Happy Birthday, Olivia

Twelve years ago (actually the real anniversary happened at 2:57 a.m. today), I was waiting -- not so patiently -- for my second born to arrive. She was a week overdue and predicted to be quite large. They were preparing to induce me since my blood pressure was starting to rise. But I didn't want any medication whatsoever. So my wonderful midwife -- the same one who helped me birth Noah -- called me up around 7:30 p.m. on July 5 and told me that if I really wanted to do this without intervention, I could drink a castor oil-orange juice-baking soda cocktail and see if it worked for me. I drank it about an hour later, and around 1:30 a.m. I woke up in hard labor.

With Noah labor went on for a while. The first time around, I ate an egg breakfast, took down our Christmas tree, paid some bills and did some cleaning, all with contractions about five minutes apart. I expected more of the same with Olivia. When Dennis called the midwife around 2 a.m. and told her I was already on the floor, she told us to high-tail it to the hospital, which we did -- with me insisting that we could park in the regular garage instead of emergency. But, fortunately, calmer heads prevailed and we parked in ER, zoomed up to labor and delivery and waited for my sister to arrive to watch Noah and the midwife to arrive to catch the baby. Midwife got there and immediately put on scrubs, which confused me since I expected to walk around and breathe heavily for a while. Nothing doing. We called my sister to find out why she wasn't there yet (We wanted Noah present for the birth but knew we needed an adult to keep an eye on him). The car was still parked in ER. The camera was nowhere to be found. Noah was shoeless because of our mad dash out of the house. It was all a blur.

Less than 30 minutes after I entered the hospital, and only minutes after my sister arrived to hold Noah's hand, Olivia Irene blasted onto the scene -- all 10 pounds of her. I don't really even remember pushing. Maybe once. She just powered her way out and then proved herself to be a champion nurser to boot.

Twelve years later, I look at my girl in amazement. She is smart and funny and beautiful and artistic and athletic and curious and kind and all of the things I had hoped she would one day be. She was a gift when she arrived in that Austin hospital in the wee hours of the morning, and she is a gift today. We are blessed. Happy birthday Olivia. We love you. Here's a brief look at Olivia's life in photos...

Her baptism in Austin in the chapel at St. Edward's University with Deacon Orton and godparents Aunt Linda and Uncle Fred:


At E-ma's 90th birthday party almost ten years ago:

And the not-so-mindful Jersey Shore

While the mindful side of the Jersey Shore is something special and under appreciated, I would be remiss if I did not also mention the totally mindless side of Wildwood. It's like the yin and yang of shore vacations.

We're just back from our second trip to Morey's Piers. We braved it this afternoon in 95 degree heat in order to get two-for-one rides. Lots of waters and Polish Water Ices were had. 

Without further ado, here's the fun and noisy side of the Wildwood...

See that upside down, corkscrew coaster in the photo above? Dennis is smack dab in the middle of it, feet flying through the air.

 Yes, they truly will deep fry anything here. 

 We opted for fried Oreos. Insanely delicious.

 Noah is up there on the swings.

 Dennis and the kids ride the Doo Wop coaster.

No comment necessary.

 Kang A Bounce: The Sequel

 Dennis, Noah, and Liv splash down on the flume.

The kiddie section of Raging Waters. My mindful spot is at the very back.

Finding mindfulness at the Jersey Shore

Unfortunately, when people hear the words "Jersey Shore" these days, they more often than not think of that awful show of the same name. Although I've never seen even one minute of said show, I've been subjected to enough of the unavoidable supermarket rag headlines to know that it doesn't portray an especially positive, pretty, or peaceful view of what really is an incredibly beautiful place.

Summer doesn't feel complete if I don't get to the ocean at least once, not necessarily for the swimming but for the sound of the waves, the feel of the sand, the endless stretch of sky meeting water somewhere beyond my view. Even with its noisy boardwalk and deep-fried everything, smokers at every turn, and the occasional loud college kids waking up the beach complex at 1 a.m., the Jersey Shore can be a place for mindfulness, contemplation, solitude, and silence.

When I took Olivia for a walk down the crowded beach in search of pretty shells,  it took on the feel of a meditation as I focused my attention on the sand right in front of me. Step by step, wave by wave, everything else faded away and it was just me and my girl in a quiet and beautiful world. A similar thing happened when Chiara and I went tide-pooling, wading into the shallows left behind as the tide went out in search of hermit crabs and minnows looking for a way back to sea. There was something deeply spiritual about our mutual excitement over finding one small crab scurrying near our feet or one giant horseshoe crab moving slowly through the sand.

