The Mother of All Churches — Full of Surprises

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At the Baton Rouge restaurant in Montreal, our waiter Sebastian was rattling off nearby tourist attractions. He said, “The big cathedral past Chinatown is very nice. Celine Dion was married there.” I’m not usually going to churches based on a celebrity endorsement, but what the heck, I was on vaction.

We walked up the hill towards Old Montreal. The church was full of surprises – the first of which was the cost — $5 for adults and $4 for kids just to enter. $22 later, I was hoping that it was worth it.

It was worth it. The church was a riot of color and as pretty as rainbow sherbet. I was in love with the light of the ceiling and altar — a Robin’s Egg blue.

We joined the English-speaking tour group. We heard about Montreal’s origins –  to convert the heathens.

The next big surprise was the chapel. I imagined more of the same — a Neo Gothic church/wedding cake — frills, curliecues and gold stars. Not at all.

Walking into this chapel, the woman behind me gasped. It was full of light.

The massive bronze altar sculpture showed three archways representing childhood, middle age and old age (death). It was not all crucifex-y and literal like some churches. It was symbolic –The symbols

of the trinity were a sun, a dove and a kind, smiling man. It was all bright and yellow (almost as pretty as the Louise Nevelson church, one of my faves!)

The artist of the Sacré-Coeur chapel for Notre-Dame Basilica, Charles Daudelin (aka ‘genius’) created this masterpiece after a fire in 1978 destroyed the Gothic chapel. So there’s an inspiring lesson:

Sometimes a devastating turn of events can lead to some great modern art.

I dug the nativity scene in the modern chapel because the women figured so prominently. This was the church of Mary and I do appreciate churches that celebrate women.

The tour ended and my daughters got in a fight. See, to light a candle and make a prayer, you had to pay a dollar. I only had one single. I gave the dollar to Charlotte and told her to “Share a prayer. Or light two candles. It doesn’t matter.” But Catherine felt if we lit two candles, “We’d be lying in a CHURCH!”

Charlotte eventually resolved the bickering by telling Catherine that she’d put two dollars in the collection box. Catherine was appeased and lit her candle. Then Charlotte told her twin she had been lying and she’d only put in one dollar. The fighting began again.

I told the girls that this is part of the history of Christianity. “I think the Holy Wars were fought over this. The Reformation was about not having to pay to pray.” I told them, “God hears the prayers of the poor as equally as the prayers of the rich.” They didn’t care. They just wanted to light their damn candles.

This is how sibling rivalry goes. They ebb, they flow. They lie, they fight. They pray. They light a candle. They’re hungry and they want to leave this stupid place. I, meanwhile, enjoyed this church very much.

Off the Grid

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On Christmas Eve day and Christmas Day, I unplugged.

Time off the grid was not boring. I had good food, good times with family — card games and board games. We played Crazy Eights, Headbanz, Funglish, Backgammon, and Taboo. We went outside and cut down a tree. We decorated the tree. We went caroling. We ate, we drank, we laughed.

I did not check email, Facebook, Twitter at all. Oh, noble me. But I made one mistake — I checked my voicemail. I wondered if one of my brothers or parents had called. No, instead there was a phone message from Elizabeth, the funny nurse at the dermatologist’s office. She said the last biopsy was fine, but that I had Grover’s Disease. She said, “It’s just a minor skin irritation that seems to strike old Italian men and you and me.” (I told you she was funny.)

How would I know how “minor” this skin irritation was if I couldn’t Google it? I wondered what Wikipedia had to say.

It was one thing not to update my Facebook status (‘I am making bacon for breakfast’), but quite another not to be able to peruse medical journals and find a cure for this disease that — who knows, could potentially ravish me in an instant? Why call it a disease if it wasn’t serious? I had a very good reason to search the world wide web. But noble me, I did not. I shrugged. What could I do about it any way?

I made a joke at the dinner table, “I just learned that I have Grover’s Disease. It sounds like something you get at Sesame Street.” My sister in law said, “You’ll soon be turning blue and furry.” Funny. (I know a lot of funny women!)

Well, my two days off the grid passed. I got on line. The first thing I did was check Grover’s Disease at Wikipedia. Indeed, it’s an uninteresting and very minor skin irritation. Thank God I did not ruin my social media and internet sabbath to learn that. Sometimes it’s just better not to know.

The Hunted and the Hunter Mind

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From my desk at work, I watch the hawk of Riverside Church dive bomb a flock of pigeons. It is impossible not to watch, like a car wreck at the side of the road. It is thrilling.

I imagine the rush of excitement as the pigeons circle and escape. I imagine the hunger of the hawk. I stare and hope for something dramatic to happen. I have never seen the kill. But occasionally — oh, this is rich — I see a blizzard of white feathers rain outside of my window. Joseph Conrad summed it up well, “The horror, the horror.”

