A Snail's Pace

I like snails.  I know they ruin people's gardens and they are slimy and not the world's more intelligent creatures, but I like them.  They're slow and simple.  And they come out in droves on rainy days...it's kind of cute.  Their eyeball antennae things bounce into their heads when you gently touch them and slowly re-emerge.  WHY they make 8th graders pour salt on them and watch them bubble to death, is beyond me.  Do any of you remember having to do that?  I fail to see how that's ethical.  Now, I'm no Saint Francis.  I have no qualms squashing spiders in front of my children.  But the intentional act of bringing live snails into the classroom for the sole purpose of teaching what a chemical reaction is by bubbling snails to death?  Gross! I am still (clearly) disturbed by this!  But I digress...

I ran into (quite literally) a snail while I was running on the track the other day.  I know, I must have been "running" quite slowly to even notice the snail.  I've taken to "running" lately.  I've never been much of a cardio lover.  I prefer a leisurely hike or a long walk to anything that actually gets my heart pounding over a long period of time.  But I don't chalk this up to laziness.  It's actually due to my hypochondria.  I secretly fear that I'll be one of those tragic stories in the newspaper...the ones where the young seemingly healthy person drops dead out of the blue.  It's ridiculous, really.  I am a healthy 37 year-old with no reason to suspect I'll die of a sudden heart attack.  But it plagues me, nonetheless...especially when I'm running.

Anne Lamott and I share this in common, which is why she is one of my favorite authors.  She makes me laugh out loud at our shared silly yet sometimes debilitating anxiety.  She calls it tuning into the radio station K-FCKD.  It's one of my most frequent stations.

So I've actually taken to running as a spiritual exercise (physical benefits a bonus).  As I run on the track and I start tuning into K-FCKD, I intentionally let it go.  It often becomes a prayer:  "God, if it's my time, it's my time."  It's a conscious act of surrender.  It truly is facing a fear and doing it anyway, trusting that all will be well no matter what.

The other day, the fire department showed up at the track for their morning workout.  Never have you seen me run so fast and so freely.  Not only were there handsome heroic men nearby, BUT they had their ambulance parked in the lot, so if necessary, they had all their life saving gadgets to rescue me from my premature death.  I smiled and laughed at myself.  It really did make the run easier.  It's like that saying the English have:  I am completely mental.

The Baptism Gown

This baptism dress has history.  It once belonged to my great great grandmother Sophie Isaacson.  And it has been passed down baby girl to baby girl.  One of my favorite photos from my childhood is my baptism photo because everyone looks so calm and happy.  I like the wreath of daisies around my little baby head.  It's very 70s: everyone is so young and wild-haired, sporting peasant dresses and loose button-downs.  

When it was time for my daughter Madeleine to be baptized, my mom handed it to me.  It is a very simple dress, but exquisitely beautiful.  Ivory-colored, fine cotton, delicate pleats at the bottom and the sweetest row of honey-colored roses sewn around the bodice.  

This dress has been through a lot.  It survived a raging wild fire in our neighborhood two years ago.  Though many neighbors' homes didn't survive, ours did, but we had to have everything treated to get the smoke smell out.  When I sent this dress to be de-smoked, they sent it back saying it was too fragile to be treated.  Luckily, the smoke smell faded and since we weren't planning on having any more children, I decided it was time to store it properly...so I purchased an archival box and acid-free tissue paper and put it away.  Two of my baby girls had been baptized in it and it was time to preserve it for the next generation.

As fate would have it, I gave birth to one more baby girl.  My third one, little Gwyneth.  For some reason, I was especially happy to pull down that stone-colored cardboard box and carefully lift the dress out of its dormancy.  I squealed as it cascaded to the floor...such a long dress for such a wee body.  There was something about this baptism that was especially poignant for me and it's hard to put my finger on it.  This was my last baby.  The last pudgy arm to gently squeeze into the aging eyelet sleeves.  The last baby to pose for photo shoots with my mom, once posing as a young woman with hair parted down the middle, now posing as a stylish grandma.  

When it was time to return the gown to its place high up in the closet, I had to wash it first.  I held it to my face and breathed in deeply.  It smelled of holy oil...frankincense and other heady oils...the smell of antique fabric, musty...a slight scent of baby, oh that baby smell.  I breathed it in knowing that once I washed it, the scent too would fade.  Questions ran through my mind...what scents were imprinted in its fabric before?  Did the babies cry when the water was poured on their heads?  Did they spit up on the dress?  Did they nap in it?  What perils did the dress escape in previous generations?  What closets had it been stored in?  What memories or clothing cushioned it as it waited its next use?  I gently immersed it in the tub, a baptism of its own.  For future babies...daughters of my granddaughters.