Even Raging Waters water park on the boardwalk became an opportunity for quiet contemplation as I sat facing the ocean with dozens of children splashing around behind me in the kiddie section. From my vantage point, all I could see was ocean and sand, a roller coaster in stillness in the distance, and an occasional parasailor quietly floating across the bright blue sky. The sight of parents and children carting coolers and sand buckets to the beach below filled my heart with joy as I thought about all the families around me just trying to create a few special memories here on the sands of the Atlantic coast.

We've got a few more days in sunny, sandy New Jersey, and I'm looking forward to discovering more stolen moments of mindfulness amid the shrieks and squeals of the real Jersey Shore.

Here are a few more photos from our trip so far:

 In the gardens at Hereford Lighthouse, just a short walk down the sea wall from our condo.

 A view of the Atlantic from the beginning of the boardwalk.

The entrance to the Wildwood boardwalk.

A meal so good I brought back Foodie Friday

 As you may know, Foodie Friday has been on hiatus for quite a while, but today's lunch was so awesome, I had to bring it back if only to share the photo.

Feast your eyes on this lunch from Chef Michael Mastrantuono of Milestone Restaurant in Glenmont. Lobster mac and cheese with a delicious house salad. See that dark piece of what looks like browned pasta in my little crock of heaven? Not pasta. That's an entire piece of claw meat. The chunks of lobster in this totally decadent and delicious meal were so big I needed to cut them multiple times. This was absolutely the real deal -- half a lobster worth of meat, I was told. And the cheese sauce? To die for.

Dennis opted for another lunch special, the fish and chips, which was tempura-battered cod served over hand-cut fries. He said it was the best fish fry he'd ever had. You can catch a glimpse of it in the photo on the right.  Yummy looking, no?

I can't show you a photo of Noah's Milestone Burger because he was so anxious to dig right in, there was no time to snap a picture. But he declared it the best burger ever, with its ancho chili sauce on the side, a homemade pickle and a big batch of those awesome hand-cut fries. (I may have tried a few despite being stuffed to the gills with lobster and cheese sauce.)

Capital Region friends, get to Milestone. The food is really unbelievable, and the fact that owner Chef Mike is only 21 years old gives it a great back story to go along with the great food. We were there for our anniversary dinner in April, when we were first wowed by Chef Mike's talent. I had a fabulous entree of seared scallops atop little risotto cakes. Dennis had the osso bucco, and we split an order of calamari. Everything was cooked to perfection, and on Sundays you get any bottle of wine half-price. What a deal.

Now, maybe you've driven by this place and think: Really? Am I going to dine in a restaurant with a truck yard behind it, an Econo-Lodge in a state of expansion next door, and a highway out front? Yes. You should go there and ignore that stuff. Get inside, where the stone work is beautiful, and the bar area is intimate and lovely and includes the piano that Liberace once played on a visit to the place when it was Stone Ends. Milestone pays homage to its earliest incarnation by keeping the sign, original menu, and celebrity photos hanging on the stairs in the bar area. Be sure to check it out. Lots of famous faces from the past.

Where the 'Amen' meets the 'Om'

As I put the finishing touches on my application for a 200-hour certified yoga teacher training program that begins in September, I thought it would be appropriate to re-run this essay, which originally appeared at the Catholic portal of Patheos.com. It's also fitting because my next book, Everyday Divine: A Catholic Guide to Active Spirituality will include a chapter on bringing the body into prayer.

By Mary DeTurris Poust

When I took my first yoga class more than twenty years ago, I was in a bit of a crisis in terms of the Catholic faith of my birth. My mother had recently died and I had moved out of my family home and across the country. I was searching in so many ways and came upon yoga through a friend who knew a teacher who held classes in her home. There, on a mat in an empty living room, I learned how to stretch and settle my body in new ways, ways that allowed me to more easily enter a spiritual realm that has always beckoned to me.

