Kathleen M. Basi's Blog, page 32

My World As Lent Begins

Photo by Carolyn Lehrke, via Flickr

Causing me pain today:

My shoulders and back. After twenty years, I am accustomed to joint/muscle/back issues and I know a lot of stretches and most of the release points for the usual suspects, but this one is different, causing an aching pain that radiates down my left tricep (triceps?). Thank God, my massage therapist has an opening tonight.

On my mind and heart:

This video, of Syria. I simply do not understand the xenophobia surrounding Syrian refugees.

Forming my view of Lent this year:

This link, in which Pope Francis quotes St. John Chrysostom: “No matter how much time you spend fasting, no matter how much you sleep on a hard floor and eat ashes and sigh continually, if you do no good to others, you do nothing great.”

In my life right now, this translates to: “The point isn’t to make yourself miserable so can pat yourself on the back and think you’re all holy. Use this time to do something that’s going to make an impact on others.”

Lenten discipline:

Focusing on mercy this year has me thinking all the time about my concrete, outward-directed words and actions. So I’ve decided that instead of piling on something new for Lent, I’m going to try to put some intellectual/spiritual muscle behind what I’ve already begun. I’m going to focus on reading—I am wading slowly through A Marginal Jew, vol. 2 and having my mind blown by Laudato Si, and yesterday I ordered Mercy In The City: How to Feed the Hungry, Give Drink to the Thirsty, Visit the Imprisoned, and Keep Your Day Job.

A Call To Hospitality:

Late last week, I was sitting on the bench at Kidz Court at the mall, letting Michael play while we waited to pick up the boys from school, when a Latino man came up to me and tried to ask a question. His English was so broken that I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to ask. Neither could the other mother sitting on that bench. After he gave up and left, it occurred to us he was probably asking where the restrooms were. I felt awful.

This encounter underscored for me something I began to think about during my week at the Liturgical Composers’ Forum. During that week, as we sang music in both English and Spanish, and often both—gorgeous, deeply moving music–I realized I need to learn Spanish.

Some among my readership will likely gnash their teeth, hearing that, and invoke official language and the need for people to learn the language of the country where they live. But if I am going to seek to grow in mercy—i.e. “entering into the chaos” of others, of being open-hearted to others—that presupposes a willingness to meet others where they are, rather than forcing them to come to me.

I have no idea how I am going to carve out time to learn a new language. I only know that this, too, in some fledgling way, is part of my Lenten pursuit of mercy.

This is my world as Lent begins. Well. It’s one sliver of my world, but the sliver that is relevant on Ash Wednesday.

Queen for a Day. I mean, Week.

For me??????

I have a very serious post brewing, but I can’t formulate “serious” on the heels of a Super Bowl party with eight children (ages toddler to tween) and four adults in the house. So instead, today you get Julianna stories. You don’t mind, do you?

It’s been birthday week for her, and what with phone calls and Skype sessions and cards and visitors, I truly mean birthday week. Saturday we wrapped things up by going ice skating as a family. When I got in the car, Kids #2 and 4 were singing “Santa Claus is Coming To Town.” #s 1 and 3, of course, were shouting loudly, “STOP THAT! IT’S NOT CHRISTMAS ANYMORE!”

I turned around and grinned at Julianna. “How about we sing Taylor Swift instead? ‘I knew you were trouble when you walked in!’”

Julianna didn’t miss a beat. She said, “Who, ME? NEVVAH!”

I swear. She said it EXACTLY like that.

This weekend was also Rite of Enrollment for kids receiving First Communion this year. The priest, who is a bit of a ham, said, “Oh, look how cute they all are!” One little girl (NOT mine) said loudly enough to be heard all over the church, “I’m not cute, I’m smart!”

“Well, this is a feisty bunch,” he said, and the entire assembly laughed. “Now all these cute-and-smart kids are going to put their names in the basket and go back to their seats!”

The kids swarmed the front of the altar. Julianna, of course, awkward and uncertain in motion, couldn’t penetrate the crowd, so she hung out beside an altar candle until everyone else was done. By the time she dropped her paper in the basket and started down the sanctuary steps, one hesitant foot at a time, everybody else was long gone…and the assembly had been invited to applaud. Which they were.

