but how do you really feel?

A rainy Saturday morning. We are sitting at the table with big mugs of coffee and baguettes spread with butter and jam, reading the Pioneer Press.

Steve: (Reading from newspaper.) "A Vatican official reportedly called for a boycott of the upcoming The Da Vinci Code film Friday, saying it contained 'slanderous' offenses against Christianity that would have provoked a worldwide revolt had they been directed against Islam or the Holocaust."

Me: (Ignoring the part about the boycott.) Hmm ... I could sort of see that after the cartoon incident. And Salman Rushie did have a fatwa called on him for writing a book Muslim leaders thought was slanderous against Islam.

Steve: Oh - if they could call a fatwa on Ron Howard and get him out of filmmaking forever, that would be completely worth it to me!

sugar free delite

Happy day! I passed my one-hour glucose tolerance test this afternoon, which means that even though sugar is showing up in my urine, I don't have gestational diabetes. Yippee!

How it works is, you go to the OB's office and drink down a bottle of a very sweet, orange-flavored pop-like beverage that's loaded - LOADED - with sugar. I mean, I'm still coming down off the sugar high right now, and I'm praying that the low to come does not take me out for the evening because Steve and I have a benefit to go to. Anyway, you have five minutes to drink that, and then you wait for an hour and have your blood drawn. They test it right there in the lab. They want you to have a level of 140 or below. If not, you have to take a three-hour test to rule out diabetes. My level was 96. I was amazed it was so low! With two appointments in a row of sugar showing up in my urine samples - and with my risk of gestational diabetes being higher because I have polycystic ovarian syndrome, I was sure I was going to fail the test.

Now I'm loopy with relief (and sugar)!

how charitable are we?

A couple of items about charity have come under my radar this week, so I thought I'd pass them along.

First, this quiz on Beliefnet.com, on how much your sense of charity affects your daily life. It covers everything from how you handle requests from homeless people on the street to your general attitude toward volunteer work.

Second, a report showing the average federal income tax deductions for charity in tax year 2004 for different income brackets:

$30,000 - $50,000: $2,132
$50,000 - $100,000: $2,663
$100,000 - $200,000: $4,130
$200,000-plus: $19,014

(From RIA, a division of Thomson Corp., as listed in Tom Herman’s April 19 Wall Street Journal column.)

Both these things beg the question: How do we stack up? (And by "we," I don't just mean Steve and me; I mean you, me, our families, our friends, the people at our churches, the people in our neighborhoods.) As for the Beliefnet quiz, I scored a 22 on a scale of 0 to 36 - definitely not the selfless giver that the top scorers are, but not a Scrooge, either:

Your sense of charity and social justice is very tied to your faith. Your charitable actions spring from both your strong sense of compassion and your religious obligations. You look toward religious leaders for guidance in where to contribute and likely participate in church or house of worship fundraisers and volunteer activities.

Sounds pretty close. I'm wouldn't say Steve and I look to religious leaders for specific guidance on where to contribute, but it's true that our choices to do volunteer work and donate money stem from a desire and sense of obligation to look out for the least among us. That lines up in large part with the social teachings of our faith.

As for charitable donations, I'm really not one to talk about how much money Steve and I give away. We do take our giving seriously. We allocate a certain percentage of our take-home pay for donations, and every December or January, we sit in front of the laptop and divvy up how much money we want to give in the next year to the various charities and nonprofits we support. It's actually kind of fun, and very rewarding, and it makes writing the checks less painful because they're planned. (It also makes it easier to say no when random donation-seekers coming calling.) I am looking forward to getting our kids in on the action. I hope they'll get excited about charities they want to include on our list, and I want to encourage them to save part of their allowance to give away. (On the other hand, I can hear it now: "But Mom! I wanted to buy an XBox!")

I also think it's interesting that people in the lowest income bracket actually donate (or at least claim to on their taxes) a higher percentage of their income than people in the next two higher brackets, who pretty much comprise the middle class. What does that say?

funny

A little Catholic humor sent by a friend: The pope and his iPod, courtesy of Jay Leno. Hee hee!

lemon-colored volkswagens and southern art

So, the other day I was looking around Google Images to see if I could find a cute graphic to use in my profile photo area. (None of the pictures I have uploaded in Shutterfly will work, for some reason, because the URLs are more than 68 characters long, and apparently Blogspot has its limits.) One of the images I found when I Googled "lemon drop" was this awesome painting of a VW van! I didn't end up using it, although maybe someday I'll swap it into my profile spot ... I LOVE IT!


If you've known me a long time (or are one of my sisters!), you know that our family used to have an ancient Volkswagen van dating back to the mid-Sixties. It was deep, rusty red, and its side doors swung outward instead of sliding. By the time I got to be a teenager in the Eighties, that car was an embarrassment. One time I had to drive it to a school dance, and I was mortified. But the van had its cool factor, which I only came to appreciate after I got into the Grateful Dead in college, and by then, my parents had pretty much retired it. Hippies used to pull up next to my dad in the middle of busy highways, gesture to him to slide back the window, and yell to him, "Hey man, are you interested in selling that van?" Sometimes people left notes tucked behind the windshield wiper with their phone numbers, and we'd find them when we came out of the grocery store. In the end, my parents sold it to a couple of guys a few doors down the street. Seeing it in their driveway after that made me feel a little nostalgic for it. Only a little.

Anyway, the artist's name is Chase Quarterman, and it turns out he's a young, Southern guy — schooled in Mississippi (and overseas) and now living in Austin. Here's his bio:

Chase Quarterman is an artist currently residing in Austin, Texas. He received his B.S. degree in Graphic Design at Mississippi College in 2003. He draws much of his artistic inspiration from German Expressionism, modern Chinese painting, Mexican folk art, and various southern artists. A semester in London, a trip to China and Mexico, and doing summer mission work in Taiwan has greatly influenced his perspective on cultures and the arts that influence those cultures.

I've been perusing his portfolio on his Web site and just enjoy his style so much. His paintings remind me of the good things I liked about living in Mississippi — the blues, the rich literary heritage, the delicious (though fattening) food, the relaxed pace of life, the quirky sense of soul that is lacking in most other parts of the country. I even recognize some of the places he's painted — the country store in Taylor, Mississippi, where my old friend Baby Jane Burdine's daughter was the mayor. Ole Miss, the university in Oxford, where Faulkner lived. St. Andrew's Episcopal Cathedral in downtown Jackson.

I love it when this happens! I love it when looking for one thing leads to the discovery of something completely different that captures my imagination. Life has such a way of doing that, if only we're willing to meander a bit and keep our eyes open. Anyway ... I'm sure there's an essay in here somewhere, but that's for another day. For now, I'll just post some more from Chase, and then I'm signing off. Have a good one!

random snapshots

First signs of spring in our yard ... (before the rabbits got to them and ate half the blooms — grrr!)



Baby's room, mid-paint job ...


Painting complete! (Click here to see what it looked like before it was green.)


Ingrid takes a cat nap ...


