C.S. Lewis and Me: A Bible Story

I loved C.S. Lewis, because he wrote eloquently, but mostly because he married Joy, the divorced American woman.

I was the good woman, the Christian woman, who had been wronged, and I wanted to be righted. I wanted to be righted by God, or at least by a righteous man. And when I felt alone, and no one would stick up for me; I had C.S. on my side, that lovable guy who pissed off J.R.R. Tolkien for the love of a divorced woman. (Tolkien was Catholic.) Lewis had his faith, but he walked out into the gray area, following not the rules, but his heart. The rules bent for love.

This, by the way, gives credit, where credit is due, to my theory, that all philosophy, all theology falls away when faced with strong feelings. He who is hungry steals bread, he who is lonely, loves whoever they can find, he who is angry enough or hopeless enough, kills. Look to Moses, if you will. And look to the story of Abraham and Isaac, a damn good if not confusing and scary story, but this is what is says to me:

God spoke to Abraham, and told him that Sarah, his aged wife would bear a child. This child was born and named Isaac. When Isaac was nearly grown, God told Abraham to sacrifice Isaac. So Abraham was dutiful and compliant, this was God, after all, and he took Isaac up a mountain, and of course hid his motive from Isaac, his intended victim. Strong emotions for Abraham, wanting to obey. But then, an angel appears and tells Abraham, “For God’s sake, put down the knife. God was just testing you, do you really think God wants you to commit murder, like the heathens down the block, sacrificing their children to Moloch?” Abraham puts down the knife, and hopefully somehow repairs his relationship with Isaac. When Isaac is like, “Wow, is my old man whacked, or what?”

So what does this tell us? That unless we really listen to what is right for us, that we can be led astray, even by God, or by who we believe God to be. This fable came alive for me when I divorced my husband. I did not want to be divorced, but I didn’t want to live the way I was living. I was brought up to believe only heathens divorced, and not only might I go to hell, but I would be judged if I ever loved again. Mostly, I didn’t want to be miserable and small. So there goes the sacrament of marriage, out the window, in a courtroom, not a church.

Like Abraham, I walked up the mountain, and laid my ‘marriage’ on the alter, and then an angel whispered in my ear, “Wait, what are you thinking, marriage is just a social convention, research it, look it up, what do you think that gray matter between your ears is for?” And I did, and it is, (a social convention), and I don’t even know if there is a God out there in man’s image, but I feel more holy, more righteous, than I ever have. I no longer want to be redeemed by Jesus, or God, or a righteous man or woman. C.S. Lewis was a hell of writer, I will give him that, but he stayed in the lines, where it was safe. He got to have his God and his wife, and some fame too.

Rodeo Prince

I was married to a rodeo prince who rode in and rode out and for a while made my life in the bleachers marvelous and crazy and colorful. I watched as he barrel raced through life, scared for him, and scared for me, but he always came through relatively unscathed, I think. Together we had three beautiful rodeo girls who embody most of the best of their dad, and I often wonder, if he knows how lucky he really is, if he knows how much these three amazing women love him, in spite of his rodeo ways.

Okay, he wasn’t really a rodeo prince, but actually a roadie with Prince. I was telling some people about my past recently, recalling that when I was married, it never quite seemed like I was married, because my ex was gone a lot, because he was a roadie with Prince, and this one guy goes, “Wait, wait, a rodeo prince, what’s that?” Sweet. Indeed, what is that?

Rodeo Prince: A man you fall in love with who doesn’t have the ability (read: self awareness to work at interpersonal relationships) to settle down. It is just not ‘in him.’ It’s okay, make the best of it, and don’t watch if it makes you squeamish as they risk-take through life. Stay if you can, or get out if you need to. Wish them well and relish the stories you live to tell.

Like the time he was kidnapped in Italy. I was a stay at home mom with those three adorable girls. We had a four-square with a big porch with white spindles and a little Strawberry Shortcake white table set out there, and the Little Tykes fridge and stove out there too. The girls would play house on the porch in the summer, and I’d bring them little peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I was the Kool-Aid mom, and loved it most of the time. Sure, I was resentful sometimes that Steve got so much attention for his job, and people were calling all the time for tickets to shows; but hey, I got to stay home!

I got to wear rock n roll t-shirts and play at the beach with my girls. So, it was quite a strange experience when one beautiful summer day in Owatonna, while Steve was on a European tour, (as stagehand and special effects technician) and I’d spent most of the day at Lake Kohlmeier, tossing laughing toddlers into the waves; to come home to a phone message that said, “Hey Dove, we’re still in Italy, but don’t worry, really, don’t worry.” This message was worrisome. I’d just talked to Steve, why was he so emphatic that I not worry? And why were they still in Italy?

