Second Blooming

Spin Cycle: The First Post

This blog went live on May 25, 2009 with this post.

It was intensely personal. And sweet. But I clearly hadn't found my "voice" yet. Maybe a bit. It feels like a school writing project of some kind, and it was PACKED with exposition about myself and my life. It's also in this peculiar font - I don't even know what that is, except that I was so afraid that I would somehow accidentally publish the post before I was ready (ha!) that for the first few months of my blog, I composed my posts in Microsoft Word and then copy and pasted them into Typepad.

But I must say, I think it was a nice start. Something to build upon. And it's one of my favorite stories.

So please enjoy...

Jude

One thing I’ve always known for certain, is that I was going to be a mother. I didn’t have a “need” to be a mother, or a “desire” to be a mother. I had what I felt was an actual knowledge that this would be part of my life. So when I woke up one day and realized that I was 40 years old and had still produced no offspring, I decided that I couldn’t just wait around “knowing” it would happen, but that I had to actually get off my ass and make it happen. So my husband, Jimmy, and I started actively trying. And trying. And trying. Which is difficult when you have a husband who only wants to “try” when it’s wild and spontaneous (something which thrilled me in our earlier days together). I was forced to hide the basal thermometer and feign “spontaneous” enthusiasm for “trying”. My husband never caught on as to why I was oh so very frisky at the exact same time every month. He did, however, enjoy it tremendously. 

 

But alas…no pregnancy.  At 41, I faced the fact that I should probably get some professional help, and went to a fertility doctor. And being the aging Catholic that I am, I started lighting a candle to St. Jude every Sunday. Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes (and fittingly, actors, which my husband, Jimmy, and I both are), and I thought he would certainly be my go-to guy.

We got pregnant! And lost it. Hmmm. Okay, let’s try again. Only this time, I realized it was time to marshal the forces. Our health insurance would only pay for one more go with the fertility treatments. This was my Waterloo. My Alamo (we Texans LOVE Alamo analogies!). I needed to bring out the big guns. So…I sent out a plea to all my spiritual-minded friends, and they came through for me in a big way. Catholic friends had novenas going across the country, Christian friends added me to their prayer chains, Buddhist friends had their meditation groups chanting for me, a friend on a trip to Europe lit a candle in every cathedral in France, Japanese friends performed Jorai healing over my womb to get it prepared to welcome the child. And then I decided to play my trump card. I went back to St. Jude, and this time, I promised him that if he’d help us have a baby…I’d name the kid after him. Big, right?

And it worked. It worked! We were blessed with a healthy, thriving pregnancy. My fertility doctor loved me because I was a 41 year old woman who got pregnant TWICE, thus skewing his success rate nicely. And my Italian-American in-laws were overjoyed to learn that it was a masculine child.

    

 

Now…how to tell Jimmy that I’d already named the kid by making a vow to a saint. Oh no. Jimmy does not like being told what to do. Oh no. He does not like having decisions made for him. Oh no. And even though Jimmy's spiritual beliefs have now taken a sharp turn Eastern, he is still enough of an old Italian Catholic to know that you don’t screw around with a vow to a saint. Oh no, no, no. A vow to a saint is very serious stuff.

We bounced around a few names. Jimmy wanted Vito (I know. But Jimmy’s an Italian actor and has a Godfather thing, and anyway, Vito means “life”, so…). I suggested Levon, for Levon Helm of The Band, a mutual favorite of ours. All the while, I was getting up the guts to make my confession about the wacky vow-to-a-saint thing.

So one night, when I was about 6 months into my pregnancy, we decided to meet for dinner at a local Italian restaurant. When Jimmy got there, he was very wound up and excited (people who know him know that he is usually this way, but this time he was particularly so), and as soon as he sat down he  announced “I know what we have to name our son!” Oh NO!! It was now or never. I had to make my confession. “I was driving in the car” Jimmy continued, “And ‘Hey Jude’ came on the radio. How many millions of times have I heard this song? But today, I felt like I was hearing it for the first time. And it hit me like a ton of bricks that that’s what we have to name the baby. Jude.”

