Heather King's Blog, page 37

LET’S NOT DIE UNTIL WE DIE

Here’s how this week’s arts and culture column begins:

The full embrace of life, from conception to death, is one of the most basic tenets of our faith.

There are many ways that we can try to limit this embrace. One of the most extreme is abortion, of which birth control is a subset; another is suicide, of which euthanasia is a subset.

But there are many other ways. I remember lying in bed one morning in LA, gazing out across the rooftops, and thinking, Hmmm, drapes might be a good idea. My next thought was: I’m 50—why buy a curtain rod now?

Now that 50 seems like mere infancy, the impulse to shut down early arises more and more often. I’m too old to take a trip, I might think, or Why plant a garden? The planet will be dead in 30 years, anyway.

READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

UP WITH RITUAL!

Aging, I find, brings with it an almost manic desire to see everything, read everything, travel everyplace, learn everything, climb every mountain, ford every stream. Only Christ, on the altar, can contain that infinite, almost manic longing.

Alternatively, I want to sleep all the time. That happened last week, the result being that I decided to cut down on daily Mass. I usually walk to the 5:15 pm at the nearby Newman Center, 20-25 minutes one way. It’s a beautiful walk, this time of year the sun is starting to set when I emerge. There’s Evening Prayer before Mass, and before Evening Prayer, maybe some time in the Blessed Sacrament chapel.

Mass is a whole “thing,” in other words, that does take a certain amount of wherewithal and energy.

So I rested up a bit last week, or tried to. But what I found after a few days is that without Mass, interiorly I kind of spin. I don’t really get the rest I crave. I don’t have a place to “settle,” somehow.

Then, over the weekend, I went back to Fr. Ron Rolheier’s The Holy Longing, a book I read years ago and hadn’t revisited since.

In it, he has this fascinating passage:

“Who does come to daily mass? In my experience no single category does justice here. On the surface at least, it appears that tehre is little in common among those who attend daily mass. It is a strange mixture of people: some nuns, some unemployed people, a lot of retired women, some retired men, a few young persons, some housewives, and a motley collection of nurses businessmen, secretaries, and other such professionals on their lunch break.

There is no similarity in character among them, but there is something among them (and I am speaking here only of those who truly have the habit of attending daily mass) that is held in common, namely, in the end, they are all there for the same reason. What is that reason? It is something that is deeper and less obvious than is immediately evident. Simply put, people who go to mass daily are there in order not fo fall apart. They go to mass because they know that, without mass, they would either inflate or become depressed and be unable to handle their own lives.

I doubt that most people who attend daily mass would tell you that…”

I would! Fr. Rolheiser nailed it!

He goes on to make another interesting observation: “Significant too is a second thing common among those who attend daily mass, they do not want a service that is too long or too creative. They want a clear ritual, a predictable one, and a short one. Because of this they are often at the mercy of critics who look at this and, simplistically, see nothing other than empty ritual, rote prayer, and people going through the mechanics of worship seemingly without heart. Nothing could be further from the truth and this type of accusation betrays the misunderstanding not just of an outsider but also of somebody who is ritually tone-deaf.”

Say it, Ron! We are laying our HEARTS on the altar!

Mass is far from my only daily ritual–but it’s the central one.

THE MYSTERY OF PERU’S NAZCA LINES

This week’s arts and culture column is about the Queen of Peru’s Nazca Lines.

Here’s how it begins:

I get a kick out of those “militant feminists” who, while being supported by wealthy husbands, lecture their single, self-supporting sisters about the need to overthrow the patriarchy.

I’m way more impressed by women who actually live by themselves, forge their own way, seek a creative outlet into which to channel their energies, and go full-speed ahead without the slightest interest in informing others how they should live their lives.

To that end, I’ve discovered a compelling figure: Maria Reiche (1903-1998).

READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

MARIA REICHE
WAX STATUE IN THE MUSEUM DEDICATED TO HER NEAR NAZCA, PERU

THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS: MY MOTHER

For those whose lives consist largely in “pondering these things in our hearts,” along with Mary, there is seldom room at the inn. Others, with their families, gear, heedless noise—all just as it should be—crowd us out so that we’re relegated to some dingy corner where we huddle, fingers pressed to ears, desperately yearning for a moment of quiet where our ideas and discoveries and insights and love can give birth.

