.JPG)
.JPG)
Monday, June 10, 2013
More Insect Life
Sunday, April 14, 2013
The Fast Life
The cellist and I have started our own experiment in intermittent fasting.
The television presentation by Michael Mosley explored the benefits of various calorie restriction methods. Straight-up calorie restriction, in which a subject eats about half as much as the rest of us consider normal, has supposedly been linked to serious increases in life span. Is it really longer, or does it just seem longer?
The rationale behind calorie restriction is basically that nutrient utilization is an oxidative process that stresses the body if you respond to every hunger pang. Oxidation bad! If you eat less you burn less and your system lasts longer.
As creatures that evolved with a fairly constant hunger that stimulated a constant search for something to eat, humans are hard-wired to seek food. In a developed nation most of us can satisfy every craving the instant we feel it. Our brains feel reassured but our bodies have to deal with the embarrassment of riches. We have invented enticing, calorie-rich foods that move quickly from the stomach to make room for more enticing, calorie-rich foods. Our blood sugar bunjie-jumps while the calories we can't possibly burn go into the body's savings account. You carry that balance with you all the time, even if the deposits aren't obvious.
Mosley's television series explored the difference between visceral fat and subcutaneous fat. Mosley himself did not look particularly blobby, but had accumulated a great deal of fat around his organs. Research seem to indicate that this fat has the more dire effect on your body.
Because I spend the winter turning into a pudgy hypochondriac instead of getting out for healthy exercise several days a week, and the cellist lives a quintessentially American lifestyle involving lot so of driving and no built-in, regularly scheduled need for exertion we were particularly susceptible to Mosley's presentation.
According to Mosley, the intermittent fasting regime offers many -- perhaps even most -- of the metabolic benefits of calorie restriction while still allowing the participant to eat freely on five out of seven days.
On fast days a male is supposed to eat a maximum of 600 calories. A woman is allowed 500. So it isn't complete abstinence from food. It's roughly a quarter of the basal metabolic rate for an average person of each gender. Mosley's website and book provide hints and recommendations for what to eat and when, but the system offers a lot of flexibility for individuals to discover what works for them.
As Snickers advertisements will tell you, hunger can effect your personality. No one said it was trouble-free.
When you eat more or less free-range on five days, the fast days become events. They are distinct objectives with a limited time span. They are not supposed to be consecutive days, so beyond each of them lies your comfortable normality.
You still need to exercise. In bike commuting season my lifestyle still works. It's only the loss of skiing that makes the winter such a time of deterioration. I have not yet developed really effective substitute activities for winter. As the bike season gets off to a slow, irregular start I'm pretty sure I have not lost much weight, if any. But I'm establishing the eating pattern.
Fasting makes you spend time in your hunger. After 150-200 calories of oatmeal for breakfast burns off around lunchtime the afternoon stretches a long way in front of you. But hunger is not constant. And you can distract yourself with interesting projects. You can become a connoisseur of your appetite. "How hungry am I?" It's good to know hunger when you don't have to, to remind you of the people who have no choice.
You have to have a sense of humor so you don't give way to irritability. But this makes you more mindful in your execution of daily routines.
It helps that the cellist and I are doing it together. We can talk about it, joke about it and know that we're both in this together.
Eating a carefully-selected 300 calories in the morning leaves an equal amount available for an early-evening micro-meal of equally carefully-selected foods to complete the day's allowance. Black coffee and unsweetened tea don't count against your calorie allowance. Hydrate a lot. The cellist makes a savory broth that tastes like food, but contains less than ten calories eight-ounce serving. That makes a nice nightcap before going to bed to look forward to breakfast the next day.
I thought I would wake up before dawn like a kid on Christmas and head out to the kitchen to chow down on everything I could find, but this has not been the case on our three fast days so far. I am almost reluctant to eat that first uncalculated meal, though I still shove my nose in a beaker of coffee with the usual zeal. The fast days are so much work that I am loath to negate their value by sucking down crap when it's fair game. In this way the discipline of fasting, sustainable only by someone who likes a physical challenge, reinforces what would ordinarily be a somewhat weak will when it comes to snacking and sweets. Sure, I would ramp back up if I went too long before the next fast, but the longest interval is three days. That significantly reduces the sugary grazing.
