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Fill-In-The-Blank

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 3 Comments

Buried deep in cover letters, doubts, and the concentrated strangeness of having time to work. I spent a large chunk of this morning doing research, which always leaves me cranky and limp—overwhelmed by information while sinking under the intangibility of it all. No words on paper, just the worn-out click of a mouse. This necessary homework along the path to publication bogs me down, is “hopelessly unromantic” as Anne Shirley would say. My brainwaves get tangled in grammar and protocol. Can I say this? Who do I contact in what order? Will these laborious search-engine hours pay off in some recognition, or do I need a big dose of Tyler Durden—“you are not a beautiful or unique snowflake,” just stick to your little sphere of homelife?

It all makes me need a thoroughly unique moment, like screaming into an abyss from the back of a Garden State tractor. A voluntary suspension of grammar. Homemade hot chocolate, but only if I don’t have to do the homemaking of it. A fill-in-the-blank poster, all blanks.

I’m up to six submissions for this year. Only one heard back from—a contest I didn’t expect to win anyway. Five crisp white hopes still out in the world and not a clue whether they will find dry land or fling themselves back at me like boomerangs. I’ve never done this before. (I blame my husband for all this optimism and bravery and trying of new things, and it still took him five years to convince me to do what I longed to do.) Either I’m an imposter or I’m reinvented, sharing my words and wobbling on stilts with my chin up… but it’s good. So good.

15Sep

Season’s Change

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 7 Comments

Autumn whooshed into town today, leaving skid marks across our last short-sleeved morning. Apparently it never got the memo that seasons don’t change for another week, and the sky is suddenly damp gray flannel, steadily leaking rain. Goodbye, summer. We hardly knew ye.

This morning was also Natalie’s first day of public school. I was a little worried dropping her off, not knowing how she would take it… by which I mean not knowing how I would take her taking it. I had cut out a tiny pink paper heart in case she needed some extra love to carry throughout the day, and I fingered it in my pocket as we got near the school. But lo and behold, her classroom was brightly lit, flitting with color and activity exactly as a classroom should. The teachers were all smiles and showed us the cubbyhole to put Natalie’s backpack; by the time we turned back around, she had already plopped down in a cluster of children around the train set. That was it. No fanfare, just my independent little girl setting out on her 19+ years of formal education without a look back.

I took a deep breath then headed out for a quick cappuccino and the most effortlessly productive morning I’ve had this century. I cleaned, read with Sophie, and spent an unbelievable two (2!) hours uninterrupted at my desk. And before I knew it, Natalie was home with her daddy for lunch.

“The teacher told me she cried at breakfast,” Dan informed me. “But just a little. For a first day, it went great.” Positive assessment aside, I couldn’t help imagining my sweet three-year-old sobbing into her juice. I felt an unmistakable twinge of that guilt parents get for subjecting their children to life, even in all its goodness. She must have felt so lonely; would she even want to go back?

I sat down at the table with Natalie and asked her to tell me about her day. She broke into a huge smile and announced, “I was such a big girl! I was a crying big girl! Can I cry at school again tomorrow?” Sure thing, kid.

So the pink paper heart is now on my desk where I can see it throughout the day and think of that brave, articulate, hilarious girl I love so much. And if I ever had a doubt on the subject, I’m now convinced that Natalie has the kind of heart to take on the whole world.

10Sep

Muse Playground

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 3 Comments

I spent a sizeable chunk of today spring cleaning my studio in preparation for new writing hours next week. Dan finds it endlessly amusing (or perhaps endearing? yes, let’s go with endearing) that I claim to have a studio when all I really have is a desk tucked into the corner of our bedroom. However, I take the J.M. Barrie approach. With just a pinch of color and some imagination, I have a magical playground of muses, a bright little world brimming with good ideas and serenity.

Here it is, my corner of the universe where I intend to find magic this coming season:

And here is the view from my window where the muses gather to play:

It may be tiny, but it is sunny, whimsical, and the perfect mix of interesting and organized—exactly what a studio should be. Here’s to good things coming in small packages and to an inspiring fall!

9Sep

Doctor Popeye

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 6 Comments

The public health system here is fantastic in that it only costs pennies compared to what you’d spend in the great US of A. Pediatrics, obstetrics, geriatrics, emergencies, and general practitioner’s visits are completely free, while other medical care requires only a small fee comparable to most American co-pays. (And, to assure anyone who has the same doubts I did upon moving here, Italian doctors are up-to-date medically. They might have a few different philosophies on medicine—i.e. painkillers should make pain tolerable, not erase it completely—but they do know what they are doing, and they do it well.) So, fantastic!