My own mother, I would guess, in a household of eight kids, was always looking in vain for an inn. I came across her once, sitting on the edge of her and my father’s bed, gazing out the window and crying. I must have been about twelve. “Mummy! Are you all right?” …

Like most families, ours had secrets. I’ll probably never know them all, and I’m not sure I’d want to.

An incident, related many years after the fact by one of my siblings, is telling. My mother was an accomplished seamstress. She made her own wedding dress, clothes for us kids, valances, slipcovers, drapes: even a trousseau one time for my childhood doll: a peignoir, a traveling costume, an evening gown.

As we came of age and started moving out of the house, a bedroom opened up and she was finally able to have her own sewing room. Passing by, you’d see her in there, her mouth full of pins, her cut-out pieces neatly stacked, everything ship-shape, trim, and tidy.

One day apparently my father walked by, saw her working, poked his head in and asked, “What’s this project, Janet?”

“I’m making drapes for Aunt Madeleine,” she replied.

Dad did a double-take, then snapped, “Aunt Madeleine died three months ago.”

“I know,” my mother said. “But I promised her I’d do up a set of drapes, and I mean to keep my promise.”

My father worked as a bricklayer and that my mother didn’t bring in any money over the few bucks she charged here and there for her sewing was always a bit of a sore spot: one of those secrets that didn’t get openly talked about in front of us kids but my guess is that behind closed doors festered.

So he was pissed. When upset, he often took one of us aside and vented. So even though I wasn’t there, I can just hear him:  “Am I crazy? I’m busting my rear end out there in the cold and she’s up there making curtains for her dead aunt!”

He loved my mother and he wasn’t malicious. Also he was super funny. So if I was the one he was venting to, we’d agree that Mom was a little cracked and have a good laugh.

At the same time, I’d feel disloyal. And all these years later, remembering when I heard this particular story for the first time, I sympathize with my mother’s point-of-view down to the ground.

She was no pie-in-the-sky dreamer, after all, neglecting her duties as wife and mother. The house was always clean, the floors swept, the dishes washed, the laundry hung.

My mother wasn’t Catholic, but in a way, she had a Catholic heart. You take certain vows; you hold yourself to a standard that in the eyes of the world seems ludicrous, even frightening, in its “impracticability.” And the vow costs.

The vow cost her in other ways. My mother taught me to love books, maybe her finest, most enduring gift. She wrote better letters than anyone I know: newsy, descriptive, forthright, to the point. She was highly intelligent. I think she would have liked to be a writer herself.

She once—just once—submitted a piece for publication, the way I remember it, to a religious magazine of some kind. The piece was accepted: I can only imagine her joy. She wouldn’t have allowed herself pride, but joy, yes. And then, I can’t imagine why and with what lack of foresight and thought—the magazine decided they didn’t want the essay after all.

She never, to my knowledge, submitted another piece. She continued to be faithful to her marriage vows, her private vows to God, to her children, her church, and to her conscience: crystal clear as I imagine it. Long-suffering but dry-eyed, keeping her own counsel, along with God alone knows what secret sorrows and silent suffering.

It’s a truism that daughters tend to live out the unfulfilled dreams of their mothers. I have no way of knowing if that’s true in my case. What I do know is that, though I take after my father in a hundred ways, my mother’s example–never mind that I fall continually short–has been the backbone of my life. Her fidelity to her watch. Her refusal to be moved. Her insistence on doing what she felt was right.

So in case you did want to be a writer, Mom—I submitted another piece for you.  And though I can’t sew a stitch, in my way I took up your thimble and scissors and measuring tape as well. Fifty years later, searching for just the right word at my desk, I’m still working on Aunt Madeleine’s curtains.  

