Velveteen Mind

Mardi Gras in Mississippi? Bed Racing, Ya'll!

Laissez les bon temps rouler!  It’s Mardi Gras!

Gone are the days when a near-week off school meant back-to-back crawfish boils, house parties, and hitting every parade our teenage bodies could imbibe.  These days, it’s all family, all the time…  which apparently means racing beds down the side streets of Mississippi!

That’s how we roll, ya’ll!

Enjoy a peek at how we spent our first Mardi Gras event of the season this year at the Mardi Gras Bed Race in D’Iberville, Mississippi, benefiting the Salvation Army.  Maguire serves on the board of a local child abuse prevention center and raced with their crew, all decked out in blue for their Go Blue! promotion to support child abuse awareness.

On the back bay of Biloxi, surrounded by marsh and the smell of shrimp, laced with the aroma of corndogs and jambalaya wafting from the carnival, a fabulous day serving a wonderful cause and oh-so-very Mississippi Gulf Coast style.

Let the good times roll!

That’s Maguire in the middle with the white shirt and feather boa!  Nothing says confidence like teddy bears and feathers!

Goose necking while we wait for Dad to make it down the line!

One of the cutest beds and crews!  “Tooth fairies” representing a dental clinic!

Go Blue! finally makes it down the street!

So did they win?  The race is run by two teams running side-by-side, hitting a halfway point where two team members swap the pajamas and bed seat, then head toward the final finish line.  You’ll have to watch the video to see if crew Go Blue! was able to beat the team they raced alongside or if they…  oh, my.  It might have gotten ugly. 

After all of the screaming, cheering, and running was over?  The real fun began! 

How can you not have a ball when carnival rides are involved?

***   ***   ***

Tonight is the Krewe of Gemini Gulfport Night Parade and we’ll be there in all of our bead-heavy glory! 

It’s no New Orleans Mardi Gras (watch the New Orleans parades roll live all day), but it’s right where we are right now.

Rockin’ the motorcycles and collecting throws like true treasures!  See you there!

*And yikes, the formatting for this post is insanely wonky, but it's Mardi Gras and we'll just have to roll with it.  ;)

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Sunday Serendipity: Fortuitous Finds

I know it will be a good week if I wake up in time to watch CBS Sunday Morning on, well, Sunday mornings.  The irony is that Sunday is the only morning on which I get to sleep in. 

CBS Sunday Morning begins at 8 a.m. Central.  That's not what I call sleeping in.

I actually always wake up in time to catch CBS Sunday Morning, but it's the battle of whether or not to open my eyes that the programmers over at CBS don't always win.  On those mornings that I choose to roll over and pray that no one under three feet tall noticed my eyes flit open, I tell myself that this week's program is probably a repeat anyway and proceed to make sure that I don't wake up until an hour and a half later, when the show is over.

Can you tell that I adore that show?

I'm probably tipping my hand to you a bit in revealing my favor for the program because I often find myself thinking that we should cover such-and-such topic on Blog Nosh Magazine after watching an interesting feature.  I hate to be a hack, but some of their stories are just too enticing.  I want to know more and my gut tells me that there's bound to be a blogger out there that's written about it and a handful of readers that would love to read about.  Even if they don't know it, yet.

This morning, though, I felt more as though CBS Sunday Morning had been reading my blog and running with features from there, not vice versa.  If only.

This week is the 30th anniversary of CBS Sunday Morning and as such they featured a couple of retrospectives on the show, as well as one fascinating piece about Sundays in general.  In A History of Sunday, a look at what makes Sundays so special wove a line through the history of observing the Sabbath, lifting of blue laws preventing certain business practices on Sundays, right up to the mention of a now must-have book on my wish list, The Peculiar Life of Sundays by Stephen Miller. 

Granted, much of the book appears to look at the roles of religion and observance on Sundays, but it is more than that.  According to Harvard University Press:

"[Stephen Miller] pays particular attention to the Sunday lives of a number of prominent British and American writers..."

I'm sold.  Because it isn't just me, it is Sunday. 

Hearing your Sunday stories has been a pleasure, so far.  Many of you go to church, most of you stay in your pajamas, all of you try to relax and pretend that tomorrow isn't Monday.  One of you even read my quest to open my eyes to serendipity lurking around every corner and took it up as your own search for serendipity. 

I would love to think of so many of us taking the big, yet tortured, leap to get out of our pajamas on Sundays and greet the world with a challenging smile that says, "What do you have for me today?  What is waiting to be divulged, if only I would listen?"

This Sunday?  I tried to go to church but found the old country church I favor to be under construction.

My spirit just couldn't muster the heart to attend mass in the school gym a block away.  Yes, my devotion may be just that shallow.  I'm working on it.

