So, Target has come to our neighbourhood--and I don't even live in the 'burbs! I won't pretend I'm in two minds about it: I'm not. I think that a superstore within walking distance that carries cheap sponges, kitty litter, and other household items is something like a godsend. As much as possible, we avoid driving, so not having to cross a non-bikeable bridge and get on a highway to get to Target makes me smile. And I don't have any qualms about my non-local, superstore purchased sponges. Or kitty litter.
What I do have several qualms about, however, is Target's section of clothing "targeting" little girls. Here's some of their latest stock:
[Unfortunately, a computer virus erased the photos that I'd taken for this post before I got a chance to upload it. Imagine lots of ruffly black mesh, super-short skirts, and tops that barely meet skirt's waistline, and you're on the right track...]
The last picture is of a child who, as I was taking pictures of the clothing in question, began exclaiming about how "keeeeyute!!!" the clothing was. Unfortunately, since I was the only customer in earshot when the young lady began gushing about the clothing, I suspect that my own interest in it may have sparked hers. No doubt if a hip young woman such as myself deemed them to be photo-worthy, she had better take note. ;) Now, you may not be the prude I am: I would dress my daughters in potato-sack jumpers till they were twenty if I could! Perhaps you don't have a problem with microminis for tots ("But they have leggings!"), or suggestive black ruffly skirts, or lounge-singer sequined tops, or leopard print everything. Target certainly isn't the worst of it (apparently Abercrombie and Fitch has a padded bikini top for seven-year-olds?), but since I avoid malls like the plague, it's my only exposure. And every time I walk by this section, I'm shocked. Really? I wonder. Can this really be how parents are choosing to dress their six- to twelve-year-olds? And then, just out of curiosity, I went to the toddler section. Where I found this:
[Once again, no photo thanks to the virus that attacked my computer. Picture a teeny-tiny black mesh "skirt"--and I use the word loosely.]
Size 3T. My (little) four-year-old and (big) two-year-old wear this size. But they sure won't be wearing this...thing. And I'll nix the padded bikini tops while I'm at it. Even if they beg, even if they plead, and yes, even if all the girls they know are dressing this way. (Fortunately, at this point, I have friends who share similar values about clothing and a similar distaste for the sexualization of little girls, and my girls are young enough that their friends are the children of my friends. I know that in a few years, I'll likely not be so lucky.)
Even if you don't think the Target clothing is as atrocious as I do, still you must admit that many of the current trends in girl's fashion sexualizes little girls. Now maybe I'm being naive, but I highly doubt that little girls want to dress "sexy" to please boys. Certainly, it has something to do with their female peers. But the fact that many mothers endorse or at least allow it is also telling. Here's the question: Why on earth would any mother sanction and even support such a thing?
My theory is that it all has to do with vicarious living. It's hard to argue that many mothers don't, to a certain extent, live vicariously through their children, especially their daughters. Think of the character played by Tea Leoni in the movie Spanglish. A fitness buff herself, she practically forces her daughter to lose weight by buying her new clothes that are two sizes too small! Unfortunately, we mothers frequently do similar things to our children (albeit often tamer versions) in just about every area of life: spiritual life, educational life, social life, food, fitness and fashion, and the list goes on. (And of course it's problematic in every arena, but lets stick to clothing here.) I suspect that mothers who allow their daughters to don "sexy" clothing are falling prey to the allure of seeing their flesh and blood look so damn hot!
Think about it for a minute. Supermodels and prepubescent girls often have one thing in common: they are skin and bones. Clothes made for supermodels look "good" on young girls who have no breasts, no belly and no booty. Grown women usually have all of the above in varying degrees and therefore look varying degrees of ridiculous in clothing made for supermodels... But their daughters don't. And so they let them dress this way--maybe even encourage them to. But it's not right. It amounts to pimping your own daughter to buy yourself an ego fix.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Through Childbearing...
