Spread Joy

Today I wrote a letter in Punjabi. Thank you, Google Translate. What a powerful experience (unless I totally screwed it up and am sending him an envelope full of gibberish). The script is beautiful. If I weren't a lost cause when it comes to language, I might attempt to learn it. 

I am currently writing letters to individuals who came to the United States from India, Cameroon, and Brazil. Three men from three different continents who made the journey to this country only to be locked away in immigration detention facilities. I don't know all the details of their stories, but my heart breaks knowing that theirs are only three stories. Three out of so so many stories.

A friend's spouse recently received her American citizenship, and he told me of a discussion in which she pondered that had she come here from a different country with a different last name and a different color skin, her story might not have gone the way it has.  

I'm sure my letters do very little to provide hope or a sense of humanity, but I will continue to write them nonetheless. 

To spread joy.

ਖੁਸ਼ੀ ਫੈਲਾਓ

Khuśī phailā'ō

The Book of Delights

It’s been a long time since I spent a Saturday morning sitting outside a CPS office. It gave me the opportunity to finish this book (that I have been reading since December). I’ve been keeping it in my purse and reading an essay here and an essay there. Taking my time.

On his birthday, this man decided to write an essayette (that’s what he calls them) every day for one year. Each day he would write about a delight. Something that made him smile. Something that brought him joy, even if it was through sadness in some cases.

You know I love that. I also love that right up front he admits that he did not, in fact, write one every day. He started strong, and then life happened (but he kept going anyway). I enjoy reading anthologies, and his essays are lovely. So…

Shortly after starting the book, I decided it would be fun to take on a similar endeavor.

That was December.

I’ve written 32.

Killing it!

The Book of Delights

By Ross Gay

Witchcraft for Wayward Girls

Hendrix always does a good job bending the horror genre just enough to make it fun and weird, and this one is no exception. It’s not my favorite of his, but I liked it.

And I’m always impressed with how well he writes female characters. Not all male authors can pull off female empowerment. Hendrix can. He even writes pregnancy well. He listens to women. You can tell.

This one is about a group of girls who have been sent to a home for unwed mothers in the 70’s. The occult parts go a little off the rails, but that’s what he does. I dig it. And he always nails the ending. Without fail.

I wasn’t crazy about the audiobook narrator, but I can’t really pinpoint why.

Witchcraft for Wayward Girls

by Grady Hendrix

Quiet

This book has some really interesting information with lots of “yah yah we get it” filling the space in between. Had I been reading a hard copy instead of listening, there would have been skimming.

It was good but not great. Or I’m just not that into the topic. Could be either.

I learned I am an ambivert. That is new information.

And I really enjoyed the section on the suckage of group work. I hated it as a student. I hate it as a teacher. And as a human. Turns out…

It’s dumb.

Quiet

The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking

By Susan Cain

The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot

This book gets all five stars and my whole heart. It is wonderful. The author’s writing style is so simple and so beautiful all at once (and that’s not easy to pull off).

Lenni, age 17, and Margot, age 83, meet in the hospital and share their collective 100 years of stories with one another. Love, loss, family, friendships. It has it all.

I almost wish I’d listened to it. I bet it is a magnificent audiobook.

The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot

by Marianne Cronin

There's A Reason They Called Him The People's Pope

I was raised a cradle Catholic. That's the phrase I've always heard. The phrase that describes people who were raised in the church but, for the most part (for my part) never really understood that church or its teachings. I know I didn't. I knew when to stand up and when to sit down, when to kneel and when to say "and also with you." I went to church because the rule in our family was that if you didn't go to church, you didn't go to the beach (and I went to the beach every Sunday as a teen). I attended CCE because my parents would take my car away if I didn't. I argued with my CCE teachers, but always in a rebellious teenager kind of way. Not in a I truly understand and disagree with this dogma kind of way. And that was the extent of my commitment. It was not voluntary.

As a young adult, I grew away from the church. More from disinterest than disagreement. I didn't care to unpack the faith enough to agree or disagree really. In my twenties, I took my son to mass. And yes, I made him go to CCE as my parents had made me. I grew to understand that there were components of the religion that bothered me, but I also grew to love the mass. I mean I loved it. I still do if I'm honest. I think the symbolism speaks to my English teacher heart and the mantras and sense of ritual speak to witchy witchy soul. 

