VALENTINE’S DAY

VALENTINE’S DAY

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I know that some of my readers are in countries that do not celebrate the holiday, so let me just briefly describe it: This is a holiday that celebrates love, especially romantic love. The tradition is for couples to exchange valentines (cards containing love notes). Some people give gifts. Traditional gifts are flowers, especially roses, candy, fragrances, and less traditionally, lingerie for women.

Yesterday I heard two wildly varying accounts of the history of Valentine’s Day. One of them had to do with a pagan ritual in which men drew women’s names out of a hat (“billets”) and then the men coupled up with whatever woman they had selected and the couple went into the woods and “frolicked” for the day. Then, the Christians got hold of it and turned it into something more of a religious nature. The second account I got began with the Christians. It was the one about St. Valentine, who was jailed for his religious beliefs and, while rotting in prison awaiting execution, fell in love with his jailer’s daughter and began writing sweet nothings to her (the first valentines). Who knows?

Most people will tell you, if you ask them, that St. Valentine’s Day is a “bogus” holiday, made up by the card companies and the candy companies and the flower shops to create a financial bonanza. If you ask them, most people will tell you they “don’t believe” in Valentine’s Day. Most people will go ahead and buy something for their sweetheart, lover or spouse anyway because they don’t want their significant other to be hurt. Or because, depending on the dynamics of the relationship, they don’t want their significant other to hurt them.

Also, many people like to go out to a restaurant for dinner on Valentine’s Day. The restaurants have one of their best days of the year, and in a splurge of unchecked price gouging, they present “special menus” with a “prix fix”, which translates to mean “beaucoup bucks”. The food is usually ho-hum, the rooms are crowded, the service is lousy, and you walk out noticeably poorer than you were when you walked in. Again, many people feel pressured to follow this tradition in order to “prove” to their partner that they love them.

I could certainly understand people balking at the idea of Valentine’s Day. It makes sense to me that many, many people find it unworthy of their attention, if not downright offensive. And I feel that by its very nature, Valentine’s Day is an exclusionary holiday that probably hurts many people. I know by past experience that being single on Valentine’s Day is a lot like being Jewish at Christmas – You just feel left out. What you might otherwise have celebrated as your independence, your strength of character, your alone-ness, may on Valentine’s Day simply feel like loneliness. At its heart (pun intended), Valentine’s Day is a heartless holiday for many.

Because of that, my sisters and I try to do something lovely for my mom on Valentine’s Day. Mom is single, and we are acutely aware of how that could be difficult for her when the whole world is celebrating love. Yesterday, for instance, we gave Mom some flowers, and my sister took her out for the day. There are all kinds of love, and I see no reason why Valentine’s Day should not be more inclusive. We really should honor our mothers, our fathers, our children, our friends.

Having said all that, spending Valentine’s Day with my husband is always a joy for me. Art brought me some beautiful flowers, and I made him a special dinner. We didn’t make a huge fuss, but it was a very sweet day.

I think love – in all its forms – is a wonderful thing to celebrate. Every day.

© 2005, Robin Munson

WHAT DID JESUS LOOK LIKE?

WHAT DID JESUS LOOK LIKE?

Last night Art and I were watching CNN, and they showed part of a documentary about Jesus. The thrust of this particular piece was that people were curious about Jesus’ physical appearance. They showed many renderings of Jesus throughout many different cultures. What was striking, and this was noted, was that every ethnicity thought of Jesus as being one of their own. Native Americans portrayed him as a Native American. Africans portrayed him as an African, and so on. Of course, we as European Americans are most familiar with the blue-eyed, fair-complexioned image, which runs throughout Western culture for the past two thousand years.

Then they showed a “scientific” rendering. They had extrapolated from an ancient skull what a man of Jesus’ time might have looked like. Indeed, the image that resulted looked an awful lot like a composite of the Jewish boys in my high school class in Pittsburgh.

