I shall always look back on the Holy Triduum of this year as a life changing time for me. It was an intense and beautiful experience. Cedric asked me, Do you feel different? I am different. Maybe there is something to it, he mused.

My faith was so weak when I started this process last year. I can attribute this to living so many years with an agnostic. His unfailing rationality did whittle at my intuitive belief in a higher moral order, not that I'm complaining. In the end my faith is so much stronger for it, and is always checked by my intellect. I can look at the truth, and I'm not afraid. Fundamentalists have the weakest faith, so stubbornly clinging. I don't claim understanding of all that God is, but I believe He is moving us toward something. Cedric doesn't have the gift of faith, and I believe there is a reason. He says he is immune to religion. I tell him, you keep me balanced. We are happy opposites.

We worried about the success of Louison's baptism, as the rehearsal was an absolute disaster. He became hysterical when he understood what Father wanted to do. No water! No water! he screamed and ran through the pews, covering his head and falling to the floor in an emotional heap. Hmmm. In the end, it was Lou's Godfather (in the right, in the photo) that came to the rescue. He let Lou fulfill his dream of climbing up in the choir loft and promised him an Easter basket of goodies, if only he would consent to the water. We held our breath for the nighttime Mass.

When the time came, it went off without a hitch. Father said Lou, are you ready? He was. He covered his eyes with his little hands, and the whole congregation chuckled (except those who had seen the rehearsal, they sat in slack jawed awe). His Godfather kept his word, and right after the event, he received his basket of candy. He sat in the front pew, devouring nearly a pound of chocolate as I went through my confirmation. After that, I told Cedric to take him home, as the Easter vigil is a long and late Mass.

After the ceremony, congratulations and gifts were given and pictures were taken. As I was leaving the near empty church with Bernie, Father called to me Hey, where's Lou? I explained that it was really quite a late night for him, so he was surely already in bed. Then father turned to the person beside him and said You should have seen him this morning, running out of the church screaming No Water! He looked like he was possessed by Satan. Indeed he had.

Even you, the non-Catholic, non-believer (are there believers reading my blog?) probably know that there are Catholics, and then there are Catholics. The Sunday Masses will be populated by both types, but at weekday Masses, you'll only find the Catholics. That's me, I'm Catholic. It's funny to think of, really. I've become fervent. Hey, I'm not crazy!

I can't even imagine what my in-laws are thinking.

We have entered into the most holy period of the liturgical year - the Sacred Triduum - Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil. I was at the Mass tonight. Perhaps I would not have gone, but Father asked me to take part in the sacramental ritual of the washing of the feet. I don't know why he chose me, of all people, to symbolize one of the apostles (we had 6 - a round number - and who wants to symbolize Judas anyway?), but it has been an incredibly humbling experience. I can't quite put it to words, but I am grateful.

I was the last person in the line to have my feet washed, which meant that after my turn, I should then trade places with Father, and wash his feet. But he seemed suddenly taken by some emotion and whispered to me you don't have to wash my feet. But I had to press, emphatic: I will. Then he whispered, because he is excellent, here, of all places!

It was funny, but it is such a rich symbol and intimate gesture, that it was imbued with profundity as well. Father has a very deep scar on his leg, from a car accident that nearly took his life a year ago. I considered our frailty. I considered that here I am, washing the feet of a holy man. I am the disciple. The ritual becomes larger than me, or Father, or even our time. The rituals allow our transcendence. I feel this more and more often, and each time, I am near weeping.

I'll return tomorrow for the Good Friday Mass, and then the Saturday Easter Vigil will be all important for us. I'll become a confessed, confirmed Catholic. Louison will be baptized too. I feel so certain, it all seems so right. I'm really thrilled.

I decided to stop buying industrial produced meat. The latest beef recall cemented my ethical reservations in that regard - did you see that undercover video? No more supporting animal cruelty, or eating sick, contaminated meat. It isn't so difficult to find locally produced meat - actually it's readily available in the organic co-op in the town we're moving to. But I did run out of meat the other day, and started to wonder if I would succumb to the convenience of buying meat at Wal-Mart. Right now, we have to drive an hour to buy natural meat. Then, late Saturday night, I got a call from my spiritual mentor/ Godfather, telling me he killed three Axis deer ( this is a long story - Axis are an invasive species in Texas, where he owns land) and wanted to share with me! Now I have a freezer full of frozen deer, and more time on my side. I greatly admire people who raise and kill their own meat. If we're going to eat it, I think we should take a realistic look at what we're doing. Plus, it insures the animals are well treated.