So began my odyssey into an Eastern world that some would have us believe is not only incompatible with Roman Catholic faith but dangerous to it. Of all the posts I put on Facebook, anything having to do with yoga is sure to stir up ominous warnings. I have been told, on more than one occasion, that it is the work of the devil. And yes, I have read what the Vatican has warned about "New Age" religions (FYI: Yoga isn't even remotely new). Quite frankly, someone who is inclined to make an idol of yoga, turning it into an obstacle rather than a pathway to God, is probably just as likely to turn certain devotions within the church into idols or superstitions—from obsessing over the trappings of the faith, to burying a statue to sell a house, to leaving slips of papers in pews as a guarantee that a prayer will be answered. Idolatry comes in all forms; it doesn't take yoga to make that happen.

Permit me, then, to take you into my world of yoga, a world where Amen and Om happily coexist. During my early days of yoga, I threw myself into the practice. I even managed a yoga center for a while and began training to become a teacher, something I regretfully never completed.

I read the BhagavadGita and Pantanjali's Yoga Sutras.

I chanted.

And yet, when it came time to meditate on a mantra, I didn't want anything Sanskrit. I wanted Christian scripture, because that is my core. As I sat in half-lotus position with many other yogis-in-training, I breathed in and out to the words: "Be still, and know that I am God," or, "I am with you always." At a time of personal confusion and chaos, yoga gave me a peaceful place to reconnect with God, a way to listen to what He had to say above the din of my life, and an open door that led back to the richness of my own Catholic faith.

Over the years, my practice has waxed and waned, but inside me beats the heart of a Catholic yogi. When I recently returned to yoga class at my local YMCA, I was not on my sticky mat five minutes before I could feel myself smiling, my shoulders relaxing, and my heart singing. Different types of prayer methods work for different people and, for me, one thing is clear: Yoga is my entry into prayer, even in a sweaty, crowded YMCA studio.

Most people in this country don't do yoga as a spiritual practice. They do it because it helps their backs, or makes them more flexible. But I always hope for the daring YMCA teacher who inserts spiritual elements into a class. I don't do yoga to lose weight or get stronger, although those are surely side benefits. I do yoga to find that still, silent space at my center, where God can enter in.

Think of your own prayer life for a moment. Does kneeling help you enter more deeply into prayer? Does lying prostrate before an altar convey a sense of total surrender before God? In much the same way, yoga uses physical positions to help us reach spiritual heights, whatever our faith tradition.

As I stood on my mat last Sunday, listening to my teacher walk us through some difficult poses, he reminded us that we need to look at ourselves with compassion when we can't get something right, and he urged us to let that gentleness emanate outward when we left class. Yoga is about compassion.

My Monday night teacher, who belongs to my parish, starts each class by asking us to bow our heads and think about the "intention" we have for our practice. How beautiful and perfectly complementary to the intercessory prayer we practice as Christians. She always ends the class by saying: "Shanti (peace), shanti, shanti. Peace in our hearts, peace in our homes, peace on our planet." Yoga is about peace.

Finally, every yoga class ends the same way, with hands held in prayer position over the heart as we bow slightly to each other and say, "Namaste," which means, "the divinity (or light) in me bows to the divinity in you," not so dissimilar to the way Benedictine monastics have always bowed to "the Christ in each other" as they process in and out of choir. Having grown up believing that my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, this practice echoes my own Catholic beliefs. In fact, I should take that posture and attitude toward more people in my life, not just those on the mat next door. Yoga is about recognizing the presence of God, in ourselves and in the world around us.

I think a lot of fear and confusion stem from the unknown. People don't know what to make of the strange Sanskrit words, the poses with animal names, the chanting. There is a sense that if you do yoga, you must be exploring Hinduism or at the very least looking for something outside Jesus Christ. But nothing could be further from the truth for faithful Christians who use Eastern traditions to strengthen our prayer lives. We are not there to be converted away from our faith but to grow stronger in it through methods that influence our Catholic spiritual lives in powerful ways.

Many traditional Catholic devotions don't work for me. I'm really not that good at saying the Rosary. I struggle with the Liturgy of the Hours, even though I continue to pray it as often as possible. But the physicality of yoga as a way to enter into meditation? That feels as natural to me as breathing. And as I breathe in and out and bring my body to a point of stillness, I can feel myself inching closer to God, pose by pose.

Mindfulness minus the monastery

So yesterday my original plan was to head to a Buddhist monastery (Don't worry, I'm not switching teams) for a Day of Mindfulness. I wanted to see how it's done in other traditions and had hoped to experience a Buddhist walking meditation in addition to a dharma lesson and some really good vegetarian food. All for the price of a donation of my choosing. But, due to some nagging neck pain, I thought better of spending three hours round-trip in my car on top of almost two hours of sitting on a cushion on the floor and decided to do my Day of Mindfulness closer to home.

