Synchronicity

Happy Coincidences, Line-Crossings, De Ja Vus (sp? Ha!) . . . whatever one might call those happenings that seem just a little beyond our daily concrete realm have always both fascinated and humbled me. I remember being good-naturedly harrassed by my family when my overly-sensitive, and perhaps awkwardly developing intuitive little self would bring things from the "other realm" to their attention: "Mom, isn't it wierd that I was just reading about a blue car and now there is one driving right in front of us?" or "Dad, I had a feeling you were going to bring home Spaghetti Basketti for supper tonight--I had a dream about their strawberry soda last night." After one too many of these precocious pronouncements, my sister began calling me "psychic"--but while her tone was fairly good-natured, and never exactly mean, I could sense the tinge of weariness my Rational big sis had with her Idealistic, Middle Child, little sis. Today, when my big sis calls me "psychic" it is an endearing short-hand in our conversations--made possible by both of us maturing--her with a little more patience and willingness to play with these ideas, and me with employing a filter that tells me that not everything is mystical. I've even gotten my very sensible husband to play along now and again--our version of this we have termed "envelope moments." These moments are when you know something--in his case usually due to rational common sense, and in mine, a more intuitive gut-feeling--and you are so sure of what you know or are predicting that you want to write it down, seal it in an envelope, and then give it to someone to open when the predicted "knowing" comes true.

Why do I write about this now? Because that beautiful little friend, synchronicity, arrived in our mailbox yesterday, and it was such a beautiful reminder that there is more to this world than we ken.

So, what arrived? Just the latest version of Sports Illustrated. I spent about thirty minutes flipping through it and being reminded of what great writers can be found between the slick photos and ostentatious ads. And then there it was on the last page--a final, one-page column about the Pittsburgh Pirates. The article itself was about what it meant to be a Bucks fan over the past forty years or so since Roberto Clemente died so tragically, and what it means to be a Bucks fan now in 2011 when they are finally winning again and currently sitting atop the National League standings. An interesting read, but it was the first two paragraphs that had me. The first paragraph opened by paying homage to Primanti Bros., a favored Pittsburgh eatery, describing the beauty of PNC Park, and  savoring the smells of beer, pierogies, and french fries on a rainy baseball night. Normally, this would have just struck me as some good, sensory writing, but seeing as though JUST LAST WEEK we were at PNC Park eating Primanti Bros., looking for a pierogie but not finding one(?!), and patiently waiting out two rain delays to see the Bucks play . . .well, let's suffice it to say that it felt like the article had been written just for us.

I showed the article to my family--10-yr-old read it and offered a disaffected, "Cool," 8-yr-old read it and said, "Wow!! It's all just like us, except we where there on a Monday, not a Friday like it said," and my husband gave me a knowing smile of the sort that my sister just to placate me with. For my part, I am keenly aware that the writers and editors of SI simply have their thumb on what is hot in baseball right now, and I am fully aware that our family vacation this summer to Pittsburgh was not necessarily pre-ordained by the vacationbaseball gods--our trip being mostly motivated by the desire to visit my 97-yr-old grandmother. But. The synchronicity of it all isn't something I have to stretch for, instead, it comes softly but firmly as the real ones (not the blue car ones) used to when I was small. It tells me that all is where it should be. My 8-yr-old baseball fanactic would assume it  means that the Bucs are supposed to be winning, while I may not disagree with that, for me, these little glimpses beyond our dailiness, remind me that I am indeed not in charge of this realm--or the next.

Home from Vacation

Just home from a family vacation to Pittsburgh. On day one of our journey, just after crossing into Ohio and taking our first hiatus at a rest stop, 8-year-old exclaims in amusement and delight, "Look Mom! You can buy a spoon of Ohio!" I laughed, thinking back to all of the "treasures" that my sister and I used to find at rest stops and various gas stations along the Indiana/Ohio/Pennsylvania Turnpikes as we ventured from our family home in Illinois to The Family Home in St. Benedict, PA. I thought then that I might chronicle all of the boys' discoveries and musings and write a funny blog about our journey upon our return home. I suppose I could still do that, and although it was a good trip in many ways, I find that we're all a bit weary, and my writing doesn't feel very "snappy" at the moment. Instead, we're all distracted by our post-vacation funk-

10-year-old has the strep throat. Okay, well, the doc-in-the-box who took the in-office throat culture says that it isn't, but a viral infection instead. The swollen lymph nodes all around 10-year-old's neck, the tonsils so swollen he keeps gagging, and the not-so-pleasant odor tell me otherwise. I guess we'll just wait for the doc to call us back and tell us that the lab culture does indeed indicate strep, and now, three days of pain and no medication later, we'll finally get a prescription--you'd think we've been through this exact scenario before--like, um, five times in the last year? So, he lays on the couch, sucking down popsicles and watching a Harry Potter marathon.

8-year-old is reading his way through the heat. Mad at Mom and Dad for not allowing him to play baseball at noon in the triple-digit weather, he has succumbed to his baseball books and baseball on the Wii.

Determined husband is outside in the triple-digits trying valiantly to finish the siding on the house before he returns to school in a week. He doesn't "wanna hafta" but, I think he is most weary of this project hanging over his head. And I'm most weary watching him.

And me? Feeling done with summer, not ready for school--only because I have things to do to prepare yet--and just generally a bit fussy. This is a familiar place for me--My body says rest, my mind doesn't like to otherwise it gets itself into trouble, and a few weeks off yet from "normal life" returning. Hm. Must be home from summer vacation . . .

At the risk of offending . . .

