The Glass Castle: A Memoir
by Jeannette Walls

I had read the first chapter of this book months ago and was eager to dive in to Walls’ memoir. Raised by two creative but mentally unstable parents, Walls had a childhood that was nearly unfathomable in its chaos and challenges. What made her story so touching was the deep love and compassion with which she treated her parents, both in life and in writing. When she got to the tying-up-loose-ends portion of the book, which I found really dry in the last memoir I read, I found myself engaged and desperate to know what happened to everyone. I finished the book really admiring the author, which is no small feat for a snob like myself.

In brief: Life is hard. Love anyway. Even your disturbed parents who made you live in squalor and could have ruined your life. 

The Chaperone
by Laura Moriarty

Cora Carlisle needs to go on an Epic Quest for Answers, and Louise Brooks, whose parents seek a chaperone for her trip to New York City, provides Cora with a reason to go back east from Wichita and Seek the Truth. Along the way, Louise also teachers her some Deep Lessons about Liberation and Not Wearing Corsets.

Aside from some moments that were a little heavy handed in their treatment of social issues (at times I found myself sighing every time the Corset Symbolic of Old-Fashioned Concepts of Femininity came up), this book was maddeningly enjoyable. Each plot twist seemed more preposterous than the one before, but I was happy to be along for the ride.

In brief: Just when you thought things couldn’t get any weirder…/Waiting for the twenty-first amendment.

The Happiness Project: Or, Why I Spent a Year Trying to Sing in the Morning, Clean My Closets, Fight Right, Read Aristotle, and Generally Have More Fun
by Gretchen Rubin

I don’t know what possessed me to pick up this book. Oh who am I kidding: I grabbed it because I like the color blue on the cover. I am not really into the self-help genre, therefore I didn’t particularly enjoy this book. (Disclosure: I didn’t end up finishing it. By the time I got to the chapter on June I really wasn’t interested anymore).

I was reminded of a sweatshirt one of the spiritual directors wore on my recent retreat. It read “Meditate: Don’t just do something, sit there!” Rubin’s suggestions for Happiness were an action plan (including many items/actions that came with a price tag), which is the last thing a type A person like myself needs. Completing a to-do list might make me satisfied, but it doesn’t carry any deep significance for my emotional state.

To her credit, Rubin acknowledges the limited scope of her project. She doesn’t promise bliss or harmonic convergence, just run of the mill happiness, which apparently is harder to find than I realized.

In brief: The kind of self-help book I might like if I liked self-help books.

The Fault in Our Stars
by John Green

Is there a male version of an “It-Girl”? If so, that’s John Green right now. Of course he only came to my attention a few weeks ago, but I quickly got my hands on a copy of his most-buzzed-about book, a novel about teenagers-in-love-who-have-cancer.

Warned it was an ugly-cry sort of book, I went out on a limb and started reading it at a call-back audition that involved a lot of waiting. I figured I could make it through the first 100 pages or so without gulping sobs. I finished it that same evening at home where I could ugly-cry without shame.

I’m always skeptical of works of art that are billed as “irreverent”, because that often means “flouting social norms just because it seems edgy”. In this case, Green’s irreverence seemed more like “my sense of humor”. He had me on page 24, when his teenage narrator recounts her first cancer diagnosis:

The diagnosis came three months after I got my first period. Like: Congratulations! You’re a woman. Now die.

The balance of humor and tragedy, of light and dark, was brilliantly maintained throughout. Seeing the world through the eyes of teenagers with cancer certainly took me out of my comfort zone, but I was happy to go there. The narrator was a particularly well-drawn character, though I felt like some of the other characters I never quite got to know. Her tenderness toward her parents and recognition of their suffering provided some of the most moving moments of the novel.

In brief: Life for some people is unimaginably hard. Love anyway. 

I’m still figuring what should be on my to-read list as we cruise into summer. Suggestions?

Disclosure: This post contains Amazon Affiliate links. Purchases made through these links send some change back into my piggy bank.

Through the peculiarities of Archdiocesan scheduling, my parish confirmed its teens during the late fall of their junior year. I remember thinking at the time that for the next year and a half I would be having a lot of experiences that people told me would be important forever: proms and awards and graduations and the rest of the rituals we associate with the end of adolescence. I knew, though I think I was socially astute enough not to tell anyone, that my Confirmation was the only one of these that would remain truly important to me.

(Years later a colleague would ask me “Do you think the most important event in your life has already happened to you?” and I replied without missing a beat “Yes. My baptism.” He laughed and shook his head and told me that answer was hard to top.

My obsession with the sacraments would be precious if I weren’t so down-to-earth, yes?)