After getting the last of the kids off to school, I headed to the YMCA for my first spin class. Some may not think of this as mindful, but, in my world, any sort of repetitive motion that lets my mind settle into a deep place is the perfect recipe for mindfulness. Once I got past the jitters of knowing what to do and not to do in this class, I sank into that deep place, peddling fast, going up "hills," singing to the music, closing my eyes, and disappearing from the world.

I left refreshed and ready for Phase Two of my homegrown Day of Mindfulness. I loaded up my juicer and made a great big green drink for a late breakfast. This juicer sat in storage in a basement cabinet for 12 years. No exaggeration. I almost gave it away at least five times, maybe more. But every time I'd change my mind at the last minute in hopes that some day I would return to this healthy habit. Lo and behold, I came across a super cool book about healthy eating, drinking, and living -- Crazy, Sexy Diet by Karen Carr -- and my juicing mojo kicked in. The recipe changes from day to day, depending on what's in my fridge, but here's a general idea in case you want to give it a try:

3 or 4 stalks of celery
1 cucumber
1 granny smith apple
a handful of spinach
a few leaves of romaine lettuce
1 carrot
a few strawberries or a few cubes of watermelon (or both) depending on how sweet you want to make it

That makes one really big glass of green juice. It's surprisingly delicious and filling. Give a whirl if you have the time, equipment, and willingness to wash and peel and scrub lots of veggies. (If everything is organic, you don't have to peel.)

After my green drink, I did some professional housekeeping that probably shouldn't have been part of a Day of Mindfulness, but you gotta do what you gotta do. Still, I didn't obsess or panic or get too caught up in the email or even Facebook (that's a hard habit to break).

For a brief moment I considered that this might be the end of my Day of Mindfulness, but then I dragged our speaker out to the sunporch, loaded up my iPod with a recording of a yoga class by the teacher I had at Kripalu back in December, lit some incense, and proceeded to do an almost 90-minute series of centering, breathing, asanas, relaxation, and meditation. It was too awesome for words. I could hear the birds chirping, a lawn mower in the distance, leaves rustling. And when I was down on my mat, all I could see outside were trees and sky, allowing me to forget for a moment that the woods around us is gone.

Yoga was followed by a long shower and a healthy lunch of leftover couscous salad and a whole wheat pita with some lemon probiotic tea to wash it down. Then I moved onto the deck and sat in the sunshine while reading The Fire Starter Sessions. I'm using this fun and helpful book to reignite my creative fire, which was burned out after doing two books back to back. Good food for thought here and lots of helpful exercises and suggestions for all aspects of life.

Finally it was time for the kids to come home, the end of mindfulness, although I did try to at least remain calm, if not always mindful. The day proved to me what I already knew: I don't have to leave home in search of a monastery in order to bring mindfulness to my daily life. In fact, it's even better when it can happen right in the midst of the usual chaos. I still plan to get to the monastery for a "real" Day of Mindfulness with the monks and nuns, but, for now, I'm content with my own brand of meditation in motion.

If you like the idea of bringing mindfulness to the actions of your own sometimes-crazy life, stay tuned for my next book, Everyday Divine: A Catholic Guide to Active Spirituality, which will be out in November. I give you ten chapters chock full of very practical ways to bring the divine into the mundane. There's even a section of exercises in the appendix. I can't wait to share it with you. More to come on that front as we get closer to liftoff.

Signing off for now. Have a mindful and peaceful day.

What if you're already perfect?

I came across this passage in The Wisdom of No Escape and the Path of Loving-Kindness by Pema Chodron and just had to share a little Buddhist philosophy to complement the whole Christian idea that we are loved unconditionally exactly as we are right at this moment, "flaws" and all, by our awesome God.  (I guess I'm channeling my inner Thomas Merton today):

"Our wisdom is all mixed up with what we call our neurosis. Our brilliance, our juiciness, our spiciness, is all mixed up with our craziness and our confusion, and therefore it doesn't do any good to try to get rid of our so-called negative aspects, because in that process we also get rid of our basic wonderfulness. We can lead our life so as to become more awake to who we are and what we're doing rather than trying to improve or change or get rid of who we are or what we're doing."

