Bilingual

The entire left-hand side of my keyboard is missing. Totally gone except for the Shift key and some of those mysterious Function keys. Tab was the first to go and over the next few weeks, out of lonliness or peer pressure, the others followed. At this point, I really do need to address this but I've become so addicted to my laptop that the thought of sending it away to complete strangers for THREE TO FIVE DAYS fills me with panic.

And really, the lack of keys hasn't slowed me down. My biggest fear is that as the remaining letters keep popping off, my two-year old son will manage to eat a wayward "U" or ">". Or if he’s in the mood for Mexican, he might go for the tilde.

I’m impressed that I remember what that thing ~~ is called. My two years of high school Spanish weren't completely wasted after all. I know what a tilde is AND I can still say, “Me gusta el baloncesto.” I don’t really like basketball though, so in the end, all I have is that tilde - and the ability to lie in Spanish.

Strike One

Yesterday, I took my son, Samuel, up to the theater on the corner to watch the Twins play the A's in division playoffs. The Riverview shows sports events for free from time to time and it's fun to pop in and watch with a packed house of fans. For the baseball game, they even had a hotdog stand in the lobby.

The Riverview also still serves the best traditional buttered theater popcorn you've ever tasted. Even though Samuel is only 2, he's come to recognize the delicious smell that drifts into our backyard every evening and yells, "POPCORN!" with so much delight that at least once a week, we shuffle down the alley and get a bucket to go.

Mid-afternoon baseball and popcorn seemed like a great way to spend a couple hours. We got our snacks and found seats up front. The place was full of die-hard fans and even though the Twin were losing, there was plenty of noise and excitement. It didn't take long for Samuel to join in. He sat on my lap, munching handfuls of popcorn and chattering "hey batta batta" and "strike one!"

The language of baseball runs deep in my family, at least in my own mother and in me. I cried the day after Kirby Puckett died as I drove by the Dome. It took me by surprise because even though I have fond memories of watching him at his peak, I wasn't emotionally connected. In fact, it's been several years since I've had the time or mental energy to devote to baseball the way I did as a kid.

When the tears came that day, I realized that what I was mourning wasn't Puckett but a memory of my mom. She lives a few miles away and although I see her often, we have a strained, non-communicative relationship. Baseball was one of the last things we shared, one of the last things she had that was her own. As most mothers and daughters do, we've lived similar lives and made most of the same mistakes. The difference as far as I can tell is that she has let pain consume her. It's swallowed her whole and made her a silent victim. I go through it, patient but not silent. I've learned to appreciate the process and to share what I struggle with and what I learn.

At this point in my life, it is almost always joy that overwhelms me rather than pain. It comes in fleeting moments like this one, watching baseball with Samuel. I marked it in my heart as a moment to remember, one of continuity. The tears surprised me again.

http://www.inwardoutward.org

"It is hard to remain spiritually hungry today. We live in a treacherously seductive culture because it is so immediately satisfying. We take away pain too easily. We give answers too quickly and too quickly stimulate.

These dark periods are good teachers. Religious energy is in the dark questions, seldom in the answers. Answers are the way out. Answers are not what we are here for. When we look for answers, we’re looking to change the pattern. When we look at the questions, we look for the opening to transformation. The good energy is all in the questions, seldom in the answers. Fixing something doesn’t usually transform. We try to change events in order to avoid changing ourselves. Instead we must learn to stay with the pain of life, without answers, without conclusions and some days without meaning.

In terms of soul work, we dare not get rid of the pain before we have learned what it has to teach us." - Fr. Richard Rohr,

This is from http://www.inwardoutward.org, a GREAT daily "devotional"...the essays are short, compelling and drawn from classic literature, theology and contemporary writers. In a week, for instance, you can hear from Walt Whitman, Simone Weil and a woman who lives with mentally challenged adults.

Unlike many others I've subscribed to, this one doesn't preach or use creepy language like "oh, dear reader..." and it's not a struggle to get through. It ALWAYS makes me think, so I thought I would share it with you, oh dear reader!

Ghetto Gulls

Have you ever noticed all the SEAGULLS in the parking lot at Lake Street Target? Sure, there's plenty of trash and snack-bar popcorn so I could see squirrels or pigeons, but seagulls make absolutely no sense. Their very name hints at the close proximity to a large body of water. Ironic as it may be, there is no natural habitat for these beach birds on Lake Street.

Maybe it's a marketing gimmick. This IS Target we're talking about...they've managed to paint a bulls-eye on every public building in Minneapolis so importing seagulls to add ambiance to the parking lot would be no problem. I admit that I have found myself closing my eyes and imagining a walk on the San Francisco pier or skipping stones into Lake Superior. But then I snap out of it and remember I came for toilet paper.

I can't make any connection between seagulls, laundry soap or cheeky European fashion designers but I'd love to hear any theories.