You-See-Timmy....Never Trust A Church

When Bill Clinton ran for president the first time, his campaign strategist, James Carville, fell for his opponent's strategist, Mary Matalin. Naturally, Hollywood couldn't resist the story and put out a movie called "Speechless." Even though it starred Michael Keaton and Geena Davis, for me, it fell short of its mark and I would have forgotten it (and I had forgotten the title) if not for one memorable scene where Michael Keaton verbalized something I had witnessed, but never had a term for: the "You-See-Timmy" moment.

"You-See-Timmy" is the moment where a parent or other authority figure pulls aside a child on the show and explains to him or her the life lesson he/she--not to mention the kids watching--should have learned from that particular episode. Though it's a t.v. classic still used today, especially on shows deemed family-friendly, the actual Timmy character is from the show "Lassie." (Only when I did a little impromptu research did I realize that Timmy didn't join "Lassie" until the fourth season, which is amazing to me because every "Lassie" rerun I ever saw had Timmy in it. But I digress.) For those who have missed this classic series, Timmy was always doing stupid things like falling into wells and Lassie, an adorable collie, would then have to rescue him and/or bring help. At the end of every episode, a parent/cop/judge/minister/doctor would say something, "You see, Timmy, it's dangerous to play with dynamite." And Timmy's eyes would widen a bit as this bit of knowledge sank in and he'd say something like "Aw, shucks. Well, I'll never do it again" and everyone would smile (including Lassie, who might also bark for emphasis) and the theme music and credits would come on. And the world was safe again, at least until the next episode when you could count on Timmy to do something else stupid.

Tonight, I had a "You-See-Timmy" moment with my cat. Yeah, I know, sounds strange, but she's the closest thing I'll ever have to a daughter and it was time for me to impart a little wisdom I learned from my mother.

When the news came on, I discovered that a prominent Mormon feminist was now facing possible excommunication from the Mormon church--which is deja vu because it happened to another prominent Mormon feminist about thirty-five years ago--and as it has happened to other men and women before and since who have been brave enough to say something church officials didn't like. You can read more about this particular case here.

And I pulled my cat aside and said, "You see, Gabby, this is why I don't trust churches. I trust God. I'm fine with Jesus and Buddha. The Dalai Lama is delightful and the Catholics even have a damn-fine pope. But I still don't trust churches...not any in general and not this one in particular. Churches are places where a congregation of kind, friendly, generous, well-intended souls gather and they will welcome you in. Until you say something they don't like and they stab you in the back. They almost never stab you in the front because that wouldn't be nice."

And Gabby's eyes widened as she pondered this morsel of wisdom and then she said, "Aw, shucks. Ok, I'll trust God, but never a church."

And I felt that maybe I'd done my job as a mother for one day.

For the record, this post is satire. Mostly.

On Being The Rat

We all have different beliefs about life. My favorite mantra is that life is an act of faith. And I don't necessarily even mean a religious faith. Don't get me wrong. God and religion are fine if they work for you, but there's also faith in yourself, or in others, or in karma, or logic, or the force, or compassion, or knowledge.....the bottom line is the people I know who do the best at waking up each morning and living their life have faith in something.

One time, an acquaintance said to me, "I have kind of a strange metaphor about life and the universe. People think it's weird, but it works for me."

And I said, "Try me. I love weird."

And she said, "Well, have you ever seen lab rats in a maze? That's us. I don't know if there is a greater being in charge of this experiment or if it just came about through a chemical process. It doesn't matter. It's just what life is."

"Rats approach mazes differently," she continued. "Some seem to move out of instinct. Others look like they're thinking it through and moving based on reason. And then there are the rats who don't move at all, but sit quivering with indecision and trying to understand something that is really probably beyond them. And I try my best not to be that rat."

This metaphor is much more logical and scientific than my own belief system, but I've learned to, at times, embrace it.

And I say to myself: "You're just a rat in a maze. Don't grapple with a reality beyond your understanding. Don't overthink each decision. Whether it's by instinct or reason, just move. It's all you have to do."

The Lesson of the Itsy-Bitsy Spider Song

For sixteen years, I have loved a cat named Perchance, but called Percie. An orange tabby with spots and stripes, eyes that began amber and turned green, a being more joyful and more stubborn than possibly any others I have known. Throughout that time, the sun was her drug of her choice. Okay, she dabbled in catnip, but her true vice was the light and heat of the sun. She never could get enough of it, even when we lived in Phoenix and for three weeks, the temperature was over 120 degrees every day, and it was miserable. Percie, though, loved it. She would have slept on sun-cooked cement for 24 hours a day if we had just stopped worrying about things like dehydration and let her do what she wanted.