But I couldn’t help but think all the while we were watching that this documentary, fascinating as it might be, misses the whole point. I feel confident that Jesus was unconcerned with his physical appearance. He would be much more happy to know that, as we approach the celebration of his birthday, we were honoring His spirit. After all, Jesus was a rabbi. The literal meaning of the word “rabbi” in Hebrew is teacher. What did this man teach that is of value to us two thousand years later?

But of course, to quote Madonna, we are “living in a material world”. In twenty-first century America, there is a very high premium on people’s looks. If you don’t believe me, think of the flak Donald Trump has taken for his hairstyle. Now think about it. Is The Donald’s hairstyle his most important characteristic? Is his hairstyle more important, say, than his style of capitalism, his attitude toward business, his success or failure as a husband or as a father, even?

We live in a time when models are plucked from the pages of magazines and transformed overnight into movie stars. Does it matter whether they studied method acting? Does it matter whether they’ve ever read Shakespeare? Does it matter whether they have clear diction or the psychological sophistication to understand the roles they play? I leave it to you to answer any of those questions. (You can guess my own opinions).

So, last night as I was trying to sleep, I had this wild thought. What if you really could judge a book by its cover? What if everyone’s looks were a kind of code for who they were? What if every lying politician had a long nose? What if every beautiful girl had the soul of Mother Theresa? What if every vain, egotistical movie actor had a pot belly? What if every rapist was marked with acne scars? What if every larcenous criminal really did have beady eyes?

Well, it would be a different world, wouldn’t it? All we would need as an electorate would be photographs of the candidates plastered all over the media. But wait? Isn’t that how we elect our leaders now? Yes, only in my hypothetical world, it would work.

Perhaps in school we would learn The Code. There might be pull-down charts in every classroom showing each physical characteristic and its translation just to the right, like this: (picture of a very long nose) = Lying. (Picture of square jaw) = Trustworthy. Then when we go to vote, voila! We vote for someone who looks like Dan Quayle and we get someone who acts like Abraham Lincoln. (Ah, if only it were that easy).

Well, this morning when I woke up I was sandwiched between Art, who had his arm around me, and our cat, Henry, who was curled up beside me on the bed. Art was still asleep, snoring just a little. Henry was purring and when I stirred he reached out and tapped me with his paw, begging for a little affection. I reached out and petted him and it brought the biggest grin to my face. I woke up feeling so much love and warmth and gratitude.

So for today, when I try to imagine what God looks like, I will see Henry’s face, or Art’s face. And when Henry tries to imagine what God looks like, maybe he’ll see my face, or Art’s face. And maybe it’s the same for you. I am far from Catholic, but I do have to say that, suddenly, the act of communion makes sense to me on a certain level. We are the hands and the face of God, at least, when we are engaged in acts of love and kindness.

What did Jesus look like? He looked like us. Like all of us.

© 2004, Robin Munson

A VERY LONG ENGAGEMENT

In exactly twenty-four hours Art and I will be at the airport. At about this time I will swallow my little white pill, which will help me to get through the rest of the day. My hands and feet will probably be a little clammy. (They usually warm up when the pill kicks in).

But it would be better for me to skip the part about how we get to Connecticut and to concentrate on how it will be when we get there, because apart from my well-known reluctance to fly, I am actually looking forward to this trip.

Among other reasons for our going, we will be there to visit Art’s parents. (I’m not going to use their names because I don’t want to embarrass them). They will be celebrating their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary this month. No, that’s not a typo. I mean that Art’s parents got married in 1939. Before World War II. When FDR was in office. And miraculously, over those sixty-five years, they have never separated. This is one long, continuous love affair. No doubt there have been bumps along the way, but isn’t that what makes life interesting?

I wish I knew the secret, but I do have a few theories.

First, you start out with a great big helping of romantic love. It doesn’t hurt to have a little parental opposition thrown into the bargain, or maybe just a hint of secrecy. That gives you forward momentum. And these “kids” were young, gorgeous, energetic, and determined. (I’ve seen the pictures of them at that age – they looked like they were from Central Casting. The chemistry is obvious).

