I wrote this post in February. It sat in my box for a while waiting for me to get to the crust part, but I've moved on to other metaphors now that spring is here! So, I'll just post my musings on icicles, rather belatedly.
Two metaphors have been skirting around the edge of my thoughts these days – icicles and crusts. February is the month of icicles here in northern New England. Old colonial houses with steeply pitched roofs abound, and the snowfall this year has been generous. For weeks snow piles up on the roofs and in the gutters, biding its time till a sunny day. February’s skies are bright blue after January’s gun metal expanse, and the snow begins to soften and then to drip. The sun is deceptively warm, but the air is still cold. The combination makes for icicles which lengthen during the sunny days and harden in the cold, dark nights.
Some roofs look like they have grown sharp fangs overnight, the rows of closely spaced icicles fringing the roof like shark’s teeth. Others are more elegant and assymetrical, long, thick sharp sabres alternating with shorter, more delicate points. My children love to watch the roof across the street and make forays into the yard when the owner is not home to harvest her icicles. Sometimes they have short lived sword fights with them, more often they bring them home to the freezer to try to extend their natural life span. They coexist in the dark with bags of peas and ice cream cartons until someone, usually me, tosses them out to break on the porch.
Suddenly in February the public signs which have been ignored all summer and fall – Caution, Falling Ice- begin to have portent. Parking too near the edge of a building could have serious consequences during February. We park, drive and walk at our own risk during these bright days which lure us outside. Icicles are at once the harbingers of spring and the reminders that winter is not over.
Some days I feel like an icicle. I can melt, or be melted, by the misfortune of others, by the needs I encounter all around me, by a friend’s pain or a husband’s struggle, but my heart can harden again just as easily. I wish for it to be always spring in my heart, but I am stuck in February, I fear. I weep, but then I forget what I’ve seen, I feel touched by the feeling of another’s infirmity, but I don’t stay soft; I slip back into the icy shadows of my own wants and needs and cares, the cold darkness of my own night. My heart so easily hardens toward others and I am sharp and brittle and frozen solid. The cycle of melting, hardening, melting and hardening seems to go on forever. I know when I look at the calendar that sometime soon the icicles will melt away for good, that mud season will inevitably overtake winter. But when I look at my heart I cannot predict spring so infallibly. Though I ache for spring, though I drip in anticipation, winter could be here for a long time. For good if I let it.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Redemption, recycling and Bernie Madoff
My daughter and I were discussing the indictment and guilty plea of Bernie Madoff a few weeks ago. I heard a commentator on NPR express the near certainty that Madoff would "spend the rest of his life in prison." I expressed my own opinion that such a penalty is meaningless - completely unrelated to the crime, unlikely to do anything to either help the victims of the crime or to restore the perpetrator. I think the same could be said of 90 percent of the prison sentences handed down in US courts. A small percentage of the 1 in 40 adults incarcerated in the US are truly dangerous and need to be locked away, but we can't seem to think of anything else to do with lawbreakers, so they all end up wasting their own time and taxpayers' money.
My daughter made a very perceptive comment at that point. She said, "You know, our society isn't really into redemption at all. Not in any arena. We don't redeem people, we don't recycle goods, we don't reclaim wasted food, we don't redeem our time." I think she cut right to the heart of the matter.
So we began to talk about whether those things are related - is our attitude toward criminal justice really related to our handling of our trash? Do our buying habits and our leisure time activities say anything about our worldviews? Could you predict someone's attitude toward crime and punishment based on whether they have a recycling bin in their kitchen? Well, maybe not, but then again, maybe so.
My daughter posited that most of us have just become lazy. We all tend to do what is easiest, unless we have a compelling reason or belief that makes us choose the road less traveled. Our phenomenal affluence has coincided with the loss of any understanding of the value of and the need for redemption. We Americans have become so accustomed to throwing things away instead of fixing them, to tossing out the leftovers (or, in my case, letting them rot in the refrigerator for three weeks and then tossing them out), to filling our trash cans and our prisons with the things and the people we don't want to keep around anymore, rather than doing the hard work of redeeming them, making them into useful products or useful citizens. Maybe it's not a coincidence at all that our landfills and our prisons are both burgeoning.
As Christians we claim to walk as Jesus walked. We hold up the life of Christ as our role model. More than that, we stake our lives on the truth of His redemptive life and death. His sole purpose in His earthly life was to redeem that which had become soiled and ruined by sin. His life and death demonstrated the enormous value of redeeming what would otherwise be lost. He was willing to die to do the hard work of redemption.