Then Steve’s grandmother called, “Is Stephen okay? We just got a phone message from him, and he’s never called us from Europe, ever.” Then Steve’s mom called, and said, “Steve left a message from Italy, saying don’t worry, but they’ve been detained.” I told her I was just as concerned, but hadn’t heard back from Steve, yet. What was I to make of this? I kept waiting for another call from Steve, but it didn’t come. Instead, a local TV station from the Twin Cities called me, they told me they had word that the Prince entourage was being detained in Italy, and they wanted to know, “What do you know regarding this?”

I don’t know how they knew Steve was on this tour, but he knew a ton of people, he also worked as a production manager for a Twin Cities office of a company based in Chicago. He knew people. And now the media was calling me, in Owatonna. I told them all I knew, which was nothing, really. Until the next day, when Steve called me and told me what had happened. Here’s the skinny; certain people in Italy put up some front money for a concert. Concert did not make as much money as these people had hoped. Certain people sent thugs backstage to lock stage crew (trucks et al) into the arena, and beat up one of the crew members, just to let everyone know they meant business. Same people demand that Prince wire money for release of crew. Prince, being the good guy that he is, obliges, and crew packs up stage and moves on. That’s all.

There is a small blurb in the Minneapolis newspaper weeks later, stating that the Prince crew was ‘detained’ in Italy. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about this; but I think that clause has run out now. This was August, 1990, can you believe it? Nearly 20 years ago. Finally, the whole story can be told!

Bad Dreams

I am happy to be awake this morning; because last night I had bad dreams. It feels embarrassing even, to have had such dreams, such confusion. And I awake confused. Thinking, “What the hell?” I have been trying new ‘stuff’ lately. Like trying to connect with and feel my feelings. I am reading books on emotions and learning how better to listen to my emotions. I am thinking this will make me feel better, less tense. I walk around too often with my shoulders feeling like they are burdens of bricks, and with tenseness in my lower back that seldom goes away. I am tired of it. I am tired of being tired and I in my quest for wholeness, believe that I can get better, stronger, and not hold onto feelings and energies in this way.

So, the first dream. This theme is recurring for me. It is the end of the day, and it is time to lock up the house. It is usually a big house, with about 2-3 doors, and doors that are hard to get to or lock. It is either dusk, or darkening, but not very dark. I see shapes outside the windows, and the wind is blowing, gently. I start to feel spooky already, thinking about having to lock the doors, and wondering, hmm, how long have they been unlocked? So, in my dream last night, I have to go into a basement to lock the door. In my dream, my youngest (my baby) who is now 20, is about 4 or 5, and she is happily following me into the basement.

The basement is full of junk, boxes, we have to climb around them, to get to the very back of the basement where the door is, or else I am just worried that someone is already in the basement and I don’t want to lock the house up with an intruder in it. Megan is following happily behind me. I get towards the back, and I can’t see over all the junk and boxes, but I sense someone (with evil intent) is back there, behind the junk and I maybe say (or I’m just wondering), “Is someone back there?”

Suddenly a plastic baseball bat comes flying toward me and I say to Megan, “We’ve got to get back upstairs.” And she is trying to get around the boxes, and we are trying to get back upstairs and I am so afraid, and I’m wondering, “Do I call the cops, or just get out, or what?” I am so scared. Seriously, so scared I wake up with my heart thumping. I go back to sleep and have....

Dream number two. I am at a resort. Wow, I never go to resorts. Thing is, we, me and my three girls (and my ex, too) are all staying in a sort of lodge that has shared space with the other people at the resort. The lodge is a big mess from feeding people, and you have to wait to do your dishes and so I spend the whole day in the lodge, doing dishes, and then when I get outside, I realize it has been a beautiful day, and people are still hanging out by this huge lake, drinking beer, laying on the beach, and I am so sad. It is nearly dusk, beautiful and the sun is starting to set. The day is gone, and I missed it. I missed laying in the sun, and just having fun.

I am so sad.I want to stay longer at the resort, so I can be out in the sun, but I go back to the lodge, and now my children are frantic, because they didn’t know where I was. I hear my cell phone ringing, and I’m trying to get to it, through people’s stuff, and there it is with a text from my oldest daughter that says, “Where r u??” And I realize she’s been trying to get in touch with me, and I was not there. I realize I didn’t tell my kids that I was going out of the lodge. I felt guilty for not telling them, for not telling them I went outside. I was just longing to be outside and be in the sun and relax with nothing to do.