It's not for everyone. We'll see if it continues to appeal to me. So far it's interesting.
The television presentation by Michael Mosley explored the benefits of various calorie restriction methods. Straight-up calorie restriction, in which a subject eats about half as much as the rest of us consider normal, has supposedly been linked to serious increases in life span. Is it really longer, or does it just seem longer?
The rationale behind calorie restriction is basically that nutrient utilization is an oxidative process that stresses the body if you respond to every hunger pang. Oxidation bad! If you eat less you burn less and your system lasts longer.
As creatures that evolved with a fairly constant hunger that stimulated a constant search for something to eat, humans are hard-wired to seek food. In a developed nation most of us can satisfy every craving the instant we feel it. Our brains feel reassured but our bodies have to deal with the embarrassment of riches. We have invented enticing, calorie-rich foods that move quickly from the stomach to make room for more enticing, calorie-rich foods. Our blood sugar bunjie-jumps while the calories we can't possibly burn go into the body's savings account. You carry that balance with you all the time, even if the deposits aren't obvious.
Mosley's television series explored the difference between visceral fat and subcutaneous fat. Mosley himself did not look particularly blobby, but had accumulated a great deal of fat around his organs. Research seem to indicate that this fat has the more dire effect on your body.
Because I spend the winter turning into a pudgy hypochondriac instead of getting out for healthy exercise several days a week, and the cellist lives a quintessentially American lifestyle involving lot so of driving and no built-in, regularly scheduled need for exertion we were particularly susceptible to Mosley's presentation.
According to Mosley, the intermittent fasting regime offers many -- perhaps even most -- of the metabolic benefits of calorie restriction while still allowing the participant to eat freely on five out of seven days.
On fast days a male is supposed to eat a maximum of 600 calories. A woman is allowed 500. So it isn't complete abstinence from food. It's roughly a quarter of the basal metabolic rate for an average person of each gender. Mosley's website and book provide hints and recommendations for what to eat and when, but the system offers a lot of flexibility for individuals to discover what works for them.
As Snickers advertisements will tell you, hunger can effect your personality. No one said it was trouble-free.
When you eat more or less free-range on five days, the fast days become events. They are distinct objectives with a limited time span. They are not supposed to be consecutive days, so beyond each of them lies your comfortable normality.
You still need to exercise. In bike commuting season my lifestyle still works. It's only the loss of skiing that makes the winter such a time of deterioration. I have not yet developed really effective substitute activities for winter. As the bike season gets off to a slow, irregular start I'm pretty sure I have not lost much weight, if any. But I'm establishing the eating pattern.
Fasting makes you spend time in your hunger. After 150-200 calories of oatmeal for breakfast burns off around lunchtime the afternoon stretches a long way in front of you. But hunger is not constant. And you can distract yourself with interesting projects. You can become a connoisseur of your appetite. "How hungry am I?" It's good to know hunger when you don't have to, to remind you of the people who have no choice.
You have to have a sense of humor so you don't give way to irritability. But this makes you more mindful in your execution of daily routines.
It helps that the cellist and I are doing it together. We can talk about it, joke about it and know that we're both in this together.
Eating a carefully-selected 300 calories in the morning leaves an equal amount available for an early-evening micro-meal of equally carefully-selected foods to complete the day's allowance. Black coffee and unsweetened tea don't count against your calorie allowance. Hydrate a lot. The cellist makes a savory broth that tastes like food, but contains less than ten calories eight-ounce serving. That makes a nice nightcap before going to bed to look forward to breakfast the next day.
I thought I would wake up before dawn like a kid on Christmas and head out to the kitchen to chow down on everything I could find, but this has not been the case on our three fast days so far. I am almost reluctant to eat that first uncalculated meal, though I still shove my nose in a beaker of coffee with the usual zeal. The fast days are so much work that I am loath to negate their value by sucking down crap when it's fair game. In this way the discipline of fasting, sustainable only by someone who likes a physical challenge, reinforces what would ordinarily be a somewhat weak will when it comes to snacking and sweets. Sure, I would ramp back up if I went too long before the next fast, but the longest interval is three days. That significantly reduces the sugary grazing.
