Soapbox

Driving home one evening I passed a small sign on the berm that advertised “Christian Dancing”, which I found to be distressingly vague.
After all, there are so many different types of Christianity that there must be many different types of Christian dancing.

In the interests of preventing unpleasant surprises on the dance floor I present this handy reference so you will know just what to expect, should you ever attend a night of “Christian dancing”

In Quaker dancing there is no music to dance to.
In Shaker dancing they all move around quite a bit but no one ever touches anyone else,
while in Catholic dancing only the priests get to touch someone else.

A Fundamentalist Mormon dance consists of one old man and 9 young women
who must dance together for all time and unto eternity.

On Episcopalian dance nights everyone brings a covered dish and a bottle of wine to share after. Then they eat and drink and talk and usually forget about dancing entirely.

At Methodist dance nights your position on the dance floor depends a lot on how much you paid to get in to the dance hall.
Unitarian dancing is when the dancers all dance however they like, and not necessarily at the same time, or the same place, or to the same music.

Anglican dancers really want to be at Catholic dances, but they just don’t like the music there.
If you decide to attend a night of Christian Scientist dancing, be careful. If you fall and break your leg, you’re out of luck.
At Amish dances they just turn out the lights and everyone makes cheese.
At Jehova’s Witness dances no one is allowed to wear a costume, or celebrate,
or, well, dance.

Baptist dancing…. oh, I think not!
Except at places like Westboro Baptist church, where dancing is restricted to dancing on the graves of liberal politicians and homosexuals.
Calvinist dancing is simply another term for writhing in the flames of hell
and at agnostic dances no one ever shows up because deep inside, they weren’t really sure there was going to be dance that night.

Let the music begin!

Last night I watched "The Lion in Winter"
Kate Hepburn in all her glory-
and contemplated the changes of season that come upon us all.
I know that I have been fortunate.
While there is no almanac to predict the weather still ahead,
no sudden squalls or early, bitter snows
have rushed the perpetual forward progression of my life's season.
For me there is a gradual dimming and loss
like the slow, sweet leeching away of light on a long summer's twilight,
casting long, violet shadows on knees and elbows,
on the stamina to run up and down stairs all day
or to function coherently with only a few hours' sleep.
 

My attitude towards all this is somewhat sardonic.
it sometimes feels as if my body,
trusted friend and companion low these many years,
the one I have counted on to "have my back", so to speak,
has been unmasked as a traitor, a double agent all along,
secretly working for the other side.
Evidence of my own duplicity is everywhere:
once keen eyesight betrayed to the enemy,
firm skin and graceful hands sold out for thinning hair and odd brown spots.

But in my hopefully middle years the changes I can see and feel-
creaking joints and slowing reflexes,
and even the bleak, unexpected funerals that remind me
of the mortality of my once-immortal youth
are not the ultimate perfidy.
Nor is it concern over internal changes perhaps just not yet evident-
a rebellious heart  or the insurgency of quiet malignancy
that makes one fear alien invasion
and wish we could seal the borders and burn the bridges.

It is the looming spectre of frailty,
of feebleness and confusion, a coup d'etat over grace and reason
that lurk in the dark closets of all our minds,
waking us in the night (along with that shrinking bladder)
and we are reminded:  what use to pull in the drawbridge
when the enemy could be already within the walls?
You realize that if your most private secrets,
the nuclear launch-codes of self
are betrayed, compromised by your own body without knowledge or consent,
by the time you realize what has happened
the sequence will have been initiated, fail-safes bypassed
and that substance drifting down around you
will not be the expected December snows
but the ash of nuclear winter.

I want to sail majestically into my winter, like Katharine Hepburn,
and carry my wrinkles and spots and myriad small self-betrayals
bravely into the sunset, head gently shaking but spirit undimmed,
the essential glory of my self uncompromised.

How sharper than a serpent's tooth is an aging back
and the change in weather it foretells.
For the only way to guard against life's betrayal
is not to live at all.

You know what I hate?
Christmas.

    I'm not talking about Christmas the quaint little holiday of my youth that lasted about two weeks, where you made a few gifts, ate a few cookies, visited a few grandmas and sang a few carols. That was lovely and overall, pretty peaceful.
    No, I"m talking about  Christmas,  the  soul-sucking corporate giant that has spread like a tumor, gobbling up more and more of the calendar, and the people who think their religion now owns the last two months of every year! Because seriously, the only thing stupider than getting offended if someone says "Merry Christmas" it getting offended if someone doesn't!!  All this ranting and holier-than-thou picketing of every court house without a nativity scene and every pre-school that calls their year-end sugar orgy a "holiday party" instead of a Christmas party out of deference to their Asian students is just nuts. "Cause nothing says Christmas spirit like hitting someone over the head with the baby Jesus!

