Sermon for a Honeymoon

The alarm tolls at 3:45am.  We groan our way out of bed, shuffle to the bathroom, brush our teeth, and jam deodorant, facial moisturizer, Sensodyne, and sample lotions into our see-through travel bags.  This is an ungodly hour; we prove incapable of smiling at each other even though this, this journey, this honeymoon, marks the beginning our marriage.

The cab driver is chatty.  I grimace; my husband squeezes his eyes shut and open and shut.  She is new at the job, so it takes her a few seconds to start the meter.

“Everyone’s allowed to make mistakes when they’re learning,” she tells us.

Based on her skin tone and thin accent, I start guessing in my head: Eritrean?  Somali?

“I’m from Ethiopia,” she says, and then proceeds to tell us her entire life story.  Her sister has just given birth to a baby girl.  When she delivered, the doctors inadvertently found a tumor in her brain, so this woman, our driver, has moved from Sacramento to San Francisco to care for her sister during chemotherapy and, God willing, surgery.  She hates the cold and all the people crammed onto the steep streets here.

“What brought her to California from Ethiopia?” I ask, hoping to keep her talking so I won’t have to.  I dig some sleep crust from my eye.  The city still sleeps, the hills heavy and dark, a few dim lights blinking at every horizon.

“She was escaping an arranged marriage,” she says.  “She ran away. To Oakland. Me?  My parents arranged for me to marry at 14 to a man who beat me.  I have two sons.”

My husband sits up taller.

“I’m happily divorced now,” she beams.  We exhale slowly, in unison.  We all three laugh.

“Flying home for Christmas?” she asks.

“No,” I say.  “We’re going on our honeymoon.”

On the quick flight to L.A., where we’ll catch a connection to Kauai, I feel a dull pulling between my collar bones and my stomach rumbles.  Something isn’t sitting right with me.

Yesterday we walked a mile in a steady downpour, tucked under the same umbrella, to City Lights Bookstore, where my husband perused the philosophy section and I grazed among the literary magazines, flipping through the tables of contents and making a note of all my friends and contemporaries in the writing world who have published this month.  There are many of them—in one journal, I find five: two authors I graduated with and three others I’ve invited as readers for a series I help organize back home.  When my husband meets me at the register he has Anne Carsen’s translation of Euripedes.  I have The Virginia Quarterly.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod.

“I should be writing more,” I say.  I nod again.  “I’m okay.”

Am I okay?  I’m married.  I’m a wife.  Does that make me okay?  It’s funny—I have a friend who told me it never felt weird for her to use the term “husband” once she married.  She had much more trouble, she found, hearing herself referred to as a “wife.”   I have had the same experience.  I wanted my husband.  But I’m not sure I ever wanted to be a wife.  The titles “mother” and “woman” and “author” our titles I have long coveted.  But wife?

It’s not polite to say what I’m about to say.  In our culture, we do not allow much room for grief. A blushing bride has no right to grief or worry.   But every major life change requires grieving time.  For every thing we gain as we grow, we also leave something behind.  So I’ll say the impolite thing.  Standing in the bookstore and listening to our early morning taxi driver, I found myself grieving, confronted by the conundrum of many ladies of my cohort.  I know that “wifedom” isn’t always great for women (especially women from certain cultures and of certain less traditional persuasions); it’s one way to become tied to the “particular” as Aristotle and Socrates first referred to the domestic sphere where women supposedly reign, and which they used as a rationalization for keeping women out of the universal, the vita activa or active life.  Generally, I loathe domesticity—I like to travel, I moved 12 times in my twenties, I let dishes stack up in the sink, I avoid buying clothing that requires an iron or a hangar, I balk at routine, preferring improvisation even when it means disorganization.  I do love to cook, my one concession.  Statistically, marriage improves men’s lives more than women’s.  In a recent study on longevity, researchers found that, contrary to findings in earlier studies, single women live longest, beating out the runner’s up, married men.  Single men have the shortest lives.

