PeaceBang

Plant a Groundhog Day!

Alert Unitarian Universalists who like to try to observe every major holiday might want to know that Feb. 3rd is Tu B’Shevat, or “Jewish Arbor Day.”

It might be tough to incorporate it into the same weekend you’ve already got your pagan group doing Imbolc and your Christian group doing Candlemas (which I’m not sure is official, and I must admit that I don’t know what it is), and then there’s Groundhog Day to fit in, too.

What’s a good small-u universalist to do?

Build a fire to St. Brigid outside, then plant a groundhog!

You can read about Tu B’Shevat here:
http://www.jewfaq.org/holiday8.htm

It just occurred to me. When my Dad died and we didn’t have anywhere to put his ashes for a year, that seemed kind of grim to me. Hell, it was grim. My mom hid his cremated remains in his sock drawer, for Pete’s sake (hey Mom, I looked when you were out in California visiting that guy. Sorry.).
When we finally interred his ashes in front of the police station where he had been volunteer police commissioner for 8 years, it made it all right when we planted a pear tree over him. And now that pear tree is a big, gorgeous creature. It was a very Jewish thing to do.

Shamelessly Pimping Your Vote

Gee, folks, thanks to whoever it was that nominated this blog for all those awards!

I’m up for Best Religious Writing, Best Anecdote or Narrative, Best UU Themed Blog, Best Minister’s Blog and something else.

You can vote here:
http://uupdates.net/uublogawards/

If I win Best Religious Writing (which would be particularly meaningful to me, I must admit), do you think I can raise my fees?

If you read this blog and don’t read many — or any — others, it’s okay to just vote in a few categories. I don’t feel qualified enough to vote, either, as I didn’t/don’t read all of the nominated entries and blogs, but I voted anyway.

This all reminds me of 1996, when I appeared as Chloe Haddock in “Lips Together, Teeth Apart” for a community theatre in Rochester, NY. I was horrified to find out that the theatre had a competition for best actor/actress and best supporting actor/actress that went on all season, asking audience members to rate the performances and drop the ballot in a box at the end of the show. I said that acting was not a competitive sport and that I wished not to be included in the competition. Too late; my name was already on the ballot. And then I felt like a fool when I was got all excited when I found out later that I won. I still have the plaque somewhere– a reminder against false modesty. Now I’m like Joan Crawford, gripping the cat and shaking her, “MOMMY HAS TO WIN, BABY!! MOMMY HAS TO WIN!”

She is, by the way, doing *very* well. The cat, that is. And so far she shows no signs of wear and tear from all the kissing and hugging she’s getting.

Modesty Sheet

When we first arrived in Antigua, we stayed at Palacio de Dona Beatriz at the outskirts of town. Lovely place with a great concierge named Rudy.

I saw that they offered an hour massage for $35 — who could resist? — so I ordered one up.

Jorge showed up right on time and set up his massage table in the chapel next to our room:

He had no sheet to cover me with. Imagine the flurry of flustered Spanish on my behalf as I hastened to my room to retrieve a pareo I had thought to pack (Gracias a Dios!), and imagine how quickly I got over my self-consciousness as this friendly man pounded me to within an inch of my life (in a good way) as I looked out the window at the volcanoes surrounding the city.

Holy bodywork, Batman!

Sick In Guatemala: A Photo Travelogue

Most people, when they go on an exciting trip, will focus on the great stories and minimize any mishaps. Me, I like to maximize the mishaps because, let’s face it, they’re often more interesting and dramatic than the usual “wow-it-was-beautiful” stuff. So indulge me, if you will, my stream-of-consciousness narrative of my last few days in Guatemala. And then, I promise you, I’ll tell more happy stories.

Humor me, amigos. Yesterday, January 27, went like this:

9:00 AM Arise in Antigua, Guatemala. Eat breakfast. Ignore low-grade fever, as Ibuprofen upsets the already-fragile stomach.
10:30 Depart for Guatemala City Airport. An hour on winding roads, thick fumes. I ride with a white cotton washcloth over my face. I am full of Dramamine.
2:55 PM Flight to Miami.
5:00 Arrive in Miami.
8:00 Board flight in Miami for Boston.
9:15 Be herded off airplane which is leaking hydraulic fluid.
11:30 PM Re-board another flight to Boston.
2:00 AM, January 28, Arrive Boston, elated at not having had digestive incidents or pain.