Now here's where I make a confession. I bought lunch meat at Wal-Mart today. I was shopping around lunch time, and was only thinking of my hunger. For some reason, I didn't make the association with raw meat and lunch meat - but it likely does come from the same place (note: all confessions are accompanied by excuses). It takes time to form habits, and obviously, human nature dictates that mistakes will be made. I've also, in weaker moments, forgotten my Lenten sacrifices, and also forgotten that Fridays are days of abstention from meat. It becomes second nature, eventually. I stand by my convictions, but right now I'm nothing but a big hypocrite.

But we had a great time in Florida. Lou was somewhat sick the first day (okay, he had a high fever, and we dragged him through the Magic Kingdom anyway), but we still had a productive day. After that, everyone was well, and we had a lot of fun. We didn't have time to see everything - pity.

I enjoyed the sun more than anything else, bright white and warming, dappling the pool floor. I haven't felt the sun in months. The roses were in bloom, the birds sang in the morning. It was an odd feeling, as if I had stumbled on the hidden garden of Eden. I knew it was forbidden fruit. We came home to the remnants of a snow storm. Banished again, to the land of Nod.

Now let us delve into the not so good.

Yesterday I was horribly sick with the flu. I had a high fever and simply could not do the packing. Our luggage hasn't arrived yet, so who knows what we'll end up with in our bags. I wasn't quite coherent, packing what I could. I tried to put Cedric in charge of most of the packing, but he always works until the minute before we leave, and I don't think he's planned a vacation in seven years.

So, half an hour into our drive to the airport, I ask "Do we have the tickets?" Eighteen minutes later, having driven an average speed of 80mph, we're back at our house to collect the tickets. Forty-five minutes later, we're at the airport. Unfortunately, we're three minutes late for the final check-in. I'm not joking, three minutes - though the agent told me tersely "Six!" No, but it was three. Anyway, four hours later we're on a flight to Orlando. Lou is acting truly unwell. Fifteen minutes into the flight, he vomits blueberry yogurt, which I manage to catch in my cupped hands. He vomits through the whole flight. Meanwhile, the combination of congestion and changing cabin pressure is sending stabbing pains through my ears. Two hours later, I think I've mostly recovered my hearing. Lou and Cedric are sleeping. I hesitate to wake anyone, though my stomach is growling. I haven't really eaten in two days.

But, you know, I'm sure we'll all feel better by morning. At least, we had better. We've got the whole Magic Kingdom to see!

Someone at the church has placed an alternative version of the Stations, that I find profoundly moving, in the hallway. I suppose it is the work of Father Steve. The posters equate Christ's Passion with various scenes of modern day suffering.

For me, this is the core of who we are as Catholics (at least, ideally - sometimes we get distressingly lost in the lesser points of doctrine). This is our main purpose - to see he face of the Divine in all of humanity, and act on that vision. Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice; for they shall have their fill.. Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God. Here's the revolution of Christianity - our higher calling is social action and justice. I know I'm not doing enough, for whatever it's worth to say it. Sometimes I feel so paralyzed by the tragedy of it all. To crucify a Messiah - what on earth are the implications of it?

The experts say his type of behavior comes from heightened sensitivity. The child is just overly sensitive to stimulus that happier, calmer babies can overlook. The world is an overwhelming place. I feel this way myself.

Lou is still a very sensitive child, though he tends to express that in more productive ways now that he's older. It's nice, for example, that he is very sensitive to our parental approval. He wants us to be pleased with him, and that sure works to our advantage in matters of discipline. Sometimes, though, it works to his own disadvantage. Movies and books have the potential to scare him silly. Last night, I allowed him to watch Alice in Wonderland, thinking the upcoming Disney vacation would be more meaningful with some background for the characters we'll meet. Oh my. He watched intently, but with increasing agitation. There is a point in the movie, where Alice breaks down in tears, because the disappearing cheshire cat points her in this direction and that, when she only wishes to find her home. That's when all hell broke lose last night, and Lou began hysterically screaming "Where's home? Where is IT?" But of course, he wouldn't let me turn off the movie. The Queen invited more hysterics. "No pushing, NO PUSHING!" he shouted through tears. After the movie was over, it took us half an hour to calm him down completely.

It will probably be a while before our next feature length film. A half an hour under the threat of Swiper the fox is quite enough emotional turmoil for a normal evening.