So your mission this weekend, should you decide to accept it, is to contemplate your juiciness, your spiciness, and your craziness, not in an effort to change or "improve" but in an effort to see yourself as a brilliant whole, wonderfully made by God. Can you embrace the good along with the slightly off kilter? Try that attitude on for size and see how it feels.

Remind me who I am

I love this song by Jason Gray. I happened to hear it on K-LOVE one day, and a line jumped out and grabbed me: "If I'm your beloved, can you help me believe it?" Sold. Watch it through, soak it in, hear the message. You are God's beloved, no matter how you see yourself.

Here are the lyrics, if you're interested:

When I lose my way,
And I forget my name,
Remind me who I am.
In the mirror all I see,
Is who I don't wanna be,
Remind me who I am.
In the loneliest places,
When I can't remember what grace is.

Tell me once again who I am to You,
Who I am to You.
Tell me lest I forget who I am to You,
That I belong to You.
To You.

When my heart is like a stone,
And I'm running far from home,
Remind me who I am.
When I can't receive Your love,
Afraid I'll never be enough,
Remind me who I am.
If I'm Your beloved,
Can You help me believe it.

Tell me once again who I am to You,
Who I am to You, whoa.
Tell me lest I forget who I am to You.
That I belong to You.
To You.

I'm the one you love,
I'm the one you love,
That will be enough,
I'm the one you love.

Tell me once again who I am to You.
Who I am to You.
Tell me lest I forget who I am to You,
That I belong to You, oh.

Tell me once again who I am to You.
Who I am to You.
Tell me lest I forget who I am to You,
That I belong to You.
To You.

Empty is the new full

My recent Life Lines column:

I can always tell when 6-year-old Chiara has had enough, or too much. She hangs onto my waist, cries at the drop of a hat, and, in the ultimate role-reversal, tells me she thinks she needs to go to bed rather than watch a TV show. You don’t have to be a parenting genius to figure out that her day was just too full.

Chiara needs her down time, even just an hour or so after school when there’s nothing to do but draw on the driveway with chalk, or swing toward the heavens in the backyard, or serve out some plastic ice cream in the play kitchen. She loves her dance classes and her Daisy troop and her karate, but when she gets a week where every afternoon is occupied, and maybe even a few evenings, the edges of her typically sweet demeanor start to fray. So why is it so surprising when the same thing happens to us as adults?

We go, go, go, always thinking we need to be doing at least two things at once, feeling like any downtime is a sign of laziness or, at the very least, serious lack of motivation. Even when we finally do sit down to “relax,” most of us bring along the laptop or iPod, the newspaper or crossword puzzle, a stack of bills or a work project.

When I recently finished one book manuscript only to begin another the very next morning, I found myself in the unlikely position of having nothing to say. I stared at my computer, not just for an hour but for a few days. The problem was not that I didn’t know what to write; I just couldn’t access it. It was buried too far below all the stress from the previous weeks. I had emptied myself out during the writing of one book, but I never filled myself back up before starting the next. I secretly wished I could just lean against the nearest person, à la Chiara, and whimper until someone made me a cup of cocoa and read me a book.

The emptiness I felt wasn’t just a professional emptiness either; it was a total emptiness. I felt physically drained and spiritually blank. I would sit in church and wait to feel something, anything, but I just didn’t have the emotional energy to get involved. In my heart I knew what I needed was a retreat, but my schedule – not to mention a silent retreat only six months ago – made that option unlikely. Rather than realize I needed to create a mini-retreat experience right here at home, I plodded along, trying to force my way back to normalcy despite everything that was screaming at me to find some chalk and just start doodling on the driveway, or some other equally silly but satisfying activity.

If we want to move forward in anything – professional life, family life, prayer life – we have to carve out time to be present in a moment, to do something totally unproductive and not feel an ounce of guilt, to act like a 6-year-old and maybe even whine and plead until we get that moment of pure joy we desire (and deserve).

As a retreat director of mine once said, “You are a human being, not a human doing.” Too often we forget that and lose sight of what it means to stop everything and just be.

I recently was doing a creative exercise that suggested I make a collage one day and write a poem the next. At first I scoffed, but then I went against my “better” (aka type-A) judgment and did it. Both my collage and my poem are now hanging where I can see them as I write, reminders that it’s necessary to take time out to recharge and relax.

Fly a kite, hike in the woods, cut up an old magazine and make your own collage. Find one hour to revel in doing nothing, and rediscover the joy of what it means to be a human being.