The only real downside is that the public health system here was designed by hamsters. Here, for instance, is what goes into a typical doctor’s visit:
You call your doctor to make an appointment.
You show up, pick a number, and wait your turn.
You visit with the doctor, who gives you a prescription for blood work.
You go to the public health office, pick a number, and wait your turn.
You give them your prescription and receive an appointment to get your blood taken.
You go to the testing center on your appointment date, pick a number, and wait your turn.
You show your prescription to the person at the window who stamps it so you can pay.
You walk to another office, pick a number, and wait your turn.
You pay the fee (oh so tiny, glory be!) and get a receipt.
You walk back to the testing center, pick a number, and wait your turn (catching a theme yet?).
You show them your receipt and are given a new number.
You wait your turn.
You are called back, have your blood taken, and are given a receipt.
You return to the testing center the next week, show them your receipt, and get your blood test results.
You make another appointment with your doctor to discuss the results.
You race around a wheel seventy-nine times and scurry off to bury your head in the sawdust.
Etc.

I won’t even tell you what went into our dentist appointment yesterday because you would cry, and enough tears have been shed on that account already. Suffice it to say that you have to learn (Bethany, are you listening?) to give up the American ideals of efficiency and fast results and just accept Italy for what it is: laid-back. (I am still writhing from a profound sense of bureaucratic chaos that I insist on taking personally, and I want to tell you that “laid-back” is just a euphemism for “lazy,” and I want all those government employees who are enjoying their espressos on company time to feel the depths of my frustration toward them. But honestly, I love living in a country where dreary jobs come with sunny coffee breaks and long lunches and built-in naptimes. Italians have mastered the art of relaxation, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Truly.)

So all this has just been a prelude to the fact that 1 ½ months after calling the doctor, we finally have an idea of what’s been causing my unmanageable fatigue: anemia. It’s not much of a surprise, as I’ve always hovered near the low end of healthy and I’ve leaned further and further toward vegetarian—or chickentarian, you could say—in the last year. So there it is. For just over a week now, I’ve been taking iron tablets that taste like compressed leaves, and the difference is incredible. Is normal always this glorious? Because the freedom to have good and bad days instead of bad and worse is making me a little giddy.

Less than one week with Natalie all to myself, and I finally have the energy to play with her, come up with special starting-school rituals, and hop over to the playground to help her meet new friends… all the while keeping the house in decent shape, going out with friends, signing up for Pilates (!), and writing up a storm. It’s kind of like I’m a real person again.

So thank you all for your kindness and sympathy while I was trying to figure out the mushy liquid my brain had become; misery doesn’t just love company, it needs company. Yes, you deserve a heaping bowlful of thanks. And also, if you’re feeling chronically tired (Bethany, are you listening?)… Eat your spinach. That Popeye was onto something.

6Sep

Flames vs. Fairy Dust

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 3 Comments

In retrospect, I’m not sure whether to laugh or to cry.

I was young, maybe ten, when I saw the drama “Heaven’s Gates, Hell’s Flames” in a huge Southern Baptist auditorium. Gold tinsel was draped over one side of the stage, while the other side featured a black papier-mâché prison with tissue paper flames engulfing the roof. Heaven, hell.

The drama was very simple to follow. People would die during different circumstances and immediately be sent to the tinsel or to the prison. Two women were gossiping when a bus ran them over; a group of demon-thugs in ski masks dragged them straight to hell. A man passed out from drinking too much whiskey; off to hell. A broken-hearted woman cried at the loss of hope in her life and shot herself in the head; hell. A freshly-scrubbed family dressed in lace and bow-ties walked out of church where the youngest daughter had just invited Jesus into her heart—a fortunate coincidence, since their car crashed on the way home. Gold tinsel for the whole family!

When we got home that night, I asked my parents what happened to aborted babies or even little kids who die before they get a chance to say the all-important Sinner’s Prayer™. No answer. Apparently hell-according-to-the-Southern-Baptists did not discriminate based on age. I lay awake half the night imagining tiny mangled infants being dragged off to burn with Satan. That, my friends, is horror.

I’ve done some thinking over the last few years, and some reading… but mostly thinking. Among other things, I’ve been trying to figure out why the self-proclaimed “good news” can lend itself to a theatrical horror show. Eternal torment for gossipers, alcoholics, depressed women, and babies = the worst possible news. Plus, it makes God unthinkably cruel and vindictive, sending demon-thugs after anyone who forgot to say his or her prayers.

Within the last two years, I decided to focus on the problem instead of repressing it. I tried reading the Bible, but that splintered my heart even more; I couldn’t see anything beyond damnation. I put away the Bible, etched my too-heavy questions onto paper, and asked myself over and over how a deity could claim to be love, then doom his own creations—us, who he made imperfect. No answer. Just my honesty, tinted first by anger, then by dejection, then finally by tired acceptance of an era’s end. Very simply, the doctrine of hell burned up every particle of trust I used to have in the goodness of God.