Alas.  There’s this little bugaboo: I fell in love with a man who tugs me toward the domestic, in a good way, and at an age where some semblance of settling down makes sense.

But on the airplane I wonder about honeymoons.  Traditionally, they mark a period of celebration before the hard stuff, the inevitable messiness of living with another person. Another friend recently told me “marriage is harder than having children.  It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever do.”  But I think she didn’t mean that living with another person is the hardest thing so much as living with one’s self in the presence of another self in another kind of life that might, even unwittingly, subjugate you.

I love my husband.  I expect our partnership to be one of the less painful variety, even at its most difficult.  I will not have to escape to Oakland.  I will be treated with respect and decency.  But for me this honeymoon is not so much a prelude to marriage with a man as it is a prelude to the greatest challenge of my life, a prelude to the Sisyphean task of living as both autonomous “woman” and committed “wife.”  And I must be able to live as both.  I must.  Motherhood and wifehood are honorable, respectable, important roles, and I want them, but I must be a citizen in the world of women and the world of wives, and this dual citizenship–a straddling–is not always so stable a stance as my feminist foremothers evangelized.

In the plane, I hold my husband’s hand as I stare out the window.  The backlit clouds hover low over the coastline, cloaking the land.  They divide earth and sky with a fat veil.  As we descend, my husband says, “I hate this part.”

“What part?” I ask.

“The part where you leave the open sky for the ground, but you’re stuck in the clouds.  That’s where the turbulence always is.”

And then we enter the clouds.  For a few moments we hang there, suspended in a thick fog that from afar looked impenetrable, but in fact holds our weight with ease.  The aircraft barely stumbles.

“I don’t mind it so much,” I tell him.

This, after all, is where I will live.


Sermon for Atonement

Aldo Mondino, Kapparot


My fiancee works at a private Jewish high school in town.  He loves it.  Many times the mixture of him (WASP) and the students (mostly Jewish and hailing anywhere from Israel to Mexico) strikes all of us as just hysterically funny.  I find myself amused in no small part because he teaches in the neighborhood I grew up in, then and now chock full of Jews.  Old hat for me, but for my fiancee everything feels new: the Shabbat service on Friday, the abundance of days off in October, the Ma’amad he’ll have to present in December.  My father, a long time fanatic of the 6-man football phenomenon in West Texas, is tickled silly that my fiancee’s school has a 6-man team.

I like when he comes home and says things like, “I love that everyday we get to eat Challah.  Holla!” and lifts the roof with his hands.  I roll my eyes, but it’s still funny.

Occasionally, though, he’ll bring home something sincere and serious, and in truth he takes the whole place sincerely and seriously, as he should.  This past Wednesday Jews all over celebrated Yom Kippur, a day of atonement.  Even I had the school day off.  My fiancee told me a story about a strange act of atonement that the school community performed together based on the custom of Kapparot.  Originally the custom required use of a live chicken, into which the sins of the individual could transfer during the ceremony.   Each person would swing the chicken three times in a circle above her head while reciting these words: “This is my exchange, my substitute, my atonement; this rooster (or hen) shall go to its death, but I shall go to a good, long life, and to peace.”  Then the rooster or hen is slaughtered and given to the hungry to feed them, thus ridding the sinner of his sins.

At my fiancee’s school, they did not use live animals, thankfully.  Instead, in a more compassionate version of the ceremony, each student wrote down his sins on a piece of paper, wrapped the paper in a dollar bill and swung the dollar bill over his head three times while reciting the requisite words.  Afterward, the rabbis took the money to the needy and burned the papers filled with the all the sins of teenagers.

“What was your sin?” I asked my fiancee.

“I didn’t write one down.  The teachers didn’t have to write one down.  Just the students,” he said.

I forgot about it after a few hours.

But yesterday morning I remembered.  I woke up and shook my fiancee awake.

“Baby.  We should write down _________ and put it in money and then give it away.”

