Marianne's Mini Musings

It is with deep regret and sorrow that we announce the death of Civility, Widow of Good Manners and friend of Consideration.  She was proceeded in death by her father, Decorum, her mother Graciousness, her brother Kindness and her sister, Respect.  She fought valiantly against many cancers and diseases including vulgarity, misogyny, bigotry and insincerity. For years she was bullied by the Brothers Rant and Rudeness and was much too often greeted by "The Bird".  By request, there will be no services as to avoid the scandal of phones ringing, texts sending, and and cars darting in and out of traffic during her funeral procession.  In lieu of flowers, please plant a seed for her surviving grandchildren.  Forgive a stranger, smile at a friend, rise above the darkness of indifference, slow down.  Use your turn signal.  Stop at stop signs.  Pardon those who don't.  Stop.  Listen.  Maybe, just maybe, there is hope.

I had a moment on my way home from work tonight, a revelation of sorts.  Was it clarity or simply a longing for something more--simplicity?  Civility?  Human kindness.  Yes, HUMAN kindness.  I suppose there has always been unrest in the world.  Hatred and war, it's as timeless as Abel and Cain--brother murders brother.  I can only imagine how this would play out on the news today.  The news stations would show Mother Eve ugly crying, eyes puffy, near fainting and falling out.  Adam would stroke her hair and later, he would release a press statement begging that their family be given time to grieve privately.  The Twitterverse and Facebook would trend, hash tag RIP Abel or Abel had it coming!  Another would post something race-ridden on Facebook about their opinion on the curse of Cain and arguments would erupt in short, poorly formed spittle-sentence.  The unfriending would commence without even a request for clarification.  Don't disagree with me, after all, if you do, you m

This evening, as I drove my three-year-old son through the park, I had a flashback to previous stretch of my journey -- this thing called life.  We had deviated from the usual, looking for a new and more exciting playground, a different slipper side and shade.  It's July in St. Louis, unbearable heat and wringing wet.  This park is a jewel in the summer with mature trees that provide at least a 10 degree shade cover from the sun. Driving to the playground, we passed a park bench that used to be a favorite.  I spent many hours on that bench during many seasons, writing bad poetry, desperate prayers and musing about my hopes and dreams.  Back then, I lived in a shotgun apartment only a few blocks away; an apartment that was infested with roaches but CHEAP.  My rent was only $325/month, perfect for a single girl trying to make it on her own for the first time.  The apartment was gross but I did everything I could to make it home.  I covered the 1970's wallpaper with cheerful whi

With the election season finally over, we can begin celebrating the holiday seasons in earnest.  I've been secretly listening to Christmas music since August and I've begun posting my daily gratitudes.  My gratitude for freedom of religion is so much larger than a tweat or a tiny post on Facebook.  This country was founded upon religious freedom and many have lost their very lives in defending it.  In the seventeenth century, pilgrams immigrated from Europe, seeking a land where they could practice their religion freely and as they believed, not as dictated by their government.  Many were running from the belief and practice that there was one true religion and that it was the duty of the civil authorities to impose it, forcibly if necessary, in the interest of saving the souls of all citizens. Nonconformists could expect no mercy and might be executed as heretics.  As with most pioneers, the pilgrams suffered illness -- scurvy, pneumonia, malnutrition, hyopthermia.  But t

When we first moved into our urban St. Louis home, we cut down an old, dying tree and replaced it with an apple tree.  How wonderful it will be, I thought, to go into my backyard and pick a delicious crunchy and crisp apple straight from the tree.  It would remind me of my childhood in California where the memory of those apples taste far better than any real apple I've tasted since.   That old apple tree bares many memories -- the day it reached out and caught my sister's kite and entangled the string throughout its limbs, its limbs cut and used for "much needed" spankings, the pink blossoms that would spring forth each April as if the tree were cotton candy. I suppose I neglected the tree, hoping I would plant it, water it occasionally and let the sun nourish the fruit until it was ready for picking.  I knew it needed a good pruning but I was afraid I might prune it wrong and kill it so I left it to grow gnarly, each limb fighting for access to the light. 

Motherhood The day is coming, the one that many women detest, the second Sunday in May.   I look forward to it -- not because I expect to put my feet up and be served breakfast in bed, or to be pampered, or spared toddler-tantrums or diapers or to be worshiped -- but because I feel like the luckiest woman in the world that I get to be a mom. I'm an old mom by many people's standards, a 42-year-old with a toddler.  Many of my friends have children who are heading to college while I'm just starting.  I hide the tiny strands of silver gray that threaten to call me Grandma and pretend that age is only a number, that I'm really only three and a half dozen. For years I dreaded the day.  I pitied myself on Sunday morning when all of the mothers of the congregation were asked to stand and receive a flower or a candy bar or some token as to say, "Here is your reward..."  Reward for what?  I wasn't sure; I was too busy (depending on the year) feeling t