Second, it doesn’t hurt to be born into an era that values perseverance and integrity above all else. They may have been the originators of the homily: “When the going gets tough, the tough get going”. My in-laws didn’t buy anything “on time”. They believed in saving up their money until they could afford to pay cash. They shared common beliefs about work. They shared beliefs about how to raise their kids. They agreed never to fight in front of the children long before Dr. Phil was around to spread the gospel. They took full responsibility for their lives. I think they could have chimed in with Harry Truman when he said, “The buck stops here”. Let’s compare that to the current atmosphere in Washington. Hmmmmm.

Third – They still hold surprises for each other. They have not forsaken their individuality and merged into one. Somehow (and I think this is tricky) they’re like the States in the United States. Each of them has sovereignty, and yet each of them is part of the larger whole. They consult each other on important matters, but they still have the power to make decisions independent of each other. There’s still a little mystery – even a little conflict from time to time that makes the sparks fly. How wonderful!

Over the years they’ve developed a very deep trust. When things get hard, they turn toward each other, instead of away. The relationship has become so much more than the sum of its parts. They are the best of best friends.

Every now and then when we visit, I will see them holding hands under the table like a young, newly engaged couple. And I realize that marriage does not mark the end of the engagement, just the formal beginning.

© 2004, Robin Munson

ME & GEORGE BURNS

(Author’s Note: Just for the record – This is fiction. RM).

It happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to be scared. I remember that I was pulling into the next lane. I had my left turn signal on, and I glanced back over my shoulder to make sure the coast was clear. I must have been going about 65, which was actually a little slow for the 405 that day. But when I turned back around, the truck in front of me had stopped. All I saw was red tail lights. Then black.

Next thing I know, I’m in the ER at Cedars. I see lots of little kids. One with her head in her mother’s lap, and the mother was stroking her head, ever so gently, with that fifty-yard stare. Then I saw me. It felt like I was on the other side of the room and I recognized my hair. The rest was harder to make out. I was a mess. I saw lots of activities around my guerney. Someone pulled out the paddles and yelled “Clear!”, just like they do on TV. They were pounding on me for a long time. Then someone pulled a sheet up over my head and wheeled me away. But – Wait a minute! They couldn’t have wheeled me away because I was still in the room, checking out everyone else. Then I realized what had happened.

There was no tunnel. There was no bright light. Nobody called my name or waved to me. It was very disappointing, to tell you the truth. But not a bad sensation, just floating. You know that feeling you get when you’re falling asleep and you’re about half-way there? It used to happen to me all the time. Then images began.

Now I was in a steam room. I mean it. A schvitz. Like the old Jewish men used to visit once a week. All tiled in black and white. Hot as hell. (Just a figure of speech). In fact, I heard my grandfather, Mair, was very fond of the schvitz. He took my father there as a rite of passage. It was probably more important than a bar mitzvah. Now, this is funny because I’ve never been in a schvitz in my life, so now that I’m being inducted into my own personal heaven, why a schvitz?

Pretty soon, the heavy steel door opened, and in walks, well, George Burns. As in “Burn and Allen”. As in the movie, “Oh, God”, and the sequels. There he was, wrapped in a big white towel, a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He took the cigar out and said, “Hiya, kid!”. I was stunned.

“Are you God?”

“Sure”.

“But – Why do You look like George Burns? As a matter of fact, you sound like George Burns.”

“Isn’t that what you expected?” A little sly smile played on the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I guess so, but I always imagined that that was just my immature spirituality and that You would enlighten me later on”.

“Your spirituality is fine. Listen, I don’t really have an image that you could recognize, so I do it on a case-by-case basis. You expected George Burns. Moses expected a burning bush. Get it?”

“Okay, yeah, I think I do. Do I get to ask questions?”

“You just did. Go ahead. Fire away.”

“Am I – um – dead?”

“Your old body is vacant, if that’s what you mean. It’s ready for the recycling bin.”

“The ‘recycling bin’?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing goes to waste, I promise you.”

“So – How are we having this discussion?”

