Category — Atlanta

Today’s blog post is about March birthdays and suburban momhood, and is brought to you by the letter “M.”

The month of March marks the birthdays of a disproportionate number of my kith and kin. Today alone, there are five!

One of these is my (younger) brother Michael, who is claiming to be “officially old as dirt.” When questioned about what exactly that makes me, he mentioned cosmic aether (grin).

So – Happy Birthday to all the March birthday sweeties! May you be surrounded with love, light and laughter! I love you.

March! March begins with “M”! Muah-hahahaha.

This last Thursday, we went to Ben’s school recital. Maybe it was just the mood I was in after having to arrange a whole bunch of things in a hurry before we got there – I was tired and a little punchy – but I really had to concentrate on not letting myself burst into wild raucous laughter. It’s all so unreal. The only thing that centered me at all was Ben, catching my eye and smiling at me. I love that kid. Only for him could I be dragged into such a scene.

It was held at the nearby middle school, which has a bit more room than the elementary school he attends. Middle school! Middle school begins with “M”! Muah-hahahaha.

Anyway, this was a big favor, unprecedented I think, and so everyone was being grateful and welcoming and sweet, but it was all slightly off. The principal, really a smart and lovely woman, had that warm charming “principal voice” on. It’s so over the top, even John was hiding a smile, but I can see the reason for it. She really does make the kids feel welcome and secure – and I think it works for most of the parents, too.

As usual, they held the PTA meeting before the performance. They nominated and elected next year’s officers, and approved the last meeting’s minutes, and approved the financial statement – all by the rules, but it certainly wasn’t an environment suitable for asking questions or making motions or anything of the sort. All the parents wanted was to move it along so they could watch the kids! It’s all so pro-forma. One thing that is always very funny is that they totally ignore when anyone in the audience says “Nay.” To be fair, it’s usually children who do, but not always.

I kept threatening to stand up and move that children’s recitals not be used to mandate attendance at the PTA meeting, but John talked me out of it. Move! Move begins with M! Muahhhh-hah-hahaha-hahahahaha.

There was an inspirational reading from a sweet gal that always finds something to share. This time is was from Robert Fulghum’s Uh-Oh. She read a bit of it, and then related it to the parental sense of loss as the kids grow up – and go to middle school. To me, it was clearly the parent’s perspective as it relates to their children, but she was in tears later because evidently the elementary school principal misinterpreted her intent. I assured her that the message was very clear to me, and voiced back to her my sense of the mood, content and intent. It seemed to help a little. I hope so, because although the “inspirational message” is always very sentimental, it always addresses the parents and is fitting to the occasion.

The reason for all the concern was, I think, because next up was the middle school’s assistant principal and he started with “I hope it’s not an ‘uh-oh’ for your children to come to the middle school.” He started trying to talk about school improvements, and tried to project a welcoming stance. However, he wasn’t very adroit in this kind of messaging at all, and he just didn’t have the ability to know when to stop. The more he talked, the more he dug himself in. (What? I didn’t know there were any rumors to be concerned about until just now!) The more he tried to soothe the audience, the more he invoked things that alarmed the parents. It was hilarious. Messsaging! Messaging begins with M! But is it a real word yet? I’m not sure.

They had the traditional pledge of allegiance – under God and all. I know I’m overly sensitive to this issue, but it still bugs me. I know that by the time kids have any real sense of what it means, they don’t have to do it anymore. I shouldn’t get irritated about it. As a comedian – his name escapes me at the moment – recently said, the pledge just functions as a cup of coffee for the kids, a ritual to give them a space to wake up and ready themselves. Ben salutes the flag – it’s not such a big deal. I still don’t salute the flag. My years of explaining why one shouldn’t kind of stuck with me. I noticed once again that a number of other parents don’t salute the flag either. Most, if not all, of this is because they aren’t American; there are a lot of international families in our area. I’ll bet their kids do salute though, and I think that’s inappropriate – even if you do treat a national flag as though it were a sacred object, why would you want someone pledging something that isn’t true for them just to blend in? Sigh.

The music director is really great and they are lucky to have him. He’s kind, enthusiastic and talented. He loves those kids, and they love him. He chooses somewhat challenging music for them to sing, but they really enjoy it. Music! Music begins with “M”! Muah-hahaha-ha-ha.

