Mhairi Forrest

During Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, there’s a custom called Tashlich (casting off), in which observant Jews throw bread onto a body of water, symbolizing their sins being cast onto God’s love and grace. I’ve been performing Tashlich at the ocean for several years, not because I’m Jewish, nor out of any religious obligation, but for the sheer poetry of watching my morsels of sin obliterated by waves of grace.

Every time I visit, I’m enthralled by this image of the ocean of God’s love, a love that’s unrelenting, fathomless, fierce, consuming. As I stand at the water’s edge, I’m aware I’m giving just a piece of myself in the bread, but if I were to go in deeper, the water would take all of me. And I’m afraid. Afraid of a God whose love isn’t neat and tidy, but so ardent towards us He sacrificed Himself on a cross to prove it and then calls each of us to follow Him. I can remain on the shore, tossing  Him crumbs, but then I’ll never know what’s waiting in the deep waters and I’ll never be satisfied if I don’t heed His siren call of love and venture in.

I got to have a special evening with my favourite valentine, actually, all three of them. The kids and I decided to have a romantic dinner. There’s nothing more heartwarming than a sister calling her brother weirdo by candlelight.

Actually, once they all settled down, they were quite sweet (that’s because I told them there’d be no dessert if they didn’t knock it off). One of my daughters whispered what I hoped were words of love to the other two. Turns out she was reminding them Frankenmummy was in charge and they were needing to find chocolate (maybe I shouldn’t have told them about Frankenmummy’s achille’s heel).

We did go around the table and say what we loved about each other. “You play video games really well” and “You’re cool” were about as eloquent as it got, but preferable to the perennial favourite, “Stupidhead!”

Since we were sitting in the dark, with a single candle our only light, it seemed the perfect time to tell ghost stories. Isn’t that what everyone does for Valentine’s Day? You can keep your roses and violins (but not the chocolate), I’ll stick with my three little cupids. Which reminds me, I need to go hide the bows and arrows where they can’t find them.

I spend a lot of time at my local Gold’s Gym; so much so, I’ve been asked if I have a bed there. The answer is no, I do go home to eat and sleep.

Here are my etiquette rules to make the gym the Happiest Place on Earth:

Gentlemen:

When you grunt and groan through your entire set and not just the last couple of reps, drop your weights, or even worse, throw them so hard they bounce on the rubber mat (this is always the guy who puffs out his chest like a pigeon between sets), the people around you are not thinking, “Wow! He must be really strong!” No. What’s really going through our minds is, “Poor little thing! Those weights are far too heavy for him. He really should try something lighter before he hurts himself.”

The friendly girl who smiles and says hello (and doesn’t even know your last name), is not inviting you to touch her chest, hair, wrists, back, or bottom. She’s just saying hello and if you keep it up, she may become less friendly and use some of the moves she’s learned in kickboxing class on the family jewels.

Your mother isn’t a member, and if she is she’s making sure no one knows, so clean up your puddle of sweat (Gross!).

If you put plates on a machine, take them off. Why rob us of another opportunity to admire your biceps.

When you lift up your shirt to inspect your abs in the mirror, or pose like a contestant in the Mr. Universe Pageant, the people around you are not covering their mouths in awe, they’re trying really hard not to laugh.

This one should have been learned in kindergarten. The equipment is not a church pew with your name engraved on a brass plaque, so share (ouch! I’m guilty of this one myself).

(Although both sexes are guilty of talking on their cell phones, it’s the guys who seem most arrogant about it) You may be convinced the business you’re conducting is world changing, but we’re not, so take it outside.

Ladies:

While your enthusiasm for music is appreciated, this doesn’t mean you should sing it, like Chinese opera, at the top of your lungs.

This is the gym, not the beach, so please wear a shirt. The guys can’t get away with this one (although I’m sure they’re not complaining that you are).

Perfume doesn’t belong in the gym, especially after you’ve been perspiring for more than two seconds and are ponging like Pepe Le Peu in a Parisian Parfumerie (Ooh! I like alliteration!).

