Annals of Greenwich, Part 2
I’ve moved three times in the last four years, not by choice but through no fault of my own, and a sense of rootlessness is taking root in the fertile field of the holidays.
Once I had a father and a mother, and cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. We would all get together for the priceless comedy of family Thanksgiving, played out in homes across America.
Now I am old and must try to find good cheer as an outsider. In my current home of Greenwich, 30 or 40 years is the criteria for true belonging. I have 27 years to go.
My longtime partner and co-parent invited me to the best restaurant in New York for an early Thanksgiving dinner, but they and all others we used to like were completely booked with waiting lists in the dozens.
I called up my remaining family members on the West Coast and we laughed about the old family gatherings and how we miss those who are gone. But a phone call isn’t the same as being together.
My garden provides some cheer. But although plants interact with me, they aren’t like a human family.
My cat is good company, but her conversation is limited. Sometimes I think she’s using me.
So I search for fellowship.
Livestream church services are available now, thanks to the pandemic, eliminating the awkward getting-to-know-you visits that are as bad as dating in their way.
I hopscotched three online services on Sunday. I was counseled to:
have an attitude of gratitude
be aware that rich people have a hard time getting to heaven although they don’t necessarily have to give up their belongings
to beware the sin against the Holy Spirit: falseness
Over dinner last Saturday, one of my mentors, a true Greenwich pillar with 56 years of residence and volunteer leadership, recounted the numerous scandals visited on all our local churches, including her own: adulterous affairs involving clergy and parishioners, fudged books that didn’t quite conceal thefts of church funds. The people of these churches were deeply hurt.
“Did they think they could hide?” she asked over dinner last weekend.
Well, yes. We all think we can hide. Church leaders, like the rest of us, are flawed.
To me, God is what is there when we quietly give up pretense. God is beyond all lies, self-deception,
false notes, wrong moves. Wrong isn't right. That is the deep truth and the high power.
Spirituality isn't about saying, "OK, I believe,” and there’s an end to it.
I can't be a "believer," because I'm not willing to give up curiosity. People seem to think they can’t ask questions when they join a church. I always will have questions, and thus I will always be the skunk at the dance— even if I keep my mouth shut.
I was raised agnostic. My first husband dragged into church kicking and screaming. I ended up knowing a whole lot about the Bible and finding a lot of good and beauty in it. It helped me deal with my adolescent traumas.
But in the end, it emerged that the pastor was leading half the men in the congregation in regular expeditions to strip club. My own husband was cruising Hollywood Boulevard with money from my paychecks, getting rolled by prostitutes. A church elder told me I would go to hell for being angry about that.
The pastor's wife got a divorce and never discussed why with anyone. After my own divorce, I often went sailing with my new boyfriend. I still regarded myself as Christian. My friend had never read the Bible, so he suggested we read it together. One day, as we floated off the shore of San Pedro, I was reading him the Old Testament story about Jacob and Laban and the magically speckled goats. And he looked at me and said, "Do you believe that?"
And I was stumped. I had to admit that I didn't. It seemed to be pure superstition. After that, we stopped the Bible reading. He stuck to his philosophy of "making it up as I go" and we split up when one day I turned out not to be in his current version of made-up life.
One of the most helpful books I've read on this -- and I have read many -- is Jordan Peterson's first book, "Maps of Meaning: The Architecture of Belief." One of his points is that the stories in the Bible are not always to be taken literally. They are messages that encode thousands of years of human experience.
Right now, I am reading a chapter or two of Isaiah each night before I sleep. And even though I'm not a believer, I draw a lot of peace and hope from his writings as an outsider in Babylon.
Sometimes pretense or self-deception gets the better of us. But Isaiah says our wrongs can disappear like morning mist.
Giving Thanks for Substitutions
Inflation has picked up speed, but a few ingenious switches can make life bearable. We are not yet in Weimar or Zimbabwe.
As trade opened in the ‘90s, I got used to buying high-quality but still fairly economical products from Europe. Some of those things are now chronically out of stock. Acca Kappa White Moss soap, or example. Fortunately, Basis is a good substitute. I looked for farro at Italian groceries but found it in bulk on Amazon.
Waldlaufer, a go-to German brand for people with foot pain, is out of stock on its own website, but an American one has plenty of shoes.
Another Way to See Things
A brilliant video by my son and his friend Connor.
Happy Thanksgiving to all.