I'm fairly certain that I'm treading out onto thin ice by beginning my postpartum post with 1 Timothy 2:15: "For she [i.e., woman] will be saved through childbearing--if they continue in faith and love and holiness, with self-control." After all, this verse has given some ammunition to those who accuse the church in general, and St. Paul in particular, of "reducing" women to the status of baby-makers or even mere incubators! Together with the veneration of Mary for her role as Theotokos (God-bearer), the biblical link between a woman's salvation and her role as birth-giver has been infuriating women for decades certainly, and possibly for centuries. Even aside from the difficulties a feminist might have with this verse, there's the obvious Protestant objection that such a verse might lead women to believe they can be saved by the work of bearing children. So I ask you to bear with me, in faith that I'm not a misogynist or a neo-Pelagian, just a Christian mama trying to make sense of scripture in the light of tradition, and my own experience giving birth.
Without actually knowing the tradition of this verse's interpretation, I'm going to guess that some have tried to explain its hardness away by claiming that the salvific childbearing in question is Mary's, and that Paul is doing nothing more than pointing to Christ as the saviour in a slightly convoluted way. I don't buy it. Certainly, Paul could be deliberately contextualizing all birth-giving within Mary's archetypal God-bearing, but he is certainly also referring to the childbearing of particular women and its role in their own salvation. After all, Paul makes his claim that "she will be saved by childbearing" in the midst of more general (and arguably inflammatory) instructions to women about how they should dress (modestly) and how they should relate to men (submissively).
The issues of women's clothing and female authority are large ones in and of themselves, so I'm going to bracket them for now. Rather than looking at the restrictions that Paul would place on women's dress and behaviour (the paths of ostentatiousness and power-seeking that we should avoid), I'd like to keep the focus on his more positive claim about childbirth (the path wherein we, as mothers, should walk.) What then does it mean for the Christian mother to be saved by childbearing?
In thinking about this, I can't help but recall my own experiences giving birth to Katherine and Naomi, as well as my week-old experience of birthing my son Isaiah. Each of these has had for me, hidden within it, a kind of precept or truth about the spiritual life. With Katie, it was the miracle of God's power to preserve human life. During the 42 hours I laboured with her, the thought occurred to me over and over: "I am going to die." Or, more urgently as I approached the end "I am dying!" And always the anxiety that my baby would die too and it would all be for nothing. But throughout, God held us both and did not take us back to Himself, keeping us here in the world with the people who love us and (for now) need us.
With Naomi, it was the miracle of the Resurrection. Whereas Katie's labour had been a mere brush with death, in birthing Naomi I did die. Not physically--my heart never stopped. But on a deeper level, on the plane where time is meaningless (as it is in labour), where the space between heartbeats contains an eternity of little moments. On that level, the "I" stopped being. I can remember the midwife saying "We've got a cord! DON'T PUSH!" once I had birthed Naomi's head. I remember struggling against my body's urge to push, trying to hold the baby within myself and the feeling of being rent in two. And then a terrifying nothingness, stretching into eternity. And then God brought me back to life with the cry of my little one. What was that moment of nothingness? I've since watched the recorded video of the birth, and discovered the strangest thing. I was not, as I had supposed, unconscious during this moment. Rather, I am speaking. Whispering, actually. And the words on my lips: "Jesus, save me."
With Naomi I also learned a little bit about synergy--the cooperation of God and man (or, in this case, woman). Whereas with Katie, I never felt an urge to push (I pushed only because I had reached full dilation and hospital staff told me to), with Naomi my body more or less ejected the baby and all I had to do was cooperate with it. I learned that I am, indeed, "fearfully and wonderfully made," and that rather than fighting each contraction and experiencing horrible pain, I could "cooperate" with each contraction, assent to it almost, thereby experiencing minimal pain and progressing so much more quickly than I had with Katie. The spiritual life is no different: try to do it all on your own steam and you have a whole lot of toil with little or no progress. But step out of the way, make your sole goal that of the Baptist's (i.e., to "decrease"), and God will complete the good work begun in you.
