Bizarre Passions

It's fascinating what incites passion in we humans.

Yesterday, C and I met back at the homestead after work. We had decided we would race to the boatyard to pump the water out of the cabin of the sailboat and duct tape the hole where the rain gets in... again; taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather.

On the way, we chatted with All Things Considered playing softly in the background just under the roar of the 1984 Mercedes Diesel engine. One of my favorite things about Louisville is Louisville Public Media. We have THREE public radio stations. And, they are awesome.

After a minute, C and I fell into a comfortable silence, waiting for a train to pass. Suddenly, we began to wonder what in the hell we were listening to. It didn't become clear what the story was about, or what they were trying to accomplish with it until the whole thing was nearly complete.

All I knew for sure is that people were up in arms, passionately defending throwing bread in the water somewhere in Pennsylvania. This was accompanied by a song about the fish and the bread by Tim Fite.

It was a bizarre report both in format and content, and it made me think deeply about the nature of our passions and how simple things can incite real rage. Passion for a tradition of littering, instead of a passion for peace or environmental consciousness. Or universal health care. Or human rights. Interesting.

Here's to the hope of 2009 being a better year for channeling our energy toward real, positive change.

My Sister Mother

I live in K's old house that she used to share with, what is now, my family, too. We gathered as a tribe on Christmas Eve for tamales and white russians, exchanging and laughter. Children, children everywhere. It was joyful and strange, my skin still stretching to accommodate all the new love and my throat still swallowing all our histories, gone before.

The lights and candles shone as we sat together on her piano bench that still lives in my dining room, sharing our thoughts and mutual admiration.

One time, at a party many moons ago, before I'd spent more than a handful of minutes with K, someone made a gossipy observation. It wasn't meant in an unkind way, but I became silent with defensiveness. I thought: "You can't talk that way about the mother of my boys!" It startled me, then.

I spent several years immersed in Orthodox Judaism. Someone used to say to me that "In Judaism, the Mother is everything." It was a sentiment I heard reflected in a Rosh Hashanah service some time later. The rabbi intoned that the men present were there for women: their mothers, their wives. At the time, I found it to be somewhat sexist. I thought: "Isn't that a classic move, we make you second class citizens, then tell you you're the reason we exist."

Now, I'm not so sure. I believe that the richness of my connection with K is greatly responsible for this integrated family life that is such a blessing to me, to my partner, to hers and to all our children. It feels as though the ancient wisdom of sisterhood informs my own tribal lore. And, while I do not pretend to know the exact alchemy that has produced my blessed luck, I like the idea that K and I have conspired together to be the architects of our family.

We are not the only participants, but it often feels as though we are the origin of the tribal life-force. I find myself mulling over the role of women in family personality. And, wondering if maybe the rabbi had a point.

The Sporting Life

I have two sisters. This is important to know. In many ways, it defines who I am and my particular view of the world. As I watched CB with her two older companions, her almost- brothers, I think of how her experience will be different to mine.

We moved my mattress into our room. The old mattress was sent to the other side of the attic, where the boys live. When we did it, the boys were with K, so we left it on top of one of the beds for discussion upon their return. Rather than a spirited discussion about where the mattress should go (which is what I expected) instead, a new sport was invented - double bed on top of single bed wrestling.

It may also be known as "King/Queen of the Hill" or "Team Knock Off" or "Irresponsible Parenting Move No. 165,000." Yes, there were exposed corners on which any of them could have lost an eye. But, to be fair, so could we!

The wrestling commenced. CB was in it to win it. I'm happy to report that no one lost an eye, and everyone walked away with a wincing bruise. Just the way it should be.

Perhaps I am naturally lazy, or inclined to feminine forms of imaginative play (not that my sisters and I didn't wrestle plenty over the years) but I feel a sense of wonder for the freedom of rough and tumble and the diversion and unity of family board and card games. I was never a game player (being a habitual sore loser and tantrum thrower), but now I hear my own voice suggesting we play blackjack or agreeing happily to a round of Pente.

My boys have, with their six hands, dealt me another deck to play with. And, I feel like I've won the jackpot - even when I'm being mercilessly beaten by a seven-year-old.