He didn’t laugh.  We had some atoning to do toward each other.

I’m sure our version of Kapparot differed in almost every visible way from the original custom.  We used the back of a torn envelope.  Both of us wrote something down about abusing alcohol a little too often; I quickly scribbled down a few more things I never said out loud.  And won’t.  I only had a $10 dollar bill so that’s what we used.   He went first.  I recited second.  We stood on our rained-out deck, the deep green ivies dripping fat drops of water onto the brick walls, steam rising up from the humid earth beneath the wood planks below our feet, cars humming past toward the makeshift entrance to I-10 at the end of our block.

We burned our scraps of envelope with a citronella candle that never staves off mosquitoes, ever.  We watched them fizzle and curl their way way down to black and ash.  Because of the cry-your-eyes-out downpour so typical of a September in Houston, we couldn’t find anyone outside to pass on our $10 dollar bill to, even in the usual places under the freeway.  We’ll do that today.  I am under no illusion that we will improve the world in any real way because we gave a homeless guy some money, nor should we permit ourselves any self-satisfaction from this symbolic act.

But listen.  I have always been moved by the idea of atonement.  My favorite holy day of obligation in the Catholic church was and still is Ash Wednesday.  I love that mass.  I never miss it.  Let me here say something about the difference between atonement and repentance.  A Jewish colleague of mine told me her rabbi conceptualizes atonement as “at-one-ment”, a way to become whole again, to recreate the sacred unity between man and the divine, and man and his fellow man.  Certainly “at-one-ment” captures the spirit of Ash Wednesday too.  On these days–Yom Kippur and Ash Wednesday–we are not called to repent or wrack ourselves with guilt.  We acknowledge our broken and torn souls, and ask for stitches.  We do this in communion with others, because a god will use these people around us as the thread through which she passes her needle and stitch them into our skin like train tracks or road paint methodically spread down a long, lonesome highway we all must travel, the entire act like any healing both public and intensely private at once.

Frivolous and antiquated as it may seem (I kept picturing the narrow backyard of a Brooklyn brownstone, the poor fowl screeching for dear life above the din of taxis, Latin beats blared into the streets, and subway cars tumbling overhead), I like the idea of the chicken, or at least the idea that we may release our “sins” instead of bury them inside our bodies to be confessed again and again and again.  So many useless Hail Marys.  I like the idea even that atonement may require a blood-letting of sorts, that our ability to forgive ourselves and others is a matter of life and death.  I also like the final movement of Kapparot, that instinct toward generosity and giving, without which no atonement can ever come full circle.   Confession is not enough; one much actively love others and engage with the divine to repair the world.  And no matter how dirty and down low we get, we always can engage in such repair.

What an invaluable lesson for teenagers.  And for all of us.



Sermon for the First Sunday in Ordinary Time

A friend said to me recently, “I’m just dealing with the fact that I’m not a rock star.  I’m a high school teacher.”

I laughed.  I also felt a tsunami of compassion swell in my veins.  I knew exactly what my friend meant.

Let me begin by saying I have the highest respect for teachers, especially high school teachers.  My grandmother taught high school history, my mother taught high school science, and my partner teaches high school English.  These beloved people, and all other great teachers, do difficult, honorable, often thankless work.  God’s work.  It is no easy feat to steer a soul out of darkness and into light.

Still, I understood my friend perfectly.   The older I get, the more my youthful aspirations elude me.  Even five years ago, I was wide-eyed with artistic expectation.  Ten years before that I wouldn’t have believed that I wouldn’t always be one of the prettiest, one of the brightest, one of the most talented or most successful.  I didn’t think I deserved those things, necessarily, but I thought I could earn them.  Vanity may be the bane of my generation and tribe, and the crippling misdirection from purpose that society uses to seduce all pretty girls.  Vanity is certainly my Achilles’ heel.  For some people like me to say “I’m a teacher,” to a stranger at a dinner party requires a humility and strength that “I’m a novelist” does not.  In her own way my friend is facing the same realization I’m facing: I may or may not become a writer with a capital W.  I may not become famous or semi-famous or even singled out.  I might not save the world.  My metabolism will slow down.  My muscles will atrophy.  My hair will turn gray.  Many of my students will graduate and forget my name.  I might be ordinary.