And what have I learned from Isaiah? It is still rather early to know, but God certainly further deepened my understanding of synergy. If I died involuntarily with Naomi, I gave myself over to God in birthing Isaiah. And yet, paradoxically, I worked so much harder! I'd figured that my third baby would be easier than my second, as my second was easier than my first. But not only was he posterior for much of the labour (thank God, he finally turned!), he was a hearty 9lbs, with a 14-inch head, and the little guy tried to come out sucking his thumb! All of this made for a really intense pushing stage. I'm told that veins popped out in my neck and forehead, and I certainly have the petechiae to prove it!
But I have a secret. That last push, the one that got him out? I didn't do it. At that moment, I was too busy giving my body over to God, to do with it what He would. Several times during pushing I cried out in terror, "God, HELP ME!" not because I was afraid of dying this time, but because the pain was nearly unbearable. And it was with my doula's words in my ear "God is helping you push this baby out," and finally with the complete relinquishing of my body to God that Isaiah finally came into the world.
So am I being saved through childbearing? If so, it is not because of what I am doing in birthing the children that God has given me, but because of what He is able to teach me in this most holy work. And lest I think the work is now done, there is the rest of the verse to contend with: "...if they continue in faith and love and holiness, with self-control." May God give me the grace and self-control I need to bring up my children in faith and love and holiness.
Without actually knowing the tradition of this verse's interpretation, I'm going to guess that some have tried to explain its hardness away by claiming that the salvific childbearing in question is Mary's, and that Paul is doing nothing more than pointing to Christ as the saviour in a slightly convoluted way. I don't buy it. Certainly, Paul could be deliberately contextualizing all birth-giving within Mary's archetypal God-bearing, but he is certainly also referring to the childbearing of particular women and its role in their own salvation. After all, Paul makes his claim that "she will be saved by childbearing" in the midst of more general (and arguably inflammatory) instructions to women about how they should dress (modestly) and how they should relate to men (submissively).
The issues of women's clothing and female authority are large ones in and of themselves, so I'm going to bracket them for now. Rather than looking at the restrictions that Paul would place on women's dress and behaviour (the paths of ostentatiousness and power-seeking that we should avoid), I'd like to keep the focus on his more positive claim about childbirth (the path wherein we, as mothers, should walk.) What then does it mean for the Christian mother to be saved by childbearing?
In thinking about this, I can't help but recall my own experiences giving birth to Katherine and Naomi, as well as my week-old experience of birthing my son Isaiah. Each of these has had for me, hidden within it, a kind of precept or truth about the spiritual life. With Katie, it was the miracle of God's power to preserve human life. During the 42 hours I laboured with her, the thought occurred to me over and over: "I am going to die." Or, more urgently as I approached the end "I am dying!" And always the anxiety that my baby would die too and it would all be for nothing. But throughout, God held us both and did not take us back to Himself, keeping us here in the world with the people who love us and (for now) need us.
With Naomi, it was the miracle of the Resurrection. Whereas Katie's labour had been a mere brush with death, in birthing Naomi I did die. Not physically--my heart never stopped. But on a deeper level, on the plane where time is meaningless (as it is in labour), where the space between heartbeats contains an eternity of little moments. On that level, the "I" stopped being. I can remember the midwife saying "We've got a cord! DON'T PUSH!" once I had birthed Naomi's head. I remember struggling against my body's urge to push, trying to hold the baby within myself and the feeling of being rent in two. And then a terrifying nothingness, stretching into eternity. And then God brought me back to life with the cry of my little one. What was that moment of nothingness? I've since watched the recorded video of the birth, and discovered the strangest thing. I was not, as I had supposed, unconscious during this moment. Rather, I am speaking. Whispering, actually. And the words on my lips: "Jesus, save me."
With Naomi I also learned a little bit about synergy--the cooperation of God and man (or, in this case, woman). Whereas with Katie, I never felt an urge to push (I pushed only because I had reached full dilation and hospital staff told me to), with Naomi my body more or less ejected the baby and all I had to do was cooperate with it. I learned that I am, indeed, "fearfully and wonderfully made," and that rather than fighting each contraction and experiencing horrible pain, I could "cooperate" with each contraction, assent to it almost, thereby experiencing minimal pain and progressing so much more quickly than I had with Katie. The spiritual life is no different: try to do it all on your own steam and you have a whole lot of toil with little or no progress. But step out of the way, make your sole goal that of the Baptist's (i.e., to "decrease"), and God will complete the good work begun in you.