We have the opportunity every day as individuals and as members of society to model a redemptive lifestyle or a careless one. We can demonstrate for our children and our neighbors the virtues of reclaiming and renewing things and persons that are soiled and damaged by use or by sin, that may look as if they have no usefulness left in them. Or we can teach them to toss them away as so much garbage - paper, plastic, aluminum and people.
My daughter made a very perceptive comment at that point. She said, "You know, our society isn't really into redemption at all. Not in any arena. We don't redeem people, we don't recycle goods, we don't reclaim wasted food, we don't redeem our time." I think she cut right to the heart of the matter.
So we began to talk about whether those things are related - is our attitude toward criminal justice really related to our handling of our trash? Do our buying habits and our leisure time activities say anything about our worldviews? Could you predict someone's attitude toward crime and punishment based on whether they have a recycling bin in their kitchen? Well, maybe not, but then again, maybe so.
My daughter posited that most of us have just become lazy. We all tend to do what is easiest, unless we have a compelling reason or belief that makes us choose the road less traveled. Our phenomenal affluence has coincided with the loss of any understanding of the value of and the need for redemption. We Americans have become so accustomed to throwing things away instead of fixing them, to tossing out the leftovers (or, in my case, letting them rot in the refrigerator for three weeks and then tossing them out), to filling our trash cans and our prisons with the things and the people we don't want to keep around anymore, rather than doing the hard work of redeeming them, making them into useful products or useful citizens. Maybe it's not a coincidence at all that our landfills and our prisons are both burgeoning.
As Christians we claim to walk as Jesus walked. We hold up the life of Christ as our role model. More than that, we stake our lives on the truth of His redemptive life and death. His sole purpose in His earthly life was to redeem that which had become soiled and ruined by sin. His life and death demonstrated the enormous value of redeeming what would otherwise be lost. He was willing to die to do the hard work of redemption.
We have the opportunity every day as individuals and as members of society to model a redemptive lifestyle or a careless one. We can demonstrate for our children and our neighbors the virtues of reclaiming and renewing things and persons that are soiled and damaged by use or by sin, that may look as if they have no usefulness left in them. Or we can teach them to toss them away as so much garbage - paper, plastic, aluminum and people.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Matters of taste
One of the many unfortunate physical changes that occurs as you get older is that your skin grows thinner. Last summer my Mom was telling me how easily her skin tears these days, and, I have to admit, even at my age I have noticed not-so-subtle changes in the texture of my skin. I think it is particularly cruel that this kind of thing should happen just when you seem to need a thicker skin - when your kids grow up. Most of my children have moved way beyond the stage in life where Mom is beautiful, wise and always right. All of them have moved beyond the stage where Mom knows anything about clothes, music or youtube. Even though I know they are probably right, I still forget sometimes.
I have (almost) finally stopped trying to buy any items of clothing for my daughters, with the possible exception of white sports socks. (I don't always get those right, but I have an 11 year old who will still wear just about any style for basketball practice. I know my days are numbered with her.) My older girls have been very kind to me for years. Countless times I have pulled something out of a shopping bag with a "Ta-da" flourish only to hear them demur, "Oh, Mom, that's really interesting." "OK, maybe I could try that." "That's really nice, but I'm not sure if it will fit; you know how ridiculous I am about how things fit." Later they try to slip them out the back door in opaque bags bound for a local charity so I might not notice. Nice girls.
It's not that I'm completely clueless about my fashion weaknesses. I admit I just don't notice the subtle differences between brands and cuts of jeans; I can never remember which backpocket designs are OK and which are anathema. It's one of my blind spots. And I know, too, that vintage finds that I think are fabulous, that make me exclaim, "Oh, I would definitely wear this if I were 20 again" will never interest my girls unless it happens to be October 31. I do understand a few things. But I thought I could still do an adequate job of choosing my own wardrobe. Apparently not.
One Sunday last month I arrived downstairs ready for church only to hear my fourteen year old say, "Mom, that outfit looks like it came from "What Not to Wear." Seeing she had hurt my tender fashion feelings she quickly backtracked with, "No, no! I meant what they choose for the woman to wear, not what she started out in," but I got the point. My eldest son arrived home from college for spring break a few weeks ago. He gave me a big, warm hug and then stepped back for an appraising look. "Mom, are you wearing your wampum around your neck?" he asked when he noticed the new necklace I had just bought to make a bold statement. Wampum was not the look I'd had in mind.