Ben was nervous about the performance. He asked me to grade him. “A, B, C – I can take it.” He looked so cute, waving his little headball like a muppet (Muppet! Muppet begins with M!), singing his heart out. He was buried in the mass of children, though, and I couldn’t seem to get a good picture.

Ben Recital

There were perhaps five or six songs sung, one of them in Latin. The music director actually had them doing three-part harmony, and syncopated clapping. It wasn’t bad, and although I privately thought that the selection last semester was a bit better, I gave Ben a resounding “A” on his own performance. There were a handful of really talented singers, and the normal number of kids that kind of just stood there, mouthing the words they remembered. Everyone liked the clapping parts, though, even the kids that clearly don’t like to sing, so they are at least getting a sense of rhythms. It’s all good.

The upper grade’s rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner” on the recorder almost made me fall off my chair trying not to burst into laughter. I had completely forgotten about the recorder, and the whole cultural school “thing” about playing the recorder. Does anyone play it after they graduate from public school?

Playing the Recorder

I’m not really cut out to be a suburban mom. All of my reactions seem so out of step with the other parents. If it weren’t for my overwhelming love for this one little boy, I would go into full witchy (that’s mostly with a “w” and not a “b” – and an “m” wouldn’t really make any sense here) mode. But… Mode! Mode begins with M! And MOM! MOM begins and ends with M! Muah-hahahaha-ha-ha (choke).

Well, at least I’m learning to enjoy the humorous aspects of it all.

The blog post was brought to you by the letter “M.” Mmmm-mmmmm. M.

Some excitement. Hailstones! Look at these!

Three Hailstones

I rushed out and made room to shelter one of the cars in the garage. That was something else! I never knew I could move all that stuff so fast!

Tornado Warning until 6:30 pm EST Wednesday

A tornado has been sighted or indicated by radar in your area – seek shelter immediately!

Oops! Better run!

Nestled front and center against a huge cumulus cloud, the moon looks like a hole in the sky tonight. My camera can’t capture the mood, but there is a fiery/faerie halo around the whole moon. It’s beautiful. It rained last night, so the full moon was hidden, but tonight’s moon still looks pretty full to me.

Moon over Atlanta

“Then came old January wrapped well
In many weeds to keep the cold away;
Yet did he quake and quiver, like to quell,
And blow his nails to warm them if he may.”
- Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queen

I’m cold. I can’t get warm tonight.

I’m sending out hope and care and love and light to so many people I know, people I care about who have lost jobs and lost houses. There’s one smashed up car and one damaged car, a fire, and several scary medical emergencies. I’m hearing about a fair bit of smallness and meanness and drama of one kind or another, and also about how people are having a hard time making ends meet, and who are trying to navigate very difficult terrain. It seems like this should be a time when we all pull together and be more helpful and supportive of one another. Even among those who are doing relatively fine, there seems to be a widespread tendency to depression and fatigue. Perhaps it’s normal for the post-holiday January blahs, especially considering the snow and ice and flooding and who knows what else.

I’m thinking about one friend in particular tonight, a woman who not only had to go through what had to be a very frightening experience when her lovepartner had a brain aneurysm, but then had to deal with a family member who blamed the incident on the fact that her religious beliefs weren’t identical to his own. As if God would punish her – and through someone she loved – for her non-compliance to some spiritual midget’s unthinking person’s standards. Now she’s being threatened with disassociation from the rest of the family because she had the courage to point out that such a statement wasn’t very caring or supportive of family in a medical crisis. This young woman has already been through so much. She is a very compassionate and caring person. She is blunt when confronting unfairness, but she is also just learning how to really articulate a lot of things that have been painful and destructive to her – as well as things that she has learned through her own experience and insight. She is courageous and curious and she loves her boyfriend and the animals she rescues and the friends in her life. She will be ok, I know – but I can also palpably feel her sense of betrayal and pain. It must be awfully hard to deal with that on top of navigating the medical system and trying to make sure that her boyfriend is taken care of properly. He’s a stellar guy – intelligent and creative – and I know they’ll support one another through all this. He’s already doing much better. I hope that she can focus on being with him, and bracket out the rest – at least for a little while until the whole situation has a time-out.