I took this stumbling block as a sign that I shouldn't force the worship and, instead, wandered into Bay St. Louis a bit early.  I spent the time I would have been at church wandering around an indoor flea market, eyes open to opportunity.

The faces I encountered showed no interest in playing along in my serendipity game, so I looked to the objects, instead.

Old mirrors, disintegrating into murky darkness, hinted at the master bathroom covered in such mirrors I've always envisioned.  An oversized Florida-retiree grandmother-style woven purse with large glossy flowers tugged at the ironically-cool hipster I sometimes fancy myself as, but know better than to try to pull off.  A newly rented, entire stall of Dia de los Muertos themed items teased me but forbade entrance, as nothing was priced yet.

Which left me in the retro-kitchen stall, fingering Formica tables and kitschy tea towels, wishing I was a wee bit more domestic.  Finally, I saw what I was looking for and for which I had no idea I was looking:  an old screen door, weathered dark green paint, covered in chicken wire.

Perfect.

One of the reasons I moved into this writing studio is that I needed a place to spread out and actually visualize the stories in the Blog Nosh Magazine queue.  Opening 23 tabs will do the job, but is entirely disorienting and ineffective.  I am a pen and paper girl at heart and ultimately need to access the tangible before I can make sense of the intangible.

This screen door is exactly what I needed.  But is it for sale?

With no price tag attached and the imposing look of a treasured display solution, I went off in search of a saint stall manager.  As it happened, the owner of the stall happened to be walking out of the door that very moment and returned with me to consider my inquiry.  Would she sell it?

A minimal amount of storytelling laced with subtle pleading and $20 later and it was mine.  Paired with a handful of wooden clothespins, this fortuitous find is the perfect solution for visualizing stories available for Blog Nosh Magazine on any given day.  Or, as is usually the case when scheduling, any given Sunday.

This Sunday is an exploration of stories at my fingertips.  Stories told, stories untold, stories hidden but hinting at the want of discovery.

What did you do this Sunday?

{those photos are from my studio, though taken with the only camera I have on hand, which is not a still camera.  real photos coming soon...}

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A Wedding for Everyone {Part One}

Seven year ago today, we were married. 

Although neither of us had ever called it home, New Orleans called to us, so it was there that we chose to plant the roots of a life which we would forever call home.

Laced with the strength of chicory, echoing with the sounds of friends and family, bruised by adversity, warmed by tradition, spiced with variety, worn threadbare by the lives that dug their heels in deep to the rich swamp soil...  New Orleans was the perfect place to swear our souls to one another. 

And no, we didn't keep it simple.  But we certainly kept it real.

Real joy  ...hope  ...celebration  ...tradition  ...flair  ...fun  ...love  ... Real us.

 

Surrounded by love.  Friends and family and well-wishes wrapped in smiles.

A bride wrapped in the wedding gown worn by her mother.  Made by her great-aunt.  Hand-painted and fussed over and preserved with hope and anticipation.

The end of something solitary and the beginning of everything whole.

Everyone should have a beginning such as this.

 

An early afternoon ceremony in St. Louis Cathedral in Jackson Square in the French Quarter.  We arrived in carriages and hushed tourists' whispers of "who are they again?"

Strangers taking our pictures and generously offering to send us copies of our own. 

Everyone should have paparazzi on their wedding day. 

 

We are you.  You can have this, too, you know!  Just ask.  You don't have to be fancy, you just need to want to have more fun than a couple of dreamers should be allowed to have...  and then have it.

St. Louis Cathedral would be the only serious moment in a party to stretch eight hours

long.  It would be the last hushed or still anything.  A beautiful foundation to a spectacular day...  to spectacular hopes for our whole lives long. 

I smiled so much as I walked down the aisle, I thought my face would ache for years.  The beginning of laugh lines that would be nurtured by baby's giggles and toddlers' antics.  Laugh lines deepened by new lives to enter our own, to erase the melancholy of the father walking his baby girl down the

aisle only to be rewarded by hilarious miniature versions of himself. 

But first...

Can you hear the beads rolling into the square, bunches and bunches headed to eager hands?  Can you hear the crowd gathering?  Can you hear the Second Line Band assembling?

I do.

Everyone should have a parade through the streets after they say "I do."

 

We left in our wake screams of celebration, cries of surprise, and not fewer than a few bums with pearl-like beads around their necks, dangling medallions announcing our union.  This was a wedding celebration for everyone. 

 

And everyone should have the blessings of the street people on their wedding day.

~~~

...this is only the beginning, so be sure to stick around for Part Two...

~~~

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Fear My Indifference

Do you feel like I'm talking to you?  Do you feel like I'm really talking to you?

Or do you feel like I'm talking at you?

This is not about blogging.  This is not even about writing.  This is about communication and relationships.