You know what I hate besides Christmas?
Christmas carols.

     Oh, I can hark to those herald angels with a church choir all night long- no, I"m talking about the crap that gets stuffed down our throats starting at 12:01 AM the day after Halloween in every store and half the radio stations in town. Elvis can have a blue christmas and Bing can dream about a white one, but some people should be legally barred from even attempting to sing "O Holy Night" And when some breathy, adenoidal fool ruins "IHave Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" I want to put a merry little Ice pick through my ear to stop the pain.
   Plus, I"m sorry, but when a 40-something man sings that all he wants for Christmas is his two front teeth, I figure he must either have been in a bar fight recently or have terrible oral hygiene. And neither thought really engenders Christmas spirit, am I right?

You know what I hate, besides Christmas and Christmas carols?
Christmas shopping.

   Oh. My. God. I like giving things to people, but shopping is nuts! Saturday, in a mis-guided spasm of sisterly loyalty, I went to the mall with Becky. Somewhere in the middle of Target, I hit the wall, the way marathon runners do. Maybe it was the chaos or the crowds or the forced, fake festivity or just the massive over-consumption and waste of it all, but suddenly I felt like I was going to hyperventilate or throw up or something. I had to lean against a pillar and close my eyes and count to ten.
    Nearby a 2 year old was wailing and throwing herself on the floor, weeping in frustration and exhaustion. I found myself wondering if Becky would give me a sippy cup and let me ride in the cart if I started crying. Then I remembered that I was the one who drove and thought better of it.

You know what I hate besides Christmas and carols and shopping?
Christmas advertising.

    Please, I beg of you, do not make me watch one more ad where Santa shops at your store because he gets the best prices. What kind of store would make Santa pay for stuff for good little children? I also can't abide car commercials this time of year. How many people really buy their wives a Lexus for Christmas? Where do they get those 6 foot bows for the top? And what if she doesn't like the color, or really wanted the BMW?
   Oh, and Christmas movies! If no one ever makes another movie where the jaded and selfish adult, or the good-hearted, wise-cracking neighborhood kids, or the plucky puppies have to help Santa "save" Christmas, the world will be a better place. The only thing Christmas needs to be saved from is itself.

You know what else I hate?
People. Humanity in general is Ok, but far too many people out there just suck. I work retail so at this time of year, I meet them all.

    I'm sorry I"m not more into the "ho ho ho" thing. I know- what kind of an awful person would hate Christmas? In this country, if you don't love the holidays (excuse me- Christmas) you are considered to be either a sociopath, hideously selfish or a godless socialist. I am none of those things, trust me. I think I have just had Christmas stuffed down my throat til I could puke red and green.

    Still I have tried to get myself back to basics and find some Christmas joy. I asked myself- what is Christmas all about, Charlie Brown? What gave me joy in years past?
    My kids are grown and no longer want to write letters to Santa, have cookie parties at Grandmas or put on impromptu Christmas plays with paper Santa beards like they used to. (Rats. I loved that.) And I just don't have the time or energy to make gifts and ornaments like I used to.
   The church pageant is definitely more stress than joy, at least for the one organizing it, which I always end up being. The service itself makes me sad now because while I get the whole gender-neutral thing and yeah, I"m pretty sure God does not have a penis, I just can't stand to hear lovely, 200 year old songs butchered to remove all references to "father" "son", "kingdom", etc. Come on, people!
   I bought food for the food pantry and performed other charitable acts, only to get grief from my conservative friends  because "those people" who stand shivering at highway exits with cardboard signs are all scam artists, so I shouldn't give them a dollar when I roll by in my nice warm car…. and from my liberal friends because the Salvation Army actively discriminates against people with alternative lifestyles, so I shouldn't put money in the pot for them.
   And we can't even decorate a tree this year becase 6 month old Tucker will gleefully snatch and chew anything that he can reach- and he's a jumper. Oh, how I miss unwrapping all my lovely handmade ornaments and the memories of Christmases past they bring! We put a few lights on the tree and a star on top and had to be content with that, but rather than helping, I"m afraid the almost naked tree was contributing to the overall bah humbug gloom.
    ~sigh~

    Last night I got up at 3:30 to answer the call of the puppy's bladder. As I walked down the hall I saw a light and realized that the kids had gone to bed and left the tree plugged in. I leaned against the doorway to the living room and with bleary, midnight eyes considered the dim, softly glowing colors of the gentle tree that gave its life to grace my living room. I inhaled its faintly citrus aroma and realized that I had a smile on my face.
   Huh. A few quiet moments alone, an unassuming bit of nature, the family safely asleep in their beds and the puppy nuzzling my leg. Nothing much, but for a few moments I felt like I had found my bliss.