Contrary to popular belief, women don’t just glow, they sweat. ALOT. So clean up after yourself.

If you’re going to do arabesques on the stair machine, make sure no one is innocently passing behind you. There’s nothing worse than having to run an obstacle course of legs when trying to get to the water fountain.

Anyone have any to add?

The kids are off school for the four day holiday, which means Goodmummy and Goofenmummy are off getting a spa treatment in honour of Valentine’s Day, leaving Frankenmummy in charge. Send chocolate!

When I grow up I want to be a meteorite, not just a meteor burning through the atmosphere like a big ball of gas. I want to impact the planet and leave a dent (however, as I’m nearly forty-four, this will most likely preclude inventing a cure for cancer). Being a meteorite doesn’t mean being on the Grammys, or the Oscars; it doesn’t mean climbing Everest (thank God!); it doesn’t mean sitting in the Oval office, or getting my name in the newspaper. In fact, it doesn’t matter if my name is ever well known, I’ll be content if it’s just pronounced correctly.

I met a meteorite when I was eighteen years old, volunteering in a community college adaptive p.e. program for disabled adults. I was an able bodied student assigned to implement an exercise plan for a young man named Louis. I entered the room and had to pause. Sitting in a wheelchair, in the middle of the room, was the most grotesque human being I’ve ever seen.

His hydroencephalic, domed head, leaning against the high back of his chair for support, was twice normal size, too heavy for his neck, and sparsely covered in front with wispy brown hair. His hands and feet twisting inwardly lay useless and unmoving on their rests. I remember thinking, “Do not react!” It was difficult, but I managed to paste a smile on my face and approach him.

I’m sure he saw how much I was struggling to compose myself, but I’ve since recognized, Louis had probably experienced a lifetime of overlooking the reactions of people.

His response to me was gracious and warm and what I can best describe as shiny. As I drew close, he began to mumble through swollen, misshapen lips. Every word was a chore to comprehend, but an even greater labour for him. It took me a minute, but I realized he was thanking me for working with him and I felt ashamed.

As we continued our session, I watched as his older sisters, who cared for him full time, lovingly stroked his head and placed a straw in his mouth so he could take a drink of water. Each action resulted in appreciation from Louis’ twisted mouth; but what was notable to me was his gratitude was seasoned with so much joy.

Joy made his face glow, and gushed out of him, warming the room and every person who came in contact with him. It would be cliche to say he became beautiful, and Louis was no cliche, but his effect on others was remarkable.

This grossly warped man marked me for good. I’ve since met others who were beautiful to look at, but whose effect was more like the meteorites in a cheap disaster movie, leaving a big mess to clean up in their paths. I’d rather be like Louis.

Ever encountered a meteorite?

Just in time for Valentine’s Day, I opened my email and discovered an exceptional piece of journalism from Marie Claire Magazine featured on the MSN homepage. Entitled, “How To Date Like A Guy”, it advocated its readers, mostly young women, I presume, should learn to date like a man, and not just any man. They should emulate the kind of guy who uses other human beings like Kleenex. I guess if you can’t beat ‘em, you might as well join ‘em. Included was this inspired crumb of wisdom, “it doesn’t mean you should hand out your cell phone number to every last guy you happen to sleep with…because he will call you…and he will be all sad and lonely and want to see you again. And you will think, Wait, who IS this guy? And then you will be sorry that you handed out your personal information to a potential stalker.” I don’t know, call me old-fashioned, but why are you having sex with someone you don’t know well enough to trust isn’t the progeny of Jack the Ripper?

As if she were promoting a particular brand of toothpaste, the writer, Erin Daly, goes on to rhapsodize about the advantages of one night stands, “one night stands are awesome. No muss, no fuss, no strings, possibly good sex, no worry about the following morning or possible dating situations…they have their merit…Do we all want the occasional make-out session against a chain-link fence behind a bar with no consequences? Hell. Yeah.” Ahh! The evolution of man’s finest hour! At least a prostitute goes home with gas money!

