Now you are five

You sleep like a broken stork.

Toothpaste, hurriedly mashed between the spaces in your teeth, dries in the corners of your huge smile. Sometimes your school pictures show it.

When I vacuum, you pretend that I’ll somehow be able to suck up your shoes, your big black teddy bear, your tricycle.

You take turns but I watch the frustration grow when they don’t play by the rules.

You insist on burping in my face, despite my insistance that it’s not ladylike.

Nothing compares to the anguish of your cries when you’re hurt. They squeeze at my heart and make me short of breath.

But now you are five, and I have to let you go a little more each day. I have to bite my lip instead of shouting “Watch out!”, and bite it again instead of saying, “I told you so…”

Now you are five, and I will let you do your own hair.

I’ll let you eat ice cream (with sprinkles) and not freak out about the clothes you’re wearing.

I won’t supervise. At least, not from two feet away.

Now you are five, but even so, when you grab onto me as I wake you in the morning, I will carry you to the breakfast table, your hands tangled in my hair, your breath smelling like dried toothpaste, and I will wait until you open your eyes and mumble, “Good morning, Mama”.

Longing

I am longing.

The life of a human at times seems like one vast ocean of longing. We need, we desire, we want. Longing saturates our day and makes us wonder what we’re missing.

We try and fill the ocean with tiny pebbles. Like my kids on the beach, watching the waves advance and recede, hearing the screaming birds overhead, we shout our longing into the wind.

We ink it on our skin. We bathe in it and massage it deep into our muscles. We try and suck it in when people are watching, making jokes about it over coffee or margaritas.

Identifying this longing and the satiation thereof is one of our missions as humans. We think we’ve found it in a new obsession: an object to be cared for, a new baby, an attractive political platform.

And the silence of the frozen ocean deafens us in its stillness.

What are you longing for?

Wise Latina

Here’s the thing- I don’t really think that the Republicans have much to go on to nail Sotomayor and oppose her candidacy for the Supreme Court. Their points of attack are less than stellar, and unfortunately have the effect of seeming peevish and partisan.

I think this self-styled “wise Latina” may have misspoke with her one-time racist comment, but I don’t think she’s inherently racist, even with her ruling on the firefighter case.

I have issues, however, with her empathy.

Yes. I know- I’m a practicing Christian, shouldn’t empathy be at the top of my list? Sure. When dealing with the poor, when deciding to help a homeless man, when wondering how to best debate a friend on social isues. Empathy. What you do for the least of these, etc.

Empathy is one of those ideas that sounds great, theoretically. Identifying with someone is one of the most amazing things a human can do…putting oneself second- thinking of another first. And when you’re awash in this relativist culture, empathy can be a boon to understanding each other, and making strides towards action.

But when dealing with what should be an impartial Supreme Court bench? Not so much. Obama touted her empathy, and yet- is that really what we want? Empathy is all fine and good when it serves your outcome- when the judge looks with empathy on your case and decides in your favor- but how about when his/her empathy goes the other way?

So bah humbug and no thanks. I like my justice blind, thanks, and my judges impartial. Even if she’s a wise Latina like me.

Changing the world involves some insanity, red wine, and a prophet

“Let us pray,” intoned the whiskered senior pastor, in precise, undiluted Spanish that belied his street-gang roots.

“Oh LORD, we pray for our sister Evenshine, as she goes forth into the land of her fathers. She has been among us for some time now, and we give you thanks for her work here.”

(Congregants nodding, some raising hands in silent “amen”s).

“We ask that You mightily bless her. We thank you for her role in Your work, and ask that You continue to lead her in Your paths.”

(Hard to hear those capital “Y”s, but they’re there.)

“We know that you will be with her. She will be the mother of many.”

(Evenshine raises her bent head and forms a silent Wha-huh?)

“We know that you will give her many sons, and they will be the strength of her arm and the comfort of her old age.”

(Whatever, buddy. You offering to carry them? Comfort is spelled c-h-i-a-n-t-i in my house).

“We know, Lord, that you will give her those many strong sons. But…yes, Lord, we know you will give her one daughter. ONE daughter who will be her heart’s delight. A daughter who will be more beautiful than the cedars of Lebanon, whose beauty will be as your voice throughout the nations.”

(Evenshine wonders if the pastor’s been indulging in the communion wine.)

“And so be with her in the trials and tribulations of the future. Accompany her and bless her, even as you have promised.”

(Did I miss the part where they handed out the Kool-aid? Is this where we start fainting and convulsing? BeGONE, foul spirit!).

And yet, some months later…

Maybe not cedars, but a flower nonetheless

Something I’ve been thinking about…

Seriously. R and I are talking pretty seriously about the A word, possibly from Ethiopia or Colombia. We have so very much. Thinking.