I take some comfort from the knowledge that I am not wandering all alone in the fashion wasteland of midlife. I was discussing skinny jeans with one of my age cohort a few months ago. I mentioned my girls had frowned disapprovingly when I casually brought them up in conversation. They shook their heads and murmured things I could not quite hear, but could not misunderstand. My friend confided that her daughters had gasped, "Mom, don't even think about it" when she eyed their Ugg boots with more than cursory interest.
I can still remember my own mother's fashion faux pas when I was young and cool, like her stiffly sprayed hair that was refreshed once a week at the salon. In spite of her best efforts to sleep carefully for the next six days it became flatter and more misshapen as the week wore on. You could pretty much tell which day each of her friends had her regular appointment by the state of their hives. That was 1972. I also remember her picking out "cute" things for me that I would not consider going to bed in, much less wearing to school. I remember the myriad ways I had of saying "Are you kidding?" so it sounded more like, "I think I have enough clothes to last me for the next three years, but thanks anyway." And I remember my relief when my mother eventually stopped buying me clothes, though I missed the moment of excitement I used to feel between the announcement, "I got you something great!" and the unveiling of the actual item.
So, I should not be surprised to find that I have reached the same stage in life. It was inevitable. I should not feel like a complete failure just because I will never get a job as a fashion consultant to anyone under thirty - really, for anyone at all. The wisdom which comes with age doesn't have much to do with taste, I guess. I should probably turn my energies to other pursuits, like growing a thicker skin.
I have (almost) finally stopped trying to buy any items of clothing for my daughters, with the possible exception of white sports socks. (I don't always get those right, but I have an 11 year old who will still wear just about any style for basketball practice. I know my days are numbered with her.) My older girls have been very kind to me for years. Countless times I have pulled something out of a shopping bag with a "Ta-da" flourish only to hear them demur, "Oh, Mom, that's really interesting." "OK, maybe I could try that." "That's really nice, but I'm not sure if it will fit; you know how ridiculous I am about how things fit." Later they try to slip them out the back door in opaque bags bound for a local charity so I might not notice. Nice girls.
It's not that I'm completely clueless about my fashion weaknesses. I admit I just don't notice the subtle differences between brands and cuts of jeans; I can never remember which backpocket designs are OK and which are anathema. It's one of my blind spots. And I know, too, that vintage finds that I think are fabulous, that make me exclaim, "Oh, I would definitely wear this if I were 20 again" will never interest my girls unless it happens to be October 31. I do understand a few things. But I thought I could still do an adequate job of choosing my own wardrobe. Apparently not.
One Sunday last month I arrived downstairs ready for church only to hear my fourteen year old say, "Mom, that outfit looks like it came from "What Not to Wear." Seeing she had hurt my tender fashion feelings she quickly backtracked with, "No, no! I meant what they choose for the woman to wear, not what she started out in," but I got the point. My eldest son arrived home from college for spring break a few weeks ago. He gave me a big, warm hug and then stepped back for an appraising look. "Mom, are you wearing your wampum around your neck?" he asked when he noticed the new necklace I had just bought to make a bold statement. Wampum was not the look I'd had in mind.
I take some comfort from the knowledge that I am not wandering all alone in the fashion wasteland of midlife. I was discussing skinny jeans with one of my age cohort a few months ago. I mentioned my girls had frowned disapprovingly when I casually brought them up in conversation. They shook their heads and murmured things I could not quite hear, but could not misunderstand. My friend confided that her daughters had gasped, "Mom, don't even think about it" when she eyed their Ugg boots with more than cursory interest.
I can still remember my own mother's fashion faux pas when I was young and cool, like her stiffly sprayed hair that was refreshed once a week at the salon. In spite of her best efforts to sleep carefully for the next six days it became flatter and more misshapen as the week wore on. You could pretty much tell which day each of her friends had her regular appointment by the state of their hives. That was 1972. I also remember her picking out "cute" things for me that I would not consider going to bed in, much less wearing to school. I remember the myriad ways I had of saying "Are you kidding?" so it sounded more like, "I think I have enough clothes to last me for the next three years, but thanks anyway." And I remember my relief when my mother eventually stopped buying me clothes, though I missed the moment of excitement I used to feel between the announcement, "I got you something great!" and the unveiling of the actual item.
So, I should not be surprised to find that I have reached the same stage in life. It was inevitable. I should not feel like a complete failure just because I will never get a job as a fashion consultant to anyone under thirty - really, for anyone at all. The wisdom which comes with age doesn't have much to do with taste, I guess. I should probably turn my energies to other pursuits, like growing a thicker skin.
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