Julianna lit up like a thousand candles. You could just see it in her eyes: “For ME?”

Yes, honey. All for you.

Oh, how I love this girl.

Kids in Church, Vol. 2

Time for another round of “Kids in Church” moments: the funny, the painfully embarrassing, and the sweet! (If you missed Volume One, click here.)

Photo by wackystuff, via Flickr

Lisa H.

I’ve always taken to the boys with me when I go communion. Fr Joe’s first weekend at St. Andrew’s, I take C. up and Fr reaches his hand out to bless him, and C. reaches up gives him a high five! Fr and I laugh and he can’t say “Body of Christ”. So after mass I ask him if he’s ever had that happen and he tell me no. But every week C. wants to give Fr a high five at communion!

Roberta L.:

A. was about 3 or 4 years old and loved to turn around and look at the people who sat behind us. One Sunday there was a lovely family with a few teenage girls and a mom and a dad. A. turned around and pointed to the first girl and said “blonde hair”, she moved her little finger in front of the next girl and said “brown hair” then she got to the dad and said “no hair!”

Holly T.:

When I was about 12 we were at Mass and there was a family sitting in front row directly in front of the priest. The boy, probably 4, was scratching his privates. His mother tried to distract during the singing of the psalm. As soon at the music ended and all was silent the kid yelled at his mother, “But my penis itches!”

Laura F.:

“Teddy” is about 3 or so, and he and my husband are sitting in the second row in front of me (in front per usual) at a Sunday morning Mass (just me and the guitar again). This is before the addition was built at IC so the windows on that side actually lead to outside. It’s a warm day, and they’re open. Teddy is, shall we say, way over energetic and just not behaving at all and his dad is fed up. It’s at that quiet moment of Mass, I think it was right before Communion. So, my husband is talking to Teddy, counting down to taking him out, and finally goes to take him out. He has to pass right in front of me with the microphone right there, and Teddy screams, “No, Daddy, noooo! Pleeeease!” Out the door they go, but they’re right by the open window….. And then we hear, “No, Daddy, no, please! Don’t spank me! Please!” followed by…… the sound of a spanking. Once again, all I could do was announce the song…..

Sherrie V.M.:

Two weeks ago, right at the start of the Gospel, the deacon read, “Jesus said,” and a toddler shrieked right on cue into the pause. Not missing a beat, the deacon went on, “Not quite. More like this.” The man gets a gold star for making an embarrassing moment a point of grace.

Siobhan M.:

This weekend, just before a snappy responsorial Ps 126, the pianist’s toddlers escaped from Grandpa and ran screaming gleefully. As an aunt, I am WELL-TRAINED not to express my amusement. And as the conductor, I didn’t want to crack up my cantor. But oh my, it was so.hard. Come on. “We are filled with joy”? It’s not fair!

Karen A.:

A friend’s toddler was acting up in church, and when she got up and started to carry him out he called out “Pray for me!”

Janelle L.:

One of my children, when people were saying “peace be with you,” would holler “I want a piece! Give me a piece!”

Janet R.:

My nephew saw the priest transferring hosts from one plate to another and called out excitedly, “He’s got chips!”

Any more? Leave them in the comments or email me at kathleeenbasi (at) gmail (dot) com! Can we keep this series going?

Retreat and Re-Entry

I spent last week at the Liturgical Composers Forum in St. Louis. I’ve never attended an event quite like this—one part retreat, one part professional conference, one part social hour(s)—and the most amazing musical prayer I’ve ever experienced. When we began evening prayer the first night in the chapel at the Mercy Center, the sound almost flattened me. I don’t know how else to explain it. To be in a group of forty or so highly-trained professional musicians, two thirds of them men—it’s just not a sound you encounter very often. It was incredibly prayerful.

It was also amazing to be in a room full of people whose work has shaped the worship of my adulthood—and some of them my childhood as well–and to feel at home among them. Like I belonged there. They were so open, so welcoming. As a group of followers of Christ ought to be.

There was affirmation at every turn, and inspiration. There was (a little) time to be still and to walk through the grounds. There was definitely not enough sleep, but the tradeoff was worth it.