I could have and may have alienated some of you when I wrote about my Mary garden or when I delved into the stickiness that is "Mary worship." However I had to risk our relationship in order to be able to truly talk to you about something that was important to me.  You may not agree with me, but at least you were given the opportunity to know how I feel.  To see me.

It is not necessary for us to always agree with each other in order to maintain a relationship.  I won't even go so far as to call it a friendship.  It is not beyond my grasp to imagine that some of you may not like me at all, may not agree with what I say, but you stick around because something about the way that I express myself speaks to you. 

Do you feel as though I see you and am talking to you, rather than directing my voice at a faceless audience with opinions that are of no concern to me?  I am not here for your traffic or your clicks or your links. 

I am not here for your vote and to hell with what you might need.

But I'll get back to that later.  One taboo topic at a time.

The other day, I was talking with another blogger and she shared a handful of facts about herself that she had never revealed on her own blog.  Fairly basic facts, in my opinion, but certainly not run-of-the-mill facts.  These tidbits of information concerned her family, her upbringing, and her religious orientation.  Like I said, basic information, but far from average details.  Oh, the twists and turns!  How colorful her life was!  How fascinating!

I asked her why she doesn't write about these things on her blog and she said that she tries to write about topics that are universal.  She limits her content to that which people can relate to and easily so. Specifically, she said she tries not to use the word "I" very much, because who wants to read all about "me me me."  I'm paraphrasing.

I had to laugh because I can't tell you how often I'll read over a post and have to edit it because almost every paragraph begins with "I."  Oh, I hear you, sister.

However, I still write about me me me all the time. Occasionally, I write about things that are anything but universally relatable.  I just roll the dice and take whatever response I get. 

And yet, you seem to find yourselves in what I write about myself. Even when I think none of you will understand.  Or none of you will care.  Let alone that any of you will agree.

You find yourselves in me most often when I write something that I think will most certainly alienate you.  My words resonate in you when I am sure they will shrink as though in a cavern of indecipherable fog. 

When I feel I have most certainly gone too far into myself, I seem to find you...  waiting there, asking me, "So, what took you so long?"

When it comes to matters of family and faith, I can think of no other more universal topics.  The details and specifics are inconsequential.  We all have family.  We all have some manner of faith, even if it is a distinct lack of one or a specific commitment to ambiguity.   We all have some opinion, even if it is that we have no opinion.  In fact, it seems that those people who have no opinion are the most long-winded in their explanations of why not.

So I urged her to risk alienating her audience.  I urged her to write for herself.  To use the word "I" until it appeared she had a developed a tick. 

Hell, I just referred to Mormons as fruits.  I do believe half of my readers are Mormon.  How in the hell that happened, I couldn't tell you, but I love it. 

Specifically, I love it because I may just have been wrong about Mormons being loopy decaffeinated watered-down Scientologists.  Excuse me while my ego has a panic attack over the idea that I might be admitting I was wrong about something...

Mormons believe, among other things, that God appeared to Joseph Smith and told him to begin a new church.  A modern day prophet.  I believe that Mary has appeared and continues to appear to people across the globe, spreading the message of conversion and the importance of prayer and peace.

Maybe we should all be locked up.  God forbid you lock us up together, though, because the Catholics will be bringing along a lot of alcohol and I have a feeling the Mormons would pass out from the virtual den of iniquity we would be creating.

Or maybe we don't believe any of that bunk about modern day apparitions.  Perhaps it is the power of the faith of those that do believe that is inspiring.  Finding yourself inspired by the devotion and faithfulness of those who do believe, whole heartedly, is an act of faith in itself.  The power of belief and conversion is impressive, even if it is not your own.  The end result is something more tangible, more universal, more all-encompassing.  A common ground, even if some of us are standing in potholes and others on mounds of rubbish.   

In the end, is that not the hand of God?  Unification.  Faith.  Community.  Is that not the point?

...Bringing us back around to misinterpretations and assumptions and fears of alienation.  I have always thought of Mormons as prudish. Come to find out, a lot of non-Christians think of Christians in general as prudish.    Living in the deep South, we don't run into a lot of non-Christians around here.  I would be hard pressed to find a Jew right now, in fact. 

But the internet, well, welcome to the Thunderdome of religions, my friend.

I have come to be exposed to a lot of assumptions that none of us drink or swear, dare to break the commandments lest we be ostracized from the fold, that kind of stuff.  Fears abound that we are all easily offended as we ride our high horses, striking down sinners with our mighty swords of holy-rollerness.  So we hesitate to extend ourselves.  To reveal ourselves.

Goddamn (throwing back another shot of vodka)...  I sure as hell hope that's not the case because I'll be sh*t out of luck when I show up at the pearly gates with my six pack and flask, looking for my new mansion, ready for my bigger boobs, and trying to hunt down that hot neighbor I always coveted.  ;)

My point is that we are all people.  Real people.  Strip away the dogma and we are all of the same human nature.  We disagree, we fight, we judge, we ostracize, and we think.  More than anything else, we want to connect.  Even if that connection is a tenuous or contentious one.