And what have I learned from Isaiah? It is still rather early to know, but God certainly further deepened my understanding of synergy. If I died involuntarily with Naomi, I gave myself over to God in birthing Isaiah. And yet, paradoxically, I worked so much harder! I'd figured that my third baby would be easier than my second, as my second was easier than my first. But not only was he posterior for much of the labour (thank God, he finally turned!), he was a hearty 9lbs, with a 14-inch head, and the little guy tried to come out sucking his thumb! All of this made for a really intense pushing stage. I'm told that veins popped out in my neck and forehead, and I certainly have the petechiae to prove it!
But I have a secret. That last push, the one that got him out? I didn't do it. At that moment, I was too busy giving my body over to God, to do with it what He would. Several times during pushing I cried out in terror, "God, HELP ME!" not because I was afraid of dying this time, but because the pain was nearly unbearable. And it was with my doula's words in my ear "God is helping you push this baby out," and finally with the complete relinquishing of my body to God that Isaiah finally came into the world.
So am I being saved through childbearing? If so, it is not because of what I am doing in birthing the children that God has given me, but because of what He is able to teach me in this most holy work. And lest I think the work is now done, there is the rest of the verse to contend with: "...if they continue in faith and love and holiness, with self-control." May God give me the grace and self-control I need to bring up my children in faith and love and holiness.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Preparing to Prepare... First Steps on the Lenten Journey
So one of the things that I love about Orthodoxy is its approach to the Lenten period--that time in which we prepare ourselves to receive our Resurrected Lord. Even in the midst of our speedy, "jump-right-in" culture, the Church, in her wisdom, has us prepare to prepare. In this, she seems particularly attuned to the psychology of celebration, recognizing that before we can make ready for the Feast, we must make ready to make ready--the spiritual equivalent of scrubbing and prepping the vegetables, perhaps!
And we do so, with those Sundays leading up to Lent, the ones which may elicit an inward groan from those of us who have become familiar with the Liturgical rhythm: "What? Zacchaeus Sunday already," we whine, "But we just had the Nativity Fast!" And Lent does seem to come all too soon after Nativity, announcing itself five Sundays before its actual beginning with the Gospel reading about the little man who wanted to see Jesus so desperately that he was willing to humble himself to the point of climbing a tree like a little child. Next, we have the Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee, that parable warning us against being "convinced of [our] own righteousness," and thereby "despising all others" (Luke 18:9). Then comes the well-known Prodigal Son, which we might do well to think of also as the Sunday of the Loving Father. And now, the Sunday of the Last Judgment which, of course, can only be understood within the context of the three previous Sunday readings, as well as the Paschal Mystery to which our Lenten journey points. That is to say, it is not so much an answer to the question "What's going to happen when I die?" as it is an injunction to love the "least of these"--the little people, the despised, even those who reject our love--with the same love that Christ shows for the Church. As such, it paves the way well for the next and final Sunday of pre-Lenten preparation, that of Forgiveness Sunday, in which each member of the entire body of believers asks forgiveness of every other member.
This year, I have a renewed appreciation for all of this preparation. Rather than dreading the self-deprivation it announces, or rolling my eyes at its predictability, I am relishing the chance to get ready to get ready. Perhaps becoming a mother taught me something. (Here, I am thinking particularly of the folic acid I began taking just before my wedding night, in lieu of birth control, to pacify what I considered an excessively anxious doctor. Little did I know that essential nutrient would go to work the very next month, to build the healthy person we have come to know and love as Katherine!) Maybe being a mother has taught me something, with its endless preparatory tasks: preparing meals, packing snacks and extra underpants, packing for trips, dressing children for church, cleaning for parties, cleaning for houseguests... and the list goes on.
