Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Song Reflection
I have always been interested in writing a song, but never had the time or initiative to complete one. This project gave me an opportunity to do this. It was the same with the short story - I had wanted to work on my creative writing since it seemed that the stories I had written previously were missing something. I think I was successful in adding humor to my fairly heavy story, which was what I wanted to do.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Final Song & Story
Liberty
Looking back on all those nights
The ones I spent with you
I've got to say good-bye
Listen to me
I got my own pair of shoes
To walk the hard road
Between what I must do
And what you would -
Pin me to the wall
And would make me do
But you know, I don't need you
You want me talking like any other
You got me feeling that I'm your mother
You got me coddling you all day and night
I think it's time to fight
Listen to me
I got my own pair of shoes
To walk the hard road
Between what I must do
And what you would -
Pin me to the wall
And would make me do
But you know, I don't need you
I won't be crawlin' to your side when you get cold
Won't be makin' you breakfast when we get old
How many times must I say "leave me alone"
Well, today I'm done
Blame it on the Catholics
Someone once told me to live my life to the fullest, experience all there is. I doubt that he intended what happened, since it was only years later that I had my revelation. However, I appreciate his advice, and wish him well, wherever he may be, with all my heart.
As a Catholic born and raised, I had a strong sense of duty. Routine ruled my days; get up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, read, say my prayers, go to bed. Some days were augmented with work at the church or homeless shelter after work, and Sundays I stayed home after attending mass. I was an obedient child due to my upbringing. I followed the plan set by my parents – get good grades, go to a good college, find a well-paying job – and never wondered for one second if I should stray from the path.
The revelation I had occurred at the strangest time – while I was happily petting my cat Dusty. It had been one of those ordinary days, the ones where you wake up the next morning and might wonder if you did anything productive at all the day before. Or, perhaps you don't even think about it because that day had been so inconsequential. That day, however, I felt a weight settle on my shoulders. The weight began to grow until suddenly I felt like a stale potato chip. What had gone wrong? I was perfectly content until that point, and now I longed for that mysterious shimmering thing I could barely see on the horizon. I would have thought some of those Sunday school lessons about greed and constancy in church that would have stuck – but no, at that moment I felt the driving urge to pack up and go to Luxembourg just for the heck of it. Dusty gave me a glare that seemed to say, Well, if you're going to stop petting me and jet off to a random European country, I might as well leave, and promptly jumped off my lap.
Why couldn't I be more like that? Was my thought as I stared at my cat stalking away. As most unfavorable things in life happen, this caught me at a bad time. The next day was a Sunday, and though I usually enjoyed church, the monkey on my back wouldn't let me alone. Can't you see this? I felt like crying out to the congregation, Have you ever wanted more from life? What is it that I want anyway? The sermon held no divine answers – only warnings of damnation should one leave the well-trodden path of Christian righteousness. At that moment, my monkey seemed to hit the right part of my head, and I realized the inconsistencies of my faith. I should love my neighbor and yet condemn those who do not belong to the church. God is everywhere and in everything, but one cannot seek Him everywhere and in everything. And taking a page out of Douglas Adams' book, some claim to know that God exists, but to know He exists would negate His faith-based existence. Despite the abruptness of this decision I was about to make, I felt deep within me that it was right. I would no longer follow a religion.
I would now like to interrupt this tale to tell my reader about my childhood priest. He was my friend. Now, I know catholic priests get a lot of bad press, but you must understand that this one did not belong to that particular group. He was the nicest old man you ever did see. His eyes radiated the good humor that had carved wrinkles around them long before I had met him. That same humor had set twin lines beside a quick-to-smile mouth. As a young catholic child, it was he I came to with all of my troubles, sins, and questions. When I was a teenager and seeking advice, he always lent an ear. It was during one of our conversations during my adolescence that he gave me that vital piece of counsel. When I asked him if he ever regretted joining the priesthood, he gave me an earnest look. "My dear, I don't regret it for a moment," he said, "But I did quite a few things before I took my vows. Always remember, if you haven't eaten Roman pizza, learned to tap dance, or fallen completely in love with something, you haven't lived."
Propelled by the jetpack memory of his words, I made my way to the nearest payphone. I was going to call my parents to tell them of my revelations, and for some inexplicable reason I did not want to do that from my apartment. My mother was the perfect wife, devoted, omniscient, a person who could anticipate her husband's every whim. My father was a stern, tall man who, despite his academic pursuits, had not lost his faith. How was I to approach this godly pair with the news that I would not live up to their expectations? I slowly and deliberately pressed one number after the next. My father picked up, "Hello?"