Five and a half months pregnant (and looking rather contemplative — perhaps reflecting on the fact that my uterus is now the size of a soccer ball?!) ... (Click here to see what I looked like a month ago.)

a weekend of art, bread and spencer tracy

I had an unusual afternoon Saturday - judging the third-annual St. Paul Bread Club bakeoff. I had never heard of this little club until the president called up our office a couple of months ago and asked if someone would be available to participate - no baking experience needed. (I guess he felt it was important to have a Catholic on board?) I love homemade bread - who doesn't? - so of course I volunteered! What a scene: The bakers showed up Saturday with entries in almost a dozen categories. I ended up judging the quick breads category, so I sampled seven batches of scones, banana breads and muffins. Judging was completely subjective - it was all based on what tasted good to me. And it was all wonderful, but my winner was a delectable lemon-raspberry streusel muffin, which had just the perfect balance of sweetness and tartness and held together so nicely in my hand ... mmm.

With all the international films showing around the Twin Cities, Steve and I planned to see at least one Saturday night. But I was tired after the bread thing, and Steve was tired from painting the baby's room all day. (Plus, we had gotten up early that morning to babysit Steve's niece.) So instead, we watched a movie on PBS that I'm glad we stayed home for: Judgment at Nuremberg, from 1961, starring Spencer Tracy as the lead judge in a tribunal for Nazi war crimes. The cast was full of Hollywood stars, many of whom played German roles - Marlene Dietrich, Judy Garland, Montgomery Clift, Burt Lancaster and more - although I didn't recognize anyone except Spencer Tracy and Judy Garland until I Googled the film afterward. (Even Judy Garland was a disconnect. She played a wronged, beaten-down German woman, and it was only her Dorothy of Oz voice that made me look a little harder and realize who it was.) Anyway, it was a really good and thought-provoking movie about who was complicit in the Holocaust in Nazi Germany.

Though we missed the film festival, we did make it to the St. Paul Art Crawl Friday night. And I have to say, the blogger of Cool on the Hill gets it exactly right:

All weekend long, the lofty artists of Lowertown are hosting the Saint Paul Art Crawl with extended hours so you have even more time to pretend to be gazing at their art while you're really checking out their appealingly bohemian apartments.

So true! Every time Steve and I go, we start to entertain fantasies about buying a loft in Lowertown and living the hip, urban life ... hanging out at the Black Dog for coffee and strolling over to the St. Paul Farmer's Market on weekends. ... Still, we do look at the art - and we did not go home empty-handed Friday night. Argh - we really should know better than to bring the checkbook to these things!

Finally, thanks to the diligence of public radio, it's been hard to escape the reminder that today is William Shakespeare's birthday. Nonetheless, it was an e.e. cummings poem in the program at church that captured my attention this afternoon - because today truly has been the most gorgeous of days.

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
wich is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any - lifted from the no
of all nothing - human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

flossing, part two

After three nights in a row of flossing, I am feeling much less monstrous. I have learned two important things:

1. Daily flossing seems to cut back on the bleeding. Maybe it toughens the gums a bit?
2. Better-quality floss is key. It really makes a difference. I'm throwing out the sharp, stringy stuff the dentist gives us. Now I'm on a mission to find the best floss ever!

blood bath

One of the things I never knew about pregnancy was that it would turn me into a blood-spewing monster from the deep every time I floss my teeth. I've tried to step up with the flossing, but I'm lucky if it happens once a week. And can you blame me? Every time I floss, I end up flicking splatters of crimson all over the sink, faucet and mirror that make our bathroom look like a crime scene. Once I was flossing when Steve was in the room, and for a joke, I turned to him, bared my teeth and hissed like Gollum. My God, he said. Sexy.

According to an article at BabyCenter.com, this could become more than just a housecleaning nightmare. Apparently, about half of all pregnant women have bleeding, sensitive gums — known as "pregnancy gingivitis." It's caused by increased progesterone and blood flow to the mouth. But if not looked after, it can lead to worse things:

"If you don't take care of your teeth and gums, gingivitis can turn into periodontitis, a more serious condition in which the infection goes beyond your gums into the bone and other tissue that support your teeth. This is of particular importance for pregnant women (and women considering getting pregnant). One large study found that pregnant women with periodontal disease were seven times more likely to have a premature baby."

Guess I'd better suck it up (and I don't mean that literally) and find the discipline to floss more often. Whew — what with dental care, kegels, exercise, drinking enough milk, eating enough protein, and all the other things pregnant women are supposed to do, pregnancy could be a full-time job! (Good preparation for motherhood, no?)

arts and culture reveries

This year, the St. Paul Art Crawl coincides with the opening of the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Film Festival — and it's all this weekend. I have a feeling we're not going to get much painting done after all!

Steve and I have gone to both events every year since we've been together. Four years ago, on the Saturday of the spring Art Crawl, we took our first big step toward getting engaged: We booked our reception site — the same Victorian home on Summit Avenue where Steve's sister and brother-in-law had had their reception some years earlier. It was definitely out of the regular order of a traditional engagement. Even though we'd been talking about marriage for a while, and even pencilled in a non-binding date at our church, Steve hadn't popped the question officially — yet — or given me a ring. (And we hadn't written any checks yet!)

It was grey and drizzly the Saturday we left that downpayment with the owner and talked vaguely about what type of food we might be offering an undecided number of guests more than a year in the future. I remember wandering around the art studios afterward in my raincoat, in a bit of a daze, thinking, We're getting married! We've put down money! It was a totally new experience to me, kind of surreal and giddy at the same time. But I also realized that I didn't want that event to be what I remembered as the beginning of our engagement. I was an old-fashioned romantic at heart, and I told Steve that day, "Just because we've done this doesn't mean I don't want you to propose to me, for real." So he did, sometime later — and he even managed to surprise me. I have very fond, romantic memories of that!

The Art Crawl is held twice a year, in spring and fall. Last October, it fell at a time when I was taking a poetry class at The Loft. (It was a struggle; poetry doesn't come easily to me.) We had an assignment to write some cinquains — short poems containing five lines, with 2, 4, 6, 8 and 2 syllables in each successive line. It was the one assignment I really loved; cinquains were fun, and I found the structure and limitations strangely freeing. (I could shed my tendency to write complete sentences, for one thing!) I must have written at least a dozen cinquains that week. The Saturday night of the Art Crawl, as Steve and I went out to dinner and then hung out in an artsy Lowertown bar, I wrote these two:

Dinner at LoTo (Looking Out at Mears Park)

Dusk falls
Lamplight glows on
Downtown park. Tattered man
Spits on sidewalk, oblivious
To us

Lowertown After the Art Crawl

Incense,
Patchouli, wine
Mothers with dyed-black hair
Stare. Trance music. Two outsiders
Listen

(The art is the St. Paul Art Crawl poster competition winner Tom McGregor's "Spring in Como Park")

i'm a sucker for the quiet, intellectual types

"Well," I said.

"Well," she said.

My mom and I don't need many words to understand each other. I could hear the raised eyebrows in her voice, the resignation mixed with a "Whatever..." feistiness that I'm sure can be traced back to our independent pioneer ancestors. It was one year ago today, and I'd called her up from my office moments after the news of the newly elected Pope Benedict XVI had made its way out of St. Peter's Square and around the world. At that time, Joseph Ratzinger was a name many of my friends and most of my family associated with hard-nosed crackdowns and excessive doctrinal demands — the bulldog of dogma, as it were. Certainly not the man I — or my mom —would have hoped to replace John Paul II.

