Prayer #100: Cento

Photo by jude_hill

I always thought cento was just a numeric prefix or a canned tomato brand. Turns out that cento in poet circles means something else entirely -- patchwork poetry.

The concept is simple: You write a new poem comprised entirely of lines from other sources. You can pull from one poet or several. You can be serious, clever, ironic, or obsequious. In any event, the theft is sanctioned -- plagiarism, with flair!

So, in honor of my 100th prayer here on Italian Mother Syndrome, I'd like to pay homage to some of the prayers and pray-ers -- of all shapes, styles, and backgrounds -- that inspire me to focus inward and upward.

And for all of you who read and pray and question with me ... can't wait to write the next 100 with you.

Prayer #100: Cento

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. [1]

[For] all work is empty save when there is love;
And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God. [2]

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident. [3]

[This is] not idolatry, but identity,
for love and God are one
when love longs to be Forever. [4]

[And] a story without love is not worth telling. [5]

Amen.

Who's counting? A note on anniversaries

Photo by Stebaneze

I was at a party on Saturday night with Fella and his med school classmates ("Gubernaculum's my favorite word, too!") when someone asked me, "So how long have you guys been dating?"

"Ummm ... erm ... well, it depends," I replied.

"Depends?" she said.

"Yeah, I mean -- hang on." I turned to Fella. "How long have we been dating anyway?"

His eyes gleamed with the light of love that only a woman acting like a man can engender.

"See, that's why I like you," he said. "You're not even counting!"

Ah, Fella, if you only knew. You see, the real root of my question was about when to start counting. Was it from when we realized we liked one another after President's Day? When we got on the same page about it over 4th of July? What about our first visit on Labor Day? Or when we said we were 'official' during Columbus Day?*

* Yes, clearly we have a federal holiday fetish. Lord knows what Memorial Day will bring.

The truth is, Fella, I'm not the woman you think I am. I really like marking time. And while I'm not a 'monthiversary' addict, I do consider myself a year/five-year/decade kind of girl.

Why the annual love? In part, I follow anniversaries keep the greeting card industry copywriters in business (c'mon, you know we need those jobs right now). I also like an excuse for gifts, flowers, parties, or surprise European vacations where appropriate.

But I mark milestones mainly because they're a socially sanctioned form of navel-gazing, much like blogging or karaoke. They compress all your major victories, minor frustrations, and regular chores into one convenient timeframe, and push all the trends you missed (or chose to ignore) to the surface.

For example:

* Today marks my second year in DC. (You can read about the first year here.) Not much has changed -- oh, except for one of my roommates, a new job, that boy, and a renewed sense of purpose in my chosen life path.

* Today also marks my parents' 31st wedding anniversary. (You can read my dad waxing sentimental on their 30th here.) That journey has been nothing BUT change, with two kids, 3 states, 9 houses, and countless date nights to attest for it.

* Soon I will write Prayer #100. (Read the prayer series to date here.) What started out of frustration with young adult ministry has morphed into a personal mission to explore my own faith and help others think it through too. A good example of ending up where you thought you might be in unexpected ways.

So, who knows what will happen on Feb. 3, 2011? (I haven't hung my pictures from last year, by the way.) I imagine I'll still be writing, and still observing federal holidays, and still marking time in my own way -- just to see how it keeps unfolding.

Prayer #99: Love Bugs

"If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal.

And if I have the gift of prophecy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains but do not have love, I am nothing.

If I give away everything I own, and if I hand my body over so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, it is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth.

It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails. If there are prophecies, they will be brought to nothing; if tongues, they will cease; if knowledge, it will be brought to nothing.

For we know partially and we prophesy partially, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away.

When I was a child, I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I put aside childish things.

At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially; then I shall know fully, as I am fully known.

So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

--{1 Corinthians 13: 1-13}

Prayer #99: Love Bugs

My love is impatient. My love is frustrated. My love doesn't want to be kind or understanding or polite.

My love wants its way. Which probably means I don't have love -- I just have agita.

So if my love isn't even formed ... then what? Maybe I first have to imagine and envision and act it -- even if I don't fully feel it -- to summon the gift into a solid state.

Maybe I do already have some love, though, and it's just young -- a neophyte emotion looking for a crack in the sidewalk to reach the sun where it won't scrape the ragged edges and retreat with a whimper.

Or maybe my love is here, fully formed, leaning against the door jamb with hands folded, an expectant look on its face, patiently waiting for my angry torment to subside so it can start on the real work of fixing things.

God, help me find peace in my partial knowing. Bear with me in my child-like ways. And teach me that love is patient, love is kind, and love can be -- will be -- me.