My window to Riverside Church is like my internet screen. I watch and wait for something delicious to happen. I am a passive watcher, a vicarious hawk or pigeon. I imagine my escape or my hunger.

But the internet is just a window into life. It is not life. I am not a primordial being — panting, fluttering, escaping. I am a creature of reason, contemplative and kind. I make eye contact with my fellow human beings.

Life happens, not in the spires of the Gothic church with wings and flapping, but down below where mortals dwell, where smiles are exchanged and pleasantries murmured.

Dan Licardo inspired this post with a Facebook post about the hawk of Riverside Church.

Pass the Hatchet

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I arrived around noon to a trendy and full waiting room. A few people my age and a couple of older women with bandages on their faces sat staring into space. In the trendiest of neighborhoods, West Broadway and Spring in SoHo, my dermatological surgeon, Dr. Dacko slices, snips and sews.

I went into an exam room. My chest area, around where you wear a long necklace, was numbed. We waited. Then the carcinoma was cut out while we chatted about the ubiquitous nature of cell phones (because I had to charge my phone in the surgeon’s office). Dr. Dacko is young, pretty, friendly. So is the RN Elizabeth.

Dr. Dacko said “Now, about the recovery, you’re not allowed to chop down any trees.”

“That’s funny,” I said, “Because that’s what my family does on Christmas. We chop down our own tree. This year, I’ll pass the hatchet.” (ha ha, we all laughed!)

Then Elizabeth told me as she bandaged the big gaping hole, “Okay, you can go out for lunch now. Come back in an hour and we’ll see if we have to cut more. If not, we’ll stitch you up.”

I felt confused. Here I was in the middle of surgery and I’m told to go out to lunch?!! True, the office is an awesome neighborhood. Okay. Well, I did have good idea — Christmas shop and manicure. I hopped up, but then, yes, felt a little whoozy. So I sat down again for a few minutes until the dizziness passed.

Then I was out on the sidewalk with the vendors, the hip Europeans, and the people who lunch. I got to the Paul Frank Store and the Sur La Table store and even visited a 2nd floor manicure salon east of Broadway for some frosty blue polish.

Back at Dr. Dacko’s office, I was told they got it all and they stitched me up (although they biopsied another area too.) The feeling of getting stitches in your chest was weird — like someone pulling on the lapels of your jacket, only I wasn’t wearing a jacket.

I have to report that I felt a bit sorry for myself last night. I didn’t feel that the kids and Chris coddled me enough at all. While it’s true in the middle of my surgery, I was shopping and pampering myself in SoHo, I still felt someone should’ve felt my forehead and said, “Poor baby. Don’t worry. You’re going to be okay.”

I considered posting a picture of my chest and the stitches on this blog, but it looks pretty yucky! It will heal.

what matters most

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When I was writing for the business school at Pace University, I interviewed a professor (whose name I don’t remember) about time, happiness and pay.

The professor said her research had shown, “The more money an executive made, the happier the person was with his or her job.” This surprised me.

I wasn’t making much at Pace, but I was happy. I worked for brilliant women. We worked hard, but had flexibility, creativity and purpose. After viewing this video (or animated chart), I feel affirmed. I am right. It is more than money that motivates people at work.

It is probably true that with higher pay comes more autonomy, mastery and pupose. These are key.

Thanks to NYCityMama for reminding me — that people need more than pay to be happy at work. Check out the funny video at the bottom of her post from RSA.org. http://t.co/dkJhjht

That being said, I do hope I get a raise this year. Last year we all did without.

My basal cell

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Since this blog, Running Aground, is not just about running, but about health, fitness, food, let me share my latest not-so-great health news. I have basal cell carcinoma.

Last week, I went for my yearly dermatological exam. I had noticed a nice brown age spot right on my eyelid where I smear a nice brown eye shadow. That, of course, is nothing. This — on my chest — appeared nothing to me. But the Physician Assistant froze off 3 little things and biopsied 2. One of which was this little pink dot on my chest.

Ms. Choe, the PA, said, as she sliced it off, “I think this is basal cell.” And lo and behold, it is. Doctors and physicians assistants, they are so dang smart. They know what they’re doing.

I do feel I brought this on myself. I love being outdoors. I often bypass the sunscreen. Too busy. After I practically have to tackle my kids to get them to wear it, I’m exhausted from the effort and I ignore myself. (Yes, that’s right. I’ve found a way to blame my children for my skin cancer.) But it’s kind of like a smoker and lung cancer. I can’t pretend I didn’t know this was possible. I have known, pretty much my whole life, I should be more careful.