“Well, just because your old body is sent back to the earth doesn’t mean your soul is scrapped, too! You’re a good soul. Sturdy. Indestructible, actually. You’ve heard the expression “immortal soul”?

“Yeah, but I never took it very literally.”

“Well, that’s understandable. Most people get confused by the body and think that’s the whole deal. Very common misunderstanding.”

“Well, so. How did I do?”

“You done good, kid. I’m proud of you”.

“Really?”

”Yeah. You did your best. You learned from your mistakes. And you were really good at loving.”

“Yeah, but I mean. I never did figure out why I was here, I mean, there. You know, I wasn’t a big success at anything. I never got that hit record.”

“You mean, you weren’t famous or wealthy?”

“At the risk of sounding shallow, yes.”

“I’ll let you in on a little secret. Hit records never impressed me. Neither does fame. And wealth, well, you know. In and of itself wealth has no value. Can even be a problem.”

“But – I don’t know what my Purpose was. Can you explain that?”

“I don’t make up your Purpose. You do! That’s free will. One of my finest inventions, if I do say so Myself.”

“No predestiny?”

“No. How do you think I amuse myself? I’d be bored if I could predict your every move, much less control it. So now I’ll ask the question. What was the purpose of your life?”

“Ummm. I was a good daughter, a good friend, a good sister. . . I guess.”

“Don’t you know?”

“Yes. I was.”

“Very good, kid. So, what’s the purpose of being a good daughter, a good friend, a good sister?”

“Is there a purpose?”

”Sure. An important one. See, it’s all about connection. The biggest misery is to feel isolated, alone. The greatest joy is to feel connected.”

“So by making people feel connected, I contributed to their joy?”

“You’re a quick study. More tomorrow. I’m an old man. I’m tired”.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Everywhere. Don’t worry kid. Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I don’t exist. I’m as near as your own heartbeat”.

“Oh.”

He left by the door, which I thought was very sensitive. I was new to all this, and He was trying not to shock me.

© 2004 Robin Munson

DANCING BETWEEN THE RAINDROPS

A boy and a girl, Henry and Rose, were so much in love, that they couldn’t wait to get married. Although she was only sixteen and he was only seventeen, it didn’t matter to them. They asked for their parents’ blessing, but their parents could only shake their heads and say they were too young. So they ran away.

They went to a small town in a state where you didn’t have to be eighteen to get married. But as much in love as they were, and as eager as they were to wed, they were very particular about the results. They wanted to live happily ever after. They knew that the circumstances must be exactly right for that to happen, because they hardly knew of anyone who had lived happily ever after. As a matter of fact, they didn’t know anyone, because (logic tells us), in order to know someone has lived happily ever after, we have to wait until the “ever” part is over to know for sure.

So the boy and the girl went to the small café in the small town and they found out there was a town wisewoman – a gypsy fortune teller named Matilda – who was the all-around guru and soothsayer for everything from rheumatism to broken hearts. They walked to her little cottage on the outskirts of the town and knocked on the door. The elderly woman who answered the door smiled when she saw them. And although she was covered in wrinkles and brown spots and her hair was grey and thin and wiry, her smile lit up the whole doorway.

“What have we here? A pair of lovebirds, I see. Well, well, well. Come in! I’ll make a pot of tea.”

So the boy and the girl came into the warm, sunny little cottage and made themselves cozy beside the fire. A grey cat with white whiskers appeared out of nowhere and plopped herself down in the girl’s lap. The girl stroked her and spoke.

“We want to get married.”

The old woman looked thoughtfully at the boy. “Is that so?”

“Yes, he said. Very much so”.

“Well”, said the gypsy, “There is the preacher down the road. He can help you with that. I don’t do weddings.” And with that she began to get up. Then she stopped herself. “But there is something else, isn’t there?”

“Yes”, replied the girl. “We want to live happily ever after. We want to make sure. We don’t ever want to make each other unhappy.”

“Hmmmm.” The old woman mumbled. “I see. So you need the secret, is that it?”

