Lent Is On

I always, always get psyched about Lent – Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday (what other time of the year do these mid-week days get such attention), the beauty of those solemn services and hymns, the whole concept of sacrifice and love. It truly is my favorite season. And though I’m not Catholic, I have always observed Lent in my own, not very accurate way.

It began when I was a young kid, fourth or fifth grade. I went through a two-week confirmation class at the Methodist church. The culmination of my short catechism was joining the church during Lent – shiny new bible, white dress, powder-pink bead necklace, corsage. It was magical. It was also my first foray into giving up something for Lent.

The ritual of Lent observations intrigued me. I had always been ritualistic (or perhaps more obsessive than ritualistic) about prayers, freaking out about God’s possible vengeance if I left a loved-one off the list at night. If my kindly old pastor had been aware of my twisted, ten-year-old theology, he would have certainly set me straight in the gentlest way possible, but I never mentioned it.
I chose something sweet, which became my yearly ritual that eventually turned into a fasting from all dessert-type items.

But this year, in the spirit of following through, I am going to try a different approach – a season of gratitude. This practice (http://www.christianitytoday.com/workplace/articles/issue17-gratitude.html) was passed down to the congregation I’m part of today – a Mennonite congregation – so I won’t be alone. That’s reassuring. When I do these things alone I typically either don’t follow through or become a bit obsessive and bitter. By the end of a typical Lenten season, I am usually pretty envious of people who are enjoying a Hershey bar, but I get a strange, haughty satisfaction out of completing the fast. Not at all helpful when trying to get close to God by sacrificing.

Another appealing part of this practice is that there is some discipline involved. Since I’m trying to be more disciplined these days, a daily practice is right on.

And there is legitimate fasting involved. One day a week, there’s a fast from food. I have fasted in the past, but my attitude was pretty shoddy. I would get to the end of the day all bitter, tired, and pouty. I suffered and missed the whole point of it. With my new 35-year-old attitude, I’m thinking it could be much better. So I will try to remain prayerful, avoid the scour, read some Bible and Gandhi, and make life pleasant for my family during the fasting day.

There is also prayer for the poor and a gratitude journal, activities leading to something – gratitude – rather than away from something – that Ritter Sport bar with hazelnuts.


So the Lent journey has begun. Happy fasting folks!

The Big Birthday Has Come and Gone

The big birthday has come and gone, and I'm still here, though the weeks of self pity and dread wreaked havoc on my immune system. This cold is no fun. But nobody likes a whiner, so I'll spare you.

There have been several new developments since my birthday has arrived.

First, not many things that you dread in life are as bad as you think. Labor and delivery is an exception to that. That experience is much worse. But really, I didn't feel nearly as bad as I thought I would about my birthday. My new driver's license photo makes me look old and tired, and even that was more humorous than depressing.

Another revelation for me is a few minutes of quiet time a day are really necessary for sanity in old age. When I plunged into the Dr. Weil book last week, I skipped over the section on taking a five-minute breathing awareness break each day. It just sounded a bit corny to me. As much as I would like to think I could be all mystical and dreamy, I'm a realist at heart. One of my good friends and I laugh about our childhood imaginary friends. Hers was all glitter and fantasy. Mine was a working-class lady named Martha who had four kids, a factory job, and a candy cigarette habit.

But I revisited the paragraph on breathing and once I sat down, set my cell phone timer for five minutes, and started "being aware of my breath" (do I have to use that phrase?), it really was cathartic. I felt calm. Freakouts seemed a little ridiculous. So breathing is in.

Finally, birthday cake is probably not a wise breakfast choice anymore, so this year I abstained.

Letting Go of the Plastic Taco

The other day, I realized that I had been walking around with a plastic taco under my arm for well over 10 minutes. Way too long. My daughter often gives me random items to hold on to for no apparent reason -- she doesn't have her hands full; she doesn't ask for them back. This item is particularly disturbing and lifelike. So why don’t I just put these things away, do something with them, or refuse to hold them in the first place?

I’m not aware of what I’m doing. The taco is just something extra to hold on to that is getting in the way. It made folding laundry even more unpleasant than usual as I unknowingly struggled to grab items out of the dryer while clamping down on the taco under my arm to ensure it wouldn’t fall.

I'm making too much of this, I'm sure, but now "holding the plastic taco" has become a metaphor in my life for all those unnecessary things I'm holding onto for no reason.

There are old grad papers that I think I’ll one day turn into brilliant works of literary criticism. I won’t. There is a big tub of crochet patterns and random bits of yarn. Spicy mustard and soy sauce packets. The dream that there really is a Cicely, Alaska complete with Holling, Maurice, Maggie, and Ed. There are more important and disturbing things too – fear, bad habits, the need to please, a nervous laugh, superstitions.

So as I sit here (distracted, unfortunately, because the greatest war movie of all time is on in the background – The Bridge on the River Kwai), I keep thinking that it’s time to either make use of the plastic taco or put it away for good. We’ll be moving to another house soon, giving us the perfect opportunity to discard the tangible junk. Now what to do with all those habits and hang-ups.

On the bookshelf this week – The Brothers Karamazov (I’m starting the venture into Russian novels here) and 8 Weeks to Optimum Health (I know. I know.).

At least I have begun . . .

As I stand in the kitchen making a big pot of Dr. Oz soup trying to gear back up for a new week of diet trends, it hits me. I'm 35. Well, not quite, but I will be 35 in about a week. And I'm not terribly excited about it.

This is odd for me. I can be quite obnoxious about reminding folks that it's my birthday each year. I love the well wishes, the cake, the celebration. It's the only time my shy, introverted self revels in any kind of grand-scale attention. Yet this year, I haven't even bugged my husband about what he will get me. Though he may not be so excited about his wife getting old and haggard, he's probably relieved that the pressure is off for the birthday week this year.

As I stir cabbage into this soup (that smells nice but will probably keep me full for, oh, about 25 minutes at lunch tomorrow), I realize that it's probably time to become a little more disciplined in my approach to daily life. A little exercise each day, skipping desserts, starting my daughter's baby book, straightening up the house before bed, writing each day, finally getting around to reading Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, remembering other people's birthdays -- this is the stuff of adult life. No longer can I hide behind the "I'm just barely out of graduate school" mindset.

So, this blog is all about how I have just realized that oh crap, I'm 35. I guess that means it's time to follow through.

Dr. Oz soup cooked and stored away for tomorrow? Check. Baby tucked in and snoozing away? Check. House straightened? Almost check. Yoga? After I spell check. Blog started? Check. 6:04:00 PM by Joni Delete