I am fair with blonde hair, blue eyes. It’s common. My mom had this. I am a perfect candidate. I think 3 out of 10 white people get this. It’s totally manageable and curable. But Mom says it’s a trauma to the system, not invasive, but traumatic. She  says I should lay low for a few days after the surgery tomorrow. Sure, right, that’ll happen. (I have parties and theater to attend!)

But I am going to start wearing more (some) sunscreen, because now I realize that I’m not immortal after all. I’m frickin’ ageing and I’m not all that happy about it.

On the way

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image

I was heading to Hayden’s Swim Meet. I passed a line of people waiting patiently for sandwiches to be given out from a makeshift cardboard stand. There were about a dozen people warming their hands in their pockets. They could’ve been in a photo from the Depression, but, this is 2010, a cold December afternoon.

The church looked lit from within. I asked the (Latina?) woman who seemed to be in charge, “Can I go in?”

“Sure,” she said. She walked up the steps and opened the door for me. I am always grateful when someone opens the church door for me, especially this woman who seemed to have more important things to do — distribute sandwiches.

I sat in the church. I just sat. I looked up at the blue walls. I like blue walls. That’s all.

Then I heard clicking behind me. Ah, I thought, the proverbial church mouse. I looked around.

It was a woman at a computer keyboard behind a glass wall. The church office was sectioned-off in the back of the sanctuary.

As I walked out, she and I smiled at each other. I kind of wondered what was an office doing in a church. Maybe she wondered what I was doing, staring at the walls. Then I wondered if it would be impolite to take a picture of the people standing in the sandwich line. But I didn’t have to decide. The line had disappeared. All of the sandwiches must’ve been distributed.

I went to the Swim Meet.

Savoring Thanksgiving

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Sometimes I feel melancholy being apart from my four siblings and my parents (and Marty) during the holidays. But then maybe I idealize our time together. Maybe I’d get sick of them if I lived closer. Or they’d get sick of me. Or someone would walk away right when we had dishes to do. (No, not my sibs!)

Chris’s family is so responsible they fight over who can jump up the fastest to clear after a holiday meal — practically elbowing each other out of the dining room door arms full of dishes, rushing to the dishwasher, while I’m still savoring that last forkful of mashed, stuffing, and turkey. Please don’t rush me. Although well, there are many kinds of pie coming — what the heck. I’m done with the turkey. Bring on dessert.

It is hard to keep up with the Joneses. I like to sit with my hands wrapped around a hot cup of something after a meal. Like a Hobbit, I like the warm drink to creep into the nooks and crannies of that last good meal. When I was little, my Dad read to us from the Hobbit on summer nights after dinner in our backyard in Skokie, even before we moved to Park Ridge.

This reminds me – while memories happen while eating big family holiday meals, memories also get impressed on us during the moments of reading or sitting together after a meal.

I’d like to write more about this right now, but I hear the laughter, pots, and pans from the kitchen. Someone’s singing. There’s the smell of pumpkin pie. The family is cooking and I should go help. I don’t want to be known as the sister-in-law who doesn’t pitch in. Not that any one of us – no, not a one of us, would walk away when there are dishes to do.

Although one person might sit a bit too long warming her hands on her coffee mug. But rest assured, dear friends and family, I’ll get up in a minute. I’ll set, I’ll clear, I’ll scour the pans and prep for the next delicious meal. I’ll do my share. I’ll be there in a minute.  

3.2 miles in 39 minutes

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Yesterday I ran at lunch time. Riverside Park was so beautiful. The muted oranges and burnt reds of late fall against a Robin Egg blue sky.

On Fridays I am either incredibly productive or slightly lazy. I can push myself. Or I can push paper around my desk, “Well, this can wait until Monday.” 

Unless it’s Friday before a week off! Yes, a week off. And then I must clean off my desk top, water my plants, tie up all my loose ends. Nothing can wait. Everything must get done.

So I was psyched to get away from my desk when Liz facebooked me in the morning about a lunchtime run. We met at Riverside Church, ran down to Fairway and along the new trail beside the Hudson. Then we ran back up at around 99th along the upper promenade.

My last run was with one of my 11 year old daughters last weekend. She joined the Running Club at school. On that run, we kept a pretty good pace. Then she complained of an earache. It was cold.

My experience running with my kids is that they either take off fast ahead of me or slow down to a snail’s pace with an ailment.

Adult friends have outgrown that. Adults can set a pace together. Although Liz and I run, then walk, we always can talk and never run out of things to say. On Friday’s run, the endorphins really kicked in. By the end of our run, I had new ideas for housecleaning, writing and work projects.

I love Friday workouts before a long week off.

Bonus: there’s no guilt if over the weekend, I’m slightly lazy. I have done my work out, thank you very much. Or if Thanksgiving is coming and I can eat as much as I want. Yay.