It's not for everyone. We'll see if it continues to appeal to me. So far it's interesting.
Saturday, February 02, 2013
Bob: A Story of Immigration.
In 2005 the Western Conifer Seed Bug (Leptoglossus Occidentalis) arrived at our house with a large extended family. Suddenly the place was crawling with these weird-looking bugs:
We named them Bob. The reason isn't important. It's a lot quicker to say, "there's a Bob" than to use either of the bug's official names.
Bob's story parallels the progression of most immigrant groups. At first we feared and disliked Bob. He looked different. He smelled funny. He had disturbing habits like flying ineptly at us or getting on our pillows or bath towels so that we inadvertently applied him roughly to our faces or bodies. We don't use bug spray and we wouldn't squish anything that gives off such a uniquely pungent odor when disturbed or injured, but we did capture and evict any that we found. The colder the day or night the better, as far as we were concerned. So you could say we started deportation: go back where you came from, Bob.
The Bobs don't quit. They keep crossing our borders, looking for a better life. We've gotten used to their appearance, their odors and their attempts at flight. They don't chew things, suck blood or poison our pets. They're just different. We see their struggle to survive the winter when their search for a hibernation niche accidentally led them to our warm lair. Now when they would be dormant they need water. Maybe they need food, I don't know. They feed on the sap in conifer cones. The won't ever find that in our house.
We've developed sympathy for Bob. No longer is he a lousy stinkin' bug. He's an Insect American.
The Bobs seem just as eager to go back out when the weather warms as they were to crawl in when it froze. We just have to learn to get along while we're sharing the same shanty.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
My transgender fiddle teacher
Early last summer, the man I've been taking fiddling lessons from revealed that he has always identified as a woman and was going to start living as one forthwith. He said he had tried once before in the early 1990s, to the extreme detriment of his music career. But the brain wants what the brain wants.
We'd all known Seth had strong sympathies for the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender communities. A lot of people in the arts do. At the last session before the summer break for the string band he showed up in a tie dyed sundress. But the official announcement nailed it down.
For someone who is not transgender, thinking about it is completely disorienting. It's much easier to imagine being homosexual than trying to reconcile the unshakeable belief your friend's mind has that his body is completely mistaken.
I don't know if someone can be slightly transgender. The conviction that you have been issued the wrong genitalia is about as basic as an issue gets.
Even with sex reassignment treatments and surgery the result is never complete. Certain things just aren't going to happen. But trying to reconcile mind and body does not seem to work. It makes my friend happier to work toward conforming physical appearance to the convictions of the mind than to try to convince the mind that the body is okay.
If you don't have it you can't really claim to understand it. All you can do is say it's all right and keep being their friend.
The absolute hardest thing about it is pronouns. The artist formerly known as Seth has often posted things on Facebook about the search for a really good gender neutral pronoun. Now called Zythyra, she uses the feminine pronoun in some contexts where a choice is required, but told us in the initial announcement that the singular they would be acceptable. What ends up happening is that we use the name Zythyra or the abbreviation Z rather than any pronoun at all.
The pronoun thing. It's a real bitch.
Continuing to attend String Band has provided a real lesson in relevance. Z could show up with a shaved head and a form-fitted silver jumpsuit and the music would still be the music. The teaching style hasn't changed. The content hasn't changed. Some mannerisms are overtly more feminine, as is the wardrobe. So what?
I can't say the simulation of womanhood is at all convincing. There again it does not matter. Zythyra seems happy and at peace more than in the years of unhappily presenting as masculine. When Z was he, he was never grumpy or bitter or querulous. The change has not been huge, because Z as Seth was always a pleasant companion and a good teacher, same as now. But in a critical small way, Zythyra seems more satisfied. I don't know how it works. I don't know why it happens. I just know it's not my place to make someone else conform to my normality any more than anyone should be able to get me to conform to theirs. We're given a point of view with the brains and bodies we receive. There are worse things to be than completely crossed-up in the gender department. You could be aggressively weird and get off on hurting people.
