Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, August 18.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
You’ll recall how I put Martin Luther to shame when I affixed my 96 Theses to the proverbial door a few weeks back, laying out in stark detail the conditions required for me to show up at church on Sunday mornings. Since then, I’ve gone a few more times, which in itself qualifies as an antediluvian miracle in my mind, and I’ve also come to realize part of why it’s so difficult for me to attend.
It’s certainly not the prescriptive aspect that bothers me. I’m fallible, know I need some serious work, and it’s strangely comforting–renewing, even–to sit in the sanctuary on the seventh day and be reminded of the shoulds. It’s like a weekly petri dish, really, where people gather under the microscope, with the dark crevices of existence magnified for review. It’s also like a petri dish because somebody invariably coughs into the back of your head, plus there’s usually a compulsory round of handshaking at the beginning of service, but that’s a separate matter altogether.
The roadblock for me is community. I’ve mentioned this before, many times, and to give it some color I wrestle with the fellow enthusiastically describing the upcoming church picnic or women’s breakfast. I wrestle with the musical duet on stage, two faces perennially enraptured with yet another song that narrowly escaped from easy listening hell. I wrestle with the couple in the supermarket checkout line discussing Romans chapter such and such at a volume just loud enough to invite participation from nearby eavesdroppers.
Not literally wrestling, of course, because, hey, they seem content enough. It’s more of a fear, almost: if I get in too deep, take too much of this to heart, will I be like them? Am I supposed to want to be like them? Sounds terrible, I know, and imperious to boot. But this is where I am and, make no mistake, I plan on returning this weekend. Last week’s sermon was a compelling interpretation of communion, of all things, and the post-service trip to Chipotle was engineered as a kind of psychological reward. I’ve also identified two skills I’ll need to acquire to function in this environment, tools that will allow be to blend–be at the table, you might say, but not of it.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Lately, whenever I’m not jamming login credentials into Blogger, I’ve been making a new stop on my daily trips down the Information Superhighway: Petfinder.com. Back in February, I visited a shelter and decided against adopting a dog, so overwhelmed was I by choice, never mind the inevitable financial and mental cost. Now, having had a few months to marinate on the matter, I’m back on the scene, scanning–let’s be honest here–mug shots of the canine gen pop in the Charlotte-metro area.
I know what I want. Nothing’s changed on this front. Got to be a rescue. Medium energy. Large. Must not be yappy. After growing up with a Cocker Spaniel and, more recently, spending time with my sister’s new Pomeranian, the verdict is simple. Small, barkey dogs, in veterinary parlance, drive me fucking insane.
And I’ll need every shred of sanity because this won’t be easy. I know the effort demanded. When I look in a kennel, any feelings tied to the moment quickly evaporate in the face of all the attendant responsibilities: the initial cost, the shots, housebreaking, trips to the vet, doggie shampoo, early mornings, wrenching end-of-life care. Instead of carpe diem, what unfolds in my mind is per diem, really.
But I believe this is one of those situations where I can mull over four dozen reasons not to act, when all I really need is the one right reason to do so. Even now, I can picture all the corners of my townhouse being christened with dog leavings and a corresponding decrease in property value, but guess what? The housing market already took a shit on every square inch of it, and it’s going to be a while before better days arrive. I may as well pony up and enjoy the situation at hand.