Now, according to Jimmy, I got a look of joy and relief like nothing he’d ever witnessed before, and my eyes welled up with tears. “Yes!” I blubbered, “That’s his name!!” St. Jude had fixed it. And on May 6, 2003, my one perfect, silly little boy, Jude Antonio, was born, and since then I’ve been Jude’s Mama.

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More Rerunners...

Kendra at Life in the slow lane

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Nothing

That's right, I'm taking a break. A summer break. In a week, Jude and I are heading to New York for a THREE week visit with the in-laws, so prepare yourselves for some Mommy stories. But I don't want to have to worry about the spinning while I'm gone.

So have a fun vacation. And the Spin Cycle will return in about a month. If you want me to add you to the Spin Cycle reminder email, let me know!

 

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All the Money's In Syndication

Hey y'all!

BlogHer has kindly syndicated one of my posts! Please check it out HERE, and read about my very own birth, complete with a sweet picture of Mama and a groovy video of Clint Eastwood. I promise this all makes sense if you read it. If you read it when I first posted it, never you mind, go read it AGAIN. Because then BlogHer will think I'm a big deal.

Oh, and tweet it too, if you're so inclined. They seem to like that stuff.

Thank you for your support!

The Rawhide Legend

According to legend...

Mama was working in the garden, planting some new rose bushes. She was not wearing gardening gloves, because she liked the way the moist dirt felt on her hands. She would come to regret this.

It was mid-March, and the weather in Texas was starting to warm up, so she had decided to garden at dusk, when it was pleasantly cool outside.

She was wearing a large and not particularly attractive muumuu, which her sister-in-law, Verna, had sent her from Hawaii. It was the only thing that still fit her, as she had outgrown all of her maternity clothes.

Oh, did I fail to mention that she was pregnant? She was. Quite pregnant, in fact. But she still had a couple of weeks until her due date, so she was pretty surprised when labor pains started in fast and furious. She sunk down to her knees.

"Roy!!!" she cried.

Nothing.

"ROY!!!" she yelled out, louder.

Nothing.

She managed to get up and stagger into the house. Daddy was sitting in his big chair in the living room, watching "Rawhide" on television. Daddy loved a good Western.

"Roy! It's TIME!!" Mama cried. Mama was often melodramatic.

"Now?" Daddy asked calmly. Daddy was never melodramatic.

"Yes! Now! The baby is coming now!"

"Well, why don't you go lie down and let me watch the rest of "Rawhide". It will take a while for that baby to get here. We'll drive in to the hospital after the show," declared Daddy, ever the pragmatist.

"But this baby is coming NOW!"

A rather large fight ensued.

Mama, of course, won, as pregnant women in labor tend to do, and Daddy turned off "Rawhide" and drove her to the hospital.

When they got there, they whisked her into the Maternity Ward, and told Daddy to go home. They would call him when it was closer to the time for delivery.

Once Mama got into the Maternity Ward, they stuck her in a bed in the corner and refused to call her doctor. It was far too early, they said, it will still be many hours until that baby was ready to come out.

"But this baby is coming NOW!"

 "Oh my goodness, you older mothers..." scoffed the nurse. Mama never forget this line.

Because she was, in fact, an older mother - almost 40. Which was rare in those days. And the nurse in charge seemed to think that Mama was a silly, over-reacting older mother, who clearly didn't know anything about birthing babies.

Mama became convinced that they just weren't taking her seriously enough because she was wearing this terrible muumuu and she had dirt stuck under her fingernails. She was afraid that they thought she was some kind of low-class woman, who didn't know any better than to go into labor with dirty nails.

"I was gardening! I'm not usually dirty!" Mama tried to tell the nurses, "I should have worn gloves!  This baby is coming NOW!"

Finally, after a few hours, she convinced a nurse to come and examine her, and sure enough the nurse took one look and said "This baby is coming NOW!"

They called her doctor, and Daddy, who both rushed down to the hospital. Within an hour, the doctor found Daddy out in the waiting room, and told him he was the father of a healthy baby girl. Me. It was just after midnight on March 18, 1961.

 

Notice that by now she has washed her hands and put on a little lipstick. And a bow.