Sometimes, though, when I hear about these things, I’m struck by the anti-agapic qualities of so many people who think they are religious, and I feel a little sick. I know that it means a lot to offer caring and support, but I also feel helpless. I have empathy, and a tendency to try to heal hurts – even just imaginatively. You never know what might help. But what do you say to someone when you can’t make anything better or easier for them? I’m thrashing around half the time myself.

I tried to watch the news tonight, and I actually couldn’t bear it. I had to walk away. I’m freezing and I can’t seem to reset my thermostat. I can’t get warm. I’m tired.

I’m thinking about all kinds of changes – how life moves on, whether or not you’re ready. I know that I have to keep starting again, and that a more hopeful-trusting-positive attitude would be vastly preferable for me. It works… then it doesn’t work. I’m full of confidence and creative ideas, then everything deflates and I find myself looking at some small small rock on the ground for ten minutes – or I realize that I’ve daydreamed several contradictory scenarios trying to work something out when I haven’t even identified what I’m practicing for – why am I creating conversations in my head? They have nothing to do with the dialogue that I’ve been trying to write – it would be great if they were. I’ve dreamed people that don’t exist, and places I’ve never been, and situations that will never exist. And I revise them – for nothing, really. It doesn’t help to know that my internal scenes are passing, and what seems so emotionally fraught will seem somewhat inconsequential and silly at some later time. It’s like when you’re a kid and you attach yourself to a song and it seems so meaningful, and then years later you have to laugh, just remembering how important and serious it seemed at the time.

I’ve been fine, then not fine, then depressed, then creative, then hopeful, then tired, then depressed again… and I’m really losing interest in my own thoughts and feelings. I just want to curl up with a book. Everything I have on hand that I haven’t already read is spiritually uplifting and hopeful and again – another wave of nausea at the thought.

I know it’s all very silly. I know that I am loved – despite how difficult I can make that – and that the wheel will turn. As scary as it can sometimes be, change is something that can be counted on. Things will change, and then they’ll change some more – everything is always in process. Trying to hang on to a static reality is deadly, anyway. It’s best to pay attention, adjust, ride it through – or surf it if you can – and be open to the bl(i)ssings as they arrive over the top of the other side.

Yesterday we went to the BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir Hindu Temple in Lilburn. Despite its proximity to us, we hadn’t heard about it until John’s brother suggested meeting there.

When we drove in, there was a small gatehouse. We stopped at the gate, and a man stuck his head out and asked, “What’s your name?” John told him his own name. Ben and I were silent. He opened the gate. So, already, things were a little surreal. Why would he ask the name? How did we know that only John’s name mattered, or were we wrong about that? Was he checking against some sort of list? Or just making a note of it? Why?

The Wikipedia description:

The BAPS Shri Swaminarayan Mandir Atlanta is the sixth BAPS traditional Hindu stone temple built outside of India. It is also the largest Hindu temple of its kind outside of India. It is currently open to the public. The 32,000-square-foot (3,000 m2) temple, officially called the Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, sits on 30 acres (120,000 m2). With hand-carved stone spires that tower 75 feet (23 m), it is the the tallest building in Lilburn, Georgia, dominating the intersection of Rockbridge Road and Lawrenceville Highway. More than 1,300 craftsmen and 900 volunteers dedicated their time in putting this 34,450-piece stone marvel together. More than 4,500 tons of Italian Carrara marble, 4,300 tons of Turkish limestone, and 3,500 tons of Indian pink sandstone was quarried and shipped to the craftsmen in India. Then, all of the nearly 35,000 pieces were shipped to the United States. It serves members of the Swaminarayan branch of Hinduism, which originated in India more than 200 years ago. The traditional design features custom-carved stonework, a wraparound veranda and five prominent pinnacles reminiscent of the Himalayan hills.

The Lilburn location is the largest temple in North America for BAPS. Built at an estimated cost of $19 million, the temple complex is only the third of its kind in the country, surpassing BAPS temples in Houston and Chicago. A similar mandir was recently opened in Toronto as well. The temple’s sanctuary is open to all, as it is in Chicago, Houston, and Toronto.