All week, people kept asking, “So are you missing your kids?”

But inevitably they were asking at 7a.m., 3:30 p.m., or 7:45 p.m.—which are, respectively, leave-for-school time, pickup time (AKA the Witching Hour), or bedtime. I would say, “Do you know what is happening in my house right now? Um, no.”

Friday morning a friend and fellow composer brought his four year old to breakfast, and for a second I couldn’t breathe. I can’t quite put it into words; it was a visceral, body-and-soul kind of thing. I lost the thread of the table conversation entirely. And I went, “Oh, it must be time to go home.”

When I pulled into the driveway a couple hours later, Michael flung the door open and stood on the threshold giggling. I soon found myself flat on the kitchen floor with a four-year-old lying on top of me. He wasn’t even wiggling. For the rest of the day he didn’t want to be out of my sight, and preferably he wanted to be on my lap.

I met the boys at the door after school. Alex gasped and said, “Mom!” and threw his arms around me. And then it was done, but it was a brief, most un-tween-like display of passion. Nicholas was considerably less reserved. When Julianna got off the bus, she was all giggles. And frankly I think Christian was most of all relieved to be done with single dad duty!

Everyone in the world walks in multiple worlds, professional and personal, and I’m certainly not the only one to feel disoriented by how far apart they sometimes seem. But being away for a few days helped me feel connected to something bigger than my insular little home. And it gave me enough of an emotional break to really appreciate how hysterically funny it can be to parent little boys.

To wit:

Friday afternoon, my four-year-old boy—the same one who said Wolverine has sharp forks–came running up to me and shouted, “Mommy, look! I am wearing LIP GLOSS!”

My cup runneth over.

What Julianna does to Daddy when she gets bored playing LEGO Harry Potter

Rod Stewart is in the house!

Mercy Begins With Me

The things that wake me in the middle of the night and make me writhe with shame are never memories of things I did that were actually wrong. Generally speaking, they’re memories of moments in which I made a fool of myself.

It’s easier to forgive myself for having done something wrong than for making myself look stupid.

Clearly, there’s a lesson in there about pride, but there’s also a truth about mercy. Namely, mercy begins with me.

I don’t know about you, but I hold myself to higher standards than I hold anyone else. I am willing to overlook certain foibles—not all, mind you, but some—in other people, but I lash myself for those same faults. This is not entirely bad, of course. I have a healthy examination of conscience going at any given time, and I value the constant tug from within to become a better person–less annoying, easier to work with–than I was yesterday.

On the other hand, how can I open my heart to others–how can I enter into their chaos; how can I offer mercy, compassion and forgiveness to them–when I have hardened my heart against myself? If I can’t find it in my heart to give mercy to the person in the world I understand best, how can I hope to give it to people whose perspectives and experiences I cannot understand at all?

I have no answers to these questions. They are food for thought for me today, and so I offer them to you as well.

For other Mercy on a Monday posts, click here.

 

 

Off Making Music

Item 1: Time plus focus = momentum, the anti-writer’s block.

Item 2: I have neither time nor excessive amounts of focus.

Net Result: I frequently feel a frustrating lack of inspiration when writing music, even though I feel more alive when I write music than with anything else I do.

It is, perhaps, divine irony that in de-cluttering and re-packing my computer bag today I threw away an unread, torn-out page of a Writer’s Digest issue on nurturing creativity and saw the suggestion: “Vary your creative pursuits.”

I salute you, WD, and I obey. This week I am off to the Mercy Center in St. Louis for the Liturgical Composers Forum, soaking in the collective wisdom of people with a lot more experience than myself. I will blog if there is time; if not (as I suspect), I’ll be back next Monday. If you are near St. Louis, we’ll be ending the week with a concert on Thursday evening benefiting the Mercy Center. More info and ticket link are here (tickets must be purchased in advance).

2015 LCF concert. Image via Mercy Center STL. Used with permission.

 

7 Quick Takes

Well, it’s been a pretty heavy topic week on this blog  and I think it’s time for a breather. So today is a 7 Quick Takes day.

