perfect

I had such a spectacular day today. Such a perfect little jewel of a day.

The best days of my life have never been full of big, all-consuming events. They have always been normal, regular days, but full of tiny blessings in almost every hour. There were so many good things that happened that I'm not sure I can remember them all...

• big belly laughs with work friends all day long
• eating a bag of Cheetos and drinking a can of Coke (the "Britney Spears Breakfast," as I like to call it)
• finding out that a very concerning medical issue is actually not a big deal to fix
• getting my cell phone fixed and then playing around with it
• scratching at the start of a nice theological conversation with an old friend
  
• walking a mile through cool rain that's not too cold
• talking to my mother on the phone
• having homemade chili, biscuits, and pumpkin pie with wonderful friends
• nerding out with my favorite episode of a very dorky show
  
• standing on the roof deck and looking at the fog and the light through the fog
• getting a ride home so I didn't have to walk
• sitting upstairs with a friend and playing music for one another
• falling asleep in a comfy sweatshirt (coming up next!)

I think, and this is going to sound really morbid, but I think that if somehow I get to choose my last day on Earth -- the very last day before I die -- I want it to be like this. Full of small joys. A day where nothing is remarkable but everything makes me happy.

oh snap

In my constant struggle to better myself (well, at least, to make things easier for myself), I'm trying to stop cracking my neck. Kind of a weird choice, seeing as I do a whole lot more self-destructive things -- but something like "stop being so hard on yourself" or "stop falling in love with ideas instead of people" is a little bit harder to see through from start to finish.

So this is day three of the great neck cracking experiment and, actually, I already feel a lot better. This may be because I've already found a lot of ways to cheat. (For instance, I'm still allowing myself to crack my neck by twisting my head upwards, like regular folk do -- but the big elbows-up head-twisting is verboten.) The first day I tried to get myself down to five good cracks, and ended up with seven; yesterday I only did big cracks three or four times.

When I woke up today, it was amazing -- I didn't feel like my entire neck was out of joint, with all the vertebrae all crookedy-like. I didn't even have to do my usual neck-cracking morning routine, which is big crack lying down in bed, shower, big crack lying down again. I just popped it standing up before I left for work (but then I had to lie down when I got to work, 'cause it hadn't cracked enough).

I can feel the muscles tightening up already, which is so cool. My body wants to fix itself; I just have to leave it alone long enough to let it.

liars

I just finished the most incredible book -- Jesus Land, by Julia Scheere. It's her memoir of growing up in a strict Christian family, and then traveling to reform school in the Dominican Republic, with a mixed race family. Her parents had adopted two African-American boys when they couldn't get a white baby, looking at the offer of black children as a "test of faith."

I couldn't put the book down. I read it all today, and it is not a slim book. It affected me in a very personal way, and the reactions I had to it kept changing as the book continued.

Read this book if you need to learn why the Religious Right is wrong. The kids were physically and emotionally abused, first by their parents and then by their "teachers" at the reform school. I've never read such a brutal first-hand account of someone using faith to marginalize and dehumanize someone. And not that such behavior is ever acceptable, but they were children...

Last Sunday, Rob preached on the dangers of fideism: "any belief system holding that reason is irrelevant to religion or faith." And this plays true in Jesus Land, too. The truth is constructed by those in charge and rained down on upon those with no power; the word of God is used to torture, to maim. At one point, a burly adult finds it not only acceptable but necessary, according to God's will, to punch a teenager in the face until the boy falls to the ground, bloody and unconscious. People believe these things.

The stories in Jesus Land horrified me. But at the same time, they made me feel guilty about myself, about my own faith. Next to these Bible-bangin', Scripture-memorizing, soul-scouring believers, I look like a dilettante. Before the book got really terrifying, I started to feel really bad about myself as a spiritual person. Had I dedicated myself enough to my faith? Wasn't I really just taking part in that "cafeteria Christianity," the pick-n-choose of today's religious liberal? (Not that I'm even a Christian anymore -- I'm that far gone from The Lamb or whatever.)