The organization’s current spiritual guru, Pramukh Swami Maharaj, came to Lilburn in 2004 and blessed the first foundation stones. The guru, who celebrated his 86th birthday in 2006, returned to Lilburn in August 2007 to sanctify the completed temple. Upon completion, a keystone weighing more than 5 tons was twisted into place on the ceiling of the central dome inside.

It really was very beautiful, and I loved the recurring patterns everywhere. However… and I know I’m being a little snarky here, but there is something very postmodern – in the bad way – about standing between a reflecting pool and an ornate temple, then looking over to see a huge Publix supermarket across the street. That’s somehow so very wrong. It would be better in the middle of a crowded city, where it could be like a hidden jewel (like Buddhist temples in Taipei) or dominating the landscape on a hill (like Sacré-Coeur in Paris). Alternatively, it could have been given a little more elbow room a little further away from the stripmall road (like the La Salette shrine in my home town). Something about the spirit of the place reminded me of that awful replica of the White House near my house. For all it cost to build, I think they missed something essential – or maybe that was somehow the whole point?

I also felt a little let down because I had imagined it to be much larger than it was.

We took off our shoes in the entryway and placed them in little cubbyholes. There were women everywhere, cleaning all the bits of stone. A couple of men were making fine adjustments to the carvings on the central columns. Unfortunately, no photography was allowed inside, or I would have tried to capture the inner room.

What struck me most forcefully were the ceiling mandalas – very fractal and trippy and just beaming with great energy.

Everyone was silent – by decree of the signs – but that seemed wrong to me. There should have been chanting, bells, singing, dancing! Perhaps it was just because we were there on an off hour – I don’t know. I also missed the smells of incense and candles.

I just couldn’t shake the feeling that things were somehow slightly off – it was all too clean and pristine. There were plexiglass shields around the carved columns, when there should have been encouragement to touch them. What kind of temple is this, really? I don’t know much of anything about this particular flavor of Hinduism, but there should be a sense of age – and at least a little grime – in a temple.

There was a guestbook inside, and that was strange to me too. John had given his name at the gate, so I signed the guestbook with mine.

Our timing was off, and all the internal alter doors were closed and locked, so I’ll probably go back sometime soon to see them.

Still, the little lights against the stone inside made it seem like you were in some sort of sandcastle. There was a place-based zing-moment or two in the middle of all that, looking up at the ceiling mandalas, especially the one right near the (locked up) alter. It was also noted (no names) that some of the carvings boasted rather nice breasts (hey, not every religious tradition is closed off to sacred sexuality).

Just before we left, a man came inside, sat down on the rug on the floor – dead center of the mandala, and listened to his iPod, eyes closed. He looked like he was going to be there for some time. For some reason, it struck me as very funny. I wonder how long you can do that before someone taps you on the shoulder. I mean, you’re basically hogging the entire vertical ley line – or maybe that concept doesn’t apply here. I kept thinking of the whole process of creating, sustaining and destroying that is so inherent to the Hindu vision. This temple didn’t seem to be about flows and movement and process, but more about a museum-type static series. It’s an interesting, even fascinating, monument, but… well, again – we were seeing it at an “off” time. I’ll go back and see the differences when the alter doors are opened.

It was fun to visit the place. Despite my critical reaction, I will probably go back.

Patterns, though – patterns. I kept thinking luminous interconnections – the making and unmaking of Tibetan mandala sand paintings, zooming the Mandelbrot set, resonating synchronicities, crunchy neutrinos, birds and flutterbys, staring squirrels, dream voices, tingling toes, free-associations from a tarot card spread – or a painting that calls to you – or a book that you’ve got to pick up although you don’t really have much interest in it…

We came back to the house for a cup of coffee and some conversation, then went over to Houston’s for some mighty fine ribs and a couple of margueritas.

What really mattered yesterday wasn’t anything about a temple but just being together, relaxing, and enjoying one another’s company. It had been a while since we’d seen Tom and Pam, and it was a warm loving snuggly sort of get-together.

Next time, maybe I’ll bring a bell and we can make a “temple” wherever we are.