“Yes, please” the boy politely replied.

“You must, of course, get married on a sunny day”, the old woman replied. “Otherwise, all bets are off”.

“That’s it?!” the couple cried in unison.

“That’s it,” answered Matilda.

With that, Henry and Rose jumped out of their chairs, hugged Matilda, and told her they would arrange to be married by the preacher down the road on the first sunny day available. As they left they promised to invite Matilda to the wedding. She waved after them, smiling.

Henry and Rose visited the preacher down the road, who expressed some doubt when he found out how young they were, but then relented, realizing that he and his wife, who had been happily married for over twenty years, had been just about their age when they had married. So they all consulted the Almanac and they tuned in to the Weather Channel, and they even looked outside for signs of rain. They decided that the next day would be a fine, sunny day. The preacher was available (as it would be a Monday), and all was hastily and happily arranged. Henry and Rose shook hands with the preacher and thanked his plump little wife who was making dumplings in the kitchen. They then went to the café and announced their wedding for the next day at the church down the road. All the town was invited. They called Matilda from the phone booth in the café and told her the good news. And because they were not yet married and had no where to go, they spent the night in separate rooms in the home of the café owner, which was just upstairs overlooking Main Street.

Well. The next morning the young couple rose to the smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon buns. They went downstairs for breakfast and tried to pay for it with their meager savings, but the café owner would not hear of it – not on their wedding day.

Just as they sat down to the steaming coffee, they heard a CRACK and a BOOM. They looked outside, and to their horror, saw that a huge lightning storm had come in out of nowhere. They were sure their wedding would have to be called off. Now they would never live happily ever after, they thought! They were miserable, and decided to consult Matilda one more time.

Henry and Rose put on their matching yellow slickers and ran to Matilda’s cottage. “Now what?!” They cried as she opened the door. Matilda just smiled her big, warm smile and ushered them in for a hot cup of tea.

“You have to dance between the raindrops!” she exlaimed.

Rose and Henry looked at her quizzically.

“Go ahead and get married in the church, just as you had planned. Then after the wedding, you have to go outside and have your first dance as a married couple. All you have to do is dance between the raindrops, and you will magically convert your bad luck into good luck. In fact, dancing between the raindrops is the best luck of all!”

Well, Rose looked at Henry, and Henry looked at Rose, and they were full of doubt, but more than that, they just wanted to be married, so they agreed. They hugged Matilda and put on their yellow slickers again, running out into the pounding rain.

At two o’clock, just as planned, they stood before the preacher. The ceremony was short, but very sweet. Henry and Rose were glowing and so happy they thought their hearts would burst. They ran outside the church and began a merry dance. There was no music, because the band would not play in the rain. But Henry and Rose heard the music in their beating hearts, and they danced for a full fifteen minutes. They tried very hard to miss the raindrops, but they wound up getting soaked. Their feet sunk into the mud. Rose’s dress was ruined. Henry’s Sunday best was dripping. By the end of their dance, they were laughing so hard that they fell down in the muddy street and just rolled around while the town cheered.

After everyone had congratulated the young newlyweds and the townspeople had gone home, they realized they had to consult with Matilda yet again. It suddenly dawned on them that they had not quite lived up to the stipulated requirement for living “happily ever after”, for in spite of all their care, they had not been able to avoid the raindrops. Matilda was quietly waiting for them inside the café, utterly dry and sober, and sipping a cup of tea. “Come in, my children!”, she called.

They trudged into the café, their hair sopping, their shoes squishing, their clothes covered in mud, and their eyes shining. Rose spoke for both of them.

“Matilda, I’m afraid we failed, as you can see! We tried so hard to dance between the raindrops, but no matter how hard we tried, they just kept coming and coming and – well, we got drenched! Now we’re afraid we’ll never live happily ever after!”

Matilda laughed a deep belly laugh.

“Nonsense! You have performed your task exactly as instructed. You danced between the raindrops. But who ever said you wouldn’t get wet?!”

And as predicted, Henry and Rose lived happily ever after.