This is what I find scariest about fideism, about conservative Christianity, about Jesus Land. The old phrase "speaking truth to power" is a beautiful thing, but it's just as easy -- in fact, even more so -- to speak lies to power. And when the lies go on for so long that even the liars begin to believe? Well, then you've got elected officials who believe, wholeheartedly, that God wants to firebomb an entire nation.

I'm really unsettled after reading the book, but I'm so glad I did.

placeholder

This is a placeholder to remind me that I want to do a reflection on "Evening on the Ground" when I get home. Sadly, I do not have time to do it now...

something fishy

Wanna see me lead a sardonic service for a fine little fishy? Thanks to MJ, the funeral's now on YouTube.

zen

"Restorative: All levels. Active, therapeutic relaxation, relieving weak joints and tired backs while reducing stress."

It sounds amazing. I'm such a twitchy, visibly agitated person, and I love the stillness that comes with yoga. As a rule, I'm not particularly active -- low stamina, low blood sugar, low motivation -- but I love the deep breathing of yoga, the way I can feel my muscles tense and then release themselves.

If I'm lucky, the teacher is a hippy-dippy sort who comes around and spritzes us all with lavender, or softly touches us on our temples after the session's done. But even if this doesn't happen, yoga always ends with a moment of meditation. To be there on my little rubber mat after an hour of yoga, to be relaxed and full of endorphins, is one of my favorite sensations.

I love that. I love that we take a minute to just be silent with one another, grateful for what we've accomplished, reveling in what our bodies can do. It is when I feel most proud of myself as a physical being.

Today, my yoga schedule told me I could go to the "restorative" class -- and since I am a bundle of tired joints and stress, it was perfect. But of course I fooled around all day long, and all of a sudden it was 3:45, and yoga started (down on U & 14th) in less than an hour.

Hadn't showered in two days. Still smelled like last night's crowded bar. Had to get my ass in gear.

So I flew into a frenzy -- flinging off clothes, flinging on towels, running to the bathroom, brushing my teeth as the shower water warmed. I jumped into the shower. I threw shower products in the general vicinity of my body.

And then I realized, oh God, I have to shave my legs. There is no way I can be blissful and serene with legs that look like they belong on my eighteen-year-old brother. So I planted my foot on the bathtub, picked up the razor, and fell flat on my ass.

I feel that last phrase bears repeating. I fell flat on my ass in the shower.

And it was not a graceful fall, no. There was a thunk and a splash and a groan and a skittering away of razor blade, loofah, suds. I had the kind of fall that I imagine that old grandmothers have, or drunks who can't steady themselves long enough to get clean. My knees were chafed, my hip bruised deeply, my lower vertebrae thrown all out of whack.

What could I do? I kept shaving my legs (stubbornly!) and went back to my room.

By this time, it was 4:15. There was literally no way to make it to yoga on time -- even if I took a cab, I'd still have to go to the ATM for money first, and by the time that little errand was done it'd still be past 4:30. So I went on the website to see if they had another yoga class later that day, and of course, it turns out that the class had started at 4:00 anyway. Even if I'd made it to the studio, I'd have been half an hour late.

So here I am, in my yoga clothes, clean and shiny and smooth, with skinned knees and a pain in my side, all because I freaked out so much about yoga. How ridiculous! My brain had said, "I MUST HURRY! I CANNOT BE TARDY FOR MY RELAXATION." It had said, "I WILL NOT BE SERENE IF PEOPLE CAN SEE MY HAIRY LEGS." In the end, I just managed to get more out of whack than I had been when I started.

There will be more yoga classes tomorrow, and every day. For today, I'll lick my wounds, and maybe take a moment to enjoy how I feel in this moment. I may not be lying on a mat, blissed out and bendy, but it's still a lovely thing to be clean and comfortable on a warm day.

r.i.p. naomi

Service of Funeral for Naomi
Communications Department Betta Fish
10-19-07

1. Welcome and gratitude for attendance
2. Remarks from Molly -- Kim's eulogy, Jennifer's postcard
3. Readings from The Tempest, the Bible, Elton John
4. Kaddish
5. Comments from the crowd
6. First verse of "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot."

Rest in peace, little fishy. Sorry I killed you. :(

(Note: I got internet ordained for this.)