A DREAM COME TRUE: MIGRANTS AND THE KINGDOM OF GOD

Here’s how this week’s arts and culture column begins:

Father Raniero Alessandrini, CS, has ministered to immigrants in Chicago, Guadalajara, Vancouver, and LA for more than 60 years. His recently published booklet, “A Dream Come True: Migrants and the Kingdom of God,” outlines the theological underpinnings and sets forth the vision of his life’s work. Self-published by Father Alessandrini, the booklet is available in LA at no cost at St. Peter Italian Church (1039 N. Broadway St., Los Angeles 90012).

Father Alessandrini is a member of the Congregation of the Missionaries of St. Charles Scalabrinians (also known as the Missionaries of St. Charles Borromeo), an order founded by Blessed John Baptist Scalabrini in 1887 with a specific charism of serving migrants and refugees.

READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

AN INTERVIEW WITH–ME!

My narcissism has now reached such heights that I devoted this week’s arts and culture column to…ME!–

Here’s how it begins:

I started this column in May of 2014.

Which means that for over seven and a half years, I have written, every week, on a book, a ballet, a play, a garden, a painter, a contemporary issue.

During that time, I’ve interviewed scores of people: visual artists, musicians, film-makers, actors, pilgrims, a Holocaust survivor.

I keep thinking some enterprising Catholic influencer is going to notice the incredible uniqueness—genius, really—of what I’ve been up to here. That’s never happened.

So since we’re embarking on a new year, a 52-column blank slate, I thought this week to interview myself!

Q: Your range is dizzying—how do you come up with ideas?

READ THE WHOLE PIECE HERE.

TREE OF LIFE

[Apologies to those of you with whom I’ve already shared part of this…]

My newest purchase is a vintage, caked-with-grime, metal 5″x5′ folk art item called a TREE OF LIFE, featuring branches for five fat candles. It is festooned with birds, and the other day, after hosing off and scrubbing,  I managed to mount the thing on my bedroom wall, filling in the giant holes left by the previous tenant for THEIR art with toothpaste. 

The item has six detachable arms which makes transporting easy but installation a teeny bit precarious. I’m sure the whole thing or parts of it will continually fall off, breaking an object or two below. Anyway, I love it. This way if I croak in my bed, I tell myself, I can be looking at it. 

Putting my house in Tucson together, and tending to it, is part of how I order my life and day–a massive labor of love. Though I live alone and work alone, the house is not really for me, or not only for me. It’s the shelter and sanctuary from which I prepare my heart to welcome the world in–even if the world never comes!

Ora et labora, as the monks say: prayer and work. Thus, I do my own housework, happily (not that I’m great at it). I shouldn’t own more stuff or inhabit more space than I can comfortably keep clean and cared for. And for me, the filling of the birdfeeders, the replacing of the batteries in the string lights, the polishing, scrubbing, wiping down, re-arranging, neatening, are all part of some larger, beautiful purpose, of a gift that’s been given to me.

I want to put a little of my body and blood into these rooms where I live my life, where I work, eat, ponder, and pray. Consequently, all of that goes into my work, or is a preparation for my work, or more accurately, IS my work, or part of it.

I want my house to be a place of welcome–not a showpiece, but at the same time not an incidental, untidy hovel either. I want to be more or less ready so that in case someone were to drop by, I’d be able to invite them into a beautiful, cleanish space and be able to fix them a good cup of coffee and a bit of a snack.

Since I’m real friends with only two people here, and am acquainted with a couple more, this is a highly unlikely possibility. But that’s not the point.

so I think a lot about St. Therese of LIsieux’s “To pick up a pin for love can convert a soul” and of Brazilian poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade’s“Save all of yourself for the wedding though nobody knows when or if it will ever come” and of Dorothy Day’s “We are sowing the seeds but we are not living in harvest time.”

Meanwhile, I’m going to look for some candles for the Tree of Life, the holders of course being a very irregular, inconvenient size.

Isn’t it cool, though?

THE HOLY SPIRIT AND FIRE

Here we are at the Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord, marking the end of the Christmas season.

Tomorrow we’ll return to Ordinary Time.

One minute it seems we’re in awe, kneeling before the manger, and the next minute Christ is a grown man, getting baptized by John in the Jordan.

Actually, the week between Epiphany to the Baptism of the Lord is wonderfully strange. There’s been the huge lacuna of Christ’s childhood and young adulthood, and then he springs into public life fully formed. Mark recounts among other incidents the Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes.