-1-

A few times every year I sing the national anthem at university athletic events here in town. I’ve been doing this since I was expecting Nicholas. I’ve done baseball, softball, gymnastics, tennis, women’s basketball, and swimming and diving (where I sing from the highest platform. I did that four weeks before Nicholas was born, and it’s really quite something to look down on that diving pool. It’s a lot darker blue than other pools.) But this week I got a call to sing for a men’s basketball game. (And I found out as I was writing this morning that my parents were at the game!)

-2-

Being a men’s game, I wasn’t allowed to bring the whole family; we only got two tickets. Nicholas was the one who wanted to come. The entire evening he did not stop asking questions. I sang, we went up into the stands to watch for half an hour, and it went on and on. If he didn’t like my first answer he’d ask the same question in marginally different words. It was about the contents of the storage area where I warmed up, and why I was singing toward the color guard instead of the flag hung on the wall, and the game. (I have to say, I was gratified by how much I actually know about basketball!)

By the time we were hurrying back down the hill to the car to get to choir practice, I was wishing I’d thought to count how many questions I’d answered, because I knew no one except Christian and my dad, who’s experienced Nicholas on a roll in a confined space (a tractor cab) would truly get the intensity of that hour and a half.

-3-

Incidentally, can I just insert a gripe here? I made use of a unisex bathroom in the belly of the arena, and a man was walking out, spending all manner of energy trying to turn off the light…and yet HE HADN’T FLUSHED THE TOILET. I thought that was a “kid” thing. Is it actually a “male” thing?????

-4-

Two inches. Really. Photo by jk5854, via Flickr

Wednesday also happened to be the most useless, uncalled-for snow day ever to smack a work-at-home mom between the eyes. Two. Inches. Of snow. The single good thing about that day was that the kids had dental appointments at 8 a.m., and this way they didn’t miss any school.

But if it tells you anything about our day, every single one of my children had had a crying (or screaming) breakdown before ten a.m. Every single one. And by noon, I was threatening to send them to their rooms for the remainder of the day if they couldn’t get along.

-5-

We’ve started doing First Communion prep work with Julianna, and although it’s not my favorite way to approach the topic, the book begins with the whole community-building-by-comparison-to-family. Julianna had to draw a family picture, which we all found so funny that I just wanted to share it today:

-6-

This is boring post. But I have a lot to do, so I’m just going to go with it.

-7-

Next week is an event I’ve been looking forward to for several months: a retreat for liturgical composers. If you’re in the St. Louis area, there will be a benefit concert on Thursday night (info here), which, knowing the level of musicianship of the people who are going to be there, I can guarantee will be a good one. I couldn’t commit to this weeklong event for a long time because it’s so hard to work out child care. Eventually we just had to say, “Oh, we’ll figure it out, go ahead and register.” Naturally, Christian’s work commitments prevent him from taking off most of the time he asked for; ergo a whole lot of my to-do list for the next few days involves figuring out how to get kids home from school and safely supervised until he gets home from work.

These are the moments in which you realize the monetary value of a stay-or-work-at-home parent.

-bonus-

Oh, that’s right! I forgot this little gem of Michael’s, a child who is developing an incredibly rich and unselfconscious pretend life: “I am Wolverine, and I have FORKS!”

Have a great weekend!

Prying My Heart Open

A week or two after 9/11, I was coming out of Aldi, trying (predictably) to carry too much to the car. The bag split, and groceries went everywhere, including a gallon jug of skim milk, which cracked open and splattered all over the asphalt. I was pretty emotional already, and I was on the verge of breaking down when someone appeared by my side, offering to help.

It was a man of Middle Eastern descent. Head covering and all. He helped me gather up the groceries and take them to my car and load them in the trunk. And now, instead of wanting to cry for embarrassment and hormones, I felt myself tearing up for joy. You remember the ugly things people were saying at that time: the suspicion that anyone of a certain skin color and style of dress must be a terrorist. This brief encounter seemed like a divine whisper reminding me that I was surrounded by goodness.

That was not the first time I experienced this.

I’ve lived my entire life in and out of the St. Louis area; my grandmother lives there, two of my aunts live there, now my sister lives there. I grew up with a certain knowledge: East St. Louis is Bad News. You just don’t go there, because you’re probably going to get mugged.