For sixteen years, I knew every spot and stripe on her. I knew her moods and her personality. I could look at her and know what she was thinking. Sometimes it was "Oh, this is such a good nap!" and sometimes it was "If you rub my tummy, I will bite you." I would have told you I knew everything about her, but I didn't. I didn't know this cat I loved so much was riddled with cancer. Except, of course, that I did--if not the diagnosis, I knew that my time with her was slipping away. Of course, that's a reasonable thought when you have a cat who is sixteen. Hell, it's a reasonable thought at any point in any relationship. We are all here for a finite amount of time.

And, so, when I'd look out and see Percie sleeping in a sunbeam, and I would know "this is her last summer" or "not only is this her last summer, but she knows it, and she is determined not to miss a moment of it"--I squelched that knowing. I told myself I didn't know. I told myself to stop being morbid. And the more I pretended not to know, the more I could convince myself I didn't know other things, until I stopped knowing  altogether and missed it and wondered where it had gone.

As I struggled to find that knowing, especially as Percie became ill, I called upon my guides for strength and, well, for guidance. And all I would hear is Tai, my little Asian girl guide, singing "The itsy-bisty spider climbed up the water spout. Down came the rain and washed the spider out. Out came the sun and dried up all the rain. And the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again." 

And she would sing it over and over. I would hear it in my dreams. (So if you're now cursing me for getting these lyrics stuck in your head, imagine having them there, even in your dreams, for three months.) And so I'd ask for guidance and get a nursery song playing in my head incessantly until I figured out--which took longer than it should--what it meant. That itsy-bitsy spider is all about the impermanence of life. It's about beginnings and endings, about being washed away one moment and back in the sun again....back in the sun, knowing the next rain wasn't far away.

Maybe, I reasoned, the message was that we were going to keep doing the same things over and over--going to keep helping her battle infections and nausea and dehydration so that she would be well. Of course, I knew at some level that wasn't it. The rain was coming to take my sunshine-loving cat away. Another ending, another beginning. And there was nothing to do but accept it.

I let Percie go to the person she loved most, my mom, knowing she would find an afterlife of endless sun-napping and the occasional gecko chase.

And I found a new cat, Gabby, and brought her home and we settled in. The beginning was nice. Everything was new and so exciting to her. I got to slowly learn her language. We were having a great time. And then came today--only the fifth day of knowing her--and we butted heads. She wanted what she wanted. I wanted her to understand the natural patterns of my day and energy. Yes, I would start the morning with a play session, but then she needed to know that I would spend hours at the computer, pretty much ignoring her and she was supposed to amuse herself...which she did, by being impossible. Up on the kitchen counters, scratching the couch, into the Christmas tree. I stopped, I played with her, got her jumping and running and pouncing, all in the hopes that she'd settle down and I could go back to my computer. But as soon as I'd sneak away, she'd be causing trouble again, and I'd have to stop. I just kept getting crankier and so did she.

Finally, I called it a day, and had a hot bath. As she always does when I'm in the bathroom, Gabby settled on the other side of the door, waiting for me. (Not surprisingly, since she's a rescue cat, she has some separation anxiety.) But this time she waited quietly, not crying or scratching. When I came out, she was no longer cranky, but the loving kitty I adore and she was so glad to see me. I scratched her ears and praised her for waiting patiently. I pointed out that she had been brave and, just like I had promised, I had come back to her.

Today the rain had washed us out, I told her. I had forgotten she has only been here a few days and she is quite young. She needs more mothering and she can't be expected to know all of what a sixteen-year-old cat came to know. I need to be more patient with her and remember that this time is also finite. I will never get back these first few months before we settle into a routine. I need to make time for them.

Tomorrow, I promised her, the sun will come out and we will start over again.

reincarnation

reincarnation

explain to me
why we return
again and again
to this world
of never quite
what we need;

do we actually
turn to each other
and say
“you know
I’m headed back--
last time didn’t suck enough.”

–Cynthia Sillitoe, December 2013

A November Ode

       A November Ode

One day, you will leave
(or I will)
and we will grieve
then love again–
we both know how.

Time nudges us forward,
whether or not we care,
into a-moon-apart
at least until stars realign.

But today is sunny
and we are warm,
and it’s enough.

        --Cynthia Sillitoe, November 2013

The Pitfalls of Conversation in the 21st Century (Or Just Because You Posted It Doesn't Mean I Saw It.)