This year especially, the importance of preparation hits me with particular poignancy, as I begin to take stock of what we have in store for the upcoming birth of our baby: birth pool (check), hose (too short), bulb syringe (check--I think... should check that drawer), extra sheets (check), rubber sheet (check--though likely unnecessary as my water doesn't usually break till the end anyhow), oxytocin (must ask doctor for a script!), birth ball (check), holy water (check), incense (check)... and again the list goes on. And how does one begin to prepare for that taste of death that we encounter with the birth of a child. (If you have the answer to this one, please tell me: I'm literally dying to know!)
The moment that stands out to me from Naomi's birth is none other than that last second when I was convinced we were both dead, as my midwife's anxious voice, "DON'T PUSH: We've got a cord!!!" broke through what had up till that point been a fairly peaceful labour. In that second, I vividly remember calling out to Jesus "SAVE ME!" with the kind of fervour that only true desperation (or perhaps a few months on Mount Athos) can summon. And He did. And she cried. And I laughed. And all was well, and all manner of thing was well.
In these last five weeks of pregnancy, and the upcoming six weeks of Lent, I have no choice but to allow myself to become consumed with preparation for what is to come. There's the icon festival at our church, the first Saturday and Sunday of Lent (and I still have two icons to complete for it, God willing!) There are Lenten altar cloths to be sewn for a priest friend (eight down, four to go--that church must have a ton of liturgical-type tables!) There's the inevitable nesting that should kick in any day now (though I'm determined to limit the floor-washing to once a week!) And again, the list goes on.
And my prayer is that, in the midst of all this preparation, Pascha itself is not entirely lost...
And we do so, with those Sundays leading up to Lent, the ones which may elicit an inward groan from those of us who have become familiar with the Liturgical rhythm: "What? Zacchaeus Sunday already," we whine, "But we just had the Nativity Fast!" And Lent does seem to come all too soon after Nativity, announcing itself five Sundays before its actual beginning with the Gospel reading about the little man who wanted to see Jesus so desperately that he was willing to humble himself to the point of climbing a tree like a little child. Next, we have the Sunday of the Publican and the Pharisee, that parable warning us against being "convinced of [our] own righteousness," and thereby "despising all others" (Luke 18:9). Then comes the well-known Prodigal Son, which we might do well to think of also as the Sunday of the Loving Father. And now, the Sunday of the Last Judgment which, of course, can only be understood within the context of the three previous Sunday readings, as well as the Paschal Mystery to which our Lenten journey points. That is to say, it is not so much an answer to the question "What's going to happen when I die?" as it is an injunction to love the "least of these"--the little people, the despised, even those who reject our love--with the same love that Christ shows for the Church. As such, it paves the way well for the next and final Sunday of pre-Lenten preparation, that of Forgiveness Sunday, in which each member of the entire body of believers asks forgiveness of every other member.
This year, I have a renewed appreciation for all of this preparation. Rather than dreading the self-deprivation it announces, or rolling my eyes at its predictability, I am relishing the chance to get ready to get ready. Perhaps becoming a mother taught me something. (Here, I am thinking particularly of the folic acid I began taking just before my wedding night, in lieu of birth control, to pacify what I considered an excessively anxious doctor. Little did I know that essential nutrient would go to work the very next month, to build the healthy person we have come to know and love as Katherine!) Maybe being a mother has taught me something, with its endless preparatory tasks: preparing meals, packing snacks and extra underpants, packing for trips, dressing children for church, cleaning for parties, cleaning for houseguests... and the list goes on.
This year especially, the importance of preparation hits me with particular poignancy, as I begin to take stock of what we have in store for the upcoming birth of our baby: birth pool (check), hose (too short), bulb syringe (check--I think... should check that drawer), extra sheets (check), rubber sheet (check--though likely unnecessary as my water doesn't usually break till the end anyhow), oxytocin (must ask doctor for a script!), birth ball (check), holy water (check), incense (check)... and again the list goes on. And how does one begin to prepare for that taste of death that we encounter with the birth of a child. (If you have the answer to this one, please tell me: I'm literally dying to know!)