Bishop Rozazza of Hartford presided. He asked if I took Philomena as my confirmation name because it was my grandmother’s name. (It was my grandmothers name, but I took it also because I wanted to be a Fi Lumena – a friend of the light). He wanted to know if she’d lived in Hartford – maybe he knew her? – but no, my grandmother, christened Philomena but turned by life, xenophobia, marriage and cosmic alliterative humor into Phyllis Felice, had never lived in Hartford.

Bishop Rozazza also introduced me to my favorite quip about my Italian and Irish heritage: Gaelic and Garlic.

I remember what I wore, one of my typical small-town slightly-overweight unfashionable attempts at looking nice. It didn’t matter. Speaking of things that didn’t matter, my confirmation happened to occur during the three-week period of my first thirty years when I had someone I called a boyfriend. I sat close to him on the couch with some other friends during the afterparty.

(A few weeks later he called while I was at the piano. I realized I would rather go back to my beginner’s sonata that make our strained attempts at small talk. I was just going along with the whole dating thing because it seemed like something teenagers were supposed to do. I stopped calling him. It would be another 15 years before I made it past a third date.)

A dear aunt was my sponsor. My mother gave me a statue of Our Lady of Grace, claiming she thought I could use a little grace (I was a prickly, moody teenager), and pointing out that it wouldn’t hurt to believe that the Blessed Virgin had a wacky eye like my statue did.

I’m sure I got a little money, which I probably should have spent on clothes that fit, but I wouldn’t get to that until my sophomore year of college.

When I looked at the readings today I despaired: so many choices. A little more last supper discourse, perhaps? Or Jesus’ gift of peace? A few Pauline choices in the second reading as well. How was I going to choose the snippets that spoke to the most readers?

Maybe that’s a gift of Scripture, of the lectionary, and of God. There are too many passages about God’s promise of ongoing interaction with the world to limit ourselves to just a few. The Holy Spirit came at Pentecost and stayed with us, not as a dormant historical relic but as the wind and fire that we can still recognize if we look for it.

That may have been what my 15-year-old self know, the kernel of wisdom that the Holy Spirit granted me when She came to me in a particular way on a Saturday afternoon in the fall all those years ago: that the Spirit wasn’t going anywhere. I would move out of my parents’ house and the Bishop would retire and I’d break up with guys and move to a big city and learn how to dress and blow out my hair and pluck my eyebrows and some times I would look back on the person I used to be and think “There is no possible way that was me.”

The thread that holds it all together has been the wind blowing through my life and the fire kindled within me. For all that I’ve changed and the world has changed, the Spirit has stayed the same, turning herself to offer me the facets I’ve needed at the time: consolation, excitement, indignation, or joy.

Thank God, literally, for the gift of the Holy Spirit. A blessed Pentecost to you all.

— 1 —

An iBook on the French Revolution

I have been given a grant to write two iBooks this summer. They won’t be full length – just long enough to teach a unit in my classes. The first is on the French Revolution, particularly, of course, on its effect on the Catholic Church. The more that I learn about the Revolution, the more I’m convinced that the Church is still unpacking the effects of that era.

— 2 —

An iBook on the Papacy in the 19th century

Most of this will focus on the towering, influential papacy of Pius IX, but I’m also interested in Gregory XVI and Leo XIII. The role of the Pope changed so dramatically, in part because of the Italian Revolution, and also due to the wages of (you guessed it) the French Revolution. Understanding how the papacy came to be what it is today is impossible without and understanding of the changes in the 19th century.

— 3 —

A masterclass on “Dramatic Expression in the Sacred Aria”

The masterclass itself is not as exciting as where I’ll be presenting it: Assisi! I will be participating in the Assisi Performing Arts Festival for three weeks in July. Most of my work will be singing, but I’ll also be teaching this masterclass, hoping to help other singers find the line between expressiveness and stillness that is hard to find and that is crucial for the presentation of oratorio.

— 4 —

The role of Pamina in The Magic Flute

Also at this festival, I will be performing in The Magic Flute, in English. The role of Pamina is one I’ve wanted to learn for a long time, and I’m excited to have a reason to prepare it.

— 5 —

Missa Orbis Factor

A third major component of this festival will be singing with the Cappella Giulia (the Vatican choir) for their 500th anniversary celebration. I already know the Missa Orbis Factor, but I mention this as number five just so I can brag about singing at the Vatican in July. The last time I sang there was ten years ago, and the last time I was there at all was five years ago. I have the itch to get back to Europe, so this couldn’t come at a better time. I plan to keep you all updated on my adventures!