In my late 30's (or maybe early 40's) I took a class to actually learn Catholicism. It was intended for those converting to the religion. I learned a lot. I liked a lot. I stuck around a little longer.

But the world changed. The world around me became less tolerant, and I became less tolerant of intolerance. And through this time of inner change and turmoil I was reading the writings of Pope Francis. I was listening to him speak. I was falling more and more in love with him and less and less in love with his church. He was calling for churches and Christians to do better. To be better. And those all around me just weren't. 

And so I left. My love and respect for Pope Francis helped me leave the Catholic church and never look back. Man, that is a strange sentence to write. But it's true. 

He was such a powerful symbol of compassion and progress, reaching hearts around the world with his humility, empathy, and courageous push for inclusion. He opened doors for people who had long felt left out and unheard by any church. He taught that every church's true strength is in embracing every human soul, without question. Without judgement. And he lived his life accordingly. 

He is the reason I am a foster parent. 

He is the reason I care so deeply for immigrants. 

He is the reason I am the person I have become.

He will be missed by so many. Talk about a man who truly left the world better than he found it. Thank you, Jorge Mario Bergoglio. May your wings help you fly high enough to watch over us all. 

The Beauty of What Remains

I probably won’t remember to reread this when I find myself preparing to lose a loved one or having just lost one, but I hope when the time comes, I remember every word of this book. This may be the most beautiful book I have ever read. It has changed the way I think about death. Which in turn makes me think about life and the way I'm living it.

That is a lot of pressure to put on a book. I’m standing by it.

There’s nothing philosophical or even religious about it. It's not a deep devotional type of book. It’s just one rabbi’s stories sprinkled with his advice. And for whatever reason, it spoke to me.

The Beauty of What Remains

by Steve Leder

Kindness Matters

I volunteer for two different organizations writing letters to individuals being held in immigration detention centers, and today I received my first response letter. It began, "Thank you for your kind letter," and while he wrote about several things, the gist was just that.

Kindness matters.

I love letters. I love writing them, sending them, receiving them. And a hand-written letter? Oooohhh...chef's kiss. Sadly, I type most of mine. My handwriting is atrocious. I don't know how to hold my pen or pencil. It's embarrassing, really. I play with different grips. None feel natural, and none improve my handwriting. So typed it is. 

I received the letter as I am halfway through this book. It is a collection of letters written to the strangers these writers can't forget. The chance meetings (sometimes sightings from a distance) that have stuck with them for years (decades in some cases). It is such a beautiful premise.

I find myself reading some letters very quickly. Others...whoa. I have to think and reread and sit with the magnitude of their moment or the beauty of their writing. Or both. 

This book is feeding my soul this week. 

What makes you proud?

On day four we were asked to write about things we like about ourselves. I described myself as thoughtful and wrote about the joy I find in doing anonymous acts of kindness. I wrote about my desire for the world to be a better place for having had me in it. 

On day six we were asked to write about things that make us feel a sense of pride. I didn't write that day. Oops. I guess my unwavering work ethic would not make this list. But you know what would? My career. 

I am so proud of the work I do. The impact I have on students. And I do make an impact. I know I do. I've had people tell me, but I also feel it in my soul. I make a difference in my students' lives, and that makes me proud. 

You know what else? I am proud of my decision to become a foster parent and my work (is work really the correct word?) as a foster parent. I am proud of the fact that I show up for those kids even if I'm blundering my way through it.

I'm proud of the letters I write for VIDA and Cartas de Paz. I am proud that I am using words to show kindness and compassion to someone who many believe deserves neither. I think that matters. I think that work is worthy, and I am proud of myself for doing it. 

Today's writing prompt tells us to look back over the things we listed that make us proud and see what that says about us and what we value and how those values can lead us. 

I like what I see when I look back over my list. I value service to others, and I like that about myself. 

But the other observation I would like to note is what is glaringly absent from my list. I just assume that most moms would list their children when asked what makes them proud. There's a reason "my pride and joy" is a commonly used phrase when referring to one's children. And I am proud of my son. He is an amazing person. He is smart and kind and of course I am proud of him. The reason I don't list him on first is that I'm not proud of myself as a mother. I wasn't stellar. It wasn't my calling, and I'm not a natural. I'm supposed to say I did my best. I'm not sure I did. Either way, it's fine. I hate the phrase it is what it is. But...