As with any trial, I turn to literature.  Or rather, literature finds me like a fairy godmother or talisman. The word talisman comes from the Greek, teleo–to consecrate.  In my case, this August I received a talisman charged with sacred power from Lucille Clifton in the form of this poem:

the thirty-eighth year 

of my life,

plain as bread

round as a cake

an ordinary woman

an ordinary woman

i had expected to be

smaller than this,

more beautiful,

wiser in Afrikan ways,

more confident,

i had expected

more than this

i will be forty soon.

my mother was once forty.

my mother died at forty-four,

a woman of sad countenance

leaving behind a girl

awkward as a stork.

my mother was thick,

her hair was a jungle and

she was very wise

and beautiful

and sad.

i have dreamed dreams

for you mama

more than once.

i have wrapped me in your skin

and made you live again

more than once.

i have taken the bones you hardened

and built daughters

and they blossom and promise fruit

like afrikan trees.

i am a woman now

an ordinary woman.

in the thirty-eighth

year of my life,

surrounded by life,

a perfect picture of

blackness blessed,

i had not expected this


if it is western

if it is the final europe

in my mind,

if in the middle of my life

i am turning the final turn

into the shining dark

let me come to it whole

and holy

not afraid

not lonely

out of my mother’s life

into my own.

into my own.

i had expected more than this.

i had not expected to be

an ordinary woman.

When I first read the poem, I was in the bathtub at a hotel in Farmington, Connecticut.  I ran naked out into the room and said to my fiancee, “Here.  Read this.  This is what’s wrong with me and what I haven’t been able to articulate to you.”  That same warm night at an outdoor poetry reading, I sat next to him, a rich glass of full red wine balanced delicately on the grass between us.  The emcee chose from an entire anthology of poems to read Clifton’s “An Ordinary Woman” to the crowd.  For a split second, I believed in signs.

I also recalled a song I love by Tracy Chapman, First Try, a song she croons in an older, more wistful voice than any song about fast cars.  She sings, “Can’t run fast enough, can’t hide, I can’t fly.  Struggling with the limits of this ordinary life.”

That word again.  Ordinary.

In the Catholic Church, we have what’s called “ordinary” time.  As a child I didn’t understand what the priest meant when he welcomed us into mass on the “Third Sunday in Ordinary Time,” for example.  What was the difference, I wondered, between ordinary time and other time?  In the Roman Catholic Church there are two periods of ordinary time on the liturgical calendar.  The exact timing becomes complicated, but suffice to say that Ordinary Time exists between Christmas and the Lenten (Easter) season, and then between Easter and the next Advent Season.  The time between birth and death.

More people attend mass on Christmas and Easter; these are holy days of obligation and Catholics love them some obligation.  As I get older, I do the opposite: some years I attend Christmas mass, and rarely attend Easter mass.  I show up tempus per annum, the latin phrase for “times of the year”, translated in English as “ordinary time.”   I need lifting when I feel most lowly and alone, most human.

Perhaps that makes sense.  The Catholic writer Henri Nouwen said, “I realized that healing begins with our taking our pain out of its diabolic isolation and seeing that whatever we suffer, we suffer it in communion with all of humanity, and yes all of creation.”  We can display vanity in our suffering too. We must learn ordinariness.  We have to be common to find communion.

In ordinary time we will arrive at the most holy of our life’s work.  In ordinary time we will be asked to recognize the everyday-miraculous: sunrise, schoolroom, sentence, spoon, soap, sleep.  It is not the high drama of midnight mass with its trumpets and Halleluia’s, nor is it the dusky hours of an Easter vigil.  But it may be the time between birth and death–ordinary time–when life demands from us the most humbling and extraordinary task of coming out of our mother’s lives and into our own.