The moment that stands out to me from Naomi's birth is none other than that last second when I was convinced we were both dead, as my midwife's anxious voice, "DON'T PUSH: We've got a cord!!!" broke through what had up till that point been a fairly peaceful labour. In that second, I vividly remember calling out to Jesus "SAVE ME!" with the kind of fervour that only true desperation (or perhaps a few months on Mount Athos) can summon. And He did. And she cried. And I laughed. And all was well, and all manner of thing was well.
In these last five weeks of pregnancy, and the upcoming six weeks of Lent, I have no choice but to allow myself to become consumed with preparation for what is to come. There's the icon festival at our church, the first Saturday and Sunday of Lent (and I still have two icons to complete for it, God willing!) There are Lenten altar cloths to be sewn for a priest friend (eight down, four to go--that church must have a ton of liturgical-type tables!) There's the inevitable nesting that should kick in any day now (though I'm determined to limit the floor-washing to once a week!) And again, the list goes on.
And my prayer is that, in the midst of all this preparation, Pascha itself is not entirely lost...
Friday, February 10, 2012
Making Room...
So, growing a baby is hard work, folks. I wish I could say it wasn't, but I've found myself a little tapped-out energy-wise, lately. I keep having ideas for posts (rants, mostly, so you should be happy to be spared!), but the execution is a little trickier. By the time the day is over, I mostly just want to collapse. Although, yesterday evening, rather than collapsing, I participated in a maternity photo shoot, which was incredibly rewarding. (Because what 8-months-pregnant gal doesn't need an ego boost as far as body image is concerned?!)
Seeing the photos reminds me that to be the bearer of new life is an honour--and a beautiful one at that! To think of the pregnant body--mine or another's--in terms of its power and its beauty can sometimes seem strange in our stick-thin-is-in culture. And yet hymns to the Theotokos which, in some translations, praise her for having "hips more spacious than the heavens," remind us of the pure beauty of one's body making room for another, and the unique joy given to women by our Creator.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Perspective: A Response to the "Occupations"
Ripples from the splash created by Occupy Wall Street and the related protests are reaching Facebook, most notably as a picture of a piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook, relating a story of personal accountability, in which the author distances him- or herself from the "occupants" at the protests. This response to the protests has provoked sentiments from "Right on!" to "What an uniformed jerk!" Though sympathetic to the author, I have to agree that his or her dashed-off response to the protests isn't as well thought out as it could have been, so I thought I'd attempt a dashed-off response of my own:
I say good luck fighting corporate greed. Easier to attempt to master one's own...
(N.B.: Just realized that the student's "Not the 99%" note is a take-off on similar personal accounts, taken from the "We Are the 99 Percent" website: http://wearethe99percent.tumblr.com.)
Here's a transcription, in case the pic is too hard to read:
I am a young mother, about to celebrate 5 years of marriage completely debt free.
We pay for all of our living expenses with my husband's non-profit job and my part-time job caring for another family's child.
I chose to stay home with our two, soon to be three children, and from their births, we have done what we can to save for their future.
My husband works hard, and has been fortunate enough to keep his job throughout the economic crisis, allowing me to continue to nurture our children from home.
I currently have a 3.8 GPA in potty-training. (I had a 4.0 in grad school, but potty-training is much harder.)
We live comfortably in a two-bedroom apartment, spending the bulk of our income on healthy food for our family, and knowing that we can't have everything we want. We do not have an Ipod or smart phone. I don't even have a cell phone and I am perfectly okay with that, knowing that if someone wants to reach me badly enough, they'll leave a message rather than interrupting my walk to the playground with the kids. We do have a used eight-passenger station wagon, which spends most of its time parked on our street, while we bike our butts off for transportation. (Yes, you can do groceries with two kids and one bike.)
If I did have a debt, I would not blame Wall Street, but would check my pride at the door and avail myself of the Food Bank to feed our family if things came to that. In the meantime, I am more troubled that our family makes over 400 times what that of the average Somalian family does than I am that some CEO makes over 400 times what we do. I do what I can to participate in projects for international relief.