    And I guess that'll do. Happy Holidays.

   Tuesday we had Tucker, now 6 months old, "fixed". And they fixed him up good, alright! It has been a nightmare. In a medical dictionary, under "complications" there is a photo of Tucker.
   He was originally scheduled for right before Thanksgiving, but what with the whole D-con incident I thought it would be best to push it back a week and just make sure everything was OK.
     If I hadn't, we never would have made it to Pennsylvania this year.

    We ended up in the doggy emergency room the first night because his poor scrotum was so swollen it was the color and size of a big purple plum. We watched it get worse and I was worried that he was bleeding excessively internally, maybe from the D-con. Finally  Ted and I got dressed at 11:30 and took him to the place I never wanted to go again: the place where Boomer died.
    Wow. Painful memories, let me tell you.

   The doc there was as sweet as she was before and after running a clotting time and hematocrit assured us that Tucker looked worse than he was and to put ice on his 'nads (or what was left of them) periodically. Whew! (A $150 whew, by the way)

    Wednesday morning and the swelling was no worse, but as requested we took him to the vet for a look-see. Dr. Lehnerd said there was a blood clot inside and took him back to surgery to relieve the pressure. He removed a clot, stitched him up and sent him back home….

….where he proceeded to keep oozing and eventually we could see that his second sewing job wasn't very good and the incision was gaping open a bit. So we took him back, to see Dr. Little this time. She put 2 staples in and pronounced him, again, better than he looked. But he had to wear a stupid collar around his neck to keep him from licking.

   Thursday was a good day. Tucker was full of energy and other than running into things all the time with his funnel head was clearly on the mend: bruising fading, swelling reducing, appetite ravenous. Yay! Over the hump at last!

    And then this morning I was feeding him and noticed fresh blood on his back leg. It seems that his lampshade collar keeps him from licking, but not from trying to lick, and the rigid edge of the collar had abraded the tender tissue of his scrotum, which was seeping and oozing blood. Crap!
   I was camped out in the kitchen for hours because every time I walked away he would try to lick himself, scraping that collar over tender flesh. Couldn't take a shower, couldn't eat from nerves and wondering what in the hell was going to happen when I went to work in the evening.
     I called the vet and was told to give him Benadryl to make him sleepy so maybe he'd leave himself alone, but where was I going to get Benadryl? I couldn't leave him long enough to go buy some!  I remembered that my neighbor has young children and figured she was bound to have some, which she did.

    Finally I took him back to the vet (my 4th trip) for a look-see and a larger collar. Dr. Little cleaned him off and said the damage was minimal, bleeding not excessive and gave him a bigger collar.
   Tucker hates the thing! It is heavier and ungainly and makes the old one seem like a breeze. They tried padding the edge with gauze secured with bandage tape. But this is a dog whose favorite pastime is methodically tearing to bits cardboard boxes and the newspaper. He fought the collar for about 5 minutes and then set to work tearing the tape and then gauze from all around it. It's actually rather amusing to watch him and it keeps him occupied, at least.
   Oh yeah, and the latest development? His incision is bleeding again. Not a lot, just enough to have me almost weeping in frustration and anxiety. It's not that I think my dog is dieing or anything…. it's just that I want him to be well!
    
It wasn't supposed to be this hard! It's not like he was hit by a car or anything! The vet and techs say they have never had a dog with as many problems after such a simple surgery as Tucker has had. Gosh, I feel so special. Oh, and here's a little ironic twist: when I call the vet and get put on hold, the hold message is all about how good it is for both you and your pets to have them spayed and neutered. Ha!!

   Define "good".

We collect mementos
to try to keep the absent, present
and the past alive.
Letters and photographs, ticket stubs and trinkets,
Each brittle cicada skin of  experience,
retains only the shape of past joys.
Nothing contained in any box or book
can equal the connection of that rare, transcendent moment
of the open door.

It is an instant of true memory,
a tiny grain of time in my hand.
In a sudden, brilliant flash of sight and sound,
scent and motion,
the door winks open,
spilling a moment of light and warmth
into the dark, silent corridor
which is the space that exists between life and death,
between then and now,
between you and me.

In that unexpected instant
when the door appears before me,
I see you, I hear you-
for you are standing there.
You turn your head toward me,
lips just beginning to curve
in a smile that stops my heart
as the door swings shut again
and disappears.
Only the dark, unyielding walls of loss
surround me once more.

But I know now that you are out there…
in here,
patiently waiting,
unreachable and unchanging.
And so I go on,
watching and hoping for another glimpse
through the open door.

This is the third piece I have written about a type of memory event  where the mind suddenly accesses a depth of recall you did not know it still retained- something more than a simple memory, and closer to a visitation.
Or perhaps it is merely a glimpse through an open door into what awaits.