We'd all known Seth had strong sympathies for the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender communities. A lot of people in the arts do. At the last session before the summer break for the string band he showed up in a tie dyed sundress. But the official announcement nailed it down.
For someone who is not transgender, thinking about it is completely disorienting. It's much easier to imagine being homosexual than trying to reconcile the unshakeable belief your friend's mind has that his body is completely mistaken.
I don't know if someone can be slightly transgender. The conviction that you have been issued the wrong genitalia is about as basic as an issue gets.
Even with sex reassignment treatments and surgery the result is never complete. Certain things just aren't going to happen. But trying to reconcile mind and body does not seem to work. It makes my friend happier to work toward conforming physical appearance to the convictions of the mind than to try to convince the mind that the body is okay.
If you don't have it you can't really claim to understand it. All you can do is say it's all right and keep being their friend.
The absolute hardest thing about it is pronouns. The artist formerly known as Seth has often posted things on Facebook about the search for a really good gender neutral pronoun. Now called Zythyra, she uses the feminine pronoun in some contexts where a choice is required, but told us in the initial announcement that the singular they would be acceptable. What ends up happening is that we use the name Zythyra or the abbreviation Z rather than any pronoun at all.
The pronoun thing. It's a real bitch.
Continuing to attend String Band has provided a real lesson in relevance. Z could show up with a shaved head and a form-fitted silver jumpsuit and the music would still be the music. The teaching style hasn't changed. The content hasn't changed. Some mannerisms are overtly more feminine, as is the wardrobe. So what?
I can't say the simulation of womanhood is at all convincing. There again it does not matter. Zythyra seems happy and at peace more than in the years of unhappily presenting as masculine. When Z was he, he was never grumpy or bitter or querulous. The change has not been huge, because Z as Seth was always a pleasant companion and a good teacher, same as now. But in a critical small way, Zythyra seems more satisfied. I don't know how it works. I don't know why it happens. I just know it's not my place to make someone else conform to my normality any more than anyone should be able to get me to conform to theirs. We're given a point of view with the brains and bodies we receive. There are worse things to be than completely crossed-up in the gender department. You could be aggressively weird and get off on hurting people.
Guns and helmets.
The rationale behind the need to own a gun is strikingly similar to the arguments supporting bicycle and motorcycle helmets. Even some of the arguments against guns sound somewhat similar.
Many people who tremble at the thought of being gunless tell you that they don't want to use it but they want it on hand in case they need it. Likewise, helmet wearers will say they don't plan to crash, but want the protective gear in case they do.
Opponents of both guns and helmets might acknowledge that each has its uses, but point out the ways in which either one can be a genuine hazard to your own personal safety, even if you're trying to use it correctly. Helmet wearers have suffered neck and facial injuries because the projecting edge of the helmet caused their heads to twist sharply during an impact. Gun accidents are well-publicized by the faction saying "I told you so."
Helmet wearers are almost never injured or killed because someone took their helmet from them and attacked them with it. So guns get the demerits there.
Helmet opponents point to unsubstantiated pseudo-scientific studies that seem to indicate a helmet wearer is more likely to have a dangerous encounter with a passing motorist than someone riding bare-headed. I don't know if wearing a gun makes people more likely to shy away from you or if it might inspire a few aggressive types to take it as an invitation to try you out. Someone wearing a gun certainly discourages me from wanting to walk up and say hello. I might find a safe place to watch if two of them decided to see who is faster. But there might be no safe place when the lead starts flying.
Ultimately the sense of a need to own a gun comes down to the individual's imagination -- one might almost say fantasy life. In fact it would be quite safe to say fantasy life in the case of gun cultists who imagine themselves as action heroes saving the day with their trusty shootin' iron.
Many of us -- perhaps even most of us -- will get through life without ever needing to shoot someone. People in the military don't have to buy the guns they use to shoot the people they're sent to face, so those confrontations don't really figure in the decision to go armed in civilian life.