One day when I was in college, I went to St. Louis for a family gathering. Having never driven the route myself, I made a wrong turn and ended up in the heart of East St. Louis, lost and terrified, stuck in a construction zone, and remembering everything I’d ever heard about the place.

I don’t know how this African American construction worker knew I needed help. Maybe I screwed up the courage to roll down my window a crack and ask. I don’t remember. But he was so nice. So very, very nice. He helped me get turned around, and he gave me very specific, easy to follow directions. And as I got back on the highway headed toward my grandmother’s house, I had this moment of deep gratitude that I didn’t fully understand. I only knew there was more to East St. Louis than the crime-ridden hellhole I’d been led to expect.

In these days of noisy rhetoric about building a wall and of angry judgments about the intentions of those who protest peacefully, I keep returning to those two memories. Building walls—literal ones, along the southern border; those written into rules about refugees; or the far more damaging ones in our hearts—is easier than prying our hearts open.

I, and most of the people I know, spend too much of our lives within the safe confines of our own, insular little worlds, where we rarely have to interact with people whose life experiences are 180 degrees from ours. That makes the world seem deceptively black and white. And as long as a problem doesn’t cross the borders of our safe zone—my home, my neighborhood, my town–we act like it’s enough to pray from a distance and call it done. Their problem. Their responsibility.

But it’s not. It’s our responsibility, too. We owe it to ourselves, to our children and our children’s children, and most especially we owe it to the person of Christ in others, to undertake the hard work, person to person, that can bridge the gaps and break down the walls, and teach us to see goodness in others, instead of a threat.

On Sarcasm, Mercy, and having your conscience walking around in the body of a six-year-old

It didn’t take long for this list of ways to live out the year of mercy to nail me between the eyes:

1) Resist sarcasm; it is the antithesis of mercy: “”Set, O Lord, a guard over my mouth; keep watch, O Lord, at the door of my lips!” (Psalm 141:3).

Um…ouch.

Sarcasm is the cloak I wear at certain times of the month. It is my instant response to being asked a) stupid questions, b) questions I’ve already answered, and c) stupid questions I’ve already answered.

It’s also my instant response when a political candidate gets on my nerves (daily, at a minimum), when a driver does something I don’t like, or a piece of technology causes me inconvenience. And it’s always aimed at the people behind those irritants, who should have been smarter and more polite than to bother Almighty Me.

I’m a word pictures kind of girl, and in the past month, mercy has come to be associated with something soft and cool, pliable, able to bridge the gap between square pegs and round holes. Sarcasm, on the other hand, is a hard, hot slap in the face. It raises hackles and solidifies them into brick walls. It makes both parties hard and unforgiving (in every sense). Brittle, as Monsignor Vlaun said in today’s daily reflection at USCCB.

Sarcasm is demeaning to others. It excoriates the soul and causes sensitive people to retreat into themselves. It shuts down communication. It might be funny, but the laughter only makes the belittling and the soul scouring feel even more belittling and soul scouring. It feeds bad feelings on both sides: self-hatred on the part of the victim and self-righteousness on the part of the one who doles it out.

It can be death on a marriage, in particular, and cause real pain to children, who only want to be loved, even when they’re completely clueless how to express that need appropriately.

Resist sarcasm; it is the antithesis of mercy.

I read those words and instantly vowed to change. And just in case there was any doubt that this was what I was called to do, the Holy Spirit gave me a big wakeup call the next day. It was in the van on the way home from school, and my mini-me responded to his little brother with blistering sarcasm, his tone dripping with contempt. It cut me to the soul, instantly and so profoundly that I even remember where we were on the route. Because this is my fault. I’ve taught them this.

I don’t remember what I said. I do know it was not a scolding; it was heartfelt and involved confessing my own fault in the matter. I told them part of what I was doing for the year of mercy was to quit being sarcastic.

The car was quiet for a few moments, which, if you’ve ever had three, four, five, or six kids in the car (as I do on a regular basis–am I not lucky?), you’ll know is no small thing. You don’t always know when a sea change is taking place in your life, but I think one began in that moment. And although my own intentions are good, I don’t think the credit really belongs to me. Why? Well, because I’ve realized something in the couple of weeks since that exchange.