Immodium, immodium, immodium. Dramamine, dramamine, dramamine. Saludos, my wonder-working pills.

Wisdom earned:

I will never again travel winding roads without a good, sturdy plastic vomit bag within reach. But listen to me, estimados: if you must relinquish the contents of your stomach in a moving vehicle, relax your neck muscles, bow your head and let ‘er rip. Don’t, as I did, try to retain an elegant posture while you cack. You will find later that you have badly strained dozens of tiny muscles in your neck, tongue, jaw and face that you never even knew you had. They will protest. They will throb. You will hate every last one of them. You will think, How can my tongue hurt?

The body is home. We take it with us wherever we go, our touchstone, our spaceship. Wherever you go, there you are.

My cuerpo, my bodily home, was broken into on Wednesday by some kind of poisonous bug that invaded me after lunch first as an uncomfortably full feeling, then morphed into what I thought was an anxiety attack. Picture me sitting outside our little stone cabin, listening to birds screaming in the trees, gazing at volcanoes — no, not gazing…staring glassy-eyed — while my extremities begin tingling and some kind of gaseous brew begins stewing in my abdomen and rose up through my chest, leaving me breathless. Am I being possessed by some charocotel?*

Uh-oh. The body feels it before the brain registers it. Alarm. Stay calm, everyone. One doesn’t want to be alone at a moment like this. I walk down the cobblestone hill to the pool by the lake to inform my comadres that I am in distress:

They don’t think I was having a heart attack, do they? My forehead is felt, my pulse gently taken, my anxiety respected. No. Must have been something I ate at lunch.

When I say “lunch,” you must imagine a tuna melt on a plate and hear the “Jaws” theme playing in the background.

Nighttime: my two comadres sleep in the cabin and I listen to sounds from my estomago (stomach). Is there a local god of these particular volcanoes? Can I pray to Him to stop the molten lava burning me? I have never heard noises like this inside my body. I would not be surprised if my abdomen burst open and one of those creatures from “Alien” popped out.

The next day, Thursday: We ride a tuk-tuk into town (picture a cross between a moped and a golf cart) and do a bit of shopping. The haggling is not fun, it is aggressive and hostile. We take a tuk-tuk back to the posada. We get out at the lodge.

Oh.
Oh.

Oh God, may I please have a very cold Coke, straight up? Something is very wrong.

I sit on a chair back by the computers and the bar, panting, in a cold sweat. An old hippie woman with long white hair and childish bangs sits on a couch opposite me writing on her laptop. I pant and sweat. She ignores me. I want to lie down where she is sitting so badly. I begin to dislike her very much. She feels this strong wave of feeling, no doubt, and regards me with a cold eye.
“Why don’t you go to your room and lie down?” she accuses.

I assure her that as soon as I am able to walk up the hill to our cabin, I will certainly do so. For now, these stairs seem far too daunting:

She does not move from the couch. I want to be on that couch so badly. I continue to feel the greatest animosity toward her. She goes back to typing her all-important missive. It is probably a newsletter home to her friends telling them about her great humanitarian efforts on behalf of los indigenos of the Guatemalan highlands. As far as I know, her sacrifice amounted to staying at a gorgeous lakeside resort and spending an hour or two a day playing the guitar for orphans. She may have even contributed to the local economy by shopping in the village. Let’s give her the Compassionate Gringa Award of 2007, shall we?

I stop hating the woman — I simply don’t have the energy for it — and bang like Frankenstein’s monster to the bathroom across the lodge. I slide my back down the wall and land on the cold stone floor. Sweating, sweating, panting. I become dimly aware of my amiga in there with me, coaching me as I finally begin to retch and retch and retch into a wastepaper basket which is mercifully empty. A gaggle of Guatemalan women — hotel workers — stand outside the door in a gaggle, giggling. Would not one of them have a better idea, something motherly and comforting? Are they afraid to harm the American? Would one of them consider wrapping me up in one of those warm blankets they carry their babies in and holding me to her? I would be so grateful. Like this:

So go my delirious thoughts.