Maybe I've just never lived in a bad enough neighborhood.
I have a couple of guns in the house. I even slept with them handy during a particularly ugly time in town politics. That level of intensity soon passed.
When I've considered carrying a gun on my bike rides I soon realized that it would not be worth its weight. By the time you know you need it, it's too late. The same is true of many imaginary situations in the rest of life. Deadly force is just so darn deadly. Revenge killing is just so darn illegal.
Ultimately you have to make your own decision. The rhetoric gets hot enough to melt lead.
Many people who tremble at the thought of being gunless tell you that they don't want to use it but they want it on hand in case they need it. Likewise, helmet wearers will say they don't plan to crash, but want the protective gear in case they do.
Opponents of both guns and helmets might acknowledge that each has its uses, but point out the ways in which either one can be a genuine hazard to your own personal safety, even if you're trying to use it correctly. Helmet wearers have suffered neck and facial injuries because the projecting edge of the helmet caused their heads to twist sharply during an impact. Gun accidents are well-publicized by the faction saying "I told you so."
Helmet wearers are almost never injured or killed because someone took their helmet from them and attacked them with it. So guns get the demerits there.
Helmet opponents point to unsubstantiated pseudo-scientific studies that seem to indicate a helmet wearer is more likely to have a dangerous encounter with a passing motorist than someone riding bare-headed. I don't know if wearing a gun makes people more likely to shy away from you or if it might inspire a few aggressive types to take it as an invitation to try you out. Someone wearing a gun certainly discourages me from wanting to walk up and say hello. I might find a safe place to watch if two of them decided to see who is faster. But there might be no safe place when the lead starts flying.
Ultimately the sense of a need to own a gun comes down to the individual's imagination -- one might almost say fantasy life. In fact it would be quite safe to say fantasy life in the case of gun cultists who imagine themselves as action heroes saving the day with their trusty shootin' iron.
Many of us -- perhaps even most of us -- will get through life without ever needing to shoot someone. People in the military don't have to buy the guns they use to shoot the people they're sent to face, so those confrontations don't really figure in the decision to go armed in civilian life.
Maybe I've just never lived in a bad enough neighborhood.
I have a couple of guns in the house. I even slept with them handy during a particularly ugly time in town politics. That level of intensity soon passed.
When I've considered carrying a gun on my bike rides I soon realized that it would not be worth its weight. By the time you know you need it, it's too late. The same is true of many imaginary situations in the rest of life. Deadly force is just so darn deadly. Revenge killing is just so darn illegal.
Ultimately you have to make your own decision. The rhetoric gets hot enough to melt lead.
Tuesday, January 08, 2013
It's a bully's world
Bullies have shaped society since before humans developed language.
Bullying is the animal model for establishing dominance. As humans developed more complex thoughts and feelings they had to manage the more intricate relationships among bullies who had achieved varying levels of success occupying adjacent or overlapping territories. As our growing minds and collective experience added more and more data, humans developed many philosophies to try to reconcile the increasing collection of new discoveries and realizations.
At some point it became popular to forget our natural origins. After that we could try to hold ourselves to unrealistic standards, declaring we must control or forbid many of our natural compulsions. These were temptations from an evil entity bent on spoiling our relationship with the Supreme Bully, who would treat us handsomely if we behaved ourselves.
In recent years many cultures have adopted the idea that bullying should be discouraged. As one who played on both sides of that conflict at different times in different schools, I applaud the idea. I just wonder what unintended consequence we will spin off as a result. I would love for it to be all cooperation and acceptance and self improvement. I simply wonder how deleting a fundamental compulsion in our personalities will alter human institutions we have unwittingly based on it throughout our thoughtful existence. Everything we praise: brave warriors, law enforcement, holy martyrs on a cross, is based on the interaction between the bullies and the bullied. If no one ever pushed anyone else around we would be different from almost all other living things. Even plants try to grow taller than their neighbors.