I've been pondering John 6 this summer. I've been examining my beliefs, helping my 8-yr-old explore his, and in the process, been wondering about those of others. As a cradle Catholic, there has never not been Eucharist in my life--wondering about it while I watched my Mom receive, preparing for my first time, feeling many times not worthy of it, feeling many times in awe of it, feeling many times as though I don't feel enough about it, thinking it truly bizarre, being offended when others think it bizarre, and my newest (and most blessed experience) to date--actually finding myself craving it. I have read about others having this "craving" experience, so the first few times it happened to me, I thought perhaps I was just "wanting to crave" it--so I could be one of those super-holy Catholics too. But one day late this winter, I found myself walking down the aisle and fighting back tears as I prepared to receive. So of course, I looked forward to going back to Mass as soon as I could--craving Communion, if you will, because I wanted to feel so moved again. No tears this second time, but I have found that these first tears have moved me into a different relationship with both receiving the Eucharist and with my Catholic journey overall--and I am much more aware, with an almost painful, yet peaceful mindfulness with which I accept the Eucharist.

All of this being said, I have also started to notice (perhaps I'm just a slow learner here) in various blogs I happen upon, or the blogs of friends or friends of their friends, much mention of their Christian beliefs. Not all, but many of them are non-denominational or non-mainline Protestant Christians  who list among their core beliefs the Nicene Creed and/or the Apostles Creed. They also write much and deeply about social justice issues. Often there are lovely and profound musings about their sprititual journeys. Frequently these writers discuss the desire to experience Lent and Advent (although not often referred to as Advent) more fully and more presently. One of these bloggers--now a famous published author--even wrote a book centered around the idea of Eucharisto. So, this fairly pedestrian Catholic begins to wonder . . .why aren't all of these lovely people Catholic? It is all there--the Creeds, the social justice, the Church calendar--all except the Eucharist. I suppose this is where I'm afraid of offending, which is not at all my intent. Nor is my intent one of attempted conversion--rather I am asking this question in all sincerity. I will never forget reading an excerpt of one of Gary Will's books--Papa Sin, I think it was, and to bastardize his quote something horribly, he said that that the argument over women being ordained, or a person's use of a condom is NOT why he is Catholic--but rather it is the Creed and Eucharist. That's it. I remember wanting to jump up and down and shout, "hurrah!" I will admit, that my Catholic faith does involve a bit more than that--I love the Sacraments, the candles, the genuflecting, the holy water, and I love me some Saints, but in esssence, Wills, to me, is right. Give me the Creed and the Eucharist and I can hang my hat and take a pew. So, to get back around to the beginning, what keeps all of these people from the Eucharist? What don't I get about their beliefs? (I mean this earnestly). The cycle that keeps running in my head is that many of these people whose blogs I've been reading also profess that the Bible is the inerrant word of God, so, again, at the risk of offending, do they believe that the Bible is the inerrant Word of God--except for John 6? I would love to be snarky when I ask that, except that I don't feel moved to be snarky about the Eucharist, and because I really am curious, truly curious, about what to me feels like a disconnect. Can anyone address this?

A nod to my title . . .

So I'm admittedly a bit obsessive-compulsive about cleanliness and order . . .my husband would probably argue that I'm a bit more "than a bit." Regardless, I have found that while I know my spic and span nature is my feeble attempt at controlling existential angst, whenever there is a HUGE mess going on around me, I have no real problem with it. Take for example the current state of our garage, driveway, and house exterior while my handy hubby re-shingles and puts up new siding over our wood. (Please, dear reader, don't shudder-this ain't a Victorian farmhouse we're maiming--but rather a 1960's bi-level with rotting wood) I am so okay with the obnoxious mess going on outside, because it is bigger than anything I can actually do anything about. And, um, yeah, there is also the small detail that handy hubby might maime me if I touched his tools. But, I have discovered how freeing it is to not feel impelled to clean and organize something. To hand that "should" over to no one in particular, because, well, it doesn't matter that looks like a wrecking zone beyond my front door. I feel like laughing at the gods and sticking out my tongue a bit. But instead, I took to ordering the inside of the house--laundry, clean beds, emptied garbage, cleaned-out email . . .all while there is glorious chaos outside. And I'm okay with it. Sort of.

After the 4th

Spent a really great weekend at the Padres' Casa for the 4th of July. My siblings and I and our families all landed in our hometown to eat Mom's apple pie, burgers, dogs, watermelon and smores. The cousins ran through the sprinkler, caught fireflies, lit sparklers, went to the park and fed the ducks, and slept lined-up like little fleece sausages on grandma's living room floor. It really couldn't have been more obnoxiously cliche--but we all loved it. The dirty, grassy feet, too many people in the kitchen, negotiating for shower space, mom's cinnamin rolls, my parents are hell-bent on giving their grandchildren as many memories as possible, and I adore them for it.

 And then we came home to the "after 4th of July" feeling.

It is too quiet outside--and suddenly the heat doesn't feel fun and warm--just hot.

Went to the pool today and instead of it being lively and freeing, it was loud, annoying, and too wet.

Eight-year-old and I went to local grocery store this eventide, and we saw the nice stock boy shoving the plastic buckets and rakes and cheap yard toys down to an end-cap to make room for the school supplies. I said, "Look honey, they are putting the school supplies out already!" to which eight-year-old replied, "Yeah, Mom, school is going to start again soon ya know-they always do it that way. I'm not surprised." Well. Thank you for the wise resignation little man!

And now I'm in jammy pants and a sweatshirt-not quite ready for school, yet knowing at this point we are closer to the beginning of football then to baseball. And it is always this way after the 4th. And people go away too long on vacations-getting them in before August--and I'm always a bit at lose ends when friends and family are not "were they should be"--even if I didn't plan to talk with them or visit--it is much better when we are all in our rightful places. Oh, and the trees even start to look a bit bored and wearisome from holding their heavy green leaves knowing that they will labor until well into September yet. Funny thing this July business, especially after the 4th.