Happy Halloweeeeeeeeeeeeen . . .

I’ll be going to a Horror Show tonight. Capital H. Capital S. Haunted House. Capital…you get it. Never been through one of these and it’s supposedly super terrifying. If it weren’t the one my daughter’s been working, helping the make-up artists (bonafide real live ones), I’d not bother. But I have to see it. Meanwhile, I await the ringing of the doorbell and the cutie pies in their festive garb and I smile so big like a fat faced pumpkin . . .

My Pumpkin, Yes I carved it myself.

And it’ll be carved on my face like a great big slice of life theatre. I enjoy this for my kids and as a way to reclaim things not had in my youth. It sounds so trite to say it but it’s worth seeing their pleasure. Besides, the chocolate’s wonderful. Except now that I’ve had my wisdom teeth removed my mouth has changed. Totally. I cannot eat some chocolate without my teeth screaming at me. Isn’t that exciting? Next image…maybe more exciting…

Marion's Pumpkin

I don’t know what we’d do without these annual regurgitations of ancient festive celebration. We’d not have pumpkin guts or leftover candy clogging up the table or memories of participating in life. Ah ha… I’m finding some inspiration…

Witch One?
Wicked Witch One...Isaac's

We’d not have wart nosed witches or the slightest shuddering twitches of of of sore muscles after heave ho’ing the leaves along the curb and the last pile of dirt for the garden. We’d not even find . . .

Ever After Laughter
Evan's Funny Bones...

the skeletal claims of a boy’s first “do it myself!” pumpkin (from a pattern, of course) to put the meat on the bones of his self-confidence. We’d not get that huge hug from a boy literally leaping into his mom’s arms (not many more years of that to come!). We’d not feel the ice thaw as the doorbell rings (doorbell, darling BABY in father’s arms…hmmm…he refused to tell me WHO was getting the candy…).

Ever have those days where it’s just not clicking? Just ho hum de dum let’s get on with some … life? Oiy and vey? It was that for me today but my doorbell keeps ringing and there are some cute faces eager to believe in life. Methinks I can help with that one in spite of the ebb and flow of life’s come and go go go too much some days…ok. End the sentence.

Hey…life is good even when it drags a bit…anybody else notice this?

Hobgoblins and Jesus in The Mean Streets…

I’m up late. Early? Yes, early. I took my daughter to yet another evening of volunteer work for a horror show. Yes, a horror show. I picked her up at 12:45a.m. And I’m exhausted. But I can’t sleep. 

We are so not off the grid here. And it’s hilarious because my heart is off the grid and down the winding lane and into the woods and dancing naked in the river. My mind rebels vigorously and daily the systems with which I dance. With which? With whom? But I do stick to the grammatical rules as I drive eagerly over the double yellow line above the speed limit to fetch my child. 

A horror show. I never went trick-or-treating as a child. It was wrong. Evil. My family was fanatical and overly religious, to put it mildly. I reclaimed me as I held my daughter’s hand for her first outing in Halloween wonder and then my two sons and it became this blur of most unique salvation. I found the “kingdom” when I refused the fear of my beginnings in Christ-dimming “salvation.” And Jesus grinned. 

Hobgoblins and Hope
Hobgoblins and Hope

Christmas was Jesus’ birthday and Halloween was wicked or, at least, dumb. I never believed in Santa. I missed out on some things. I gained some things. 

I sometimes look in my rearview mirror as I go over and past the double or dotted yellow line and (on pitiful days) pray the scene behind me was only a dream…a dream? No. It wasn’t. And every inch of time spent taking my child to volunteer for helping with the make-up artists she admires (Damn! They put make-up on Johnny Depp! SWOON!) is an inch of emancipation and territory whose claiming is more precious than she’ll ever fully realize. So, basic. So seemingly inane and yet powerful for me, for a generation or two or four. That, in and of itself, is a wonder supreme. 

I bag these goodies as I ring the doorbell of every new opportunity and I insist on treats and no one knows what they’re doing. No one knows the neighborhood whispers of something beyond zombie invasions and hints just a bit too subtly of bringing me to life. I skip away with my chocolate and laugh. 

And drive over the double yellow line. I pass in the no-pass zone. But there are no cars. It’s a fast-forward around the obstacles in my soul while these three children I conceived in a life of confusion are clarifying every stitch of me. 

And keeping me up well past the witching hour, feasting my soul on a seemingly blasphemous redemption. But no, it’s sacred.

And finding music, calling me to listen: “Mom!! You have to hear this!! OMG!!!” Their depths blow me out of my tunnel of deepest frustration. They blast me into newer lands of courage as I go chasing the windmills with their big pointy spokes turning and burning. Some of those windmills turn out to be pretty nasty systematic monsters spinning the wheels of “justice” round and round, sending projectile missiles into the heart of wildness. I like to watch those destructive windmills explode when I’m finished snarling down their mission. But now I sound silly. 

I won a battle this week for the best interest of my youngest in a system so far gone it’s tragic. A big effort with huge happy results. The rewards are enormously satisfying even when you’re up past 1am bringing out the zombies for their sweetest redemptive work and finding Jesus in the mean streets, right there past the corner grocer selling a bill of manufactured goods and the “sanity” of gridlock. You stop and stare at all the pretty lies while dynamic truth resonates louder, calling you to a deeper work and a hilariously metaphor-rich world… 

Sometimes the sweetest stuff drags you out of the bed you made and down the road past all your notions of sensible concepts and into a dance of soul. And…

it’s all good.