I was especially struck by the passage that comes directly after, from the Gospel this year for Wednesday, January 5.

And straightway he constrained his disciples to get into the ship, and to go to the other side before unto Bethsaida, while he sent away the people. And when he had sent them away, he departed into a mountain to pray. And when even was come, the ship was in the midst of the sea, and he alone on the land. And he saw them toiling in rowing; for the wind was contrary unto them: and about the fourth watch of the night he cometh unto them, walking upon the sea, and would have passed by them.

But when they saw him walking upon the sea, they supposed it had been a spirit, and cried out: For they all saw him, and were troubled. And immediately he talked with them, and saith unto them, Be of good cheer: it is I; be not afraid. And he went up unto them into the ship; the wind ceased: and they were sore amazed in themselves beyond measure, and wondered. For they considered not the miracle of the loaves: for their heart was hardened.
–Mark 6:45-52

He performs the stupendous miracle–then he sends everyone away and goes off by himself “into a mountain” to pray.

Wouldn’t you give anything to hear the conversation up there between Jesus and the Father? I mean was Christ himself sort of astounded and mystified by his own power, after having fed this huge crowd on a few fish and a little bit of bread?

Anyway, then he sees the disciples out on the sea toiling and without further ado, and no indication of how he got down from the mountain, “cometh unto them,” walking upon the sea. That’s weird enough, but what’s really weird is that “he would have passed by them.” WHY? Was he just out for a stroll? Did he frequently take this kind of constitutional under cover of night, just to think things over? Had he forgotten they could see him? Did he simply want to reassure the disciples that he was out and about, and near them, without however interrupting their fishing?

As for the disciples themselves, they were, understandingly, “troubled” and “sore amazed.” But interestingly, their hearts were hardened. Another translation ends with “They had not understood the incident of the loaves. On the contrary, their hearts were hardened.”

Again, WHY? Why wouldn’t they have been overcome with gratitude and joy? Did they begrudge Christ feeding the multitude when he could have just fed them? Were they pissed because they’d wanted to get rid of the crowd and let them fend for themselves re eating, and Christ had detained them, upsetting their schedule and plans?

Or was the whole episode so complicated and incomprehensible that parsing it would require energy and time they didn’t feel like sparing? Hey, they had work to do! (Interesting, too, that they’d dropped thier nets to follow him but apparently still fished for a living).

Anyway, meditating (in my scattershot way) upon that passage in particular made for a rich week of preparing my heart to lay one more Christmas season to rest.

I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling a sadness each year as I take down the lights, wrap the creche figures one by one in tissue paper, nestle the ornaments back into their cushioned nests, and lay Volume III of the 4-volume Liturgy of the Hours near my little prayer station in order to be ready for tomorrow morning.

Yesterday I was thinking how I never want the Christmas season to end: the delicious anticipation of Advent, the buildup to Christmas eve, the star in the East, the magi, gold, frankincense, incense and myrrh…the tinself, the glitter, the light shining in darkness.

Lent, on the other hand, I can hardly ever wait to be over: the bare altar, the fasting, the buildup to a ghastly, monstrous murder-death. The “ornaments” for Lent are a crown of thorns, a heavy cross, the nails, a spear. And like the disciples, I balk at spending an hour in the Garden of Gethsemane.

But after the joyous birth, Christ spent his whole life preparing for death. The Crucifixion was his vocation, the consummeation of his mission.

Lately I’ve heard a couple of people remark that we’re dead a whole hell of a lot longer than we’re alive.

Let’s make the most of it while we’re here!

WASTEBASKET NOT, WANT NOT

Another little incident to be filed under “Daily Debacles.”

For years, I would almost never buy any article of clothing, piece of furniture, book, or plant that was new. I scavenged the streets of LA, shopped at Goodwill, even foraged for food. Not from Dumpsters—even I wouldn’t go that far—but produce from the sidewalk, for example, was absolutely fair game.