But the man has surprised me. Over time, I have grown to like him, and I hope I meet him someday. I like him despite any disagreements I might have with the church. I like him the way I like people whose intelligence and thoughtfulness earn my respect, even if I don't agree with them. I like that he actually seems to enjoy being out from under the mantle of his old job — that he can show himself in a fuller, more human light. I like the fact that one of his closest confidants is a lay woman, his "housekeeper," Ingrid Stampa. I like his shy, intellectual manner. I like that he talks to children. I like his thick, white hair. I like that he seems to be more conciliatory than disciplinarian when dealing with diverse views in the church. I like the fact that he met with dissident Hans Küng for a friendly dinner. I like that he wrote his first encyclical about love. I like that he listens to people and responds to their questions off the cuff with simple answers that nonetheless reflect the depth of his intelligence.

I know I'm not the only one who's been surprised by the way Benedict has bloomed in his new role in the past year. I also know that he hasn't won over every American Catholic, especially those who are suspicious of the Vatican and disdainful of its pronouncements on various issues they hold dear. That doesn't change the way I feel. Sunday — Easter Sunday — was his 79th birthday. I hope he'll be around for a few more.

karate kid

The boy is kickin' up a storm now. This morning, Bach was on the classical music station when it came on just after 7 o'clock, so Steve and baby and I lay there for a while listening (and in the baby's case, partying like it was 1999). Steve put his hand on my tummy, feeling it. "Was that one?" Yup. "That one, up there?" Yup. "Now he's down there." Yup. He's everywhere now.

My weekly e-mail from BabyCenter.com:

You're 23 weeks pregnant. Feeling pretty good? Turn on the radio and sway to the music. With his sense of movement well developed now, your baby can feel you dance. Those dainty fetal movements have progressed to karate kicks. You may even be able to see your baby squirm underneath your clothing. You may notice throughout your pregnancy that some symptoms subside while others surface. These days, for example, you may find that any tension headaches you'd been getting are a thing of the past, but your feet may start to swell soon. (Time to get out your roomiest, most comfy shoes or invest in a new pair.)

Too true. And leaning down enough to put socks on or tie shoelaces is getting harder by the day. Thank God for spring sandals and Danskos. Now I just have to tackle the leg-shaving part!

threesomes

Because I need a change of pace...

The first 3 things I do when I get up are...
1. Hit the snooze alarm
2. Kiss my hubby if he's still in bed
3. Hoist myself out of bed :) and go to the bathroom

3 odd/gross foods I love are...
1. Mayonnaise on hotdogs
2. Cottage cheese with just about anything, like leftover mashed potatoes, pasta, etc.
3. Gravy with French fries

3 celebrity crushes I have are...
1. Josh Hartnett
2. Colin Firth
3. Adrian Brody

My 3 favorite songs right now are...
("Favorite" is subjective. This is based only on what I've had on the CD player or in my head lately.)
1. Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps, the version by Cake
2. A Song For You, by Gram Parsons
3. Ring of Fire, by Johnny Cash

3 things I wish I could be doing right now are...
1. Sitting at a sidewalk café with a big latté
2. Breathing in the scent of lilacs
3. Lounging in bed

3 words my husband would use to describe me are...
1. Loving
2. Persistent
3. Beautiful (though I don't necessarily use that word to describe myself!)

3 things I'm afraid of are...
1. Losing my husband
2. Losing the baby
3. Getting Alzheimer's

3 things that make me really angry are...
1. Selfish, aggressive drivers
2. Senseless rules
3. Inhumane treatment of vulnerable people

d-i-v-o-r-c-e

According to Twin Cities family law attorney Jonathan Fogel, I should be squirreling away money in a secret bank account that Steve doesn’t know about, just in case we get a divorce and I need money to hire a retainer. Huh.

Fogel is the author of a new book, Preparing for Divorce While Happily Married. I haven’t read the book — only an article about it from yesterday’s Pioneer Press. Here’s a snippet:

"Statistics show people are more likely to get a divorce than have their house burn down or get in an accident where their car is totaled — both of which people have insurance against," Fogel says. "I like to think of this book as 'divorce insurance,' in the event the unthinkable occurs."

If you wait until the divorce process has started, according to Fogel, "it is too late; you will have already lost." But if you take time to prepare for the worst, he promises, "you can save thousands of dollars in attorneys' fees as well as many years of therapy."

As unromantic as it might sound, Fogel advises taking the first step in preparing for a divorce right after you return from your honeymoon. That is the time to establish a savings account at a bank where you and your spouse have no existing accounts. Make regular deposits to this account small enough not to be noticed by your spouse.

This is your divorce fund, should you need it; retainers for divorce attorneys generally range from $5,000 to $10,000. And if you never need to use this fund, Fogel suggests splurging on a wedding anniversary trip or celebration.

OK, say we grant him his point — that divorce is common, and that even happy couples who can’t imagine splitting now may find themselves sitting in divorce court someday. And let’s also consider that women often lose out economically in divorces, and men don’t fare so well, either. (“Historically, women have been more likely to suffer greater financial losses due to divorce, but men have been more likely to lose most in the amount of time they can spend with their kids,” the article says.) Let’s even concede that it’s a good idea to prepare for worst-case scenarios. That’s why we take out life insurance, right?

Even so, I think sneaking money and keeping secrets only weakens the foundations of a marriage in the first place. I would be horrified if I ever found out Steve was doing that, and he agrees. In fact, behavior like that often leads to divorce, doesn't it? (We talked at length about this last night.) Yes, divorce happens, and it's terrible, and people do get hurt and show their worst sides. (And who knows? Maybe I'd feel different if I weren't secure in the knowledge that I do have some money that's all mine.) But I've thought long and hard about the meaning of the wedding vows we took nearly three years ago: To be true to my husband no matter how bad things get, to love him and honor him always. And I think it flies in the face of those ideas to adopt an adversarial stance in a marriage, or engage in dishonest secrecy, no matter how pragmatic it might sound. It breeds suspicion and erodes trust; it's just not healthy.

I was the one who balked almost four years ago when Steve brought up prenuptual agreements. We were at Engaged Encounter, taking a walk around a tranquil lake on the retreat grounds. Our assignment that afternoon was to talk about finances. It was a hot July day, and our discussion was just as heated. I couldn’t buy into the idea of taking sacramental vows for life with the knowledge that we also had contingency plans waiting in the wings. I was almost in tears as I argued passionately about this. I know many people do have pre-nups, and I understand that they make some couples feel more secure. I think it’s like anything else related to marriage: You find what works for you. But I couldn’t do a pre-nup. And I certainly can’t sneak money behind my husband's back.

Does that put me in a weak or vulnerable position? Does it make me naive? Maybe so. But there must be a way to acknowledge the harsh realities of our modern world and still have a partnership based on trust and faith for the future. I don't see this book as being a good guide.

