I do not talk religion or politics or any of those sensitive and personal subjects in this blog typically. But I have been thinking about present moment and spirituality and religion and church quite a bit recently, having just experienced what I found to be a perfect miracle (cliché, perhaps, but creating life is often described this way), which brought me much closer to the spiritual aspects (and perhaps religious as well) of me that had been dormant, waiting for some event like Kai's 9 months and arrival to help them bloom again.
I am Methodist. I don't attend my church regularly, but I do belong, and that adds to my identity. I will always be Methodist despite the fact that I will be changing membership to my husband's Presbyterian church and, at some point next year, actually attending on a regular basis. I will be changing for a number of reasons -- family, community, proximity. I'll probably end up joining the choir eventually as well. A good Methodist loves to sing. Of course, Kai won't be without his eastern philosophy and zen lessons outside that time at church, but the church will be good too.
I remember when I was very young, perhaps 7, and it was either the Sunday before Easter or Easter Sunday ... in any case, I was in Sunday School that spring morning, playing with some blocks or using some activity toys, waiting for when we would be making drawings and cotton fuzzy replicas of Easter chicks and bunnies (or some similar cool art project) with the teacher. For whatever reason I fell into an anxiety attack and wanted to go home immediately. My father was called to fetch me (I assume he was attending the church service downstairs, but as he is agnostic and often did not go, he could have been at home just sitting down to hot coffee), and he arrived, and he drove me the 5 minutes back to our house. And then, when we settled at home, I became upset again, and I explained that now that I was home I would be missing making the bunnies and chicks and I was very sad about this. And my father, the awesome guy he is, asked if I wanted to go back, and I did, so we got back in the car and he took me back, and the teacher was happy to see me again and I made my art.
I told my mother this story for the first time about 7 months ago as we drove together across the county, my flat palm on my growing belly. I told her that this is the parent I want to be, the one who will gently gather her child from anxiety and gently place the child back after regret, the one who won't argue or force or chastise when the situation calls for a parent who can flex and listen and help. I smile now thinking that my dad was probably sighing at having to drive back and forth, but I didn't know it. Perhaps this is something I cannot express well in words, but I know how my dad made me feel then, and I'll work for that too.
To close, I will just mention that I read Cary Tennis every day. He's rather cool. This is a recent paragraph of his that made me smile:
"Of all human activities that we could possibly engage in, church is one of the least interesting. Truly. Admit it. It is dull. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. But it isn't as fun as surfing. It's no round of minigolf. As opposed to, say, sex and love, or childbirth, or cooking and eating, or travel, or having a good laugh, or gardening, going to church is dull. It's necessary for human order and provides solace to troubled minds and keeps people off the streets and encourages them to dress up and read aloud. There is often singing, which is also good. But the reason for church is that we are troubled, and we are going to die. So it's not really as much fun as the mall. We are here now and we have money; that is the forward-thinking proposition on which the existence of malls is based. Think about it: On the one hand you have the proposition that we are all going to die, along with what will happen to us afterward and what will we do about all the evil in the world. On the other you have the proposition that we are all here right now and we have some money and there is a little place down the road called MiniGolf."
I am Methodist. I don't attend my church regularly, but I do belong, and that adds to my identity. I will always be Methodist despite the fact that I will be changing membership to my husband's Presbyterian church and, at some point next year, actually attending on a regular basis. I will be changing for a number of reasons -- family, community, proximity. I'll probably end up joining the choir eventually as well. A good Methodist loves to sing. Of course, Kai won't be without his eastern philosophy and zen lessons outside that time at church, but the church will be good too.
I remember when I was very young, perhaps 7, and it was either the Sunday before Easter or Easter Sunday ... in any case, I was in Sunday School that spring morning, playing with some blocks or using some activity toys, waiting for when we would be making drawings and cotton fuzzy replicas of Easter chicks and bunnies (or some similar cool art project) with the teacher. For whatever reason I fell into an anxiety attack and wanted to go home immediately. My father was called to fetch me (I assume he was attending the church service downstairs, but as he is agnostic and often did not go, he could have been at home just sitting down to hot coffee), and he arrived, and he drove me the 5 minutes back to our house. And then, when we settled at home, I became upset again, and I explained that now that I was home I would be missing making the bunnies and chicks and I was very sad about this. And my father, the awesome guy he is, asked if I wanted to go back, and I did, so we got back in the car and he took me back, and the teacher was happy to see me again and I made my art.
I told my mother this story for the first time about 7 months ago as we drove together across the county, my flat palm on my growing belly. I told her that this is the parent I want to be, the one who will gently gather her child from anxiety and gently place the child back after regret, the one who won't argue or force or chastise when the situation calls for a parent who can flex and listen and help. I smile now thinking that my dad was probably sighing at having to drive back and forth, but I didn't know it. Perhaps this is something I cannot express well in words, but I know how my dad made me feel then, and I'll work for that too.
To close, I will just mention that I read Cary Tennis every day. He's rather cool. This is a recent paragraph of his that made me smile:
"Of all human activities that we could possibly engage in, church is one of the least interesting. Truly. Admit it. It is dull. I'm not saying it's a bad thing. But it isn't as fun as surfing. It's no round of minigolf. As opposed to, say, sex and love, or childbirth, or cooking and eating, or travel, or having a good laugh, or gardening, going to church is dull. It's necessary for human order and provides solace to troubled minds and keeps people off the streets and encourages them to dress up and read aloud. There is often singing, which is also good. But the reason for church is that we are troubled, and we are going to die. So it's not really as much fun as the mall. We are here now and we have money; that is the forward-thinking proposition on which the existence of malls is based. Think about it: On the one hand you have the proposition that we are all going to die, along with what will happen to us afterward and what will we do about all the evil in the world. On the other you have the proposition that we are all here right now and we have some money and there is a little place down the road called MiniGolf."
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home