Later, I start a dose of Cipro, which rips through my stomach. More volcanic lava. Acid. Pain.
That night: Imagine the most ridiculous possible pose one might take on a bed (hint: including bedclothes and four pillows). Use your imagination.
Whatever you have imagined, that is the only position in which I am able to find any comfort and in which I finally fall asleep. Don’t ask me to describe it. Leave me a shred of my dignity.

We were supposed to go to the market in Chichicastenango on Thursday. None of us regretted missing it. A German woman was stabbed there last week, and none of us felt up to the crowds. I slept and read. I looked out the window at these lovely orchids:

Friday, we climb into a van for the return ride to Antigua. We decide to take the coastal route, as it will be less winding than the mountain route we took on the way in. (These guys did it standing up, but I did it in fits of nervous giggles and clutches at safety handle above the car window, affectionately referred to as the “holy s— handle”).

It is on this ride back to Antigua that I learn the Great Lesson of relaxing the neck and vomiting down into the bag. It has come to this: I am actually proud of my aim. For all the turmoil in my guts, I am neat and clean. The van is neat and clean. Small favors.

I begin to think about people who live with chronic nausea, for whom the world is a place of dangerously pungent smells, noxious fumes, and potentially stomach-churning foodstuffs. How much they must, as I have done, retreat protectively into themselves, shaky and vigilant, for the waves to pass, or to get less dramatic. I am excessively, ebulliently grateful for my general good health.

This guy, very debonair, hangs out with me:

* For some really great and wack stories about characoteles, read this:
http://www.zooscape.com/cgi-bin/maitred/WhitePulp/isbn0826321046

Hola from Guatemala

Hola, PeaceBangers!

I attended church today in Santiago de Atitlan in the Guatemalan highlands. Very, very emotional. From what I understood, the priest preached on the body of Christ. There were tons of people of all ages and the music was sung and chanted mostly by children’s choir and guitar. Heavenly music.

I’m in the restaurant of our very lovely accomodations and don’t have time to blog, just wanted to know that it’s very beautiful here and the people are among the loveliest, most elegant and gracious I have ever encountered.

Much love and well-being to you all,
PB

UU Blog Awards: For Your Consideration

It looks like while I’m away on vacation, ya’ll will have an opportunity to vote on your favorite UU blogs.

I think I was voted second in a few categories last year. This year, baby, let’s go for the gold!

Here are a few reasons you might consider giving PeaceBang your vote. This is by way of reminding you that I don’t write about my cat ALL the time…!!

Religious Writing or Theological Commentary:

http://peacebang.blogspot.com/2006/01/squirming-on-sunday-mornings.html
I blather on about the meaning of worship.

http://peacebang.blogspot.com/2006/02/torture-and-moral-imaginal-life_24.html
I try to communicate how haunted I am by torture.

http://peacebang.blogspot.com/2006/02/uu-first-principle.html
I get down with S-I-N!

Here, I start a firestorm of angry criticism by explaining why I like the word “LORD.”
http://peacebang.blogspot.com/2006/06/lord-lord-lord.html

http://peacebang.blogspot.com/2006/06/memorize-this.html
I advise pastors to have a few of the Bible’s greatest hits in their memory bank.

http://peacebang.blogspot.com/2006/07/how-do-you-know-god-loves-you.html
I like the writing here, but more than anything I love the graphic. See it and weep.

Cultural Commentary

http://peacebang.blogspot.com/2006/02/hughs-harem.html
I snark on sexism and Playboy bunnies in captivity.

http://peacebang.blogspot.com/2006/10/cell-phone-etiquette-two-universal.html
I try, totally in vain, to start a revolution in cell phone ettiquette, a word I can’t even spell.

Cute Things About Family

http://peacebang.blogspot.com/2006/08/brotherbangs-birthday-reflections.html
I share memories of being a big sister.

Go vote — or nominate - at http://uupdates.net/uublogawards/

I’ll be in Guatemala until January 27th. Peace. Bang.

The Ides of January

In the continuing scintillating and thrilling week of PeaceBang, I wrote a sermon, wrote about 100 e-mails, thought two or three deep thoughts and about six thousand useless ones, planned some church programming, had a half dozen nice meetings, cared about a lot of people, outright worried about a few more, cracked the Bible and prayed exactly once in the past week, and pinched a nerve in my neck.