Catching up now that the storm is over

The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of activity here. One book manuscript was edited, and a second book manuscript completed. I'm getting ready to head into the edits on the second one, so I figured I'd better show up here for an update before I disappear again.

Yesterday I had the privilege of meeting Jesuit Father James Martin, author of so many great books, among them My Life with the Saints and Between Heaven and Mirth. His keynote address was so unbelievably good. I haven't laughed that hard in a long time, and about faith and spirituality. If Father Martin is in your area, get a ticket and go. It will be a great experience. I promise. We need more joy in our Church, in our lives.

In other news, I spent time with Chiara and our Daisy troop at an "encampment" at Camp Is-Sho-Da this past weekend. Perfect weather for hanging outside with a bunch of energetic, twirling, dancing, giggling 6-year-olds. We made sit-upons and Memorial Day cards for veterans, decorated cupcakes, tie-dyed shirts, and sang silly songs. All the things Girl Scouts love to do.

Being let out of my basement office also means more time to get to know my "new" Nikon camera. I got it about nine months ago, but because of all my book deadlines, I haven't really had a chance to explore what it can do. Here are some shots of the lovely flowers blooming in our backyard right now. 

Bleeding Heart

Bleeding Heart

Trillium

Lilacs

Spring in our yard

Super Moon

Selling magazines by exploiting moms

Originally I wasn't going to include the controversial cover of Time magazine because it doesn't deserve any more press than it's already received, but, if you haven't seen it yet (how could you miss it?), it's really a necessary part of the conversation.

I breastfed all three of my kids until they were ready to stop. With my youngest that meant nursing until she was about 2 years old. I have family members and friends who nursed their children until almost 4 years old. I am the biggest proponent of breastfeeding that you are going to find. Anywhere. I believe every child should be breastfed for at least a year, longer whenever possible.

But I was stunned and disappointed and disgusted to see this exploitative photo on the front of Time magazine in the name of attachment parenting. What a disgrace and a disservice to mothers everywhere. As someone who has received looks of shock and disapproval even when I was discreetly nursing my babies with blankets and coats piled on top to hide us, I can tell you that no one nurses a child like this, and no mother-child nursing scenario has both participants looking away in total disconnection. This is the most false photo I've ever seen, and that's saying something in this photoshopped world of ours.

Breastfeeding (and attachment parenting if that is your choice) deserve to be promoted and supported and encouraged at every single turn. This photo may have people talking about the topic, but not in a good way. In a provocative way. In a controversial way. In a maddening way.

Something as beautiful and natural as breastfeeding deserves so much better than this. Something like this much more realistic photo.

Book #6: The Aftermath

You can always tell when I'm nearing the end of a book project. All the signs of a small bookcase explosion. Actually, this is what it looks like in my office right now, as I put together the resource section for Everyday Divine: A Catholic Guide to Active Prayer, which will be released later this year. Still some finishing touches to go before the manuscript is complete. Stay far away until you've received further notice.

Desperately Seeking Detachment

Yesterday was the 24th anniversary of my mother's death. Although many years have passed since that awful Tuesday morning, some anniversaries hit me harder than others. This year was one of those years, and it wasn't even a "milestone." Maybe it's because of the stress I'm under professionally. Maybe it's because of some personal stuff that's got me down. More likely it's a combination of both atop the usual grief.

I usually post a remembrance of my mother on April 12, but this time I felt the need to go more inward with my "celebration" of the day. I needed to chew on some things that still have to do with my mother all these many years after her death.

And what I kept coming back to was the word "detachment." My mother's death from colon cancer left a gaping hole in my life and in my family, but what you quickly -- or sometimes not so quickly -- learn after the loss of a close loved one is that rest of the world goes on without so much as a backward glance. You either move with it, carrying your grief deep in your heart, or you get stuck.

It was there, in this school of life, that I first learned detachment, although I didn't recognize it as that. I learned that I could go on, I would go on, without my mother, despite the fact that I couldn't imagine that was possible. I learned that losing my mother didn't lessen my love for her; it only shifted the physical landscape of our relationship. I learned that the ties that bind us to the people in our lives can snap in a flash and without warning, with or without sickness to speed things along.

Now I wonder if the kind of detachment forced upon me long ago might be a good template for detachment of my own choosing right now. It's not easy, to be sure. Trying to untangle unhealthy connections to possessions, habits, family members, friends, and more goes against everything the ego wants. We want to feel loved. We want to feel valued. We want to feel good and look good and live good. But what does that get any of us?

