Tonight, when I arrived home, dad and his wife were in the kitchen. The house smelled delumptious and I was grateful for that because I was ravenous to the point that all I could think was, “I’m hungry. I’m hungry. I’m hungry.”
Dad kindly and lovingly said, “I’d like to talk to you about your…”
His wife finished, “Blog post.”
I suspected they were referring to Marching Morons but held my tongue and waited.
“The one about your cousin’s daughter’s blessing,” dad offered.
Ugh. It was the Marching Morons post. Damn.
He smiled and paused. I imagine there was some sort of internal battle going on for him, considering that post did not put his religion in a very good light. And the person who wrote it was his very own daughter. I imagine there was some sadness and maybe even anger in there. If the roles were reversed, how would I handle it? Would I even address it?
“Where you called ceremonies rituals.”
Definitely Marching Morons. Crap.
I nodded.
“I’d like to answer some questions you had and clear up some falsehoods. “
Ugh. Not sure I want to be in this conversation. Breathe, Angie. Just breathe.
“I didn’t really have any questions, Dad.”
“Well,” pause, “Okay. About the circle. The father is able to be inside, in the center of the circle holding the child if he wants. He just isn’t able to form the circle with the Elders.”
“Well, he was told he wasn’t allowed to be a part of the blessing process.”
“He should have been able to.”
“Well, he wasn’t.”
That topic finalized, we moved on to the next… “The Elders put their hands under the baby and bounce the baby to comfort the child, not because it is protocol. Also, the reason the Elders put their hands on one another’s shoulders is to form an eternal circle of Priesthood power.”
“I figured as much. And that makes sense. I know the significance of circles and the symbology of eternity in them. I know about the strength of linking up to form a continuous circle of power. I have done it in some of the healing groups I have participated in.”
Next… “You had mentioned that you thought the religion was a cult.”
Shit. Not exactly that, but I can see how he thought that it said that.
“Actually, what I said, Dad, was that it was now easy to see why someone who does not understand the religion could see it as a cult. Especially anyone who has had any experience with witchcraft and occult rituals, all of which circle up in much the same manner. I didn’t say it was a cult. I said it was easy to understand how others could view it as such now.”
The conversation in the kitchen was fairly level headed. Dad looked me right in the eye and we talked adult to adult. His wife, though, kept silent and seemed to vibrate in her corner. I don’t think she was happy. But she didn’t say. She mentioned that she didn’t feel good, so perhaps that was the reason for her silence. I don’t know. It felt like more than that.
At the end of the conversation, Dad said, “And you said some other stuff at the end, which I am not going to address and just let you think about it.”
My daughter chimed in, “Momma, what did you write?”
Knowing what the end of the article says, I felt trapped. It wasn’t something I wanted to verbalize in front of them because it felt disrespectful of their beliefs. Yet, I have always told my daughter she would get the absolute truth from me, no matter what she asks. Cornered and a bit angry, I said to my daughter with a gentle smile to reassure her that it wasn’t her I was angry with, “I will gladly talk with you about it. However, out of respect for your grandparents, I will not talk about it in their presence.”
She nodded and let it go.
Now, three hours later, I sit here writing this and wondering… my family is getting ruffled by my words so do I begin to censor what I write here? This is my processing place. I have a commitment to my truths and the expression of them. I feel sad that I have bothered them and my brother (evidence of that in the comments of Left Out) with stuff I have written. Then I sit back and I look at the computer screen. This is my blog, which I have deemed to be my journal. I write out my heart, my dreams, my hopes, my fears, my anger, my love and whatever else hits my fancy. Whether right, wrong, good, bad or indifferent, it is what it is.
And, I just decided… it is what it is and as it is, it is! And that is how it will remain.