The cat is still breathing “harshly,” per the vet today, and she is still on prednisone. She will be staying on prednisone for the forseeable future. She eats better. She is now mad at me for being the Mean Lady Who Makes Her Eat Pills. She runs from me. I don’t need this. I tell her that if we lived on a farm, she’d be put in a gunnesack with a few heavy stones and tossed in the lake. So don’t push it, I tell her. This has been a loooong ten days and if you’re not cute, you’re just an expensive problem right now. She gets quivery tail at me. We make up and kiss. She does Le Grande Flop against my side and tucks herself even more tightly against me, hooking her pristine white paws around my arm. There is a tiny, almost imperceptible rattle underneath her purring. I hold my own breath and listen, listen. Stop it, I think. Please stop it. Whatever you are.

It rains, it suns, it’s cold, then it’s balmy. I have sudden attacks of histamines and want to scratch out my eyes. I take Claritin.

I read about Bush and despair, I read about the theatre, I read celebrity gossip. I read a bit of this and a bit of that. I get an “A” on my big class. I show Mom my report card, because I never outgrow that. Mom is jubilant, as a mother should be. She got here yesterday.

We talk at the kitchen table. We talk about aging, we talk about our bodies. We talk about family, about our new babies. We talk about being women with big appetites, and trade recipes. We hash over politics and community issues. We talk about dating and relationships. We take naps. We clean up the dinner dishes. We shop for a new electric kettle for me, as I tripped and broke mine.

The Christmas tree is down. I wrestled it into its box for another year the other day, grateful not to have pulled anything in my lower back. The storage room looks like the inside of some mad genius’s mind. It is the cat’s favorite hiding place, a jumble of Christmas Easter Harvest Memory Lane Air Conditioning Units Old Curtain Rods.

I turn 41 years old tomorrow.

I am now officially “in my forties.” It sounds ridiculous, just as giggle-worthy as the moment last night when Melissa and her husband had to leave dinner to get the babysitter home at a reasonable hour. Mel and I have been good friends since the third grade. We used to babysit together. One time at the Andersons on Weed Street when we were in 8th grade, we went outside for a cigarette and locked ourselves out of the house. I got a window open and we climbed in by boosting and pulling each other up. Only after we got inside did we realize that only one of us needed to be boosted up, and the other one could have just gone and opened the door.

Time moves on, little girls grow up, and God moves in the land like a cloud moving across the sky.
An ancestor spirit stops by my home to see two women who look and sound like mirror images of each other deep in conversation. The spirit pulls up a chair. It feels nostalgic for this.

The Ides of January.

Cat Update

SOMEONE brought me a (toy) mouse this morning! She’s hunting!!

And has been jumping brightly on the bed at dawn with a cheerful, “Mrow?”
And has been talking about many cat things while I am in the kitchen, and she even whines! (which is how she earned her name in the first place: Ermengarde is the crying, whining character in “Hello, Dolly!”)

And has been eating beef briscuit and roast beef out of my hand, and also eating small heaps of icky wet stinky food. And as many of those disgusting Play-Doh-like snacks as she can get.

Thank you all for continuing to care. She has lost some weight but takes her medication pretty cheerfully and sleeps and plays and does all normal things with almost all her usual energy.

She isn’t drinking much water but the vet is not concerned. They will see her for a heart worm test in the morning, and we will do another set of Xrays when I’m back from vacation at the very end of January. Keep praying that that big white cloud over her lungs will be a distant memory.

Sorry this blog has been such a crashing bore of late.

Escalation/Surge

I feel a kind of dread.

The image I get is of Bush throwing bodies into the maw of an enormous beast… just throwing bodies into a fiery pit with an enormous monstrous mouth.

Can Congress do anything? Can they start impeachment proceedings?

Bush’s Jacobean Tragedy

The old English major in me really appreciated this article by Gary Kimya for Salon:

http://www.salon.com/opinion/kamiya/2007/01/09/revenge/index.html

I wasn’t overly impressed by his”Old Testament God = vengeance/New Testament God= forgiveness” false dichotomy (cripes, dude, ever read the Gospel of Matthew?), but he’s obviously a literary type, not a religious scholar.

It’s good stuff.

I am not even turning on the television tonight lest I see the Leering Chimp on some random newscast.

Thanks to my cousin Matthew for the article.