I am sharing this for two reasons: 1) I don’t believe I am the only person to wrestle with the apparent inconsistencies in my religion, especially when the accepted theology is so unfathomably gruesome, and 2) What I took as abandonment these last few years was time. As a result of marinating in my questions for so long, I’ve learned what I’m willing to believe and what I cannot. I’ve let years’ worth of pretenses slide, even writing about my journey some here (which, un-religious honesty about religion? strictly forbidden by the Association of Preachers Who Wear Ties). This has been a very new perspective for me—standing outside Christianity, looking in, wondering why some of those people look so happy—and only now are the answers coming.

A wonderful friend who’s also sludged through this path introduced me to a book called Hope Beyond Hell that said (and I paraphrase):

Ready for a few perspective gymnastics? Good. What you’ve been taught about hell is based on centuries of tradition. In fact, the Bible has buckets and wheelbarrows and industrial-sized cargo boats full of promises that not a single person will be left to burn with Satan forever. Hard to believe, right? Well, take a look…

It wasn’t hard to believe, actually. It was fairy dust, and my translucent wings were instantly unstuck from the swamp; for the first time in years, I’m flying, glad at long last to still be a fairy.

I am not going to list all the reasons or technicalities here—if you’re interested, check out the book—but I am coming to genuinely believe these things:

That this:

(besides “reducing holy mysteries to slogans,”* using fear tactics to force people into religion, and just plain being annoying) is misguided.
* Matthew 7:6, The Message. Jesus says not to do it, by the way.

That some parts of the Bible were never meant to be taken literally, and that some parts have been translated poorly due to the translators’ perspective. That many people have formed dogmatic theologies without studying the original words within their original contexts.

That centuries of pulpit-pounders have done untold damage in spreading the idea that God is ready to throw us in a lake of fire when we die.

That God is a better parent than we are and that his kindness endures forever.

That the multitude of different beliefs, different approaches, and different spiritualities in this world will ultimately lead to the same beautiful new beginning.

That we will see all our loved ones again someday.

That there is hope.

5Sep

Something’s Missing

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 3 Comments

Natalie’s self-portrait yesterday:

After drawing the basics—you know, head, eyes/nose/mouth, major limbs, and a mat of hair—she said this:
“Hmmm, something’s missing…… Oh, I know! The BUTT CRACK!”
And I exploded with motherly pride.

3Sep

Foundations

Posted by: Bethany in Uncategorized 6 Comments

The first time I visited Rome was at night. We stepped off the Metro, and there, pulling the dizzy swoop of headlights into its shadows, was the Colosseum. I wasn’t expecting it… at least not right there, looming on the corner of an intersection like a monumental affront to traffic. It stole my breath.

We chartered our own starry-eyed adventure—a right here, then a left, then a hop-skip-jump through this piazza. Jutting cobblestones and spindly alleyways were poems in the moonlight; you should know that Dean Martin’s “Evening in Roma” captures only a hint of the romance that lights the city after hours. It was the perfect Valentine’s getaway, oo la la and all.

So when we returned this last weekend, strollers and juice boxes and sunscreen in tow, I expected Rome’s beauty would fall a little flat. There’s only so much glamour to old rocks when you’re rummaging through sweaty backpacks for the baby formula… or so I thought. Turns out, I was delightfully wrong.

We started with the Old Appian Way, a road almost unbearably quaint and dotted with as many tombs as cypresses. Stone walls jutted out of the ground, just a whiff of the villas and mausoleums that used to reign over the road, and we peeked into a few crumbling structures to see steps leading down into the Catacombs. For an imagination junkie raised on stories of Sparatacus and martyred Christians, this place was a fairytale come true.

We picnicked in a half-hidden sacred field—shhh, don’t tell!—then walked from the pyramid toward Rome’s pulsing center. (Did you know Rome had a pyramid? I did not until it was suddenly there, shooting out of a million-way intersection.) One moment, we were on a roomy residential street; the next, we were racing strollers through the Circus Maximus (where charioteers once tried to kill Ben Hur*) with the imperial palace ruins filling the sky ahead.

From there on, each new wonder was overshadowed by the next. Constantine’s Arch, the Colosseum, the relatively modern monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, the shockingly ancient Roman Forum. It felt similar to entering the Louvre and seeing its incredible art life-size in front of me, except that each Roman structure was a hundred times the size of life, and then a hundred times more. It felt like trespassing on the celebrities of history.

The girls are still too young to understand the significance of this old world around them, but I like to think they absorbed a bit of the beauty. It would be impossible not to. And if nothing else, we fed off of each other’s excitement—mine and Dan’s at the thousand-year-old marble, Natalie’s and Sophie’s at the hours-old sunlight. We giggled and munched potato chips on a gnarled hilltop, and I found myself awestruck by us, the four of us, alive and adventuring together, laying our own foundation. And something told me that one day, not too many millennia from now, we will tip-toe back through the cobblestones and cypresses and sticky-fingers and strollers and whisper, “Wow.”

—

* I’m all for historical accuracy here.

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