You know that old saying about how parenthood means having your heart walking around outside your body?

Well, I think God gives you children in order to make sure you have a conscience walking around in someone else’s body, commenting out loud on your foibles. In this case, the body of my six-year-old.

“Mom, are you being sarcastic?” Nicholas will ask me.

“Um…yes, I was. I’m so sorry, honey. You’re right.”

“Mom, I think that was sarcastic!”

“We-ell, that was sort on the edge. It was more like a joke.”

It’s been good for me. It’s making me stop and think before I share the effervescence of my own wit.

I don’t like it. But I can feel the difference. I’m not so angry, so volatile, like a pump primed and ready to react to the slightest provocation. The inside of my chest feels a little cooler and settled, more relaxed, more open. It feels like growth. And that is, after all, what I’m going for, in this year of mercy.

No Fuss, No Muss

How I feel about makeup and styling my hair. (Photo by icke48, via Flickr)

I don’t do “girl” very well.

It took me twenty-seven years to figure out how to handle curly hair, because I refuse to mess with it. Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing but admiration for the women I know who can do updos and braids, who know how to use curling irons and blow dryers to make their hair into works of art. I enjoy looking at the results, and if I had money to blow, I’d consider hiring somebody to do it to me.

But I can’t do it. I will not spend more than five minutes on my hair, and that would be considered a special occasion. Truthfully, in my world, good hair results come most often when I throw it up in a clip without looking. The more time I spend on it, the worse it looks.

Then there’s makeup. I am continually befuddled by how many women I work out with go to the trouble of putting makeup on before coming to Jazzercise. I like the look of makeup, but it’s such a bother. In December I had to wear makeup five days in a row, and by the last day, I was gnashing my teeth as I stood in front of the mirror to put it on. And seven times out of ten, the minute I put on eyeliner and eyeshadow, it sensitizes my eye and some speck of dust requires me to take my contact out and replace it, and then all the makeup is rubbed off anyway.

I cannot stand the feel of nail polish.

But it’s not just girly stuff that’s feeling like a real bother these days. I’ve been in a serious no-fuss funk lately. I didn’t want to put up the Christmas village. I didn’t want to put up the garland and bows on the stairs. I mean, I’ve been around this block a few times now. You spend twenty minutes getting the swags just so, and two days later somebody snags one at a dead run and it’s all over for the season. What’s the point? We didn’t pull out the Christmas plates until Christmas Eve, and they went right back in the hutch after they were washed.

Then there’s the “mom” thing. I often wince when I consider what people at my kids’ schools must think of me. (Because they have nothing better to do with their time than think about me and my life. Ahem.) I never, ever remember to have my kids a) bring the stuffed animal, b) wear the PJs for PJ day (except today! Miracle of miracles!), c) wear the spirit day shirt, d) bring the canned good on said spirit day, e) bring the money for the charity…

You get the idea. Frankly, I’m just thrilled to think I can get everyone safely from point A to point B and back.

One of my critique partners, at a meeting one night, said, “Kate, do you have a tissue?”

I said, “Man, you’re asking the wrong ‘mom.’ I have to ask OTHER people for that stuff.”

And this December, when we took Nicholas to his first-and-second-grade concert, I shared my little glow of pride that he was actually, unlike any other child I’ve ever sent to a concert, dressed appropriately.

Christian cocked his eyebrows. “That’s nice. In six years at this school, you’ve sent one kid dressed appropriately, once?”

So much for my glow of pride.

It just seems like there are so many more important things in life than wearing makeup or having a perfect hairdo or having a picture-perfect Christmas display. Like…working on my novel. Cooking really good food. Reading a good book. Sitting in a quiet place. Watching political debates.

Just kidding on that one.

But I’m beginning to wonder if a little muss and fuss might be in order in my life. It’s all about time, and the judicious use of what little I have. Squeezing every drop of productivity out of the moments I have is a matter of pride with me, but maybe I need to allow a little more squandered time. Or at least, to adjust my vision of what constitutes accomplishment. Having a cleared-off computer desk might be nice, you know? Looking nice more than on Sundays?

I don’t know. I’m not committing, yet. I’m just thinking about it.