Fogel, of course, says he doesn’t condone anything underhanded or dishonest. Here’s another snippet from the article:

Although the book cover shows a couple sitting next to each other in bed, each reading a copy of the paperback, Fogel doesn't recommend that.

He acknowledges the title could offend your soon-to-be ex-spouse and advises keeping the book to yourself to put yourself at advantage in a dispute.

"I don't condone underhanded tactics or dishonest behavior," he says. "That said, the first thing you will need to do after you purchase this book is find a good place to hide it."

easter prayer

Sometimes I feel so in love with Steve that it's scary. I don't mean this in a sappy way. I really mean scary. Because the more you love someone, the scarier it is to contemplating losing him (or her). There is a part of me that is always scanning the horizon for possible danger (enneagram type six?). So, every once in a while, I get hit with this anxiety that something this good and amazing - our marriage, our happiness - could so easily be taken away. That I could lose him. This is why I pray for his safety every time he goes out for a run or drives home from work on a rainy night. The cruel part is that the happier I feel with him, the harder the anxiety can hit.

And so there are little moments like these: Today, Steve and I were joking around about some silly thing we could say to our son when he's a teen-ager, and how he'll roll his eyes and think his parents are such dorks. And we were laughing about this, looking forward to it all, and suddenly this dark thought popped into my head: What if Steve weren't here? What if something happened to him and he were to miss all of these moments we dream about? My life would feel so empty without him there. There would be no laughter like this. No inside jokes, the kind that come so easily and readily to us. The rich, private world we inhabit together would dissolve into thin air. (And I can't begin to imagine what it would be like to lose our son. Not to mention if Steve lost me - or us. Those are whole other posts.) Life can be so fragile - I know that. I've seen it happen to other people, and it fills me with anguish to see the toll such a devastating loss takes on them. So this afternoon, when this thought came into my head, it nagged at me a bit, even when I tried to push it away. It made me cling to him a little more tightly.

Yet, as Steve often reminds me, life is also beautiful. He, who has experienced real loss - more than I ever have - finds such beauty in the world that it puts me in awe. I think of this morning, when he got up and discovered the chocolate-filled Easter basket I'd left for him. He was so incredibly happy and surprised! I had to sneak down to the basement during one of my middle-of-the night bathroom trips to get it and bring it upstairs. I left it on the toilet seat because I knew that would be the first place he would go when he got up. Sure enough, it was ... and he never saw it coming. Hearing his boyish expression of delight from the bathroom made me giggle under the covers, and it completely made my day.

And so, especially on this Easter Sunday, I don't want to let the dark thoughts and anxieties overwhelm me. I want to be a person of faith and optimism, someone who can live in the present and appreciate every moment we have together. I want, desperately, to be filled with trust that something so good in my life can actually keep on being good for many years to come - that the odds are in our favor. That we deserve happiness. That I deserve it. Because I've been in that place where I feel undeserving of love and happiness, and it is not good.

For Christmas this year, a friend gave Steve and me a copy of a StoryPeople print - the one that says: "Feels like some kind of ride but it's turning out just to be life going absolutely perfectly." Sometimes, when I look at it sitting propped up on our bedroom dresser, my heart swells up with tears of recognition, with this feeling that maybe it's possible. That, in fact, it's absolutely true for us right now. And I should just relish that with gratitude - and spend more time focusing on the life in front of me and less time scanning the horizon. And to trust, as my husband does, that life is beautiful.

So that, I guess, is my prayer this Easter evening.

a good friday indeed

People say to me: Oh, you're due in August? Summer is a hell of a time to be pregnant.

To which my usual reply is: That's why we're getting central air installed this month!

And today was the day. The beginning of it, anyway. A couple of guys from the heating and air conditioning company (the same one that replaced our furnace two years ago) came over this afternoon and dug up our peony bushes (blegh) and drilled a big loud hole into the side our our house, and voila! We now have a Maytag central air conditioner and outside condensation unit all ready to go. The system's not running yet, though. An electrician has to come hook it up, and then the guys will come back and turn it on. It should be done by the end of the month, though.

Ingrid spent the entire time burrowed under the covers of our bed, hiding in the least conspicuous spot she possibly could have chosen: the crooked end of the body pillow I use to help me sleep on my side. (I'm not supposed to sleep on my back anymore.) Poor kitty. It took me 20 minutes to find her after the crew left.

As I write, Steve is outside replanting the peonies in a shady spot next to the garage. I hope they'll take root - I'd been hoping the guys could put the condensation unit somewhere that wouldn't require unearthing them, but that wasn't to be. And I am doing probably the only thing that will come close to a religious observance for us today: cooking a beans and rice dish (flavored with mint), with roasted asparagus on the side, as our Good Friday meatless meal. I poached some chicken for myself to mix in because I need a lot of protein right now - and pregnant women are exempt from Lenten fasting regulations.

Baby update: I had my 22-week checkup with the OB this morning. There was sugar in my urine. So the doctor wants me to take the test for gestational diabetes in two weeks, rather than four. I hope-hope-hope that my high sugar level was from the Lindt dark chocolate truffle bar I ate yesterday and not gestational diabetes. I guess that means no Easter candy for me this weekend. (Well, maybe just a tiny bit.)

On a good note, Steve and I ran into Roxy and her mom and Baby Eva outside the elevator to the parking lot as we were leaving. What a coincidence! It was great to see them.

Happy Easter to everyone out there who celebrates it!

on holy thursday

Instead of trying to be original, I'm going to link to a couple of blogs whose writers reflect on this holy day better than I can.

A Lutheran friend of mine explains why Lutherans call it Maundy Thursday instead of Holy Thursday, which is what we Catholics call it. The term, she writes, "derived from the Latin 'mandatum,' meaning 'commandment,' because it was on this night that Jesus gave his disciples his greatest commandment: to love one another."

Liz also includes a beautiful text (indeed, a prayer) by Petr Eben that is worth reading if you want to reflect on the meaning of this first day of the triduum.

Whispers in the Loggia's Rocco Palmo describes an ancient custom of Holy Thursday night that has been passed down through the years, in which pilgrims travel from church to church to keep vigil at the repositories of the Eucharist (which is held for services on Good Friday, when there is no consecration).

And tomorrow, he writes, "Communione e Liberazione [the youth movement called Communion and Liberation] continues its annual custom of the large-scale public Way of the Cross in cities all around the world. The most prominent of these is, arguably, New York, where the procession crosses the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan and ends at Ground Zero." Having recently fought back tears as I stared into the pit that is Ground Zero, I can only imagine how powerful that moment will be.

As for me, tonight I am giving the first reading at Mass, which is from Exodus. It is God's instructions to his people in Egypt to slaughter a lamb and cover their doorposts with blood so that he will "pass over" them as he ravages the people of Egypt and kills their first-born children. In short, it is the founding of Passover, and so my thoughts go out to my Jewish friends, especially one who is converting to Judaism and celebrating Passover with special meaning this year. Since Holy Thursday is essentially about Jesus' celebration of Passover on the last night of his life, it is a good reminder that we are bound by a common tradition.