I’ve made a lot of progress in this area but old habits die hard. Blame a set of Depression-era parents, one whose own parents came over on the boat from Ireland, a working-class father with eight kids, and the very real fact that a self-employed “creative writer”—who’s Catholic no less—is not in this culture poised to become a “high earner.”

Anyway, so just before the holidays I realized that for six years my kitchen trashcan has been too small. Round, aluminum—I think the thing was actually meant for the bathroom. When I bought it (new!), from The Container Store, I was setting up shop in my then-new apartment in Pasadena and was no doubt cowed by the initial outlay and trying to economize.

Supposedly I could step on a little lever and the cover would open but that feature had gone by the wayside long ago. I didn’t so much mind that as the fact that any trash bag of sufficient heftiness was about three times too big so the edges were always hanging over. Also I was always kind of missing or slopping over the fairly small opening so was constantly wiping up around. Et cetera.

With my newly-expanded consciousness, however, last week I realized out of the blue, Hey, I could buy a NEW trash can. A bigger trash can. A trash can that is actually meant for a kitchen!

So I shopped around and got a very nice number from Simple Home or Basic Brain or some outfit like that. It’s the right, convenient size, the garbage bag fits, the lever works—my life has been transformed!

Still, there was the matter of the old trash can, which technically still had quite a bit of life in it.

In LA, you just put any old thing you don’t want on the sidewalk and within minutes it’s been whisked away by some lucky scavenger. The neighborhood I live in here in Tucson isn’t exactly hoity-toity, but people just don’t seem to leave things out and the owner, who lives in back, I thought might frown on such a practice.

I thought to move it to the bathroom where it belongs but it was too big to fit in between the toilet and sink.

I keep a running Goodwill pile—but would even Goodwill want a used kitchen trash can? Probably not—so with some misgiving, I decided to put my old item out with the garbage. The yardman, however, had just pruned the mesquite trees and filled the bin to the brim. So I left my little dented silver aluminum can to the side, meaning to put in the bin come Monday, after the weekly garbage truck came.

Seeing it out there a few times during the week, though—I just couldn’t do it. Well? I waffled. Paul, the handyman, was coming Thursday to install a couple of door sweeps. He’d mentioned that he lived in an apartment complex and that he was friends with the manger…maybe someone over there could use it.

So I hauled it back to the yard, got out my ammonia and scrub brush, and gave the thing a thorough cleaning. It was pretty clean to begin with, but I even took an old toothbrush to the tricky part where the top hinges on. It really looked pretty darn good.

I kept thinking of a book by Ryszard Kapuscinski called Empire of the Sun about sub-Saharan Africa. He had a passage about how people would own one thing, literally one thing. Like one guy would have a shirt, another a pickaxe. And they’d pool resources if someone, say, got a job. Why, the right person would be glad to have my trash bin!

To me, the offer of anything free gives rise to a massive endorphin rush. So offering a free item, especially one I’d put a little thought and work into, to someone else….Gosh! —would Paul even think I was flirting! I felt a teeny bit giddy when he knocked at the door, tools in tow.

We walked around the house a bit to re-establish which two doors needed a sweep (he’d been over the week before to case things out). And then, gesturing to my little offering with a mixture of shyness and pride, I said, “Hey could you by chance use a kitchen bin? It’s in pretty good shape!”

No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I realized I was offering the poor guy my old trash can. He looked at me, looked at the trashcan, and looked back again. “Unh, that’s okay,” he replied evenly. “I’m pretty set right now for wastebaskets.”

I cringed back to my office lair, pulsing with shame while he worked. He was finished in half an hour. I thanked him profusely.  

And after he left, there was the shined-up old trash bin, still sitting in the corner of the hallway. I just couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. This morning I took it down cellar and gave it a little pat.

Goodwill, for sure. They can do with it what they want.

RUN AFTER THE STAR

“Run after the star, and bring gifts with the Magi, gold and frankincense and myrrh, as to a king and a God and one dead for your sake.”

–St. Gregory Nazienzen

Is it me or is Epiphany super early this year? Supposedly it’s the 12th day after Christmas, but then again, it’s the first Sunday after January 1 (?) Whatever the case, it’s today.