Daddy never got to see the end of that episode of "Rawhide". And Daddy, having the wry sense of humor that he did, complained about it for the rest of his life. Every year on my birthday, he'd mutter sadly, "Never did see the end of that "Rawhide". Every time the show was on, he'd watch, but after a few minutes he'd shake his head sadly, "Nope. That's not the episode."

But Daddy didn't have Google. Or IMDb. Or YouTube. Though he would have loved them - all that information at his fingertips. And I, being very much my father's daughter, did a bit of research.

I Googled "Rawhide March 17, 1961" and sure enough..."Rawhide" Season 3, Episode 19, Incident Near Gloomy River  popped right up on IMDb! The legend has been confirmed! And John Cassavetes was the guest star, so I guess it was a good episode!

My next stop was YouTube, and guess what? A scene from Incident Near Gloomy River. Gotta love the young Clint.

And so, this is for you Da.

 

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This post was inspired by...

 

Prompt #3 - Tell us about the story of your birth.

Super Duper Whooperly

Jude made this for me for Mother's Day...

 

Typos and creative spelling courtesy of my son.

I will possibly recover from this awesomeness by next week. I love my child.

 

Double Digits

Ten-years old today.

 

Jude = 10

Happy Birthday my love. Your kindness and loving spirit stun me every day. I can't imagine what I could have done in my life to merit receiving you as my child. You are my blessing. I love you, sweetest boy.

 

Moonwalk

July 21, 1969

I remember it well. I was 8-years old.

I had put on my nightgown and gone to bed at 8:00 pm, my usual time, and gone to sleep.

But then, at about 9:30 at night, Mama came into my room and woke me up. Something important was about to happen.

She led me into the living room, and snuggled up with me on the sofa with a blanket and a pillow. Daddy was sitting in his chair, and our big console color television was tuned in to a news program.

Earlier that day, Apollo 11 had landed on the surface of the moon, and everyone in the world was tuned into their television sets, waiting for a miracle to happen.

At 9:56 pm CST, Neil Armstrong made his way out the door of the tiny lunar module, and we all held our breaths...

 

I remember Mama starting to cry, and Daddy getting stoicly quiet as we watched these two amazingly brave Americans erect our country's flag on the surface of the moon, so far, far away.

Through my life, I've watched many memorable events on television - the towers crumbling on 9/11, the Challenger disaster, the OJ car chase, the funeral of Princess Diana, the levees breaking during Hurricane Katrina, the LA riots. But all of those events were tragic and shocking. 

July 21, 1969 was a triumph. It was a moment when everyone in America tuned in to proudly watch our country's success. We all cheered along with those men in the shirts and ties gathered in that huge room at Mission Control in Houston, not far from where I sat in my living room with my family.

I wonder if I'll ever again see an event which brings our country that much pride. I fear not.

What television news story made the biggest impression on you when you were a kid?

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This post was inspired by...

 

 

Prompt #1 -  How old were you? Share one of the first news stories you remember caring about.

 

Spin Cycle: I Am the Tree

When Jude was born, he looked just like Jimmy. According to this New York Times article, scientific studies have shown that infants usually look like their dads. The theory is that nature helps out Mom a bit by letting Dad know for sure that the kid is his. When Jude popped out looking like he belonged in Jimmy's family, I was fine with this idea. I did, after all, love Jimmy, and liked the way he looked.

But then, when the boy was about a year and a half old, he  started changing. He started looking...like me.  A lot like me. And thus, a lot like Mama and Daddy. He has the blond hair, which I had when I was little, as did Mama...

 

Little blond Jude

Little blond me

 

 

Little blond Mama

 

Sometimes, I'll look at my hands and see Mama's hands. Right there on the end of my arms. And Jude's hands? Just the same. It's eerie.

I first realized that Jude had started looking like me when Aunt Grace made a comment that Jude could "do that thing you do with your legs." And it was true. I hadn't noticed, but he can do this...

 

 

Weird thing Jude can do.

Weird thing I can do.

I guess our knees are double-jointed or something, but we both think this is totally comfortable. And it blew me away when I realized he could do it. I've never known anyone in my life who could do it. I can't tell you how it made me feel. There was someone LIKE me.