We end up clinging to -- or grieving for -- things we can't have, people who won't love us, places we can't go, success we don't achieve, and on and on. Before you know it, life revolves around the lack, not the blessings. But if we can learn detachment, to own things without letting them own us, to love people without expecting love in return, we inch closer to the place Jesus talked about, a place where none of this earthly stuff matters all that much because we have our sights set on something much better.

With each passing year, detachment seems to find its way deeper and deeper into my life without my really trying all that hard, mostly with regard to professional things or material things. It's the personal stuff that is so difficult to detach from because it's so, well, personal. But it's not impossible, and for the first time I think I'm feeling detachment finally settle in there as well. We'll see. I can't force it because then I'd just be getting attached to my detachment.

"The man who loves his life will lose it, while the man who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life." -- John 12:25

Seven Last Words

Father forgive them, they know not what they do...

We see Jesus on the cross today and hear him forgiving his persecutors, forgiving us. It is a powerful scene, but it is more than just a scene out of our faith history. Jesus’ way is supposed to be our way. Forgive, forgive, forgive, even in the face of the most unreasonable suffering and injustice. Are we willing to forgive as Jesus did?

Today you will be with me in Paradise.

The “good thief” has always been a favorite of mine. Imagine in your last dying moment that you utter a few kind words and are assured by Jesus himself that you will be in heaven with him that day. It would be nice to assume that in that situation I would have taken the path of belief, like the good thief, but there is a much bigger part of me that probably would have been like the unrepentant thief, expecting mercy and miracles despite faithlessness.

Woman, behold your son...

At last a comfort in the midst of all this misery. God gives us a mother for all time. He reminds us that his mother is our mother, who, with a mother’s unconditional love, will open her arms to us when we are desperate, when we are hurting, when we are searching for peace and a way back to the Father.

My God, my God, why have you foresaken me?

Despair, despair. If Jesus can feel despair, what hope is there for me? Then again, Jesus’ moment of despair reminds me of his humanness and that gives me hope even in this dark moment. God became man, walked on earth, suffered torture and death beyond our comprehension. My God is fully human and fully divine. My God knows what it means to live this earthly life, and so my God knows my small sufferings and heartaches and will not turn His back on me.

I thirst.

The wretched physical anguish of the Crucifixion is coming to bear. It is almost too much for us to take. Jesus, water poured out for the world, thirsts. And yet in the midst of this suffering, we remember Jesus’ words to the woman at the well, the woman to whom he first revealed his identity: “...whoever drinks the water I shall give will never thirst.” (John 4:14)

It is finished.

Jesus has completed his mission of redemption. Darkness descends, the earth shakes, the temple curtain tears in two. We see Jesus’ anguish near its end. We should be reduced to trembling at the enormity of his suffering, his gift to us. Unlike his followers who were plunged into fear and despair at this moment, we have the benefit of hindsight. We know what is coming. We know that his Crucifixion was cause for our salvation. His death a victory. His earthly end our eternal beginning.

Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.

Jesus is going back to the Father, back to where he started before time began, but he will not leave us orphans. We patiently wait to celebrate his Resurrection, to rejoice in our unearned windfall. We wait, pray, watch, listen -- hopeful, trusting, faithful. We begin our vigil now, waiting for the darkness to turn to light.

Irene's Irish Soda Bread

Every year I run this post because so many people want my mother's Irish Soda Bread recipe. Here it is again, in time for tomorrow's breakfast in honor of St. Patrick’s Day. Keep in mind that this bread must be slathered in butter. Not butter substitute, but real, artery-clogging butter. Enjoy!

4 cups flour
3 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. baking soda
1 cup seedless raisins
1 Tbs. caraway seeds (optional)
1 1/3 cups buttermilk (more if it feels too dry)
1/4 cup Crisco (I've experimented with other shortening but came back to this)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Sift flour, baking powder, salt and baking soda into bowl.
Stir in raisins and caraway seeds, if using.
Add buttermilk and Crisco. Mix. Knead just enough to moisten dry ingredients. Shape into two mounds and place on a greased cookie sheet. Cut an X into the top of each loaf. Makes two loaves.
Bake at 350 for 45-50 minutes. Cool on a wire rack. Cut into wedges to serve.

Hint: Do not try “adapting” this recipe. I have tried bread flour. I have tried whole wheat flour. Nothing comes close to the real deal.