Someone who is willing to push other people around has an automatic advantage over people who would prefer not to. This will make bullying a constant temptation. Some would even say that the will to dominate leads to high achievement. Who is going to argue against high achievement? So if you want to convince a potential bully that it's really wrong to feel that way you had better have a lot of good arguments to support your position. Otherwise you'll just end up beaten up and dunked in a toilet.
Bullying is the animal model for establishing dominance. As humans developed more complex thoughts and feelings they had to manage the more intricate relationships among bullies who had achieved varying levels of success occupying adjacent or overlapping territories. As our growing minds and collective experience added more and more data, humans developed many philosophies to try to reconcile the increasing collection of new discoveries and realizations.
At some point it became popular to forget our natural origins. After that we could try to hold ourselves to unrealistic standards, declaring we must control or forbid many of our natural compulsions. These were temptations from an evil entity bent on spoiling our relationship with the Supreme Bully, who would treat us handsomely if we behaved ourselves.
In recent years many cultures have adopted the idea that bullying should be discouraged. As one who played on both sides of that conflict at different times in different schools, I applaud the idea. I just wonder what unintended consequence we will spin off as a result. I would love for it to be all cooperation and acceptance and self improvement. I simply wonder how deleting a fundamental compulsion in our personalities will alter human institutions we have unwittingly based on it throughout our thoughtful existence. Everything we praise: brave warriors, law enforcement, holy martyrs on a cross, is based on the interaction between the bullies and the bullied. If no one ever pushed anyone else around we would be different from almost all other living things. Even plants try to grow taller than their neighbors.
Someone who is willing to push other people around has an automatic advantage over people who would prefer not to. This will make bullying a constant temptation. Some would even say that the will to dominate leads to high achievement. Who is going to argue against high achievement? So if you want to convince a potential bully that it's really wrong to feel that way you had better have a lot of good arguments to support your position. Otherwise you'll just end up beaten up and dunked in a toilet.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Pop and sacraments
Religion and rock and roll were both ruined for me by the same thing: I started really listening to the words. I would not go back to my old ways. But it makes me a conspicuous element in a front pew at a Christmas Eve service.
I have no quarrel with many of the general principles espoused by the followers of God, but church has become more than just a boring interlude before we get gooey breakfast pastries on our way home to enjoy the rest of the day. And I don't mean that in a sappy TV movie way. "More" in this case means "more mind-bendingly encumbered with wacky beliefs about supernatural beings and human sacrifices," and "more disturbingly filled with group chants and rituals."
Add to this my aversion to singing in public and you get one stressed unbeliever on public display among a bunch of happy Christians.
I do mean Christian in the best sense. If I was going to be one, I would be one with them. The sermon was about welcoming strangers. I am the habitual stranger. I do not assimilate.
I hope my Episcopalian friends who are the cellist's friends and fellow musicians will forget anything they might have seen that betrayed my lack of Christmas spirit. They kindly placed me by the choir with whom the cellist sang as a guest, little realizing the position in which it placed me with my conscience and my lack of vocal range and control.
I'm a back-row churchgoer who accidentally ended up stuck in prime real estate last night. I like what they do. I'm glad they do it. I just don't need to do it with them. I prayed that someone deserving would come up and ask me with puppy-dog eyes if I would kindly give up my front-row seat to their ailing mother or something so I could slither back to my natural habitat looking at the backs of a bunch of heads. I might even be able to slip out the side door into the comforting raw fog that made the darkness that much darker. But no, of course it didn't happen. Would it have made me believe in miracles? I had to sit there looking suitably reverent while the words ran in my head as if I was saying them but I could not open my lips to affirm a belief I do not hold. If judge there be, I hope I get a few points for honesty before a foot to the forehead starts me down the sliding board to eternal fire. But I will no doubt get a few demerits for being a poor guest and not joining in with the culture with wholehearted verve just to help them keep the party at full festivity. Really, what IS wrong with me?
Strange as it may seem, I was happy to be there for the reasons I was there: the cellist is loved and respected by this warm group who also surround and connect with her father. The mortal remains of her mother and brother rest on the church grounds. As much as I wanted it to be over, I would not have wanted it not to happen. And I did not want to just send her out on the foggy night alone to do her thing and then come back.