Because...I have no family. Well, not much, anyway. No brothers or sisters. No parents. And I adored my parents so much, that the thought of their gene pool fading away into oblivion just made me so overwhelmingly sad.

However...

Now I'm starting to worry that he is too much like me. Not physically, the physical similarities are fine. It's the behavioral similarities. Sometimes, the kid will say something, a Gretchenism if you will, and I'll just gasp. He sounds just like a middle-aged Southern woman. I fear that this is not a good thing.

I'll never forget one particular time, several years ago, when a bunch of moms and kids were at our house for an afternoon playdate. The kids were playing in our little above-ground pool, and the moms were all drinking margaritas (please don't judge), when suddenly, Jude fell backwards into the pool and got his foot stuck in the metal pool frame. Instead of shouting "Help!" like most little children would, the boy shrieked at the top of his lungs, "Oh Lordy! Oh Lordy!" He sounded just like me. And...Mama.

A couple of weeks ago, my friend Carol gave Jude a ride to swim practice, and afterwards she said "Jude's so funny. He's fun to listen to when he talks. He sounds so...well, like you." Oh no. When asked to define this, she said that he used big words and sounded sort of formal and old-fashioned for a little kid. Then, the other day, the 7th grade teacher at school told me that she'd finally connected that Jude was my son. She said she could tell because he spoke just like me. When I asked exactly what this meant, she said that we used the same syntax. Sigh. I'm afraid that the chicks won't dig this.

Now all this isn't to say that Jude is in no way like Jimmy. He is. He has his dark brown, Italian eyes, his eyebrows, his feet. Certain mannerisms. They both love The Beatles.

But very often, Jude and I will find ourselves sharing a moment, a joke or a common interest, and when Jimmy walks in the room, we stop and look at each other, and realize that Jimmy just doesn't understand. The other day, Jimmy came in and asked what we were watching on tv, and Jude started to try to explain Doctor Who to him, but after about 30 seconds, just said "It's a show that Mom and I like."

And I feel a little sorry for Jimmy. The same way I felt sorry for Mama when Daddy and I shared a joke. Because Mama never understood our sense of humor. Daddy and I had inside joke after inside joke, and she never got any of it.

I must admit that I don't feel that sorry. Jimmy has his mom and dad and brother and countless cousins who are all just like him. But for me? I just have that one little boy.

So I'm happy to be the tree. I hope he's not too embarrassed to be my apple. And I know that soon, the little apple will roll farther away, and become his own tree. And maybe his little apples will have the same blond hair and the same hands and do the same weird thing with their legs.

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You absolutely must go and read our other Apple/Tree spinners!

Jan at Jan's Sushi Bar

Lynn at Curly Girl's Music World 

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me

Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie - NEW on FRIDAY!

Nain at View From Down Here - NEW on FRIDAY!

Janice at I Got Nothing - NEW on FRIDAY!

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Bucket List

What things do you desperately want to do before you leave this earth?

Learn French? Buy a motorcycle? Visit the pyramids? Climb Kilimanjaro? Make a successful souffle?

Write it. Post it. Let me know. I'll link it.

Check back next Friday for my spin on Bucket List, and get the next week's Spin topic!

 

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Camino

Every now and then,  I find myself thinking the unthinkable - what would I do if Jude preceded me in death.

And when I think this, the most horrible thought imaginable, my only answer is that I would have to die. I have no other children to live for. I would want to die. It may sound melodramatic, but I'm afraid it's what I think.

The other day, I saw a promo on HBO for a new movie with Hilary Swank about a mom who loses her only son while on a vacation to Africa, and ends up staying on in Africa and dedicating herself to saving children from malaria. And I thought "Wow. I could do that. If I didn't die, I would have to do that." Move to Africa or somesuch place and dedicate my life to saving children from hunger and illness and terror and war. If I did that, I could possibly heal. A bit.

I guess this must be what every parent who loses a child must deal with, where do you begin to piece your life back together, to make your life positive and meaningful again? What the hell do you do with yourself?