Amen.

Ssshhh! The library is speaking to you

Photo by Ozyman

The last time I was in a college campus library, I had pimply skin, 18 layers of anti-winter gear, and a paper to write.

Fast-forward five (five!) years to today, as I sit once more in a college library, this time with clearer skin, only two layers on, and a blog post to write. Fella is upstairs in an 'optional'-but-really-required lecture, so I'm treating this learning hub as adult day care.

As I sit here staring up at the skylights, I think, "Why don't I come to libraries more often?" The system was really onto something when it decided all patrons should be quiet when they're here. I find it remarkable that this simple rule -- no speaking -- is so universally acknowledged, respected, and obeyed.

I don't think it's from fear of librarians' wrath, either. It's part of the unbreakable library code: Be silent for others to find silence within yourself.

After all, libraries are places where you accomplish things. Did you come hear to read? Then read. Study? Then study. Write? Then write. You arrive with a goal, you leave with a product. The quiet gives you space to do that.

Library quiet is also distinctive in that it doesn't necessarily equal "peaceful." Concentration pulsates here. People come and go with purpose. You can feel the stress ebb and flow. This heightened tension only makes the code more inviolable.

To break it, then, is unforgivable. Imagine if I screamed right now for no reason. The librarian would scold me for sure. But the other patrons whose trains of thought I derailed would inflict much worse with their glares and grimaces. The energy in the room would shift from trust, to hurt, to anger. And just as I disrupted their needed silence, they would ruin mine.

So people who want soothing should visit the ocean in the early morning. Those who want to contemplate should sit in a cathedral pew on a weekday afternoon. But people who want unspoken expectations to motivate them ... they should set up shop among the shelves.

How to put the brakes on a writing slump

Hugh Macleod, via bioxid

Lethargy mixed with frustration on top of guilt. When this potent combo builds up inside writers' heads, it signals the enemy of all creativity: the writing slump.

You know the feeling. It derails your best intentions "to just sit down and write." You start losing hope you'll ever make it in this business. Worse, you make excuses or self-flagellate or ignore the problem altogether, none of which are remotely useful techniques for restoring your get-up-and-go for words.

I know the feeling because I'm on the downslide too. After a productive burst last weekend, I'm back to believing I can't sustain the momentum. But, since it's best to catch these downturns early, I turned to some wise advice I heard from a published author a few months ago.

Patricia Reilly Giff is the acclaimed author of Pictures of Hollis Woods, Lily's Crossing, and other children's and young adult books. She has been writing for over 20 years. Here are her snippets of advice and words of comfort to encourage aspiring writers, and help them stop the slump in mid-ride.

Writing Technique

1. Having story issues? Check to see if you have a person, a place, and a problem.

2. When looking at the problem in the story, consider: Will it make me worry for the whole book?

3. "All you have to do in a book is give everyone hope."


Sitting Down to Write

4. Give yourself 30 minutes a day. The cumulative effect is invigorating.

5. The first year of writing was 'really hard' for her. Sometimes, it takes a while to get into a groove.

6. Writing and stories are all about emotion for her. She'd picture 'softies with tears in their eyes' when she sat down to work.


Words of Wisdom

7. Stay up-to-date on what's new in your genre. What other books and authors are circulating?

8. When we write, we pull on a 'reservoir of memory' we change slightly.

9. "One of the loveliest reasons to write is to capture the past."


And, A Funny Story to Help Relax You

10. When Giff visits classrooms, she encourages students to interrupt her at any point with questions. At one point during a visit to a kindergarten class, a little girl waved her hand.

"Yes honey, what's your question?" Giff asked.

"I have a cat," the little girl replied.

Then the little boy next to her said, "Good question!"

***

So, I guess what I'm trying to tell you is ... relax. Take a deep breath, ask yourself some good questions (with or without cat), and concentrate on putting one hand over the other. Eventually, what went down will come up -- and bring you with it.

Prayer #98: Tweethology

Prayers in 140 characters or less.

Prayer #98: Tweethology

(1)
Short on time. Long on worry. Any recommendations on how to extend one and cut the other? Thanks for the slice-and-splice advice.

(2)
@God: Tried to message you, but You don't seem to be following me. I'm a little confused ... didn't You follow me first?

(3)
The Bible, Twitter-style (via @God): Love me. Love each other. Know I love you. Tell others I love you. Sensing a theme?

(4)
The early prophets had sandals and conviction. I have social media and doubts. Different tools, but I hope the same results.