Suddenly I understand just wanting to shut up and play a drum. It can mean whatever you want it to mean while keeping a nice beat for the other celebrants. Too bad that wasn't an option. Music Director James Fitzpatrick asked me if I wanted to sing and I couldn't decline fast enough. If he'd offered extraneous percussion I would have joined immediately. Well, maybe not tambourine.
Every believer picks and chooses scripture and interpretation. At what point should you cease to call yourself by a familiar denominational designation and honestly examine your spirituality without the cocoon of an institution? You can find your social capital in any number of affiliations. And some of us really are reclusive. That may not make us defective. We'll simply never join a group to represent our rights and beliefs. Talk about an invisible minority. We'll just be known as "that weirdo in the front row who didn't say any of the prayers or sing any of the hymns and carols," or other descriptions psychological or anatomical. As long as you feel freaked out by us as individuals rather than a monolithic bloc we can't ask for much more.
I have no quarrel with many of the general principles espoused by the followers of God, but church has become more than just a boring interlude before we get gooey breakfast pastries on our way home to enjoy the rest of the day. And I don't mean that in a sappy TV movie way. "More" in this case means "more mind-bendingly encumbered with wacky beliefs about supernatural beings and human sacrifices," and "more disturbingly filled with group chants and rituals."
Add to this my aversion to singing in public and you get one stressed unbeliever on public display among a bunch of happy Christians.
I do mean Christian in the best sense. If I was going to be one, I would be one with them. The sermon was about welcoming strangers. I am the habitual stranger. I do not assimilate.
I hope my Episcopalian friends who are the cellist's friends and fellow musicians will forget anything they might have seen that betrayed my lack of Christmas spirit. They kindly placed me by the choir with whom the cellist sang as a guest, little realizing the position in which it placed me with my conscience and my lack of vocal range and control.
I'm a back-row churchgoer who accidentally ended up stuck in prime real estate last night. I like what they do. I'm glad they do it. I just don't need to do it with them. I prayed that someone deserving would come up and ask me with puppy-dog eyes if I would kindly give up my front-row seat to their ailing mother or something so I could slither back to my natural habitat looking at the backs of a bunch of heads. I might even be able to slip out the side door into the comforting raw fog that made the darkness that much darker. But no, of course it didn't happen. Would it have made me believe in miracles? I had to sit there looking suitably reverent while the words ran in my head as if I was saying them but I could not open my lips to affirm a belief I do not hold. If judge there be, I hope I get a few points for honesty before a foot to the forehead starts me down the sliding board to eternal fire. But I will no doubt get a few demerits for being a poor guest and not joining in with the culture with wholehearted verve just to help them keep the party at full festivity. Really, what IS wrong with me?
Strange as it may seem, I was happy to be there for the reasons I was there: the cellist is loved and respected by this warm group who also surround and connect with her father. The mortal remains of her mother and brother rest on the church grounds. As much as I wanted it to be over, I would not have wanted it not to happen. And I did not want to just send her out on the foggy night alone to do her thing and then come back.
Suddenly I understand just wanting to shut up and play a drum. It can mean whatever you want it to mean while keeping a nice beat for the other celebrants. Too bad that wasn't an option. Music Director James Fitzpatrick asked me if I wanted to sing and I couldn't decline fast enough. If he'd offered extraneous percussion I would have joined immediately. Well, maybe not tambourine.
Every believer picks and chooses scripture and interpretation. At what point should you cease to call yourself by a familiar denominational designation and honestly examine your spirituality without the cocoon of an institution? You can find your social capital in any number of affiliations. And some of us really are reclusive. That may not make us defective. We'll simply never join a group to represent our rights and beliefs. Talk about an invisible minority. We'll just be known as "that weirdo in the front row who didn't say any of the prayers or sing any of the hymns and carols," or other descriptions psychological or anatomical. As long as you feel freaked out by us as individuals rather than a monolithic bloc we can't ask for much more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)