Ok, I just know I'm not the only person who has experienced this. You meet up with a friend or relative who launches into a conversation about people and events and you have no idea what she's talking about. Sometimes it's something small like a book or movie they liked. Sometimes it's like...apparently this person has broken up with their significant other or changed jobs or, I don't know, had a child. And the conversation starts in the middle and you realize, with a sinking feeling, you are supposed to know the back story to this all, but you don't....and you think....damn that social media.

And, hey, I love social media. Here I am blogging. I'm on Facebook. My cat is on Facebook (though she has woefully neglected her page in her quest to enjoy every last minute of nice weather.) Theoretically, I'm on Pinterest except I signed up for it and figured it out in the middle of the night, so I was under the influence of Ambien, and....I don't remember my password or how it all works. I may figure that out, but it's kind of low on my priority list. And every time I get a notification that someone is following me on Pinterest, I think, "Ok, they're going to be disappointed."

Here's the deal, people. I can barely keep up with my own life. Seriously. And I suspect I'm not alone in this. It doesn't mean I don't love your Facebook posts, but I might miss a few. I might only check out your blog every couple of months and find a few dozen entries I haven't read, including the one that says you've had triplets and moved to Siberia. And I'm definitely missing your Pinterest boards about your new obsession with building your own robots.

I use Facebook for three main reasons:

1. to keep everyone appraised of my cat's life
2. to post all the witty and sarcastic remarks that only the cat might otherwise hear
3. to say "help, help!" when something in my life goes wrong.

And I love that rush of support and love and funny comments, but I don't expect to hear from everyone I know. If someone goes weeks without even reading my Facebook comments or blog, I don't take it personally. I figure they're just all trying to keep up with their own lives.

Not to mention trying to remember all their passwords.

The Balm of Gilead

More than 30 years ago, a wave of feminism rose up against the Mormon (LDS) church. My mom not only joined it, she wrote about it, and, in doing so, gained a certain amount of notoriety and disfavor with the church's leadership. She would clash with church leadership many more times, but it began with a group of women who stepped forward and asked for more.

As those who know me or read my blog are aware, I carry psychic scars of that struggle, not to mention a case of PTSD triggered by anything connected to Mormonism. I have never read most of my mom's writings related to the church and I have distanced myself from the intellectual communities in which my parents played a huge role. I even decided to stop reading and watching local media because it always holds triggers. And so I live in Utah and I have no idea what's going on around me, unless someone tells me or it makes it to CNN.

I was aware of the fact that the battle for equality in the LDS church had continued and recently a new awakening had blossomed. I even have cousins involved in it. Still, I remained cynical. And kind of annoyed. I rolled my eyes and thought, "Fine. Battle the behemoth if that's what you want to do, but don't expect it to change." Most often I wondered why anyone would want to fight. Why not just get out?

You see, because I have never had any faith in the LDS gospel and because I have never been comfortable in an LDS congregation--the closest I've ever come to comfort is ambivalence--it's hard for me to relate to those who have both great faith in the gospel and ideological qualms with the church. I have to remind myself that it's possible to have both and how difficult that must be.

Yesterday, a friend sent my dad an e-mail letting him know about this bright young feminist who had a tribute to my mom on Facebook. As he does with all things concerning Facebook, my dad forwarded it to me. I clicked on the link and found Hannah Wheelwright's page. She'd posted a short, but powerful poem by my mom. I smiled when I saw she'd chosen a simple typewriter font for it because that's probably what my mom would have chosen. I sent her a message telling her I appreciated how she'd used it and wished her well in the struggle.

Later, I did an Internet search, found her blog, and read some of the posts, including one about why, out of respect, the church should correctly be referred to as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, or the LDS church, not the Mormon church. I've resisted this for decades because I don't like doing what the church wants me to do. That said, her argument about the power of language reminded me that I had learned this same lesson from my mom. And that maybe I need to show respect even when I feel I have not received it in return. It's something I need to think about.

I also discovered just how powerful and extensive this network of LDS feminists--both male and female, gay and straight--has become. I have always known that every fight for equality has spanned generations and always some of those fighters succumb to cynicism. Whether it's women's suffrage, or an end to racial segregation, or the idea of women being ordained in the LDS church, it's always tempting to say, as I have said, it will never happen. I never wanted to be one of those people, but it happened to me anyway. Fortunately, even amid the cynics' warnings, some people push on.

While the LDS church will never be my spiritual path, I see a possibility of a more just and inclusive church. I have never thought the struggle my mom was part of was for nothing. Confronting injustice is a righteous act. I also never thought I'd see the fruition of that struggle. Now I think I might.

And that takes the sting out of a lot of my wounds.