The researchers I cited above have determined that the early sensitivity may eventually work out to be an asset for the child. I suppose, like everything, it has its advantages and disadvantages. For some reason, I keep sensing he's going to become a Vegan. I don't know what to make of it.

I may as well surrender. The other mothers made sugar cookies and cupcakes, and every single valentine card came with candy attached. Back in my day, the candy was a rare treat. Good grief.

Lou had candy for lunch. Since this last Halloween, my attitude is "have at it, son." The sooner he gobbles it down, the better.

...become a school of love fish.

And I'm one of those mothers you hate. I stuck a chocolate to the back. I hope Junior's teeth don't disintegrate.

In all seriousness, I try to make extra efforts for special occasions. I think it boosts a child's self esteem, to know that you think they're worth the effort, and that you take a real interest in what happens at school. School is their world. I remember when my mother brought in cupcakes to my fifth grade class as a surprise for my birthday. One of my classmates said "Is that your mom? She's really pretty." I was bursting with pride. (I also know that after fifth grade, these efforts are likely to backfire. :-)

So I'll always try to volunteer at school, and send things in, and otherwise create meaningful traditions for Lou. These are the things that last in the memory, and hopefully make our children remember childhood affectionately.

I spent a part of the morning clicking through the blogs of people the live in tropical locales. Something like California dreamin'. I showed real estate listings to Cedric. Look, an acre of tropical paradise, for only $250,000. How soon can we go? There's a reason people live longer down in the West Indies.

I have a big consolation, though. In a week, we're flying down to Florida to get some sun, and some Mickey Mouse. I might come back from the living dead. They might not get me back on the return flight. It's about, oh, 78 degrees warmer there than it is here. Oh sun, warm me with your rays.

And then, I got good news in the mail today. I was accepted to the graduate program I put my biggest hopes in. This is a school that has rejected me before, back when I thought everything would be handed to me without hard work. What a punch in the gut that was! So, nothing was certain. In fact, they sent the news in the thin, letter size envelope, and I thought Oh no , all over again. But no, this was just my unofficial acceptance from the department. The Department of Graduate Studies will send the official letter. Hooray! The program is an M.S. in Elementary Education. I'm very, very exited to begin this program. More so than I even imagined I would be. This is a great school, and public school corporation seems very dynamic. I have a lot of lofty ambitions. Let the hard work begin.

So, February persists, but hope is not lost. I have much to look forward to, and much to do even now. All the bureaucratic stuff is good distraction. If I could only get the cold out of my bones, and the gray out of my skin tone.

Florida, here's looking at you.

Anyway, I thought I'd make a little case for dieting. These days, it seems like "intuitive eating" is all the rage, but that never worked for me. Losing weight never worked for me until I hunkered down and looked at the cold numbers: the honest, simple math of weight loss.

The reason, I think, that intuitive eating doesn't work, is that we train ourselves to overeat. We don't even know what intuitive is, we have no idea how much is enough. In fact, I've always seen "intuitive" as a sketchy theory - I would imagine (and I'm no scientist) that we humans have actually evolved to overeat when food is readily available, to store up fat for the months when food is scarce. This theory comes to me after years of observing our dog Charlie. He would happily eat himself into morbid obesity, if we didn't take the food bowl away. I'm thinking, isn't the problem of our generation that food is so plentiful and affordable? Our ancestors had no choice but to make do with less. Charlie, in the wild, would make do with a lot less. And he would work harder for it.

So I eat 1400 calories a day, and that is the extent of my diet. No fads, no forbidden foods, just whatever I want, In reasonable quantities. Oh, there are some foods I avoid, because they have a lot of calories, and don't leave me satiated - namely: chocolate (very, very caloric) bread and most all pies and similar desserts. In the beginning, I recorded every single calorie - there are a lot of counters on the net for this purpose. In recipes I would do some simple math, to determine how many calories were in the whole dish and how much I could take. It was hard at first, I definitely felt hungry a lot. Now I'm used to it, and I don't feel hungry anymore. I feel great.

So, you probably know that the average adult needs 2000 calories a day (and I do stress average - you may need more or less). Well, maybe you also know that 1 pound of fat contains 3,500 calories. So you need to cut this many calories to burn one pound of fat. Essentially, you need to consume much less than you burn to lose weight, to get at those fat stores. To maintain your weight, you need to consume the same amount that you burn. It's really so simple (and so hard too, I know).