Newfoundland Sermon 1: Midrash with Whales

My family spends summers in Newfoundland, Canada.  If you’ve ever traveled to Newfoundland, you know its natural beauty and the oddness and kindness of its people, but you also know there isn’t much to do there.  When I say my family spends summers there, I really mean that my family communes with whales.   Everyday we travel the 5.2 km from our house to Cape Bonavista—by foot or car—and wait for a puff of breath from some majestic creature feeding on the North Atlantic’s bounty.  We gasp each time one graces us with her presence, every single time.  My partner describes it this way, “You think you know what whale watching is—some tourist activity people do once in their life and think, ‘Cool.’—and then you see the Fleming family whale watch.  Whole different beast.”  It’s true.  We’re like whale connoisseurs; sometimes we visit the cape two, three, four times a day to avoid ever going what my dad calls, “0 for whales.”  Ben has even perfected a whale call-song, which sounds suspiciously like Ellen Degeneres’ Dory from Finding Nemo.

The last whale I saw this year gave my father and I quite a show, slapping his fluke on the water’s surface, spinning his speckled body around so that the fluorescent green algae swirled, and flashing the underside of his white tailfin.  We watched him for a long time, during which I felt my heart race and then calm, race and then calm.

As we watched, I was thinking: I am so often afraid. 

I was thinking: remember in May, Casey, how you had an anxiety attack in Whole Foods.  Swear to Christ.  It started in front of the Honeycrisp apples, reached its apex in the prepared food section, and subsided in the parking lot where I only started to cry once inside the warm cocoon of my car.  I never had an anxiety attack before that, not a real, physical one, and I suspect it had to do with turning 35, which for whatever reason has really thrown me for a few loops.  It scared me. My body went numb, my ears clogged, like being under water except louder.  I almost lay down and curled into a fetal position next to the organic steel-cut oats. 

 Fear and anxiety seem to be a lodestone for modern people.  But they aren’t new.  And certainly I had no real reason to feel afraid in Whole Foods: I mean, talk about a bougie crisis.  Still, the anxiety wasn’t fun.

 What do we do when we’re afraid?  We go to the cliffs and oceans.  We roam the deserts or trek up mountains.  We watch for whales.

 For example, my grandmother requested her deathbed in the sunlight.  Or, after my first, failed engagement, I sought out the ocean day after day, driving to Galveston even when I should have been teaching or writing.  Or, not long before my grandmother’s death, my family gathered in Provincetown, MA where we also watched whales (well, they watched, I puked over the side of the boat).  And after my grandmother’s death, my father, mother, brother and I traveled to the mother country.  In Ireland, we visited the Cliffs of Moher. Ben and I crawled to the edge and peeked our heads over to see the sea 390 feet below us. Even the photograph of this event—our bodies tiny specks against nature’s majesty—induces in me a severe vertigo.  My mother can’t look at the photo. What in the world, she says now, what was I thinking letting my children do something so dangerous?

But something in us seeks out the sublimity of nature in the face of grief, uncertainty, and fear. Alain deBotton writes in his superb essay, “On the Sublime”, that he traveled to the desert of Sinai, “to be made to feel small.”  He brings as his guides the writings of Edmund Burke and the Book of Job.  But I’ll get back to Job.

 Let me start here.  The Gospel of Mark has two different endings—a shorter ending and a longer ending.  The King James Bible includes both endings.  Ancient Greek authorities bring the book to a close at 16:8.  Others include verses 9-20, but mark them as doubtful—the second ending mixes motifs from other gospels, and most likely a later theologian or scholar with some kind of agenda added those last lines in after the fact, a benign or malignant agenda, I cannot say.  The shorter version ends this way:

So they went out and

fled from the tomb, for terror and amaze-

ment had seized them; and they said

nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. 