I am currently thankful to consider myself part of the 20% of the world's richest people. Yes, it would be nice if “the 1%” felt as strongly as I do about Somalian families, though I doubt “occupying” their turf is going to convince them to give their money away, so I'll spend my time and energy attempting to decrease my own consumption instead. I expect nothing to be handed to me, but try to be as open-handed as I can with everything I have.
That's how altruism is supposed to work.
I will NOT waste my time whining about being part of the 99%, and whether or not you do is YOUR decision.
Here's the original FB photo, and an example of a critical reply:
(N.B.: Just realized that the student's "Not the 99%" note is a take-off on similar personal accounts, taken from the "We Are the 99 Percent" website: http://wearethe99percent.tumblr.com.)
Monday, September 12, 2011
Cassocks, Icons and Pascha Jammies
Sadly, I forgot my camera when we went to get a guardrail for my four-year-old's bed, so my "Wow: doesn't Target sell atrocious clothing for little girls?!" post is going to have to wait...
In the meantime, some musings about iconography and cassock-making. And a picture of the cassock I made for Josh when he was made a subdeacon:
Walking to our respective destinations this morning (the girls and I to a prenatal appointment; Josh to work), I told Josh that cassock-making seems so much more profane than iconography. When he asked me why, the best answer I could come up with was that, whereas the cassock is a mere garment, an icon is supposed to be a "window into heaven." But then, expanding on this, I ran into some trouble. "A cassock," I suggested, "is supposed to veil or hide the man behind it. An icon," I continued, "is supposed to... point to something other than itself." The more I thought about it, the more I realized the two had some underlying similarities: vestments veil the priest, and show forth Christ through him; icons themselves are mere paint and wood, and show forth Christ by drawing the viewer's attention beyond themselves.
Well, there you have it: cassocks and icons. And, while I'm flaunting my sewing projects, here's some clothing for little girls that I don't deem atrocious--their "Pascha jammies," as we call them (made for last year's Paschal Liturgy, when all us crazy Orthodox parents drag our kids to church in the middle of the night!)
In the meantime, some musings about iconography and cassock-making. And a picture of the cassock I made for Josh when he was made a subdeacon:
Walking to our respective destinations this morning (the girls and I to a prenatal appointment; Josh to work), I told Josh that cassock-making seems so much more profane than iconography. When he asked me why, the best answer I could come up with was that, whereas the cassock is a mere garment, an icon is supposed to be a "window into heaven." But then, expanding on this, I ran into some trouble. "A cassock," I suggested, "is supposed to veil or hide the man behind it. An icon," I continued, "is supposed to... point to something other than itself." The more I thought about it, the more I realized the two had some underlying similarities: vestments veil the priest, and show forth Christ through him; icons themselves are mere paint and wood, and show forth Christ by drawing the viewer's attention beyond themselves.
Well, there you have it: cassocks and icons. And, while I'm flaunting my sewing projects, here's some clothing for little girls that I don't deem atrocious--their "Pascha jammies," as we call them (made for last year's Paschal Liturgy, when all us crazy Orthodox parents drag our kids to church in the middle of the night!)
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Picking off the Vegetables
So I recently realized that what I mistook for piety in my two-year-old was really a combination of common sense and the desire not to burn her tongue. (I should have guessed as much: this is the child who piped up "I don't like church. Mama, I don't LIKE CHURCH"--during the Cherubic Hymn, no less.) Naomi has for the longest time been my little prayer conscience: "Time to pray, Mama! Time to pray!" she would exclaim as I set the food on the table. Only now do I realize that she only says this when I tell them "Careful: it's hot!" "Time to pray," for Naomi, may amount to nothing more than a way to delay the beginning of the meal, a distraction to keep her from diving in too soon so that her food might cool down to a reasonable temperature in the meantime.