— 6 —

An herb garden

After losing last year’s attempt at urban gardening, I have high hopes to get it right this year. I’m hoping to put together a window box of cooking herbs and one of tea herbs, and to have a tomato plant and maybe even some edible greens. I make these claims realizing that it is mid-May and all I have so far is a pathetic basil plant I bought at Trader Joe’s. Any tips for container gardening will be much appreciated!

— 7 —

Vegetarian grill recipes

My sweetheart is a master griller, and somehow took a vegetarian girlfriend in stride. Together we have prepped panini and portobellos, grilled greens and experimented with eggplant. This summer I’m hoping to diversify our dinners, so please send me any of your favorite vegetarian grill recipes!

What are you doing this summer?

For more Quick Takes, visit Conversion Diary!

Today they kick off a new series on Arts and Faith. In their own words:

Arts and Faith is a collection of stories from Catholics around the globe who demonstrate the inspiring—and surprising—ways art expresses and deepens their relationship with God.

The special series kicks off on LoyolaPress.com with daily articles, videos, slide shows, podcasts and more from four categories of interpretive art: Music, Dance, Drama and Visual Arts.

You may notice that the press release mentions a religion teacher who prays while singing opera. Sound like anyone we know? I will be featured in the series on June 6 in a video recorded in late 2012. All I really remember about the filming was that I agonized over whether or not to wear my glasses. Now I don’t remember what I decided.

Tune in on June 6 to find out. Until then, be sure to visit the new Arts and Faith section from Loyola Press to read other stories of prayerful creativity, and to share your own.

What have been your experiences of the intersection of art and faith?

When I put it all like that, this blog sounds intolerable. 

This weekend we wrapped up a run of The Sound of Music with a Sunday matinee. After singing that last high C in Climb Ev’ry Mountain and blowing a kiss to my mom during curtain call, I quickly kicked the habit (get it?) and started helping with strike.

Together with the rest of the cast I wiped down dressing room counters, carried music stands, tied and re-tied curtains and peeled spike tape off the stage. We took a break for some pizza and next thing I knew I had to be out the door to get to rehearsal for the collegiate choir I conduct for Sunday night mass.

I got to the church right on time, we ran our music, said a prayer and headed out into the chapel to offer our ministry. There was just one problem. I still had my stage makeup on.

Don’t get me wrong, I had not caked on the greasepaint to play a nun. But there was a fair amount of Mehron stick makeup adorning my cheeks, nose and forehead. I was grateful for the low lighting, and that no one was going to get to close.

So there’s a decent summary of the life I lead: wearing stage makeup for mass. What can I say? I do more than one thing, and sometimes I do those things back to back. Perhaps my life would be easier if I just had one passion: theater or singing or liturgy or fitness or ecclesiology or history or languages or food. But as it is I love many things, and that is a blessing, not a curse.

All of these are held together by a love of creation: that which has been created and the ways we participate in God’s creative Spirit. The world will keep turning if I do too many things, mass will go on if my face isn’t washed.

I hate that. Just rain already.

When I know something I won’t like is coming, when I know something I enjoy must end, it weighs on me. This is a terrible flaw of mine. I let the anticipation of the eventual end of something good temper my enjoyment of it. The moment of anticipation of a downpour is worse than the rain itself.

The moment between “we need to schedule a meeting” and some chastisement, between “call me back right away” and terrible news, between drinking the barium and going into the MRI, between waking from sedation and getting a diagnosis I didn’t even know was on the table, between gathering clouds and rain: those are the moments that make me anxious and even angry. Just start pouring, because once I’m soaked I can’t get any wetter.

It must be my combination of Irish fatalism and Italian fire that makes me see a spring sky this way. When the wind blows a certain way or I’m reminded of mortality I want to shout at the world “Just get it over with and fall apart! You’re going to anyway.”

Sometimes the sun comes back out, though, and I abandon my fixation on entropy and remember there is something other than chaos out there for us. It may feel like forever since I’ve had any sign of it. Still, I know it’s there, though my tired heart and rattled guts try to convince me otherwise.

More though, than being able to appeal to hope or to acquiesce to catastrophe, I wish I could just rest in the liminal moment, and accept the gray sky and damp air as part of the current moment, without apprehension or regret.

You know how we have been talking about the followers of Jesus as Christians? Well, starting from this time period forward, we have to be more distinct about what kind of Christian we are talking about, because this is when the group starts to split up.

Then I draw my “Christianitree” on the board and everyone laughs and we begin the painful process of remembering who is who, and when things started to fall apart.

The Christianitree.

In the Gospel from this Sunday Jesus prays:

“Holy Father, I pray not only for them,
but also for those who will believe in me through their word,
so that they may all be one,
as you, Father, are in me and I in you,
that they also may be in us,
that the world may believe that you sent me.”

