It is Hard to be a Catholic

I will be 49 in a few months.  Seems like I just received my first communion yesterday.  In fact, I still have my 70's inspired communion dress hanging in my closet.  I am a cradle catholic.  I am a cradle, questioning, trying to be good, catholic.

Oh, but it's hard.

It's hard for so many reasons.  And not in any particular order, but the first that comes to mind is the churches stand on female priests.  Yup, I know both sides of the argument but fundamentally for me it is simple.  I was called.  I felt a clear, persistent calling as a teenager but couldn't follow because I was catholic.  It is also difficult to tell your daughters you can be anything you want except the most respected job of your religion because of your sex.  Your gender.  The one thing you can't change.  It is also hard because when you talk to the parish priest about they think - they say that it just doesn't feel right if there isn't a man on the alter.  Huh.

It is really hard to be Catholic.

I live with a small measure of guilt if I don't attend mass on Sunday or the required holy days.  I see my first grade teacher, Sister Ann, drilling those days into my small, pliable mind.  Yet, here I am, not of the retirement-get-of jail-free-age but truly struggling with pain and I just feel guilty.  It's only an hour.  And I sometimes get something out of it.  But the work to go is so hard.  The pain to sit on that bench and loose the feeling in my leg.  Ugh.  The guilt because I know it is only an excuse as I stare at the man who died on the cross.

It is really hard to be Catholic.

I endured the joy and eventual disappoint in Pope John Paul II.  Yes, this may anger quite of few people but I expected more when he became Pope.  I expected radical and sweeping change.  I know I was of an age when you want everything to move quickly and why shouldn't it, says your 20-year-old self.  Realistically, now, I know that change in the Catholic church is like dancing with an elephant.  I was disheartened when the next guy came in.  He looked so ghoulish and hard. Yet, now I am cautiously optimistic.  Maybe, there will be some change.  Or the beginning of change.

I am also trying hard to find a Pollyanna way to end this essay.  Not sure how.  Only that I am still Catholic.  It is hard to be Catholic.

Perhaps that is the point.

Old Classics

I love the old classics.  Not the traditional greek or Canterbury Tales.  No, Agatha Christie, Dorothy Gilman and old Xanth fantasy.  Those books that I read a young girl who eagerly devoured them from cover to cover. 

The winter is leaving and outside I hear bursts of song birds.  The air is still cold and the snow hasn't quite left yet.  Here in NE Ohio we have been known to have snow into April.  I am not sad about the snow leaving.  I am sad about the winter leaving though.

When the sky is gray with bitter cold winds and large snow flakes, I read.  Something in me reaches for those tried and true classics that feel like a warm sweater.  I dip in and force myself to slow down so I can read each and every word.  I slowly turn the pages as I greet each sentence like an old friend.

Of course I know the plot, characters and dialogue by heart.  But I still do it anyway.  The comfort of those books keeps the depressing gray skies from bringing in too much doom and gloom.  Those books are old friends that I keep on the shelves.  We visit every winter and spend many a peaceful time together.

Soon warmer weather will be here for good.  Then I will be outside, planting flowers, taking walks, riding bikes and reading new books.  Spring and summer are perfect for new friends.

Winter is perfect for the old.

Musings from the Couch Deux

I read an article a few years ago proposing that there is nothing new in the world.  No new thought.  No new ideas.  Nothing new.  The author proposed that what we conceive as new are really two separate ideas combined in different ways.

Sad.  I rather like the thought of new in the world.  But that is for another post.

Today, I wanted to address that he could be right.  Just go with me for a moment . . .

I was fishing in a video game I play with my son.  I caught a squid.  As my digital, cartoonish character held the wiggly squid aloft I realized that this guy could be right. 

The squid was a opaque white with dangling tentacles and eyes on opposite sides of his body directly above the tentacles.  I knew it was a squid because it said so on the screen.  Looked nothing like the squid from the aquarium or from Sponge Bob.  This was no Squidward.

Nope, this was an Ood.

Yes, you Dr. Who fans are saying of course Ann, the Ood were based on squids.  But you see I never saw it really.  They carry their brains in glowing balls.  I was far more focused on that detail.  And those tentacles came from their mouth atop a large body.  Sorry, but the resemblance is pretty far fetched to a squid.

So you can see why I think this author is right.  Someone, somewhere, in Dr. Who writing world, created a character that resembles a squid.  This character is so surreal and strange yet very familiar.  Creative but the same.

Yup, I do believe that perhaps creativity is not something from nothing but two different nothings creating a something.