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ought to be in bed.
and, failing that, ought to be locking or something, but what the hell.
When I was in seventh grade (at a Catholic school), I had a teacher who admonished us all to pray when we heard sirens. Sirens, after all, are a sure sign that someone somewhere could benefit from some divine intervention. In the years since, I've come to be at peace with my profound disinterest in the covenant of organized, or even disorganized, religion, but I still have the impulse to pray when I hear sirens. It's some lingering belief that good wishes matter even in the absence of a deity waiting to put them in motion, maybe, or just a sense that attention ought to be paid. It's the impulse to help, at a moment when I can't actually do anything.
For a while I got in the habit of saying to myself, The sea is so wide, and my ship is so small, which I think is meant to be prefaced with Oh God, be kind. I figured it worked as well as a reminder that we are all in peril on the seas, and have to help each other - and that's what sirens mean, really, humans on the way to help other humans in need - as a plea for divine mercy. I tended to accompany the good-wish, moment of mindfulness, what have you, with a cross, signed with my thumb against my fingers, because Catholics are on to that much: you need a gesture. Or I do. A while ago I decided a cross wasn't really an appropriate gesture for a non-Christian, so I made up a new one, and the words of the good-wish changed, too, but I still stop and think every time I hear sirens.
All of that is to say, meanderingly, that my aunt (one of my favorite of my mother's plenitude of close-knit cousins) has been admitted to the hospital, and will undergo surgery for a brain tumor tomorrow. She first went to a doctor on Monday; she'd been having memory problems. Apparently the tumor is the size of a twinkie. They won't know exactly what it is until they get it out. She's younger than my mother; her daughters are barely in their teens. And six hundred miles away, a relative in the fourth degree, too far to hear sirens, too far to do much of anything, I wish, and fidget, and post to LJ.
If any of you have thoughts or wishes or prayers to spare, they'd be welcome. My aunt and uncle are devout and joyful Catholics, and I find that comforting right now--not because I think their faith ensures a good outcome, because there's no knowing that--but because I know that they know that they are in the hands of their God, and, leaving tomorrow to tomorrow, that is the best I could wish for them tonight.
When I was in seventh grade (at a Catholic school), I had a teacher who admonished us all to pray when we heard sirens. Sirens, after all, are a sure sign that someone somewhere could benefit from some divine intervention. In the years since, I've come to be at peace with my profound disinterest in the covenant of organized, or even disorganized, religion, but I still have the impulse to pray when I hear sirens. It's some lingering belief that good wishes matter even in the absence of a deity waiting to put them in motion, maybe, or just a sense that attention ought to be paid. It's the impulse to help, at a moment when I can't actually do anything.
For a while I got in the habit of saying to myself, The sea is so wide, and my ship is so small, which I think is meant to be prefaced with Oh God, be kind. I figured it worked as well as a reminder that we are all in peril on the seas, and have to help each other - and that's what sirens mean, really, humans on the way to help other humans in need - as a plea for divine mercy. I tended to accompany the good-wish, moment of mindfulness, what have you, with a cross, signed with my thumb against my fingers, because Catholics are on to that much: you need a gesture. Or I do. A while ago I decided a cross wasn't really an appropriate gesture for a non-Christian, so I made up a new one, and the words of the good-wish changed, too, but I still stop and think every time I hear sirens.
All of that is to say, meanderingly, that my aunt (one of my favorite of my mother's plenitude of close-knit cousins) has been admitted to the hospital, and will undergo surgery for a brain tumor tomorrow. She first went to a doctor on Monday; she'd been having memory problems. Apparently the tumor is the size of a twinkie. They won't know exactly what it is until they get it out. She's younger than my mother; her daughters are barely in their teens. And six hundred miles away, a relative in the fourth degree, too far to hear sirens, too far to do much of anything, I wish, and fidget, and post to LJ.
If any of you have thoughts or wishes or prayers to spare, they'd be welcome. My aunt and uncle are devout and joyful Catholics, and I find that comforting right now--not because I think their faith ensures a good outcome, because there's no knowing that--but because I know that they know that they are in the hands of their God, and, leaving tomorrow to tomorrow, that is the best I could wish for them tonight.