Remember last year when Jude's friend Gus passed away from cancer? That's Gus' sweet face over there on the right sidebar. Well over the last year, Gus' parents, Cecilia and Paul, have been facing that very question, and they came up with a lovely and moving answer.

They decided to go on a pilgrimage. In Spain. El Camino de Finisterre - the road to the end of the world, a popular pilgrimage since medieval times. They began their walk in Sarria, Spain and walked 20 km a day for 10 days, until they reached the lighthouse in Finisterre, the End of the World.

Cecilia, with whom I have become much closer over the last year because we're in a writer's group together, wrote an eloquent and moving blog about their experience, a personal diary of their journey.

Here is her entry from the beginning of the trek...

March 28, 2013 –

Why walk? After the year we’ve had, why not just sit on the beach in a remote tropical island staring off into the horizon sipping on fruity drinks? Because we can’t. [In one of Pope Francis’ first sermons] I was particularly struck by the following line “Walking, our life is a journey, and when we stop, there is something wrong.” So we will walk. We will walk to try to move away from the pain of so much loss and towards the promise of our reunion. We will walk because if we stop, we may never get up again. How appropriate that our “camino” will begin on Easter Sunday.

Their camino was made through rain and mud and rocks and tears. They placed small wooden crosses with GUS carved into them and prayer cards for Gus along the way for others who followed in their path to find.

When they finally reached their destination, Finisterre, Spain, they pulled out something they had carried with them on their journey, a pair of Gus' beloved basketball shoes.

...and left one at the end of the world...

 

 

Again, Cecilia..

April 12, 2013 –

We decided to walk the Camino from Sarria to Finisterre to replace the pain we felt in our hearts with a pain in the legs with the secret hope that along the way a burning bush or better yet, a handwritten note from God or at the very least a glimpse of Gus walking ahead of us would properly explain why this had to happen to Gus and to all of us. It was crazy, of course, but this particular “Way” was a religious pilgrimage, so why not? There were no notes, of course, the ground was too wet for anything to burn and all we saw were cows, but as we walked we marveled at how much the Camino mirrors life. There are ups and downs, whole areas of mud and sludge to wade through, progress went smoothly when all water was under the bridge and kept us stagnant when it was not. While Paul and I worked so hard to avoid the “crap” others simply stepped in it and kept going and sometimes the crap found us anyway. The camino wound its way around and through communities when sometimes it seemed it would be more direct to simply go along the highway. ..We came to see that our struggle with faith was not that we did not have it, but that we had to keep it even when things went terribly wrong…We do not return ready to empty Gus’ room (if we ever will) or having much more clarity than when we left, but we did it! We walked for 20 km on average per day for nearly 10 days straight – just like we’ve gotten up everyday since 6-24-12, and we never thought we could do that either. What we do know, is that we will always love Gus and miss him more with every passing day, and when we return we will continue walking in this new world. We love you all. Buen Camino.

Cecilia has gratiously told me that I could share the link to her diary/blog of their journey. I invite you to read her words and see their pictures of their journey. The link is here.

 

Spin Cycle: Sometimes

Sometimes, I'll confidently walk into a room, filled with purpose, and absolutely focused on completing some very important task, something that would, no doubt, make our life infinitely better, but then I stop...and have absolutely no idea what I was about to do.

Sometimes, I get so excited when Jude's loving a book he's reading, that I'll hover just outside his bedroom door and surreptitiously watch him curled up with his book, on the verge of tears because it makes me so happy. And if he begs for me to let him stay up for "Just one more chapter!", I always let him, no matter how late it is.

Sometimes, I look into a mirror, expecting to see myself there, but instead, I see this slightly frumpy, saggy, middle-aged woman, who looks very, very much like...my mother.

Sometimes, I get tired of being Jimmy's straight man. Just once, I want to be the funny one. But then I once again find myself drawn into setting up the joke for him - I'm always the George Burns and he's always the Gracie.

Sometimes, I just assume that everyone likes me. But then, if I think about it, I realize that this is most likely not true.