These words compel us to continue to strive for unity, but do any of us know what unity really looks like? Often our version of unity means compelling everyone to be like us, whoever our “us” may be.

It’s interesting to me that this Gospel is paired with the first reading, which recounts the stoning of Stephen. Is this the “I never told you this would be easy” Sunday? Neither of these readings makes me feel very optimistic.

But in the second reading from Revelation we hear:

“I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last,
the beginning and the end.”

The one who loves and saves us is over all, in all times. So even though our world is violent, even though we are divided, we know that there is one overarching love that winds throughout eternity.

In a few hours, I’d be tearing up the dance floor.

This past weekend I went to a beautiful and enjoyable wedding. A few hours in, I was dancing energetically to “Shippin’ up to Boston” in crazy platform heels, having a blast. As I danced I thought about how much I have learned from always being the first on the dance floor, and from often being the wildest.

Despite a distinct lack of talent I am often possessed by the boogie monster, dancing around at the copy machine, at the post office, in line at the grocery store. I long ago learned to give in to my love of motion, and I’m glad I did. Turns out I had a lot to learn.

— 1 —

Dancing is just moving how you want to move.

I will never forget the day my mother told me that she’d had a revelation. “Margaret, I figured something out. Dancing is just moving how you want to move!” And then she moved how she wanted to move all over the kitchen.

I had already begun to establish my reputation as a most energetic dancer (more on that later). The more I danced, the less I cared whether my dancing resembled any sort of choreography or polished moves. I was just moving how I wanted to move. My joy was complete when at a family wedding a few months later my mother was out there with me, moving how she wanted to move. 

— 2 —

Circles are safe, but constellations are more fun.

You know the party is bumping when everyone is standing on a circle on the dance floor, awkwardly shifting weight from one foot to the other and low-clapping along to the music. When you’re in one of those circles, it’s pretty safe. The people near you aren’t looking at you, and if you’re lucky some fool will go in the middle and give you someone to laugh at.

This can be fun with the right groups, but I much prefer my dancing sprinkled around the dance floor like a constellation of stars. Turn one way, and you’re sharing a boogie with the mother of the bride. Pivot in another direction and you can sashay up to an old friend. You might feel more exposed, but you’re also more connected.

— 3 —

Haters gonna hate.

There will always be someone laughing at you if you dare to go all in. Dance big anyway. (Didn’t Mother Teresa say that?)

— 4 —

It’s better to be looked over than over looked.

Maybe this is my natural extroversion coming out, but I think that being noticed is much better than blending in. So when people approach me to tell me that they have noticed my dancing (never to say it was good, just that they’ve noticed it) I am happy to thank them graciously and move on.

— 5 —

Having a reputation isn’t so bad.

So I’m a little shameless? Big deal. If managed unwisely, shamelessness can have notable downsides. Onn the bright side, I’m the person who gets invited to try the fitness class that no other friend would try, who is gifted with scarves so loud that only I would be willing to wear them, and who is the first one urged out on the dance floor.

— 6 —

Better exhausted in the evening than bored all day.

Speaking of shame, shame on me if I go out and don’t come home with sore legs and feet. It’s worth a little pain to have the excitement of interacting with people all night.

This axiom has become a guiding principle of my life. I am often exhausted in the evening, because I say yes to many things, because I love many things, because I’m addicted to the hustle. I infinitely prefer a slightly manic life to placidity.

— 7 —

All you need to be is confident.

This is the most important lesson of all, worth every snide comment, every sore foot, even a few injuries: go out there and dance like you mean it, and the world will dance with you. The second you start to worry what you look like, in life and in recreational dancing, is the second it all goes to hell.

So dance like it’s what you were born to do. It very well may be.

What have you learned from dancing? Are there other activities from which you’ve learned similar lessons?

For more Quick Takes, visit Conversion Diary!

It sounds as if the man has been criticized before, if only locally, for bringing the bodies of the world’s undesirables – prostitutes, the destitute, the unwanted – in and treating their bodies with dignity. He said this to the AP about his work:

“We take an oath to do this. Can I pick and choose? No. Can I separate the sins from the sinners? No. We are burying a dead body. That’s what we do.”

Reports have it that now the body has been washed according to religious tradition by the dead man’s uncle, and the issue is where they will bury him. Understandably, certain municipalities do not want the spectacle that would come with what I must distastefully describe as a high-profile grave. But in addition to the elected leaders who are hoping to keep scandal away from their towns, there are plenty of ordinary citizens whose opposition ranges from garden-variety NIMBY-ism to vituperative hatred of the dead man, and a moral certitude about what sinners “deserve”.