(Here’s a little-known fact: the day after Epiphany is traditionally known as Plough Monday, which to my mind seems a very healthy corrective to such grotesque cultural institutions as Black Friday and Cyber Monday).

At any rate, I’d planned to fly to California’s Central Coast for a small New Year’s gathering with dear friends, but my flight got cancelled. They graciously suggested a zoom gathering New Year’s Eve, which was one of the highlights of my holiday season, and we used some of our time to set a reschedule date.

I was in bed by 10, asleep by 11, and woke at 4:21 a.m. New Year’s Day. My nervous system is pretty much grounded in running after the star, at all times, and amps up even further this time of year.

The whole of the Advent and Christmas season is for me liminal time. The Divine Office, with Morning, Evening and sometimes Daytime Prayer; emerging from daily vigil Mass in the dark and walking home down the light-festooned streets; my own solar-powered lantern lights, plug-in lights, and candles of various kinds–beeswax tapers, tea candles, votives, pillars, 6-day Sacred Image Bottle Light candles from the St. Jude Shop emblazoned with Madonna and Child, St. Peregrine, and the Sacred Heart…

The readings from Isaiah, Handel’s Messiah, Bach’s Christmas Oratorio, the Kate and Anna McGarrigle Christmas Hour…

Another highlight of the season was 9 am Mass yesterday, January 1, on the Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God, at Sts. Peter and Paul here in Tucson.

Fr. Justin is back from Africa (his father died), and thanks be to the Lord. There were only about 25 of us in this huge sanctuary, which was beautiful with its lit trees and wreaths, the morning sun pouring through the stained-glass windows, and a woman, accompanied by the piano, singing “Ave Maria.”

Father processed in, sporting a vestment adorned on the back with an image of the Virgin Mary, the deacon holding the Gospel aloft…he gave a simple heartfelt homily about how Mary is our mother–Mary is everyone’s mother–and the vocalist sang the Kyrie, Gloria, and old-school hymns throughout in a way that was also beautifully simple and clear…decent music at Mass is such an anomaly I was actually taken aback.

I went around and thanked everyone afterwards and there was a big box of lemons from someone’s tree on the way out so I nabbed a couple and isn’t that just like Christ–Thank you for coming to “Do this in memory of me” and hey, here’s some fruit!

Then last night I had my friends Johnny and Felicia over as I had planned to make dinner one night at the (aborted) California gathering so decided to cook here instead. We had pasta with caramelized shallots, (I had my doubts whilst cooking but it actually came out pretty well), roasted pear salad with hazelnuts, endive and Roquefort, and Claudia Roden’s orange and almond cake with maple ice cream. And coffee. Oh and good bread.

And even better conversation.

Sometimes you run after the star, and sometimes the stars come to you.

Over the holidays a loyal reader (snail!-) mailed me this quote that ‘ve read before but that struck me with renewed force:

“Nothing is more practical than finding God, that is, than falling in a love in a quite absolute, final way. What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination will affect everything. It will decide what will get you out of bed in the mornings, what you will do with your evenings, how you spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you with joy and gratitude. Fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.

–Pedro Arrupe, S.J.

That’s what I’m trying to get at: that (benign) force or invitation or call that gets us out of bed in the morning. How grateful I am for the treasury of the Church: its angels, martyrs, saints; its liturgical seasons, memorials, feasts, solemnities. Its ongoing, every-unfolding story–for those of us who live in a kind of cloister of one kind or another, for those of us estranged from family in one form or another (between the two, that pretty much covers all of us), the Church gives us a family, a meaning, a purpose, a mission, a place at the table around which to gather, celebrate, commune, ponder, mourn.

It’s always someone’s birthday (which in the Church is the day the person died, thereby entering into new life). There’s always an event to commemmorate by a song, a painting, a shared meal. There’s always spiritual meat on which to chew.

There’s always something to look forward to, a special Preface, antiphon, image, hymn.

A candle to light.

A star to run after.

Next up: The Baptism!

ADORATION OF THE MAGI ,
GENTILE DA FABRIANO, 1423
THIS IMAGE, TOO, CAME TO ME VIA SNAIL MAIL–
HAPPY NEW YEAR, BILL!