Sometimes, I get secret joy from embarrassing Jude in public. I just can't seem to stop myself from singing a Christmas carol at the top of my lungs in the grocery store in April or some such thing. I know how much he hates it, but I do it anyway. I have no excuse for this behavior.

Sometimes, I wake up in the morning absolutely inspired to complete all of the many, many tasks I need to do, but then, somehow, I end up doing absolutely nothing all day but watching British tv shows which I've DVRed and fiddling on the internet.

Sometimes, I toss and turn in bed at night, unable to sleep. And after a while, I realize that the problem is that there is a tiny grain of sand, or maybe a tiny crumb underneath me. After I managed to flick it out of the bed, I'm good to go. I'm a total Princess and the Pea.

Sometimes, I find myself deliberately trying not to love our little dog, Fancy, too much, because I'm afraid she'll die and I won't be able to handle it. Then, I find myself deliberately trying to love her even more, because I'm afraid she'll die and I won't be able to handle it.

Sometimes, when I daydream, I plan my own funeral. I know all the music that my choir would perform, and who would sing the solos. It will be extremely dramatic and powerful. And I know exactly which people should eulogize me, who I know I can trust to strike just the right chord of humor and dignity. Many, many people will attend, and everyone will cry and cry. It's going to be fabulous.

Sometimes, I look at gorgeous bathrooms in magazines, rooms with huge, luxurious tubs with jacuzzis surrounded by candles, and while part of me desperately wishes that I had such a room, another part of me is afraid of them, because I already spend way too much time soaking in our plain jane old tub, and I think that if I had some kind of amazing bathroom sanctuary, I might never come out of there.

Sometimes, late at night, I sneak into Jude's room, kneel down next to his bed, bury my face deep into his neck and inhale. I'll just kneel there, smelling him for a rather long time.

Sometimes, I know that I will continue to sneak in and smell my boy until he is a grown up man, which I realize could possibly be considered creepy. I hope that he doesn't wake up and catch me and I am forced to pay for years of therapy to help him overcome this trauma.

Sometimes, I absolutely do not want to go to my choir rehearsal. It's late and I'm tired and I have to get up early the next morning and yada, yada, yada. But then I always force myself to go, I draaaaaaag my butt down there. And I'm ALWAYS glad I went because I love it. But then the next week I have completely wiped this knowledge from my memory and do not want to go to my choir rehearsal again.

Sometimes, I'm mortified that Jude will someday find out about all of the many naughty things I did in my ill-spent youth.

Sometimes, I think I was born to the wrong life. I would have done veeeeery well with more wealth and privilege.

Sometimes, I dream about moving to a peaceful place, some quiet, idyllic seaside town, far away from the hustle and bustle. But then I remember that quiet and idyllic bore the hell out of me.

Sometimes, I miss my parents so much that I close my eyes and try to remember exactly how their skin felt, what it felt like to hold each of their hands, their smells, the sound of their voices. And I can. And then I wonder if Jude will some day do the same with my memory, and I hope that my touch and smell are pleasant things to remember.

Sometimes, I go shopping for clothes, making my way around the store, gathering an armload of stuff I want to try on. But when I get into the dressing room, I realize that every single garment I chose, would have looked good on my body 15 years ago, but nowadays? Mmmm...no. I just can't seem to train myself to shop for clothing that is appropriate for my new age and size.

Sometimes, when Jude is doing something particularly good and saintlike, I worry that maybe he should do something really awful really quick, because if he's too virtuous God might take him from me, like those children who die young and become little angels. I realize that this is in no way rational.

Sometimes, I think I should stop hosting The Spin Cycle because I just don't have the time or energy to work at making it grow. I'm just not a "go-getter". But then I find a spin that I really love, like this "Sometimes" spin, inspired by the amazing Arnebya, and I decide that I love it and will never give it up.

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Sometimes, you MUST go and check out all the other "Sometimes" spins!!

Janice at I Got Nothing

Scriptor at Incognitus Scriptor

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me

Arnebya at What Now and Why? -INSPIRED BY HER OWN SELF!

Suzicate at The Water Witch's Daughter

Kendra at Life in the slow lane

Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Why...?