I wonder, how many of those who have decided what he deserves would claim to base their condemnation on Christian morality?

Burying the dead is one of the corporal works of mercy. Jesus says love thy enemy and pray for those who persecute you. If people want to ignore these things, they are well within their rights. If pain and trauma prevent us from living these axioms out, that’s allowed too. But anyone who claims to follow Jesus (or other religious traditions with similar precepts) should be honest about what they are rejecting when they claim a person is not worthy of being treated with dignity.

The Gospel is not easy. I struggle with it as much as the next person, but I try my darnedest to make it an honest struggle. I know what’s being asked of me, I know what I’m too broken to accept, and what I’m willfully rejecting. I often find myself deciding a person is not worth of my kindness, or that “fairness” requires they be put in their place, or that I can be the arbiter of mercy.

When Jesus tells me I don’t get to decide my spine stiffens and I want to rebel. But when I let go of judging  when I choose to accept that God loves everyone, no exceptions, then I can take the energy I would have spent on judging and use it on mercy, and still have some energy to spare.

For a long time I thought it was easier to go with the flow, to hate the people the world hated, to shout angrily when that seemed chic and to rage along with the crowd. But I’m learning the opposite is easier: to shed the pretension of sinlessness and allow my heart to pour out the tiny draught of mercy that comes from a larger well.

So I pray we can find a way to allow this man the human dignity we all hope to be afforded with a minimum of disruption and pain.

In my case, I wasn’t even running for the right bus, but since the sign on the back where the route number usually goes was covered with the slogan “Boston Strong”, I didn’t know that until an off-duty driver at the stop, seeing my shuffle, called out “You want the 7??” I did not want the 7, so I stopped running and caught my breath.

It wasn’t long until the right bus pulled up. I greeted the driver, who did not greet me in return. Maybe he thought I was rude for leaving my sunglasses on inside, but I was balancing bags on each shoulder and could barely free enough fingers to get out my bus pass. The off-duty driver who had helped me out earlier got on behind me and started making small talk with the driver who was working. 

As they chatted we took off forcefully from the bus stop just before I reached the nearest open seat. I used the balance skills that are unique to regular bus riders, honed during years of commuting to the Back Bay when I was in conservatory.

This was the tail end of a whirlwind weekend. It had begun with a suburban sitzprobe rehearsal, then I headed to a remote South Shore town for a wedding, and the next day I was in Manhattan for the finals of an opera competition I’d advanced in. I’d hardly known where I was for most of the weekend, and my disorientation was only aggravated by literally walking into the middle of a first communion procession at the unfamiliar parish we’d found for Sunday mass. I’d hit four states in 24 hours, and had spent the last three hours on Amtrak.

When the driver started speeding through the city I didn’t mind a bit. At least I’ll be home soon, I thought. I knew it might take a moment to load everyone on at the major station near my house, but how long could that take? There was a small group waiting at the curb when we approached, but when the door to the bus opened, no one got on.

The bus lurched to the right and the alarm alerted us that the ramp was coming down. One of the women waiting was on a motorized scooter. While we waited for the ramp to unfurl and the bus to tip toward the sidewalk, the off-duty driver rushed to arrange the fold up seats to accommodate her.

I could hear her through the open door, apologizing to the other people waiting to get on, explaining that sometimes people get annoyed, even as those nearby assured her that it was OK. She came on and let the driver buckle her scooter in place. The off-duty driver remembered at which stop she usually got off. He smiled at her as he told the driver to take good care of her before he got off and went into the subway.

Everyone on the sidewalk waited while the ramp was folded back into the bus. About five minutes later, we were on our way.

On a less graced day I would have found an acceptable reason to be annoyed by the situation. I would never have allowed myself to be irked at the passenger herself: that’s simply not done. But I would have indulged the feeling that I was having my time wasted by finding someone else to blame and I would have huffed and puffed while I waited for everyone to be ready to go.

But instead of huffing and puffing I breathed freer than I have for a long time. My time isn’t that important. I am not so important that I need to get from one place to another as quickly as possible. I am certainly not more important than my neighbor who has to ride the bus with her scooter.

No one else on the bus was annoyed either, from what I could tell. We just waited in peace, catching our breath while the bus sat at the curb. It was magical.

A few minutes later we were back to normal, with the driver slamming the breaks after a passenger shouted to him that someone was chasing the bus. He let her on, shouted at the passenger who asked him to stop, got in an argument with the girl who had boarded, she got off in a snit after realizing she was on the wrong bus, after which the driver announced “everyone thinks they can do this job better. If you want it, you can have it!” It felt like Boston again.

.