We want to be seen.  Truly seen.  And heard.

Words spoken from the heart, with boldness and transparency, are welcome to even the most disparate of listeners.  Fear not the estrangement of others, but rather the complacency.

I will say it again...  this is not about blogging or writing.  This is the truth about communication and relationships as I know it across the board.  This is true of friends, of caregivers, of lovers, of co-workers, of religious leaders, of politicians, of teachers, of family.  Talk to me like an adult.  I can take it.  I can take you. 

Don't fear my opinion.  Fear my indifference.

Live wide open.

I'm talking to you.
 

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Mary Garden: Church of the Kitchen Window

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.

Those are the first words of the Hail Mary.  They are also the words of the Archangel Gabriel, as spoken to Mary during the Annunciation, the occasion of Mary learning that she would conceive a child to be born the Son of God.

Growing up, I always thought of the Hail Mary as a prayer to be uttered when vampires were on your tail or some kind of demon had you holed up in a church.  Maybe when a dinosaur was about to eat you, too.  Good luck with that, by the way.

I also knew that it had something to do with clickey-beads (the Rosary), but pretty much associated that with old ladies and nuns. 

Given how often I pray the Hail Mary these days, you would think I was an old nun with vampire dinosaurs from hell hot on my heels.

Raised Methodist but with some devout Catholics sprinkled throughout our family, I grew up with faith, but not necessarily religion.  We had many spiritual discussions in our family, but very little had to do with any specific dogma.  And I was just fine with that.

I hated Sunday school with a passion.  I'd sooner do my chores and my brother's than have to go to Sunday school at the Methodist church.

I was intimidated by Catholics and all of their standing and sitting and kneeling and hand motions.  The first time I attended a Catholic church, I wore jeans with an overkill of holes in them.  I must have been ten or eleven and when my aunt told me that I could wear anything I wanted to Catholic Mass, I decided to see just how far I could push that envelope.  Deal with those Catholics on my own terms.

Halfway through Mass, I had to run outside and throw up in the bushes.  My aunt said I had locked my knees at one point and that must have been what did it, because when I went to kneel down for the umpteenth time, I about passed out.

No more Catholic church for me until years later.

In high school, I was the president of my high school sorority.  One of our monthly group activities, in addition to monthly service projects, was to attend one of the member's churches.  A different church every month.  A different denomination every month.  Quite the whirlwind of Jesus, let me tell you.

Of course, this meant getting up early on Sunday, which was a problem because I was quite the, uh, party girl in high school.  Saturday nights were spent under the expansive deck of the yacht club with my motley crew of friends ("motley" in a Dead Poet's Society kind of way, that is) , taste-testing every variety of wine coolers and Boone's available.  I still remember the night my best friend and I downed a six pack of wine coolers and found ourselves stone sober.  We briefly considered this a bad sign, but then discovered that mixing wine coolers with The Beast would nicely solve that sobriety problem.

The next morning was one of those church mornings with the sorority.  Half way through the service, I found myself throwing up in the bushes again.  This time for a very different reason, but still...  Welcome back to the Catholic church.  The devil is clearly still in your gut.

Today I am able to attend Mass without even a hint of the sickies, thank you very much.  I suspect that the devil is still in my gut, but he's only allowed out on the rare occasion.  The rest of the time, I have found that I very much have Mary in my heart.  Through her, I have Jesus in my life.

And now I want to throw up in the bushes because that sounds so damn cheesy.

Nevertheless, I have found a connection through the Blessed Mother.   I pray the Rosary and find a solace I never knew.  Just as when Gabriel said, "The Lord is with thee," I believe that I have the favor of God in my life, as well.

Explaining the Rosary as a prayer calling for the intercession of Mary on our behalf to Jesus is complicated.   Even I don't fully understand it.  However, I am endlessly fascinated by Mary's role, as well as Marian lore.  Stories of Mary apparitions capture my attention wholly.

The irony is that I have always thought Mormons to be a bunch of fruits for believing that God appeared to Joseph Smith and told him to begin a new church.  Well, fruits, indeed.

Ya'll want some nuts with your fruit, because I don't have any problem believing that Mary has been appearing during modern times and continues to do so.

I wish I could explain that.  But it works for me.  And I have faith.

Although my little family here is Catholic, we do not attend church on a regular basis.  We know we need to and we feel we want to, but we can't seem to pull it together, yet.  Yet.  In the meantime...

My Mary Garden.  My church of the dirt. 
My church of the kitchen window.

I stand in my tiny sliver of a guest house kitchen, in this place that is so not my home.  I look out the window onto the alley that holds my Mary Garden, and know.  Know that I am home.  Where she is.  Where He is.  I am home.  At last.

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