[Later]

I just have to add this. Writing about the Exodus passage has put a song in my head. I don't know what it's about, really, but it's one of the most beautiful ballads out there, and the lines running through my head are:

"Paint a different color on your front door
And tomorrow we will still be there."

It's called A Song For You, by Gram Parsons off his GP album. Emmylou Harris sings backup, hauntingly.

Now I'm off to run errands, hummingly.

raw materials

First, the room. Formerly Steve's study, it will be the baby's room. We've scraped off the yucky, purple-flowered border left up by the previous owners and taken down the olive curtains. We've bought a crib and put paint samples on the walls. We've chosen a color to try out on a full wall - a sagey-grassy one by Devine Paints called Blade that goes with a few of the fabric samples I've been collecting.



Second, the furniture. A cream-colored crib, which matches a cream-colored dresser that Steve used when he was a child. (Actually, he still uses it, so we'll need to buy a new one before we move the old one into this room.) A light-wood changing table. An antique, mahogany rocking chair that I've had for 15 years. So, a mix of woods and colors, which is fine by us. We don't need everything to match.

Third, the bedding. And here is the really fun part, the part where fantasies can start to fly.

I am enamored at the moment with this Nursery Rhyme Toile pattern from Carousel Designs, which comes with sage or blue accents. (It looks a lot like the Mother Goose design from Pine Creek Bedding.) Anyway, it has yellows, greens and blues that could be pulled out with different colored sheets, which makes it flexible. And the design is so whimsical - it sets my heart a-patter (even if the baby hardly notices it)!



I'm also into Carousel's Central Park Toile pattern (again, similar to Pine Creek Bedding's design). Especially the black-on-ecru, for some reason - and I never imagined I would gravitate toward something black for a baby's room. But I see it going with the green walls and sheets in any number of colors - like the mini-striped ones from Carousel (shown below in maize, although I like the sage). But I wonder, is toile too girly? Maybe not if it's paired with boyish colors... I heard of one woman who paired the black toile with burgundy sheets and accents for her infant son's room, and it sounded fabulous.





And then there are the bolder patterns, like those devoted to little animal creatures - the ones that might be a little more boyish. I think they're adorable, too. And I much prefer turtles and frogs to planes, trains and automobiles. (Pottery Barn Kids has some cute boy bedding along these lines, too.)


Listen to me! Six months ago, you never would have heard me rhapsodizing about baby bedding! How things change. It's so easy, and even surprisingly enjoyable, to get sucked into the whole Baby Industrial Complex, but I am wary of the capacity to evolve into a momzilla who plans her nursery as meticulously as she planned her wedding. I see those women on The Nest, obsessing over themes and chair rails and stencils and perfectly matched everything. More power to the people who love that sort of thing, and I have no doubt those nurseries are absolutely adorable, but it is just not me, or Steve, and it never will be. In fact, the problem with many of these bedding sets is that we don't really want or need many of the accent items - the pillows, the quilt, the diaper hanger - cute as they may be. And we're not sure we're going to use a crib bumper, either. So we'll have to figure out where to incorporate the patterns (drop skirt? curtains? rocking chair pad?) and where to use coordinating but simpler colors - without getting too "themey" about the whole thing.

Still, it's a lot of fun - so many options! I can't wait to see how it all comes together.

iowa homesteads

Driving through Iowa on our way to Omaha this weekend, the view out the window was mostly farms. Neat little homesteads and barns, sheltered inside a ring of trees, surrounded by rolling fields of farmland - some freshly tilled in preparation for planting, some still covered with the dead stalks of last year's corn. I'd never been in these parts before, and I was really taken by the farmhouses - most of them white, square, solid, inviting homes. I've seen farmland and homesteads in Mississippi, Oregon and the upper Midwest, but I think it was those boxy, white houses that struck me as distinctive about this particular place. I found myself wondering about the people who live in them, what life is like for them. Is it anything like the families in A Thousand Acres, the novel by Jane Smiley? (I'm afraid that's about as far as my literary exposure to Iowa extends.) Anyway, I thought it was oddly beautiful, so I snapped a few photos from the car. Nothing spectacular, but if you've never seen Iowa beyond the paintings of Grant Wood, this gives you some idea.





Here are a couple of Grant Wood paintings, just for fun!



We also saw quite a few windmills, and we wanted to know more about them. Do they generate electricity for entire towns, or collections of farms? Why are there so many in Iowa, yet none that we could see once we crossed into Minnesota?

dream :: war and perfume

A strange dream I had before I woke up this morning:

I am in a desert-like place with Steve and a few other people. We are part of some sort of army, and we have learned that we are to be attacked shortly. A white airplane flies overhead, slowly and low. It is an enemy plane; it looks kind of like a cross between a jet and an SUV, with big windows and a boxy shape. I watch it pass, and then turn around and see that dozens - maybe hundreds - more airplanes are following it. Alarmed, I hide behind a nearby wooden structure like a shack or an outhouse. But a soldier - a uniformed young man with brown hair - sees me and shoots toward the shack. He misses me.

Then there are all sorts of people around. There is an older Japanese woman, not in uniform, who shoots at me with a rifle. I take the rifle from her and shoot her, and she falls on the ground and collapses in a heap. But then she lifts her body up and pulls out another gun and points it at me. I shoot her a second time, and then a third time - and possibly Steve is helping me - until she finally dies.

By the end of the battle - and we know the fighting is only temporarily over - I am drained and traumatized. It is time to go back to the base camp and eat. Our group walks back there, and now I am aware that Susan, one of my closest friends from high school, is with me, too. As we enter the building, people look at us, and I realize they have no idea what hell we have just been through. I am crying and need to wash my face. Susan and I stop at a perfume counter on the way to the cafeteria. She starts trying on perfume, and soon I follow her lead, thinking it will get my mind off the war, or help me stop crying. I try on a scent that is deep and full-bodied and reminds me of plums or some rich-colored fruit.

Huh.

There are so many unusual and potent characters and symbols in this dream - the soldier, the Japanese woman, Susan (who has been in other dreams of mine), perfume. I keep thinking of archetypal qualities they might represent. And I can't help wondering if this dream is about my sexuality. Or womanhood. Or youth. Or motherhood. Or all of it, coming into conflict. I say this only after having Googled some of the symbols here and finding these references in an online dream dictionary:

War: To dream of a war signifies disorder and chaos in your personal affairs. You also be experiencing some internal conflict or emotional struggle. You are feeling torn between aspects of yourself. Perhaps the dream may indicate that you are being overly aggressive or you are not being assertive enough.

Airplane: To see an airplane in your dream indicates that you will overcome your obstacles and rise above to a new level of prominence and status. You may experience a higher consciousness, new-found freedom and greater awareness.

Soldier: To see a soldier in your dream signifies your staunch attitudes and how you may impose your opinions and feelings on others. Alternatively, you may be preparing yourself do battle over an issue and defend your values and opinions.

Woman: To see a woman in your dream represents nurturance, passivity, caring nature, and love. It refers to your own female aspects or may also represent your mother. Alternatively, it may indicate temptation and guilt. To see an old woman in your dream indicates aging and growing old.