There is no such thing as sex without consequences. I would love to talk to Erin in ten, or fifteen years. As a matter of fact, I’ve spoken to many older, wiser Erins about the damage this kind of behavior has wrought in their lives. They bear no resemblance to Samantha (also mentioned in the article) on Sex and the City. A character, who is as much a figment of a writer’s imagination, as Cinderella. All of them describe, with regret, some sort of wall, sometimes even a citadel, they’ve constructed against intimacy. Sex is a glorious gift and is designed to connect not just the bodies, but the hearts, minds, and souls of two human beings. Anything less is a tragedy.

My first taste of Haagen-Daz Dulce de Leche ice cream, in a crowded food court, was a revelation of flavour. The sensuous movement of sweet rich cream and caramel tangoing on my tongue mesmerized my tastebuds and neural pathways, demanding all my senses focus on their performance. I immediately took another bite, expecting a repetition of the melding of those two masterful artists, and was disappointed to discover the intensity had diminished, as if less talented understudies, blandly imitating the artists’ movements, had stepped onto the stage. I waited a few moments, letting my senses rest, then took a third bite. My mouth applauded (I’m a hedonist, after all). There they were again, the star performers had returned, enthralling their audience (I could have said, in far fewer words, my reaction was almost orgasmic, but that wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun to write).

I’ve had many experiences I call Dulce de Leche moments. Those powerful, gratifying events that overwhelm the senses; so intensely sweet, they bypass the brain and beguile the body, heart, and spirit. They often come unexpectedly, rarely in the trappings of some anticipated extravaganza. Like humble ice cream, most often they’re wrapped in the plain brown paper of the banal and are easily overlooked. They’re discovered in the glorious sunset suddenly appearing between two buildings; a really good laugh; the embrace of a cherished friend.

I used to wonder why I didn’t have such purely passionate reactions to life all the time, until I realized just as I needed to pause between bites of my favourite ice cream, I also needed time between those moments, so as not to become habituated to them, weakening their effect. For Dulce de Leche moments, if I will watch for them, have the power to cause my whole being to soar in thankfulness; and in the darkest places, they are threads of sunlight beckoning me forward.

When you ask a roomful of kids what they want to be when they grow up, you have to brace yourself for a tsunami of responses, “I’m going to be a doctor, rock star, superhero, ballet teacher, Olympic gymnast, and mother of six,” a pint-sized blonde, who still can’t tie her shoes, will lisp. Even disabled children, unaware of their limitations, will rhapsodize about becoming firefighters, pilots, and artists. No one has told them they can’t, or, if they have, they don’t believe it. Children are captivated by all the possibilities and promise of life and dream big, really big.

But then, something happens as they tread life’s corridors. They discover doors that won’t open because of lack of ability, or opportunity; they listen to the “can’ts” and “shouldn’ts” and seal up rooms they might have investigated; or they select one hall which connects to different passageways, leaving those unexplored to echoes of others’ footsteps; until suddenly, they’re grownups with vision narrowed to myopia, blind to the panorama of possibilities.

Just before my fortieth birthday, I was asked what my dreams were and was horrified to discover I didn’t have any. They had suffocated under the weight of a fatally wounded marriage and what had once been alive and rich in me had desiccated and was now dust in my mouth. I was like a farmer laboring in the fields, breathing to the rhythm of sunrise and sunset, with only clay under my feet and no hope of harvest. I got on my knees and examined the dry earth of my life and discovered there were still seeds lying dormant in the ground, dreams sown in me from the beginning, needing only attention and care.

I knew I wanted to write and began a novel I’d been thinking about for ten years. As I nurtured the seeds, I saw little shoots poke up through the dirt. I finished the first page, then the first chapter; I entered a contest in a national magazine and was one of five finalists; I completed the first draft of my novel and started looking for an agent. Slowly, the shoots began to resemble plants and my eyes opened to the promise of a field in harvest. I realized there was a plan and purpose for my life, as there is for every one of us, and until I take my last breath, I need to be like a child, and dream big, really big.