Really, though, it's those first few weeks that are hard. If you've never counted calories before, I urge you to give it a try. You may, at least, be surprised at how many you actually consume. Just be honest with yourself. It's hard at first, but it gets a lot easier. It's always so hard to make changes. I'm really glad I've stuck with this, though.

But now, I've found the courage to take a stand, albeit a small stand. My Godfather has become a close friend and a significant mentor to me, and he must take credit for some of this transformation I've undergone. I think he knows how to push me, where I need a good push. He feels a strong moral imperative towards activism. He protests the war, he writes his political representatives, and he does many things that inspire me. And of course, Catholicism in itself is a great reminder that we only get one shot to make our mark in this mortal life. As we were reminded, receiving ashes on Ash Wednesday; Remember that you come from dust, and unto dust you shall return. Better wake up and seize the day. Won't you join me?

And yet, and yet... I believe something may be rubbing off on me. Perhaps a question of exposure, after all? Twice, in the last week, I've been unable to leave the car after reaching my destination, because I've found the piece playing on the radio so moving. I worried, both times, that I would never be able to hear the music again - and that would be a great misfortune. NPR isn't like mainstream radio; they don't rotate the top 20 every hour. They play obscure pieces that they may never play again. So I waited, in my car, for the announcer to tell me what was playing, and then tried to scribble the name of the artist and the piece as best as I could understand. It isn't easy because the titles are often not in English. After some detective work, I've found the first one - Number 194 of the Cantigas de Santa Maria performed by Sequentia (I had written: Conte cas des Maria - Sequencia (see, not easy). I haven't figured out the other one yet, but like the Cantiga, it is a 13th Century piece. I'm still looking.

NPR, it seems, is growing on me. And it's making realize that I can be weeeeee bit narrow minded and defensive. Of course classical music has validity. It can co-exist with folk ;-). I can make some room for it in my itunes list. But the Saturday afternoon Russian operas? Probably not going to happen.

* Incidentally, this highlights a big difference between Cedric and me. I care more about the human stories, and I enjoy speculating about the motivations and actions of the individual, and considering the individual as affected by other individuals and the larger society. Cedric prefers to think of the society at large, seeing individuals as part of larger movements, I suppose.

There’s the symbolic break as well, and selling the house would surely be the final goodbye to my home town. Aside from my grandparents, and a few friends, there will be nothing to bring us back. It’s strange to think of, because this place always has been home, but now it won’t be. By owning a house here, there’s always the notion, utterly unrealistic but comforting, that I could fit back in my old life. There’s the continuity of it, and the idea that all the different parts of my life could form a cohesive unit. If I move to a different place, life becomes segmented, and there’s nothing to connect the new to the old.

I have mixed feelings about the finality of it. I know this town so well. Every place holds a memory, and soon the memories will lose their grounding. They’ll become something unreal, existing in my mind only, and maybe I’ll start to wonder if my early life ever really happened. Without something concrete, to reach out and touch, surely the line between fact and fiction will blur. God willing, I’ve a long life ahead if me. Here, I’m leaving behind perhaps 1/3 of it. I’ll be a ghost, revisiting life now not only through time, but also through place.

Most people, I know, leave home at some point, and move easily and happily into the next stage of life. I suppose they point their feet forward, and don’t pine for the past that slips away. But it ceases to exist, if you see what I mean, and I find that alarming. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like ghosts in my memories; it becomes so difficult to discern reality. The kids who rode bikes up and down Washington Street? The mailman that passed out candy? The grouchy man on the porch swing? Once real, now inexistent. And maybe, probably, this is me brooding about mortality again. Leave it to me to see every significant event as another step toward the grave.

The funny part is that I’ve been dying to get out of here for years and years. This town is small and it’s suffocating me. When I look toward the future, I see clearly the only direction is out. I’m creating a life with my husband and son, and that is reality. This is what exists now, and what will exist tomorrow, and next year, and as far as I can see down the road. Yet decisions, even inevitable decisions, never come easily. Something will always be lost.

I know five pounds is a big loss in one week, and I don't have much explanation for it. I didn't starve myself or anything. But I didn't cheat, at all, and maybe that made the difference. Maybe my body was just dying to burn off the pounds, once I gave it a chance.

I'm starting to feel sheepish posting my weight here. Maybe I should stop now? It's been motivating to me, though, to remember that I'll be revealing it publicly every weekend. I need to be accountable in some concrete way. Otherwise, I am so good at telling myself lies.