perfect at the gate

I am trying really hard to make a new life happen

perhaps you could say I am trying too hard

I’m not sure what not trying hard feels like

looks like and if that would ‘turn out’ or not

I was raised to look good, be nice, be kind

Not to compete but to defer and not to mess up

ever

To ‘make sure’ make sure make sure

without a recipe for sure

that things would turn out, whatever that means

I was taught things in code that I’m only now able to

break

I’ve been doing it this way for so long and my neural pathways

are saying give up even as they forge new pathways due

to the wonders of plasticity

and so I tell myself, ‘don’t give up’ words I seldom heard

There is no recipe for sure

A Couple of Poems for February

carrying each other

We had a snow emergency
The wind was blowing
The drifts were high
The temps were low
I was driving to work
Cursing the winter
In February
In Minnesota
Stopped at a light
Hoping my windshield would stay clear
And I saw a girl, maybe 10 or 12
Carrying another child, maybe 2 or 3
Through the snow
Hanging on
To each other



Beautiful Red Heart Shaped Boxes

When I was little I didn’t know if we were poor or not
There we were in the middle of middle class
A big house but lots of kids
Hand me down clothes
Not like the dentist and their family in the new rambler
Around the corner, his daughter, my age, always in new clothes
Who had the white bedroom set, complete with full length mirror

But now I know, we were not poor
This is how I know
on Valentines day my dad would always remember
every year
He would give my mom the most beautiful box of candy
I know now, not the cheapest one
Not just a plain box
But a beautiful red heart shaped box
some years velvety
some years with a huge bow
some years sparkly red with fake roses on top

He was a gentleman and a generous man
In spite of buying too much beer for himself
and my mom’s grumbling about it
He was always elegant
With penmanship that looked like art
I have never found someone to love me like my dad loved my mom
We were not poor

First Holy Communion

This I will always remember, I wore Robert Carlson’s older sister’s dress for my First Holy Communion. Second grade at Catholic school meant First Holy Communion. This was the second of the seven sacraments, the first having been Baptism, and I was a baby and too young to remember that religious experience.

We prepared for this sacrament, now commonly called Eucharist for months. We learned in religion class, that this is the body of Christ. This is what was taught then, and even now: Catholics believe the Eucharist, or Communion, is both a sacrifice and a meal. We believe in the real presence of Jesus, who died for our sins. As we receive Christ's Body and Blood, we also are nourished spiritually and brought closer to God. (AmericanCatholic.org.)

At age 7 I was taught that this little white wafer, about the size of those little Necco wafers, but not as tasty, was eating Jesus’ body. I couldn’t wrap my head around it then, and I still can’t. I can understand communion, that we are breaking bread together, that we are sharing food, that this creates community, but not that somehow in this wafer, is Christ.

As I write this, I am a bit worried, I was taught not to question God or faith, and now, I hesitate, as I don’t want to diminish anyone else’s faith, but I also don’t want to diminish my intellect. We call it faith, and let it go at that, and faith is something that for some is taboo to investigate, unless you come up with something affirming about it, or become a believer, discounting what you set out to discount, like C.S. Lewis.

I haven’t anything affirming, and I don’t believe that Eucharist wafers are Jesus. It’s just what I think, and what I think I thought when I was 7, but was too afraid of grown-ups to say about their Jesus in a wafer. I know that for my sister, who is a practicing Catholic, this is spiritual, it affirms her faith, and it gives her strength. I wish it were so easy for me.

So, I learned what we were supposed to learn in school, things like we couldn’t eat an hour before taking the wafer. Outside of school, my friends and I imagined the beautiful white dresses we would wear. My friend Bonnie’s parents had bought her a dress of dark blue velvet and cascading white ruffles, Mary’s mom bought her a beautiful, but simple white frock.

My mom hadn’t bought me a dress yet, but I was hopeful. Then one day, Sr. Margaret Marie mentioned that someone had a dress that someone could borrow, and she told us all to tell our moms to call the office. I passed on the message. My mom called, and next thing you know, I am trying on a borrowed communion dress.

Not only borrowed, but borrowed from Robert Carlson’s sister, Robert Carlson being the meanest boy in my class. I hated him, and I hated the dress. It was outdated, old fashioned and a bit too big. My mom was thrilled, she thought the dress was perfect, and so that was that. After that I only dreaded my First Holy Communion. Not only did I not believe, I was wearing a borrowed dress. Borrowed dress, borrowed belief.

Psychotherapy

My oldest daughter is talking to someone. She is talking to someone outside of her peer group, someone of my peer group, about me. She is seeing a therapist. It is my own version of I Stand Here Ironing, Tillie Olsen’s amazing short story published 1961. My daughter is hardly a child at 28, and she is working through stuff, of which of course I am supportive. I think talk therapy is amazing. I think that in therapy, we have the opportunity to find a way to connect with someone who has all sorts of talents and insights different from our friends, our families or our co-workers. Therapy gives a person a dedicated amount of time and space, and a safe place to talk and be listened to. I believe it can be cathartic. I believe it can be healing, and I believe it can be hell on moms.

