Fasting and Feasting

When I was in graduate school, one of my professors mentioned in passing that it's always more powerful to tell students what you want them to do rather than what you don't. So instead of saying, "Don't be late," or "Don't forget the test tomorrow," it's more effective to say, "Be on time," or "Remember to study tonight." When I started teaching, I found his advice to be accurate, and that simple act of reframing has shaped most of my conversations since.

I read a Lenten meditation the other day by The Very Rev. Randolph Marshall Hollerith, a dean of the National Cathedral. In it, he cited a reflection adapted from We Dare to Say: Praying for Justice and Peace, eds. Sylvia Skrepichuk & Michel Cote, which includes a list of suggested fasts, a traditional practice for Lent, but also some corresponding feasts: attitudes, acts of devotion, or services that one might add for the season.

For example, readers are encouraged to fast from anger, feast on patience; to fast from bitterness, feast on forgiveness; and to fast from thoughts that weaken, feast on promises that inspire. The notion of abstaining from knee-jerk negativity and focusing instead on a reciprocal, positive action or attitude is as enlightening as my professor's counsel was all those years ago. 

Now, if I can just do it.

No Cursing Necessary

Even though retirement has proven to be more of an adjustment than I ever considered it might be, there have been many bright spots as well. The latest? Daylight Savings Time has no power over me. 

For years, I railed against the return of morning darkness just when dawn was finally breaking before it was time to rise. And I was utterly unmoved by any kind of optimistic "turn toward the light" and "here's to longer days and warmer weather" rhetoric. 

But now? Although I wouldn't go so far as to say I approve of such an arbitrary disruption in everyone's schedule, it doesn't bother me quite as much. I guess I can put away the candles instead of cursing the light.

C'est Moi!

"We're going to a party tonight," one of my neighbors told me as she, her husband, and I were walking the dogs this afternoon.

"You don't sound that excited about it," I noted. "How come?"

"We found out it's a theme party," her husband sighed.

"The theme is optional," she shrugged, "so we're going to skip it because we don't feel like dressing up."

"What is the theme?" I asked.

"It's dress as your favorite artist's favorite artist," she answered.

"What kind of artist?" I said.

"Unclear," her husband replied.

"Open to interpretation," she corrected.

"Well," I suggested, "I guess you could just figure out whose favorite artist you might be and go as yourself!"

That Old Thing

Josh and I were walking the dog the other day in a neighborhood not too far from here, although it is across a big street and up a hill. 

"I don't think I've ever been in this area before," Josh noted with some surprise, especially given the fact that he spent several weeks with us every year and lived with us while he was in college. He's pretty familiar with our locality.

"Oh, but you have!" I laughed, pointing up the street toward the high school. "You and I have walked this very street together before."

I had actually just been recalling the day 25 years before when five-year-old Josh and I were walking home from a swim meet that Heidi had been coaching at the high school pool. The early October day had started out cool in the morning, but by the time the contest was over and the sun was high in the achingly blue sky, Josh was too warm to wear the hoodie he'd had on. We'd tied it around his waist, but at some point, it had fallen off.

"Where's your sweatshirt?" I asked when I noticed it was missing.

He shrugged, and I looked back the way we had come, spying a navy blue heap on the street a couple of blocks back. "I see it!" I pointed. "Let's go get it."

He didn't budge. "Oh," he shuffled his feet. "My mom doesn't care about that sweatshirt," he told me. "We can just leave it." He started walking toward home.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. "I think we should probably go get it," I said, but noting how tired he was, I added, "I can give you a piggyback ride to it."

"Do you remember that?" I asked him after I told him the story the other day.

"Not at all," he shook his head. "But I'm sure my mom appreciated getting the sweatshirt back!"

Same as it Ever Was

When our godson, Josh, was a little boy, we spent many summer afternoons munching popcorn in dark theaters, watching the epic stories of the Marvel Universe spool out before us on the big screen. Now that he's all grown up and working as a wilderness firefighter in California, those days seem very distant. But he's in town visiting this week, and when I asked him what he wanted to do on this cold, blustery March afternoon, he shrugged and said, "How about a movie?" 

And it just so happened that the latest Captain America saga was up at one of those fancy theaters where the seats not only recline but shake along to the action. They also have a full-service menu delivered right to your seat, including bottomless popcorn served in an actual bowl. We were the only ones in the enormous IMAX auditorium, and once I had my popcorn, I reclined my seat and settled back for the usual convoluted plotlines, special effects, crazy fist fights, and enormous explosions.

The movie could not disappoint, and for a couple of hours, it could have been any time at all.

Get Thee to a Gallery

Having out-of-town guests always gives me a chance to appreciate things I take for granted about my marvelous hometown. For example, ever since I retired, I've been meaning to take in more of our museums, but it hasn't happened quite as I envisioned it. So today, when Josh and I headed out to the National Portrait Gallery, I felt both a little local pride and some retirement satisfaction as well. 

My feelings were not misplaced: the hours we spent looking at the portraits of some of our notable countryfolk and reading about their accomplishments and failures were fun and informative, even though we barely made our way through a third of the museum. Noteworthy was the gallery of presidents, where you can clasp a cast of Lincoln's hands in your own, and Richard Nixon never looked so good as he does in his portrait by Norman Rockwell.

The recent acquisitions are usually my favorite exhibit, though, and today was no exception. Toni Morrison, Octavia Butler, and Beyonce lined the walls in the company of other remarkable Americans, most of them women, several rendered in non-traditional media like cut paper, quilted fabric, and video. The images were thrilling, and I left the gallery inspired and vowing to return soon.

Worthy Adversaries

It was super windy when Josh and I hit the pickleball court this afternoon, but it was also sunny and 60 degrees, so we figured we'd give it a go. Josh won the first game, even though he'd never played before, but he had the wind and 33 years at his back, so we switched sides and played again. 

"The wind really does make a difference!" he said in surprise after I easily won the first 4 points, and I felt a little better after skulking him to tie up the match.

"Let's try the other court," I suggested. "The person with the wind will also have the short baseline area to contend with. Maybe it will be more even?"

I lost that game by 4, and it would have been the match if we had not agreed to one more switch. The fourth and final showdown of the day was a little closer than the others, but the old lady pulled it out, and we agreed to end the competition in a draw.

Until tomorrow!