When my marriage of nineteen years ended, I re-entered high school. I wandered into the dating world like a freshman transferring from some little convent school onto the big city campus, wide-eyed and unprepared.

I encountered forty and fifty-year old men who preened like jocks trying to impress a cheerleader every time a girl young enough to be their daughter crossed their lines of sight. Oblivious to the freight trains dragging behind them, they dismissed women their own age, because they had “too much baggage”.

At first, being one of the women who fit in the “their own age” category, I was piqued, until I realized, that just like the guys I remembered in high school, what they were really looking for was a hamburger, and not one of those expensive burgers, just something fast, hot, relatively tasty, and cheap. They weren’t interested in a gourmet meal, too much work, too costly, too unpredictable, and too time consuming.

Unfortunately, there are plenty of women of all ages, who believe the lie that they’re some sort of Happy Meal. Society tells them they have power because someone is willing to buy, so they barter their sexuality, a treasure of inestimable worth, like a low-cost meal with plastic toy included, for the price of dinner and a soupcon of attention. Hoping some teenager in a man’s body will cherish what they’re offering, they’re heartbroken when it’s consumed, then digested quickly. This is not power. Deciding to behave as if they’re seven-course gourmet meals, prepared by a master chef, unwilling to give themselves to anyone who refuses to sit at the table and invest a lifetime appreciating all the nuanced flavours they have to offer, now, that’s powerful.

I am a hedonist and believe God has given me life to enjoy. That doesn’t mean there aren’t difficulties and sorrows; bad things happen, but joy is like a stream moving by and I can choose to jump in and get wet, or stay on the banks and watch it slipping past.

A hedonist:

Rides the shopping cart in the grocery store parking lot because it’s fun; she has learned, however, to avoid empty carts as she might flip them, land on her back with said shopping cart on top of her and attract a crowd asking, “Are you alright?” and “Should I call an ambulance?”

Can tell you what her food tastes like.

Loves presents, be they in the form of objects, kindnesses, or people.

Really enjoys water gun battles, especially when she has the biggest gun.

Will stay up past her bedtime for the midnight showing of the latest Harry Potter movie and eat popcorn and Sour Patch KIds because that’s what you’re supposed to do at those movies.

Takes time to smell the roses, lavender, pine needles, and freesia.

Prays for rain, so she can wear her rain boots.

Embraces her inner Ringo Starr and never passes up a drum circle.

Laughs because something is funny.

Tries only to speak words of life.

Thinks that every sunset is the most beautiful she’s ever seen.

Has noticed how many donkeys feature in the Bible, and figures if God can use an ass, He can certainly use her.

Sees her body as a gift and takes care of it.

Believes if you’re going to try for big things, you have to be willing to fail spectacularly.

Thinks when you say she’s acting like a child, you’re paying her a compliment.

Doesn’t mind if you disagree with her and still likes you even though you’re wrong.

Knows what her purpose is on this planet and is really excited about it.

Lives well and loves well.

To be continued…

I actually told my son to shut up today. In our house, that’s like using the F-word and has been known to earn offenders a mouth washing. No, I didn’t have to eat soap, being the administrator has its privileges (plus the blue, liquid soap from Target tastes terrible), but I might have felt less guilty if I had. I asked for forgiveness pretty quickly, a figurative mouth washing, but there was still that little voice in my head whispering, “Good example you are! You know you’ve irreparably damaged the boy!” I told it to shut up, too, but unlike my son, it’s heard me say worse, so it wasn’t impressed.

That voice is especially strident when Frankenmummy, my alter ego, comes out to play. I try to keep her in her cage as much as possible, chocolate is sort of her Kryptonite, but there are days when I have too many balls in the air, then someone tosses a couple more at me, and I become a beast resembling the Incredible Hulk, all brawn and no brains.

The thing is I know I should be Goodmummy, the perennial model of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound… But most of the time, I fall somewhere between the two (let’s call her Goofenmummy) and I have to pray for grace to cover it all.