I like this version.  I like that the story of Jesus’ resurrection ends with the word, afraid.  I like that the “they” in the story refers to three women: Mary Magdalene, Mary mother of James, and Salome, who arrived at the empty tomb first.  To women first, God revealed his foremost miracle.

They were afraid.

But I don’t think the author of Mark uses the word afraid in the way we typically define the word, and to prove my theory I’m going to refer to the Hebrew Bible and engage in a modified form of Jewish study called midrash, a method by which one may take seemingly unrelated sentences in the Bible and compare them to find deeper meaning.

I’m going to go back to Israel’s wisdom literature, specifically Proverbs and the Book of Job.  (Who is afraid if not Job?)

Proverbs begins with this sentence, “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of knowledge; fools despise wisdom and instruction.”  One could misinterpret this line as a warning against education or secularism, but that would be careless.  The theologian, Marcus J. Borg offers us a better reading of that line.  He says:

 The phrase “fear of the LORD” does not mean “fright”, as one might be frightened of a tyrannical ruler or parent.  Rather, it refers to awe, wonder, and reverence…

If we apply Borg’s definition of “fright” to the last line of the Gospel of Mark, we might read the women’s reaction to Jesus’ empty tomb not as fear so much as a feeling of smallness; like all of us they shuddered a bit to feel their own frailty in the face of the unexplainable.  But Mark states that the women felt both terror and amazement. Inside that final word, afraid, might actually live the cure to fear and anxiety.   The “bigness” of a resurrection, or any witnessed miracle, might relieve us from the error of thinking we have total control over our lives. This strikes me as an important realization for the religious and non-religious alike, a realization that de Botton affirms in “On the Sublime” by explaining that fear make us feel insignificant in a way that shuts us down, while awe makes us feel insignificant in a way that opens us up.

And when Job finally asks God that painful and universal question, “Where were you while I suffered?” God replies by pointing to the sublime, those mysterious creations that beguile us: the stars, the clouds, the desert, the plumage of the ostrich, the wild mane of the horse, the mountains and rivers, and yes, the Leviathan, which some scholars interpret as the “great whale.”

 Anyone in my immediate family will tell you that the first emotion you experience upon spotting a humpback whale 50 yards from the cliffs’ edge or 50 yards from your one-man kayak resembles fear—the enormity of the animal and the shock of its presence stuns you; you want to step or paddle quickly backwards—but if you sit with that feeling, moving outside yourself as you observe the other, bigger creature simply live its life, that first feeling swells in your chest, spreads and diffuses until your blood slows and endorphins rush.  You won’t feel fear at all, but awe and amazement.  You will think you witnessed a miracle.  You will feel small, and you will receive that smallness as a consolation, a momentary remedy to the rows and rows of canned goods and beauty products and baby food and the rainbow array of Tom’s shoes hanging accusingly from their hooks with all their implied restrictions and responsibilities.


Sermon in which I Ordain Myself

Because some things require a pulpit.  

Because some things scream, say me.  Teach me.   I have something to say.  I have something to teach you.  Yes, little ol’ me.  Yes, you.  There in the front row.  Upright and early.  And you in the back row too.  Reluctant and late.  Especially you folks sheltered snugly in the middle rows—noncommittal, passive doubters, the whole lot of you.  Thinking you’ll slip by on the sly.  For a long time I hid too.

Because I want my words to sniff you out.

Because I want my words to redirect their paths like tiny Doppler radars toward your heartstorms.

Because I want a pulpit.  (I say that as though it is an easy thing for a woman to say.)

Because I want a flock: with wings not wool.  

Because every good woman has a story.  She understands her story as part of a community story.  Her story is intimate, private, and also shared.  Her story is a small circle inside rings of concentric circles: family, neighborhood, city, state, nation, world, out and out like that into the universal.  A story needs a beginning, but not necessarily an end.  The beginning of my story will always be: I loved my grandmother.