Gun: To see a gun in your dream symbolizes aggression, anger, and potential danger. You may be dealing with issues of passiveness/aggressiveness and authority/dependence. Alternatively, a gun can represent the penis and male sexual drive. Thus the gun may mean power and impotence. To dream that you shoot someone with a gun denotes your aggressive feelings and hidden anger toward that particular person. To dream that someone is shooting you with a gun, suggests that you are experiencing some confrontation in your waking life. You may feel victimized in some situation.

Perfume: To dream that you are spraying or wearing perfume suggests that you are seeking for more pleasure in your life. It is symbolic of your sexuality, sensuality, and indulgence.

Plum:To see or eat a plum in your dream symbolizes youth and vitality. The plum may also represent you self-image and the way you are feeling about your body. You may be feeling a little "plump." (Uh, yeah!)

Now, I never really put too much credence in dream dictionaries because I think dreams are more complicated than just one simplistic interpretation. And this is really only the first dictionary I saw on my Google search. But you have to admit, when you take it all together like that, it smacks of these ideas ... Sexuality. Conflict. Pleasure. Anger. Fulfillment. Lack of fulfillment. Womanhood. Vitality. Motherhood. Changes. My changing needs and urges during pregnancy. How becoming a mother will affect my feelings about myself as a woman.

For God's sake, I SHOOT an old woman until she is dead. With a gun. That was a horrible-feeling scene, even though I know she would have shot me first if she could. Do I feel some hidden anger or aggression toward ... my nurturing, caring side? Do I feel threatened by that part of myself? Am I in some way freaking out about becoming a mother, worrying that it will drain my freedom and my vitality? That the role of mother will reduce me to a non-sexual caregiver? And what about Susan? What does she represent? Has she gone through this herself, as a mother? She was the one who encouraged me to try on the perfume. Is she a guide of sorts? Is she part of the answer? Because the dream seems to end with something of an answer - a good note, at least, one that lifts me up, makes me feel optimistic. It's the part where I am able to find some pleasure in something I love - something rich and indulgent and womanly and fulfilling.

(And yes, this post has been edited.)

another milestone

Stephen felt the baby kick tonight for the first time! We were sitting on the sofa together after everyone from book club had left, watching The Apprentice. The baby gave me a few kicks - harder than usual, and in the same spot each time. So I put Steve's hand on my belly, and as the kicks kept coming, he could actually feel them. He describes it as ... a "light press" on his hand ... maybe "more like a bubble." What was the coolest for me was to witness this moment for the first time and to see the look on Steve's face the first time he made a physical connection with his son.

The little guy is still kicking as I write. He was kicking all through book club, too. After not feeling him very much over the weekend, I am thrilled that he is really getting into it now.

For the record, I am 22 weeks pregnant now, about five calendar months.

remembering ramona

Did anyone hear the story on NPR Sunday afternoon about Beverly Cleary turning 90? She was the author of the Ramona books, which I read avidly as a child. I don't think I realized when I was young that she lived in Portland - just like me - and set her books there. It's pretty cool, when you think about it. I mean, I was enthralled by books set in what seemed like the most exotic places - New York (From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler), London (A Little Princess) and indeed all of England, Prince Edward Island (Anne of Green Gables), the Great Plains (Little House on the Prairie), Oz. To think that my own city was a place where wonderful children's stories could happen! Now I want to go back and reread them all. I should do that anyway - I remember loving those books, but for the life of me, I couldn't tell you why. Specific scenes and plots escape me. Besides, rereading children's books (and reading them for the first time) is so much fun.

(In case this image is copyrighted, it's the latest illustrated version of Ramona Quimby, by Tracy Dockray. If I'm not supposed to post it, someone please let me know!)

highlight of an omaha wedding

It was a lovely wedding. Really, it was.

The seven bridesmaids looked regal and statuesque in their light-pink, floor-length, strapless silk gowns, gathered and secured at the hip with a sparkly brooch. They could gone to the Oscars in those gowns.

The bride (whom we had not met until that day) was even more stunning, her face lit at every moment by a big smile, blonde ringlets framing her face.

The ceremony was a true high Mass. A gorgeous choir sang the eucharistic prayers in Latin. Mozart, Britten and Shubert were also on the program. Two priests took part, including a monsignor, and Communion was included, even though the non-Catholic groom and many in his family were unable to take it.

At our dinner table later at the country club, a huge, pink-themed flower arrangement floated, umbrella-like, three or four feet over our heads, elevated by a slim, narrow post of some kind. Other tables around us had roses submerged in big fishbowls of water.

Our dinner companions were coworkers of the groom who dished about how much money he'd spent on his bride's 2-carat engagement ring and laughed with special knowing at some of the toasts. The one nearest us, a corporate physical therapist, engaged us in interesting conversation about everything from the joys of parenthood to Stephen's bothersome Achilles tendon. He was nice, funny and delightful.

So, by all accounts, it was a perfectly lovely wedding - a day the bride and groom certainly will look back on and proclaim a success. It was big, formal, pink and expensive - not really our style, but it wasn't our day, after all. If weddings reflect the personalities of the couple entering into marriage that day, the bride and groom - she a doctor and he an engineer - surely must envision a comfortable, traditional, upstanding life ahead of them.

But soon after we'd finished eating dinner - after the tastefully worded toasts and the perfectly moist and delicious cake - I was seized by a desire that has never before overcome me at a wedding: At 8:30 p.m., I wanted nothing more than to be back in our bed-and-breakfast, out of my high-heeled shoes, tucked into the extra bed on the three-season porch attached to our room, reading a good book.

I couldn't wipe the idea from my mind long enough even to wait for the first dance, much less hit the dance floor myself. (And I love dancing at weddings.) I whispered my idea to Stephen, and he whispered back, "That does sound good. We can leave whenever you want." So we worked our way to the front of the room, where everyone we knew was seated, still waiting for the fun, unbuttoned, hair-down part of the evening to begin. We said our goodbyes and hurried out to the car.

Within 40 minutes, we were ensconced blissfully in that porch bed, the chill of the early spring night on our noses but the rest of our bodies toasty under big blankets. Stephen read some class work, and I chose a copy of Bridget Jones' Diary from the abundant selection of paperbacks on our bookshelf. We read until we were sleepy, and then we turned out the light and fell asleep, awakened by the sunlight streaming through the windows the next morning.

Driving home yesterday, we agreed: That night on the porch was the highlight of our trip to Omaha.

you can't beat free stuff

When I got home from work yesterday, there was a changing table sitting in our side yard. Steve's brother had heard that someone in his stay-at-home dad's group was giving it away, so he snagged it for us. Here's a picture - it's surrounded by a bunch of other baby stuff the guy was giving away:


It's just what we needed, and it's in nearly perfect condition. I feel so lucky - we'd been planning to buy one anyway. As it happens, that same brother and his wife have offered to loan us their Baby Trend Snap 'N Go infant car seat carrier, which will be perfect for the first few months and give us time to look for a full-fledged stroller. It takes the pressure off having to find one before the baby is born. Here's a pic:


I love that we have enough of a community among our friends and family here that these things fall into our laps occasionally! Because I've moved around so much, the sense of truly belonging to a larger community is something I've missed acutely at many times in my life. I'm grateful to have it now, at least a little.

conversations

My dear, darling little one,

I was so glad to feel you kick me just then. There may come a time when kicking your mother is the cruelest thing imaginable, but right now, it is such a sweet feeling to be reminded that you are there. I just imagine what fun you must be having right now - kicking, turning somersaults, doing tiny little karate moves, jack-knifing your little body. I wish I could remember what that was like. Enjoy it now because in a few months, those moves are going to get a lot more difficult for you.

