• learning to play

    I almost didn’t post this. And maybe I still won’t. (If you’re reading this, then you’ll know what I decided.)

    See, yesterday afternoon I wrote a post about a play that my son and I went to over the weekend. The play was interesting and thoughtful, so I decided to write about it. But then I started feeling funny. For two reasons:

    1) you might think I’ve been asked to do a promo review when I haven’t, and…

    2) the play is about homosexuality, a topic that I’ve never written about here. To mention homosexuality, out of the blue, feels a little cavalier, like I might be exploiting an issue and/or not giving it the credence it deserves.

    It didn’t relieve my anxieties any when I told my husband, “I’m writing a post about the play and I’m having some hesitations..,” and he cut me off with, “Then don’t write about it.” So not helpful.

    After that, I decided I was probably over-thinking the issue and should just tell about my little Sunday afternoon and get it over with already. Bottom line: I’m cracking a can of worms when all I want to do is tell about my Sunday outing. I have no interest in going fishing.

    ***

    Yesterday my older son and I went to see a private-ish showing of a new play. Only a couple churches had been invited, and since the writer/actor goes to our church (or we go to his, since he was there first), we were on the in. Lucky us.

    I had hoped to see Learning to Play with my husband, but we were delinquent in making child care plans and couldn’t finagle it. So after making a couple calls to check on the show’s age appropriateness, I settled for a date with my son. He got to sit beside me and listen about the ick factor of parents (ew!) and grandparents (ew! ew!) having sex, Solomon’s concubines, sodomy, and the Song of Solomon. Lucky him.

    my date

    The play is mostly a one-man show, with two other guys playing instrumental music throughout. The main character is a father who is wrestling with the news that his son is gay. There is a progressive, funny, harebrained preacher. There are visits from a couple good-hearted, church-going, question-asking guys. There’s a visit to the city-dwelling, not-church-going gay cousin. There are dreams about the deceased wife, and recounted conversations with the grandmother. Reference was made to Fresh Air and a butter-happy grandmother, so I felt right at home.

    Although there were several creative spins that shed light, the play’s main ideas weren’t new to me. My boat wasn’t rocked. I wasn’t pushed. I didn’t cry. As someone on the acceptance side of the equation, I felt affirmed. The play made sense.

    Much to my relief (but not my surprise), the play’s church folk, the ones who view homosexuality as a sin, were not demonized. To the contrary, I found myself respecting and appreciating their questions and honest intentions. A dozen years ago, I would’ve been speaking their lines. But I wonder, how will this play feel to those who don’t feel like it is right to be accepting of gay people? Will the play give them space to reflect without being threatened? Will they come see the play?

    Later that afternoon I was telling my mom about the show and she asked, “So what was the solution? Did the play give any answers?”

    No, the play doesn’t give answers. It’s the exact opposite, really: a play brimful with questions. But among the questions there is beautiful music, belly laughs, lots of mucking around in the Bible, and a father who loves his son very, very much.

    P.S. My son thoroughly enjoyed it.

    This same time, years previous: the quotidian (4.29.13), better brownies, juxtaposed, shredded wheat bread, and thoughts from Marianne Williamson.

  • the quotidian (4.28.14)

    Quotidian: daily, usual or customary; 
    everyday; ordinary; commonplace



    The morning cuppa: it has this hazy glow about it, even when the sun isn’t shining.
    Biscuits, of the cheese and chive variety.

    Refried beans: not pretty, but gorgeously practical.

    The case of the Saturday Coffee Cake and the photobombing hand.

    In our house, we sit around the supper table and stare at our hands for thrills.

    Voluntarilyvoluntarily!!!reading with sis.
    Copycat nappers.

    Working the hens.

    Worker boy uniform: he’s landed himself a handful of odd jobs, much to his (and my) delight.
    If only dogs could be horses…

    Feeding time.

    Don’t dump me, ‘kay?

    In our excitement, we ordered 200 strawberry plants when, it turns out, we only needed 100, oops.

    Racing the sun.

    This same time, years previous: church of the Sunday sofa, beware the bed sheets, mousy mayhem, roasted carrot and red lentil soup, the Monday rambles, creamed asparagus on toast, and the bicycle gang.

  • the newest addition: Jessica

    My older daughter has an agreement with a neighbor friend: in exchange for childcare, housework, gardening assistance, and animal care, he will give her sheep. Or some type of animal TBA. The details of the arrangement aren’t smashed out clear, but they’re kind of beside the point, at least to me. I’m just happy that she has the opportunity to work with and be trained by a farmerish man. (Neither my husband nor I could ever be mistaken for farmerish.)

    The other day, she went to his place to help work the sheep. She got to fill the syringes for vaccinations (I felt like an evil doctor! she gushed), hold the sheep while they got their hooves trimmed, and observe the ear tagging. And then she came home and trimmed Omri’s hooves.

    Oh, and about Omri. Last weekend another neighbor friend (this is getting confusing) came over and performed a surgical castration on Omri. (Except he doesn’t call it a castration; he calls it getting “changed,” as in, “Does it suit for me to come over now and change the lamb?” For some reason, this makes me giggle every time.) My daughter held Omri and the rest of us stood in a row and gawked. I took pictures, but my husband says I shouldn’t post them so I won’t. I’ll just have to settle for telling you in words: it was fascinating.

    Anyway. Back to the work-for-sheep neighbor friend. When we got Omri, Farmer Friend expressed some worry about Omri being a singleton. Sheep are companion animals, he explained. How about I give you an advance of one sheep?

    So Monday morning found us trying to stuff one very large and very loud lamb into our van. The dog carrier we had brought along for transport was way too small, so my daughter said she’d just hold the lamb on her lap. After a good bit of maneuvering and a good bit of baaing and a great deal of freaking out about ITS POOPY BUTT, the sheep was nestled securely on my daughter’s lap. We daintily draped a towel over the scary parts and hoped for the best.

    And then I looked over at the two of them—my daughter with her arms wrapped tightly around the lamb, and the lamb sitting there all rigid and straight, head jutting out in an I-am-going-to-be-dignified-about-this-dammit expression—and I realized that my life had taken on a distinctly Far Side-esque sheen.

    Of course, right then was when the lamb stuck her head in my ear and baaed at the top of her bleaty voice. I squealed and about leaped out of my seat. The kids and I belly-laughed the whole way home, though we had to do it quietly less we agitate our woolly passenger.

    Jessica, for that is what my daughter named her, has rapidly adjusted to her new home. She and Omri are inseparable. Omri is learning good sheep-like habits from her, such as grazing and grain-eating. Occasionally, he tries to nurse from her, awww. Jessica is a little skittish, but that’s the sheep way. She’ll be ready for breeding in October.

    Maybe we are more farmerish than I thought?

    This same time, years previous: mango banana helados, drama trauma, the perils of homemade chicken broth, and shoofly pie.