose — and no, the child doesn’t have the measles (“wild” or whatever kind it is you can catch at Disneyland).  He has the flu.  Whether he was inoculated for this contagion doesn’t matter at this point.  He’s miserable, and all he wants are his mother's arms around him, her hands stroking his blond hair and her heartbeat on his cheek as he naps the afternoon away on her chest.
    
But this mother is distracted.  By me.  You see, I just told her off.  And oh, I summoned such courage before I did so. Truly, wielding harsh words with the buffer of cyberspace as my shield took some saintly bravery.  

Actually, it didn’t.  It took no bravery at all.  [Insert the squealing sound of my fat head deflating like a helium balloon.]
    
What takes bravery is what my opponent and I do every day.  We stay at home with our babies even when we’re bored, even when we’re lonely, even when we’re broke and could use the cash a job would easily provide.  We nurture.  We love.  We educate.  We make the best choices for our kids with the information we can muster.  
    
We have a lot in common, my “opponent” and I.  More, I’d wager, than many moms on my side of this vaccine debate.
    
Does this mean we shouldn’t dialogue? 
    
Of course not.  We’ve gotta share the wisdom each has gathered.  It’s just what moms do.
    
Does this mean we should pretend it’s plausible for both of us to be right? 
    
Again, no.  Let’s not mess with what’s mathematically impossible.  Let’s not speak anything that feels too much like a lie. 
    
Can we sense, however, when it's time to take a break and simply love one another in spite of of our differences?
    
Of course we can.  
    
If it wasn't, St. Paul wouldn’t have commanded us to do this very thing when he instructed that we “bear with one another and clothe ourselves in love.” (Colossians 3:14)  St. Peter also spoke of this love when he said to be “fervent” in it, “trusting that [it] covers a multitude of sins.” (1 Peter 4:8)
    
I have a feeling my opponent is probably in the kitchen right now.  She's probably helping her daughter with algebra or figuring out the next meal.   If I had to wager whether her actions at this very moment have anything to do with  A.  The spread or prevention of a potentially life-threatening, communicable disease or  B.  Throwing together a casserole, I’d wager the choice that comes in an 9” by 13” pan.
    
Speaking of casseroles, I’ve got people to feed.  

It's Easter -- Bah Humbug.

First, there was drama about the ties.

Then a lack of dress shoes.

But I have a memory of all 5 boys and their daddy in matching outfits just like this one.

And I have a shot of Schmoopie shaking his Easter M&M's.

Phew!

Good Friday

Our Triduum Shrine:  A candle for Holy Thursday, when Christ first gave us himself as the Paschal Lamb on Passover -- the night he instituted the Holy Eucharist.  Another candle for Good Friday, the day we remember His Passion.  And then another for Easter, His Resurrection.

We have a tomb made of a lightbulb box covered with sod.  A decent-sized stone couldn't be found, so we used a sweet potato.

Blessed Triduum.

Praying the Stations With My Kids

Some people think its gory or that they're too young,
but I see it in their eyes,
they sense the transcendence.

I wasn't raised in a Christian tradition that recognized the Liturgical year,
except on Christmas Day and then again on Easter Day.
The two popped up suddenly.  I always felt so unprepared.
And then they were gone, leaving behind only messes of wrapping paper
and emptied plastic eggs.

The year my husband began his sojourn into the traditional Church,
Lent prepared me for Easter in a way I hadn't expected.
I was only an observer then.
And I must say, the Season has truly grown on me.
I seem to "get it" a little more each year.

We'll be praying the stations tonight at our local parish because
"You cannot have a feast without a fast."

And you cannot have the the Resurrection without the Cross.

Took a Walk on Tuesday

And tried to fall into the stream.