Do you remember that long walk we took last night? It was a beautiful evening, and your daddy and I walked a good three miles around the neighborhood, down Randolph, across to St. Clair, then up and back home by way of Macalester. It was good for the first two miles, but then you started to feel really heavy, and my back started to ache like no one's business, and I was all out of breath and had to walk like an old man all the way home. Today, my muscles down there are still in such pain. But enough of that. I don't plan to be one of those mothers who complain about their ailments to their children. Besides, you are completely worth any aches and pains I may be going through right now. (And I hope your father reminds me of that when you are a teen-ager!)

Anyway, did you happen to hear us talking last night? We had a really good talk, the kind you'll be glad to know about when you're older because it means your parents love each other even in times of stress and conflict. Did our voices seem a little louder when we got to the part about the recycling? Don't worry. We worked it out. And we always will, I promise you that. As I sit here today, I vow to you that you will never have to question the strength of your parents' marriage or their love for each other - and for you, our little son.

Speaking of your daddy, that was just him on the phone. It looks like he's going to have to work late tonight and asked if I wanted to come out there and meet him for dinner. Of course I would, so let's get off the computer and go! We can talk in the car. And maybe we'll listen to the Cake CD that has that rockin' version of I Will Survive on it, too!

Love and kisses until next time,

Mommy

benedict and esther de waal

I'm working this week on an article about the Benedictine oblate program at St. John's Abbey in Collegeville, in which lay people of any denomination who want to live out the Benedictine charism and way of life can attach themselves symbolically to the monastery. It's an interesting topic to me; the spirituality of St. Benedict (who lived in the sixth century and wrote the famous Rule, which now guides Benedictine communities) has appealed to me ever since I first started reading and hearing about it, in much the same way that Celtic spirituality attracts me. It's earthy, not ethereal. There's a sense of hospitality and stability, finding the holiness in everyday things, seeing the face of Christ in others. It just feels real.

While I was reading about the oblate program, I ran across a copy of this speech given by the spiritual writer and historian Esther de Waal, who is Anglican. Her words can be weighty at times, but they always resonate with me. Here are some nuggets:

When I first picked up the Rule [of St. Benedict] one sentence leapt out at me. It was that statement in chapter 31 which discusses the role of the monastic cellarer, what we might call the business manager. Benedict tells us to handle the things of the kitchen, the pantry, the garden, with as much love, reverence and respect as the sacred vessels of the altar.

. . . It is compelling to me that Benedict always speaks in totally practical terms. He gives his teaching in the most practical and down-to-earth way possible. This is one of the reasons I can hear him and find him unthreatening. I have a built-in resistance, which I share with many others, to being presented with ethical demands and moral statements such as the declarations and pronouncements that emanate from the institutional church. However, my reaction is entirely different when profound theological teachings and spiritual insights are given in the context of real-life situations or through portraits of ordinary people. I am ready to listen, to hear and to follow. When Benedict talks to me about handling with care, about reverence and respect for material things, he does it in a way that is immediate and specific, and therefore difficult to evade.

. . . Above all, Benedictine spirituality is a shared, common, corporate spirituality. We have all these good things to share with the whole of God's family. We are partners with God in handling all these good gifts. This isn't an individualistic or isolated spirituality. It's about community life in whatever shape or form that may take. For those of us who are living outside monastic communities, we expect that form to change throughout our lives, involving overlapping circles as we are inserted into a succession of relationships, including relationships with the non-human. Benedict touches a deep and universal truth which traditional peoples know. Time and again in Celtic understanding — and you know it from Native American experience — we see that we are inserted into the whole web of creation. It's important that we stay with this.

And then there is this little passage of hers, which I have kept with me for a number of years, and which has helped ground me at times when I've felt like I'm losing my anchor:

Stability

Everyone needs to feel at home, to feel earthed. Without roots we can neither discover where we belong, nor can we grow. Without stability we cannot confront the basic questions of life. Without stability we cannot know our true selves. For we are pulled apart by so many conflicting demands, so many things deserving of our attention, that often it seems as though the center cannot hold.

Simply at the level of working out an acceptable life-style, the choices have now become quite bewildering. Shall I support Mother Teresa in Calcutta or help leprous children in Tanzania? Shall I take up liberation theology or go in for Zen? Shall I work for Save the Children or for battered wives? Shall I become a vegetarian or throw myself into the cause of solar energy? I may well end up flitting from one to the other until I have collected a ragbag for myself of well-intentioned but half-thought-out ideas based on a confused and superficial amalgam of some of the more attractive elements in each. The danger of course is that I too become confused and superficial.

Instead of this bewildering and exhausting rushing from one thing to another, stability means accepting this particular community, this place and these people, this and no other, as the way to God. The man or woman who voluntarily limits himself or herself to one building and a few acres of ground for the rest of life is saying that contentment and fulfilment do not consist in constant change, that true happiness cannot necessarily be found anywhere other than in this time and this place.

catholic identity

Whew! As our paper goes to press today, I am breathing a huge sigh of relief: A huge project is finally off my back and on the page, for better or worse. I've spent the past month or so working on a perspective-type article examining questions of Catholic identity at (Catholic) universities around the country - what it means in this day and age, how perceptions have shifted in light of JPII's Ex Corde Ecclesiae document, how identity questions are playing out at a time when secular cultural influences have become pretty commonplace in Catholic universities, how different universities have responded to resulting pressures to become more "Catholic." If you live in Minnesota, you might have heard in the news that the University of St. Thomas has been embroiled in a dispute over whether unmarried faculty and staff should be allowed to travel together and share a room on student trips. That was the springboard for the piece, but as a weekly, we aren't really the right type of newspaper to keep up with the blow-by-blow details. I wanted to take a broader look at the issue.

It was a pretty overwhelming task. My stack of notes for this story is so thick that I could have written 10 times more than the 60 column inches I did. Now that it's out of my hands, I keep thinking about what nuances I may have left out. Did I overlook an obvious angle? Did I answer all my own questions? Did I adequately represent the Catholic Studies professor's point about the importance of dialogue in maintaining a vital Catholic intellectual tradition? Would the story have been better if the College of St. Catherine's president had gotten back to me in time with her responses to my questions? Is it balanced, or is it too weighted toward conservative viewpoints? My editor has already reassured me that my article is probably "98 percent perfect," but it's the 2 percent I worry about - and it's the 2 percent that will generate letters to the editor or grumbling sources.

Well, I've got that out. So now I can stop thinking about it. Right?