Another recent mealtime trend in our household is the picking off of the vegetables. I used to have children who would eat anything, anything I put in front of them: broccoli, kale, squash, sweet potato, tomatoes, carrots, corn, cauliflower, peas, etc. You grew it, they ate it! Do 3-year-olds come with a manual for driving their mothers crazy??? Katie has recently declared war on several (fortunately not all!) vegetables, and Naomi is quickly following suit, thanks to the example of her cool older sister. This is a problem in our household. A serious problem. Take tonight's meal:
That's mushrooms, red pepper, green zebra tomatoes, onion and Swiss chard. The crust and cheese are really just a delivery system in my books; pizza's not pizza without the veggies! Katie sat in front of her pizza for nearly twenty minutes, diligently denuding the piece of my masterpiece that I had placed before her until it was deemed vegetable-free and passed inspection.
Now I realize this is small potatoes. In some ways I know that I've already lost the food battle, because when our kids are teenagers, you bet I'll be stocking the pantry with junkfood to ensure that our place becomes the hangout spot of choice! And by that time, I'll have a thirteen-year-old Naomi who can not only tell me "I don't LIKE church," but who can also refuse to get out of bed on Sunday morning, refuse to put on clothing, and refuse to get in the car (or on her bike, or whatever.) This thought terrifies me.
It's not that I want little carbon copies of myself, or that my children have to absorb each and every one of my values. It's just that some of what we do as a family--pray together, worship together--is so very important to me that I would be heartbroken if their came a time when we no longer shared that. As I see it, the Eucharistic Liturgy is the very foundation of spiritual health. And I realize that, just as we do for vegetables, we can lose our taste for church (though perhaps on a slightly different timeline.) Perhaps our spiritual senses become duller as we encounter the world in all of its flashiness. Perhaps we lose our way through woundedness. Whatever the cause, once off the road it can be immensely difficult to find one's way back.
Today, I am humbled by the immense privilege and responsibility that is child-rearing. I am so very thankful for the children that have been given me, and it is with fear and trembling that I anticipate holding and releasing their hands as they meet the challenges of daily living.
Another recent mealtime trend in our household is the picking off of the vegetables. I used to have children who would eat anything, anything I put in front of them: broccoli, kale, squash, sweet potato, tomatoes, carrots, corn, cauliflower, peas, etc. You grew it, they ate it! Do 3-year-olds come with a manual for driving their mothers crazy??? Katie has recently declared war on several (fortunately not all!) vegetables, and Naomi is quickly following suit, thanks to the example of her cool older sister. This is a problem in our household. A serious problem. Take tonight's meal:
That's mushrooms, red pepper, green zebra tomatoes, onion and Swiss chard. The crust and cheese are really just a delivery system in my books; pizza's not pizza without the veggies! Katie sat in front of her pizza for nearly twenty minutes, diligently denuding the piece of my masterpiece that I had placed before her until it was deemed vegetable-free and passed inspection.
Now I realize this is small potatoes. In some ways I know that I've already lost the food battle, because when our kids are teenagers, you bet I'll be stocking the pantry with junkfood to ensure that our place becomes the hangout spot of choice! And by that time, I'll have a thirteen-year-old Naomi who can not only tell me "I don't LIKE church," but who can also refuse to get out of bed on Sunday morning, refuse to put on clothing, and refuse to get in the car (or on her bike, or whatever.) This thought terrifies me.
It's not that I want little carbon copies of myself, or that my children have to absorb each and every one of my values. It's just that some of what we do as a family--pray together, worship together--is so very important to me that I would be heartbroken if their came a time when we no longer shared that. As I see it, the Eucharistic Liturgy is the very foundation of spiritual health. And I realize that, just as we do for vegetables, we can lose our taste for church (though perhaps on a slightly different timeline.) Perhaps our spiritual senses become duller as we encounter the world in all of its flashiness. Perhaps we lose our way through woundedness. Whatever the cause, once off the road it can be immensely difficult to find one's way back.
Today, I am humbled by the immense privilege and responsibility that is child-rearing. I am so very thankful for the children that have been given me, and it is with fear and trembling that I anticipate holding and releasing their hands as they meet the challenges of daily living.
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