"Hi Dad, how are you? May I talk to Mom, please?"
A grunt. Could he tell what I what was coming? I hoped not.
"Darling!" was my mother's greeting, "How are you?"
I winced. "Pretty good, Mom," I said. The feeling of being a stale potato chip had evaporated only to be replaced with anxiety. "I have something to tell you," I proceeded to recount my two revelations, the one during the previous night and the other the following morning. I told her of my decision to renounce Catholicism.
There was a long pause before she said, "Honey, can't you see this is a test? You're not doing so well now, but you can still prove the strength of your faith to God." My mother's voice colored with disappointment.
After taking a deep breath I said, "Mom, if God loves me no matter what, I shouldn't have to prove my faith. He should accept me as is, especially since He made me that way."
"I will not let a daughter of mine speak that way," she said, "The only true way to God is through the church. Any other will lead you to the devil, and I will not let you surrender your immortal soul to him."
I wanted so badly for her to understand, but it seemed she was unwilling. Even knowing she was trying to look out for me did not stop the angry words that came out, "If God would damn me for wanting to explore the world He created, I'd rather go to hell than spend eternity with Him." I slammed the phone into its cradle. Shaking, I realized I'd been making quite a scene, what with raising my voice and all. Thankfully, my only witness had been a pigeon. The area was so empty and still I expected a renegade tumbleweed to dance into view.
Getting angry always made me hungry. I got a soft pretzel from a nearby shop, chomping it down as I made my way to the park. Seated on a park bench, I realized how completely exhausted I was. Emotionally, I felt like someone with the delicacy of a rabid bear had made his way through my inner workings. I gave a brief thought to my mother as I slipped into the land of Nod. She would have been shocked at my audacity to fall asleep on a public bench. Oh well, at least I don't look homeless.
I woke up knowing what to do. Now, three months later, I sit on that park bench's French cousin in the Jardin du Luxembourg (I haven't made it to the country yet). I haven't talked to my parents yet, and though I feel bad about the way I spoke to my mother, my view of the Statue of Liberty reminds me not to regret it. I have found myself in losing what I had always known. In truth, I do not wish for any other epiphanies; despite their benefits, they seem to cause as much trouble as ruby slippers in the Land of Oz.
P.S. I do not mean any offence with this piece. I bear no ill will to those who are Catholics, Christians, or spiritual in any way. I also did not intend for the story to be so long, it just happened that way.
Looking back on all those nights
The ones I spent with you
I've got to say good-bye
Listen to me
I got my own pair of shoes
To walk the hard road
Between what I must do
And what you would -
Pin me to the wall
And would make me do
But you know, I don't need you
You want me talking like any other
You got me feeling that I'm your mother
You got me coddling you all day and night
I think it's time to fight
Listen to me
I got my own pair of shoes
To walk the hard road
Between what I must do
And what you would -
Pin me to the wall
And would make me do
But you know, I don't need you
I won't be crawlin' to your side when you get cold
Won't be makin' you breakfast when we get old
How many times must I say "leave me alone"
Well, today I'm done
Blame it on the Catholics
Someone once told me to live my life to the fullest, experience all there is. I doubt that he intended what happened, since it was only years later that I had my revelation. However, I appreciate his advice, and wish him well, wherever he may be, with all my heart.
As a Catholic born and raised, I had a strong sense of duty. Routine ruled my days; get up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, read, say my prayers, go to bed. Some days were augmented with work at the church or homeless shelter after work, and Sundays I stayed home after attending mass. I was an obedient child due to my upbringing. I followed the plan set by my parents – get good grades, go to a good college, find a well-paying job – and never wondered for one second if I should stray from the path.
The revelation I had occurred at the strangest time – while I was happily petting my cat Dusty. It had been one of those ordinary days, the ones where you wake up the next morning and might wonder if you did anything productive at all the day before. Or, perhaps you don't even think about it because that day had been so inconsequential. That day, however, I felt a weight settle on my shoulders. The weight began to grow until suddenly I felt like a stale potato chip. What had gone wrong? I was perfectly content until that point, and now I longed for that mysterious shimmering thing I could barely see on the horizon. I would have thought some of those Sunday school lessons about greed and constancy in church that would have stuck – but no, at that moment I felt the driving urge to pack up and go to Luxembourg just for the heck of it. Dusty gave me a glare that seemed to say, Well, if you're going to stop petting me and jet off to a random European country, I might as well leave, and promptly jumped off my lap.