A friend asked me how I feel personally about the St. Thomas situation, and I realized I have some mixed views. For the most part, I support St. Thomas' right to uphold moral policies based on its identity as a Catholic institution. But I do wonder at what point this right might go too far and intrude upon individual faculty members' right to live their private life as they wish. In a case where a professor is leading a student trip abroad, it seems clear that that is a professional role, not a private one. That professor is really on duty 24-7, so I think the university has a right to insist that the professor's sleeping arrangements model that university's value system. But as I said, where does that end? As one professor posed it to me: If someone is divorced and remarried but did not receive an annulment, that's adultery, according to the Catholic Church. Should (s)he be disallowed from leading a school trip or rooming with the new spouse? That may not happen (not at St. Thomas, anyway - I've heard about divorced faculty being an issue elsewhere). The point is, there's a big grey area.

Also, there is the fact that when many of these faculty were hired, the climate at St. Thomas may have been quite different from what it is now - more open to tolerance of diverse lifestyles without as much of a focus on Catholic morality, for example. (Though the school apparently does have a big nondiscrimination policy even now.) I have empathy for those folks who were hired with a certain set of expectations and now find the climate of their workplace changing. It's not their fault, so no wonder they feel some resistance.

It will be interesting to see how it all unfolds.

relaxing

It's a rainy Sunday afternoon. Steve is at a Timberwolves game with a friend, and I'm sitting in my favorite chair, deciding not to do much of anything today because my stretching uterus muscles ache when I get in and out of my seat or walk around too much. My sister-in-law came over with her baby earlier, and we chatted over slices of cherry pie, and it was nice to have their company.

We rented two movies last night: The Exorcism of Emily Rose and The Squid and the Whale. Let me warn you now - if you scare easily, do not rent the unrated version of Emily Rose. (Or perhaps, more accurately, do not entrust your husband to go out and rent the movie and not tell you until the next morning, "Honey, I have to tell you something. That wasn't the PG-13 version I rented.") From all the reviews I'd read, I was expecting mildly freaky, mostly courtroom drama. Instead, I almost broke Steve's arm from clutching it so hard. I did like The Squid and the Whale a lot, though, despite the complete dysfunction of the family and the utterly self-centered father. It was sad, but well-written and occasionally funny and sweet.

making space

I spent this morning immersed in memories, sorting through file folders of accumulated scraps, clips and mementoes I've collected for the past 15 years of my life in Mississippi and Minnesota. It was all taking up too much room, especially now that Steve and I have combined our spare rooms into one "study" to make room for a nursery - but also because I don't feel the need to hold onto a lot of that stuff anymore. Being pregnant has upended my priorities that way, made me want to do a little psychic spring cleaning along with the physical. To make space, maybe, for the major identity shift that is coming when I become a mother.

Anyway, it was time to lighten the file folders. In the end, I got rid of a full grocery bag's worth of paper to go in the blue bins for recycling Monday morning. I was fascinated at what I found - articles about subjects that had once been important to me, faded newspaper clippings I couldn't let go of (the clippings or the people in them?), self-help articles I'd promised to absorb later, packets of workshop information I had completely forgotten I'd saved. It was kind of like going back in time and reuniting with the young woman I used to be. As it turns out, she is much like the woman I am now, though maybe a little more idealistic and expansive and a little less pragmatic and wise. But I came out of my time travel happy in the knowledge that I'm still the same romantic, introspective, occasionally neurotic dreamer I've always been.

Among my finds ...

A goodbye card from a job at a law firm I had briefly after college, signed by all the women on the support staff - yes, all women - but none of the attorneys, even though I got along with a number of them, too. Ick. That pretty much summed up the atmosphere at the firm and turned me off to any fledgling ideas I had that I might want to go to law school. Threw it out.

A poster showing the family tree of all the kings and queens of England. My junior-year English teacher in high school had one just like it hanging from his bulletin board, and I have always meant to study it in depth sometime. Kept it.

Copies of funny, wry Dilbert cartoon strips about dating, faxed to me by a significant ex in Mississippi, who, oddly enough, never really liked to talk about our own dating relationship. Kept them.

A copy of that ex's wedding announcement in the local paper, from 2000. Kept it.

An article about Portugal from the Star Tribune travel section from the late 90s. I probably thought it would inspire me to go someday, but now it just seems to take up space. Threw it out.

An article about W.B. Yeats' Ireland from the Star Tribune travel section from the late 90s. I thought it would inspire me to visit County Sligo someday - and I actually did. Kept it.

A packet of e.e. cummings poems. Love him. Kept it.

Catalog of Walter Anderson prints from the Walter Anderson museum in Ocean Springs, Miss., on the coast. I went there alone on one of my last weekends in Mississippi before I moved here. (After Katrina, I wonder if it even exists anymore.) It was a blustery January day, and I drove a long way to get there, but the trip carried so much meaning for me. Seeing the home and museum of this artist I loved was something I had wanted to do before I left. Though I was solitary, I felt independent and alive and strong, and I had begun to come to terms with the sadness of a relationship ending. I had just turned 30, and I felt as if I was embarking on a momentous decade. Still, I threw out the catalog. I don't need it anymore.

Two photocopies of "God's Xmas Letter to All." Threw it out. It's nice for a one-time read, but I must be ruthless as I pare down my space.

Article about how to be happy. Threw it out. Must be ruthless.

Sweet love letter from Stephen, written during our Engaged Encounter weekend in July 2002. Kept it, obviously!

Folder from an enneagram workshop I attended with my coworkers shortly after I first moved here. The collage of images I cut out to reflect what inspires my soul was so lovely that it softened my resolve to be ruthless. Besides, it was full of information I found myself rereading. Kept it.

Invitation to a 2002 family reunion I wasn't able to attend. Kept it. The picture of my dad's Swiss ancestors is the only one I have. I glanced at their names to see if we might possibly be able to use one for our baby. Nope. We will not be naming our son Bede.

Brochure by Liz Claiborne on ways to tie a scarf. I don't wear scarves often - I can't stand having anything wrapped around my neck - but they look so chic and French on women who do, so who knows? Kept it. I know, not very ruthless.

Photocopied packet with a long list of "Religious Houses Around the World." Dates back to the 90s, lacks Internet addresses and, in some cases, phone numbers. Threw it out - then salvaged it from the recycling bag and filed it under Travel. It's a far-flung dream of mine to travel around the world and stay in monasteries and soak in the spirituality of the places we stay. Maybe someday the list will come in handy.

Birth announcement for my cousin Lynn's daughter, Taylor, from October 1992. I get a Christmas photo from them every year, but since they live in New Jersey, I've only met her once, around Thanksgiving of 2004. I guess she would have been 12 - and she was already taller than her mom.

Yoga book list. Threw it out. Easily available on the Web.

Brochure from Degas exhibit at Minneapolis Institute of Arts. Threw it out. I'll never read it again, and we have a poster from the exhibit in our bedroom.

Results of the Strong Campbell Interest Inventory I took in October 1989, my senior year at Columbia, when I was trying to figure out what to do with my life. Among the careers with which it said I would have been highly compatible: Photographer. Librarian. Speech pathologist. Nurse. Social science teacher. School administrator. But the highest-scoring career? Drumroll please... Reporter!