(5)
@God: You're my lifeline, my lifeguard, my lifesaver. Let me never then doubt You're w/ me for life, in life, after life. Amen.

Amen.

Five memorable meals and what they taught me

My coworkers and I have this little tradition going called the Culinary Club, where we rotate hosting each month and teach the others how to cook our best dishes. Our core competencies cover Italian, Indian, and Cajun, with a healthy dose of "let's make something new" bravura to keep it interesting.

But the real intent of the evening is not the wine (though divine) and not the free homecooked meal (though appreciated). The club is a collective memory in the making, a standing reminder of all the good food that got us to this point and all the good cooking that will sustain us going forward.

We got to talking about this very idea last night, about how even if you're not an avowed foodie, meals can leave mile markers in your life. Which started me down my own epicurean memory lane with five distinct pit stops.

Some center of the food. Others center on the people. But they are all delicious. And I bet you have some to share too ...

1. "Wait, There's More?" -- Florence

I didn't know the meaning of feast before I ate this meal. It was my family's first night in Florence. All we knew was that "you have to eat at Il Latini," according to my friend Michael. So we made reservations, bypassed the line stretching around the block, and sat in a section of long wooden tables, surrounded by other diners.

What transpired was an endless banquet (I think we counted 14 courses). We didn't even order anything; the waiters just started bringing out food. When we thought we could eat no more, a new aroma or sauce enticed us to make room. (The gallon of wine we chugged also helped.)

Night fell outside, the din in the room increased, and pretty soon we were part of a rollicking, boisterous food extravaganza with everyone soused out of their mind and scarfing down food like it was their last chance.

The dish I remember best: white beans in a light marinara sauce. That's it. Nothing fancy. But oh, the way it smelled! Like rosemary and garlic and home. I could eat that dish for the rest of my life and never be lonely again.

2. Muffaletta Me At It -- New Orleans

I was helping Habitat for Humanity build homes in Slidell, La., the spring of my junior year of college. We took Friday off to cruise New Orleans and see what all the fuss was about. My group and I ended up at this little hole-in-the-wall I can't recall the name of, not too far from St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter.

I ordered a muffaletta. I'd never had one before. And I don't think I'll ever recapture the experience again, unless I find a way to approximate the level of crack in that olive mix. Plus, I don't practice voodoo or play jazz, and I'm sure both were required to concoct those unique flavors.

I ate the whole damn thing. By myself.

3. You Say Frittata, I Say Jumbata -- Syracuse, NY

Syracuse is not known for its cuisine, just its Orangemen. So I relied on my own knowledge and meager food budget to feed myself through college. Eventually, many friends came to rely on me too, because I was one of the few folks who regularly food shopped and remembered to buy such exotic items as "eggs."

No surprise then, that six hungry college boys -- all friends from church -- arrived at my kitchen table one late night, lured by the promise of a homemade frittata. I delivered on that promise too, by dumping the entire contents of my fridge into one pan and serving it with great enthusiasm.

A dozen and a half eggs, three veggies, 2 kinds of cheese, and some questionable meat later, I learned that watching people relish a meal I made for them was a sure recipe for my future happiness. I also learned that the way to men's hearts is not only through their stomach, but through their wallets too.

4. Spoonfeeding Sans Spoon -- somewhere on a highway in the snow

My boyfriend at the time and I had just left visiting his parents to make the four-hour drive back to school. It was already late when we left. Then a snowstorm hit. We were in the car so long we got hungry again.

Luckily, we had leftover chicken parmigiana in a doggy bag from the restaurant we'd just departed ... but no utensils. So while he gripped the wheel and watched the road, I tore apart the chicken with my hands and fed it to him sideways, all the while thinking that desperate times call for hilarious measures.

I'm pleased to report we made it home in one piece with nary a sauce stain.

5. "You Have Something In Your Teeth ..." -- Washington D.C.

I was on my first job interview in DC with a tight timeframe, seeing as I was traveling round-trip from Philly in one day. Yet meetings at my potential employer's were delayed. I had no lunch. So they sent me over to the Daily Grill with orders to eat a nice meal and bring the receipt back.

It had started to snow outside. The restaurant was packed with the lunch crowd. I sat by myself in my big-girl business suit. I ordered tomato soup and salad, even though they carried great risk of a) staining my outfit and b) getting stuck in my teeth.

I ate it slowly, watching the snow fall and listening to DC natives chatter. I pictured myself living here (in DC, not in the Daily Grill). By the time I finished, I felt fortified. I could see myself here. I wanted to be here.

So I went back to the office and landed the job. But only after checking my teeth for spinach.

What's your most memorable meal, and why?