Because therapy still has vestiges of blaming mom. It seems that most of our ideals of American life really don’t go back to the fifties, they go back much further than that. And from what I understand, once upper class women had ‘help’ around the house, they didn’t have much to do, so then their responsibility was to raise moral children. It was their job. This was not from the fifties, especially since we now know, many families in the fifties were miserable and some moms were on tranquilizers, and some were drinking and some were well, let’s just leave it at miserable. Staying home in the suburbs was not the pretty picture some have painted. I'm sure lots of moms were just trying to keep themselves, and their children alive in the fifties, just like moms always have. My own mom, in the fifties was busy having children, eight of them!

The fifties too, saw mostly white men studying communication and the family, outside of context, and deciding what was 'best' for families. If some of our values/norms come from this past, they come from this privileged past. From people who held onto beliefs from the distant past, like mothers are responsible for the morality of their children. These are the people who had the means to become doctors, and psychologists and time to do research (often on the less privileged) and write books. I would say, these views were often patriarchal and privileged. Even someone like Phil Zimbardo, who seems like a pretty smart guy and who facilitated the Stanford Prison Experiment had to have his girl-friend intervene, she was like, “Dude, what are you thinking?”

Now families being what they are, I seriously don’t believe that people have changed much over a whole lot of time. Read the Old Testament, and you have Jerry Springer, and Oprah and all the trauma and drama we have now. Think about it, sweet Mary, mother of Jesus was a teen mom, who got pregnant before marriage, and this, this was moving into the New Testament. One young mom raises the Messiah, and wow, this really raises the bar. We are young girls, we have sex, we have babies, and now we are supposed to understand how to raise a healthy young person into a healthy young adult and everything and anything we do and say, can and will be used against us in the coming years.

Who could imagine this life-long gig, and there are days I wonder, can I keep doing this? There is no disclaimer for mothers that reads: Birther beware, you will be a mother for a long long time, and you may not live long enough to unravel all the secrets of the universe to becoming a good parent. So then we have to be the ‘good enough’ mother. The mother who can forgive her own past mistakes and just keep loving both herself and these people who used to be your children and are now adults and are asking you why?

Ok, this is what my youngest told me not too long ago. “Mom, you are our mother, you will always be our mother. You can’t just be done now, and say, ‘I was a good mother,’ it doesn’t work like that. You are not done, some days, when we like you and we think you have been good to us, we will say, ‘You are a good mother.’ And some days, when we are angry with you, we will think you are a crappy mother, and that’s just how life is. You don’t get to choose if you are a good mother, that’s for your children to decide.”

At first I was upset, tears in my eyes, wanting some closure to this mother gig. After all, my youngest is now twenty, and I’ve given nearly 30 years of my life to this, mostly all on my own. But she was right, I’m not done, I’ll never be done, there is no closure to motherhood and my children have the right, even the responsibility to interpret their lives, and my part in them, however they choose.

Original Sin

I was raised a Catholic. I went to mass and I was sent to Catholic grade school. This is what I was taught, that I was born bad. That when I was born it was along with something called original sin. This meant that just by being born you have it. This was the reason I surmised, that the nuns would get so angry sometimes. They would just take one look at me and see my original sin. I could not see it, I could look in the mirror, deep into my eyes, and still, still, could not see my original sin.

I remember being about 8, and being in what we used to call a dairy store,which was basically a small, local convenience store, usually owned and run by a family. Anyways, while in this convenience store, while holding about 15 cents in my hand, and while staring at the penny and nickel candy, I told my friend who was with me, that she could have 10 of my fifteen cents, and I would take 5. She was happily surprised, and actually so was I, I could be generous. How cool. I felt proud of myself. For a day, I forgot that I was born sinful.

In school, we had to go to mass on Holy Days. The girls had to cover their heads, and if you forgot your head scarf, the nuns would pin a kleenex on your head. Another reminder of your badness, for some reason, only the girls had to cover their heads, how bad could we be? If I ‘talked back’ to the nuns, I ended up on my knees in the dark in the cloakroom. Just stay there they’d say, and think about how bad you are. I could not imagine I was that bad, I’d think and think and what I’d think is that ‘these nuns are crazy.’ But I could not say that, not out loud.

We had religion class, and I remember when we read about God in the Old Testament, and God saying he was a jealous God, and not to have any graven images. So I raised my hand, and when called on I asked, “But what about the statues?” And the teacher said, “Yes, what about the statues?” and I asked, “Aren’t the statues in the church, you know, the big ones, of Jesus, and of Mary, aren’t they graven images?” There was a silence in the classroom as all the fifth grade heads looked at me. “No, they are not,” I was told.

I was born bad, statues are not graven images, God is jealous and teachers get angry if you ask too many questions. At home, I could try to talk to my mom, but she would act distracted if I tried to talk to her while she was watching “Dark Shadows” when I got home from school. If I tried to ask her while she was cooking dinner, she would just ask me to help her and complain that those nuns just thought they knew everything.

I was going to get to the bottom of this God stuff, I would find the answers, one day.