Inspired by Vandy J's "Why?" section of her "Sometimes" post this week, which was inspired by Arnebya's post...are you following me here? As I said last week about Arnebya, if you don't read Vandy, you SHOULD. I'm very excited because in a couple of weeks I get to actually meet and hang out with Vandy in real life! Aren't you jealous? Check out Vandy's "why?" post HERE. Then make it your own.

 Write it, post it, let me know, I'll link it!

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Spin Cycle: Love

I have a confession to make.

Throughout my life,  I have heard the following bible passage over and over and thought it was a load of bull...

1 Corinthians, 13:4-13...

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.  For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yada, yada, yada," I've said to myself, rolling my eyes, at wedding after wedding.

Love fails constantly. In fact, according to marriage statistics, it fails the majority of the time. I see relationship after relationship that devolves over time into something without patience or kindness, and filled with envy and pride. And what the hell did St. Paul know about such things anyway, wandering around barefooted proselytizing or writing from his prison cell?

But a couple of Sundays ago, 1 Corinthians: 13 was the reading at church, and for the first time, I really heard it, and understood it.

I think this is because I have finally reached an age when I have "put the ways of childhood behind me". And have come to a point in my life when I realize that the love which Paul was talking about was not a noun, but a verb. The act of loving. The deliberate choice to actively love someone. The choice to be loving, and to perform loving actions, even when your husband is a jackass. Or your child is a pain in the butt.

And it's a really hard thing to do. To love. It's something that I have been unable to do for long periods throughout my life. I may have been "in love". Often "in lust". But to love as an action verb? That's tough. It involves giving up a big chunk of ego. It involves looking at the greater good. It involves finding the good in small things, and not expecting the grand gesture.

Love is being patient, love is being kind. It is not being envious, it is not boasting, it is not being proud. It is not dishonoring others, it is not being self-seeking, it is not getting angry, it is keeping no record of wrongs. Love is not delighting in evil but rejoicing with the truth. It is protecting, always trusting, always hoping, always persevering.

I finally get it. In the past, if Jimmy was being a jerk, I would not be kind, but get angry, and self-righteous, prideful and envious. And the love would go away. But now, having made the choice to actively love,  if he's a jerk, I tell him he's being nasty, then kiss him on the forehead and tell him I love him even if he's an asshole. And you know what? He stops being a jerk, and apologizes. And then he is actively loving to me. Our active loving of each other resonates and evolves. We find we are protecting, trusting, hoping and...persevering.

Taped on a cabinet in the kitchen, I have a quote from the Dalai Lama, which a friend of mine shared a while back on Facebook. It is as follows...

Even more important than the warmth and affection we receive, is the warmth and affection we give. It is by giving warmth and affection, by having a genuine sense of concern for others, in other words through compassion, that we gain the conditions for genuine happiness. More important than being loved, therefore, is to love.

So there you have it. St. Paul. The Dalai Lama. Two pretty smart dudes, saying basically the same thing. I'm glad I've lived long enough to come to understand a thing or two. Man, by the time I'm 80, I'll be fricking enlightened.

But just so y'all don't think that I've lost all of my cynicism, I will close with this less idealistic, but equally true quote...

"Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra, and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come." - Matt Groening

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Love, love love...

Go check out the other love Spinners!!!

CaJoh at Ca-Joh

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me

Kendra at Life in the slow lane - SEVEN POSTS on LOVE!

Nain at View From Down Here - NEW on FRIDAY!

Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie - NEW on FRIDAY!

Janice at I Got Nothing - NEW on FRIDAY!

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Dream Vacation

I don't know about y'all, but I REALLY need a vacation. A real vacation. Not visiting Jimmy's parents, or going on a Cub Scout campout. It should involve a pool, and some fruity alcoholic beverages. And maid service. And a spa. And since this is most likely NOT going to happen anytime soon, I think it might be a good idea to take a little dream vacation.

So please, share your dream vacation. Where do you want to go? Who do you want to go with? The whole family? Just you and your significant other? Or perhaps, blissfully alone?

Do you crave beaches? Mountaintops? City lights? A silent retreat in a faraway cloister?

Write it up. Post it. Let me know, I'll link it!

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