Why couldn't I be more like that? Was my thought as I stared at my cat stalking away. As most unfavorable things in life happen, this caught me at a bad time. The next day was a Sunday, and though I usually enjoyed church, the monkey on my back wouldn't let me alone. Can't you see this? I felt like crying out to the congregation, Have you ever wanted more from life? What is it that I want anyway? The sermon held no divine answers – only warnings of damnation should one leave the well-trodden path of Christian righteousness. At that moment, my monkey seemed to hit the right part of my head, and I realized the inconsistencies of my faith. I should love my neighbor and yet condemn those who do not belong to the church. God is everywhere and in everything, but one cannot seek Him everywhere and in everything. And taking a page out of Douglas Adams' book, some claim to know that God exists, but to know He exists would negate His faith-based existence. Despite the abruptness of this decision I was about to make, I felt deep within me that it was right. I would no longer follow a religion.
I would now like to interrupt this tale to tell my reader about my childhood priest. He was my friend. Now, I know catholic priests get a lot of bad press, but you must understand that this one did not belong to that particular group. He was the nicest old man you ever did see. His eyes radiated the good humor that had carved wrinkles around them long before I had met him. That same humor had set twin lines beside a quick-to-smile mouth. As a young catholic child, it was he I came to with all of my troubles, sins, and questions. When I was a teenager and seeking advice, he always lent an ear. It was during one of our conversations during my adolescence that he gave me that vital piece of counsel. When I asked him if he ever regretted joining the priesthood, he gave me an earnest look. "My dear, I don't regret it for a moment," he said, "But I did quite a few things before I took my vows. Always remember, if you haven't eaten Roman pizza, learned to tap dance, or fallen completely in love with something, you haven't lived."
Propelled by the jetpack memory of his words, I made my way to the nearest payphone. I was going to call my parents to tell them of my revelations, and for some inexplicable reason I did not want to do that from my apartment. My mother was the perfect wife, devoted, omniscient, a person who could anticipate her husband's every whim. My father was a stern, tall man who, despite his academic pursuits, had not lost his faith. How was I to approach this godly pair with the news that I would not live up to their expectations? I slowly and deliberately pressed one number after the next. My father picked up, "Hello?"
"Hi Dad, how are you? May I talk to Mom, please?"
A grunt. Could he tell what I what was coming? I hoped not.
"Darling!" was my mother's greeting, "How are you?"
I winced. "Pretty good, Mom," I said. The feeling of being a stale potato chip had evaporated only to be replaced with anxiety. "I have something to tell you," I proceeded to recount my two revelations, the one during the previous night and the other the following morning. I told her of my decision to renounce Catholicism.
There was a long pause before she said, "Honey, can't you see this is a test? You're not doing so well now, but you can still prove the strength of your faith to God." My mother's voice colored with disappointment.
After taking a deep breath I said, "Mom, if God loves me no matter what, I shouldn't have to prove my faith. He should accept me as is, especially since He made me that way."
"I will not let a daughter of mine speak that way," she said, "The only true way to God is through the church. Any other will lead you to the devil, and I will not let you surrender your immortal soul to him."
I wanted so badly for her to understand, but it seemed she was unwilling. Even knowing she was trying to look out for me did not stop the angry words that came out, "If God would damn me for wanting to explore the world He created, I'd rather go to hell than spend eternity with Him." I slammed the phone into its cradle. Shaking, I realized I'd been making quite a scene, what with raising my voice and all. Thankfully, my only witness had been a pigeon. The area was so empty and still I expected a renegade tumbleweed to dance into view.
Getting angry always made me hungry. I got a soft pretzel from a nearby shop, chomping it down as I made my way to the park. Seated on a park bench, I realized how completely exhausted I was. Emotionally, I felt like someone with the delicacy of a rabid bear had made his way through my inner workings. I gave a brief thought to my mother as I slipped into the land of Nod. She would have been shocked at my audacity to fall asleep on a public bench. Oh well, at least I don't look homeless.
I woke up knowing what to do. Now, three months later, I sit on that park bench's French cousin in the Jardin du Luxembourg (I haven't made it to the country yet). I haven't talked to my parents yet, and though I feel bad about the way I spoke to my mother, my view of the Statue of Liberty reminds me not to regret it. I have found myself in losing what I had always known. In truth, I do not wish for any other epiphanies; despite their benefits, they seem to cause as much trouble as ruby slippers in the Land of Oz.
P.S. I do not mean any offence with this piece. I bear no ill will to those who are Catholics, Christians, or spiritual in any way. I also did not intend for the story to be so long, it just happened that way.
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