Because I loved my grandmother.  When my younger brother and I stayed with her in the house in Richardson, Texas, we looked forward most to the off-white bedspreads on our matching twin sleepers in the small room that faced the front yard.  During the day we built mansions out of playing cards and watched them crumble onto the lush carpet in the den.  Or we counted the beads inside a smoky red blown-glass bowl on the side table and touched every pretty thing twice.  Because she let us. She never stooped so low as to speak a don’t touch that or be careful.  Somehow we intuited that in her eyes we reigned as Most Precious Objects in the house. 

At night, we knelt at one twin bed, the three of us—me, Ben, Grandma—in a semi-pious line, our elbows atop the mattress. 

“Which do you want to say?” Grandma asked me.  “The Lord’s Prayer or the Hail Mary?”

The Hail Mary was shorter, but more obscure, and I wanted to please her. 

We’d get part way through, Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, and then–

A stifled laugh, a squirm fest, her unruffled voice. 

“Ben, say the words with us.”

Ben never knew the words.  To this day, I’m not sure why.  He could handle The Lord’s Prayer, although for a long time he misheard hallowed for Harold, as in “Harold be thy name.”  I still like to imagine God as such an everyman: Harold.  

When I ask him about the Hail Mary now, in our thirties, he says, “I don’t know.  It’s weird stuff, really, to make children say.  Fruit of thy womb?   All that tortured syntax.”

I liked the Hail Mary.  I liked the line he always forgot, blessed art thou amongst women.  Perhaps at that age I needed to believe the world might single me out from my kind: more beautiful, more talented, more sacred

My grandmother died of ovarian cancer the year before I began confirmation classes at St. Thomas More Catholic Church.  My reverence for that process betrayed less about my faith in God than my nostalgia for her voice in my little ear, “Which prayer do you want to say?”  Mr. Nelson, my confirmation teacher, wrote me a note that I kept for many years afterward.  It read:

I have this idea that some people have the Holy Spirit in them only after confirmation, and some have the Holy Spirit in them always.  You, Casey, are of the latter type.

Because if I have anything resembling the Holy Spirit in me, it will reveal itself as the breath of women past moving through my lungs, down the long hallway of my throat toward the light, their exhalations a mist that loosens the corners of my rust-red lips.

Because I hear voices.

Because I have a voice.

Because vocation means a “summons” or “spiritual calling,” from the Latin vocationem (nom. vocatio), “a calling,” from vocatus “called,” pp. of vocare “to call.”

Sing to me of the girl, Grandma, the girl of twists and turns.

Because a man I loved once complained that he felt I was lecturing him when really I wanted to talk out some big ideas.

Because if I’m going to be perceived as lecturing, I might as well have a pulpit, a little authority.

Because my grandmother’s memory authorizes me.

Because the word author lives inside the word author-ity the way I live inside my memory of her.  The way I wear her cool blue beads on my hot chest or push my nail beds into the soft bristles of her silver brush.

Because I respect form.  Because I need a new form, something novel that is not a novel.

Because things change.

Because some things never change.

Because she raised me Catholic, and even now I tend to respect authority when it implies a learned-ness, when that authority has been rightly earned and rightly employed.  I don’t want Joe-Schmoe down the street interpreting anything for me, especially any bible.

Because many Joe Schmoes preach.  Because many people abuse the church-pulpit, the chalkboard-pulpit, the page-pulpit too.

Because I have no idea what I’m doing (which is still such an easy thing for a woman to say).

Because I row out and out to drift on the fickle waters of the blank page and I wait and wait for the words to spawn and swim up so I may offer something of myself to the people I love. 

Because I am like a fisherman or sea-shepherd.  I am trawling for words; I am corralling them, I am searching for her.

Because my story is our story.   

Because we do not know when we are young that the body is an archive. That after years of amnesia, the body, without warning, will kneel down.  The body will remember and repeat its earliest prayers, and that those fledgling prayers do not change much over time, but only reach higher and higher toward heaven from their stubborn roots.

Blessed art thou amongst women.