Solstice

I was walking the seaside route home with Roan asleep in the pram this evening.  It was dark and quiet, but for the sea, which made sounds agains the stone wall like a monster swallowing.  Then I saw a lady step out of the foam onto the rocks.  When I looked again, it was only the crashing waves.

I had a feeling.  When we got home, I looked it up.  Turns out today--not the 21st--is the winter solstice.

#7QT: autumn chill, charity shop finds, and Saint Rosalia

-- one --

We turned the heater on for the first time last night, on a low setting.  The temperature hasn't peaked into the 60's (fahrenheit) since {September arrived}.

(Pictured above: back when it was "summer" in Wales.  Ha!)

Fall and winter are my favorite seasons, though I'm apt to think of the season I'm in or about to start as my favorite.  Still, this Halloween-lover is stoked to see September unfold in a part of the world where the trees put on their fall finery.

Then, at the end of September, Roan and I are going back to the States for me to photograph a wedding and for John to get my immigration started.  Prayers for a smooth and speedy application appreciated.

-- two --

There's this little cat named Rosie who belongs to the couple living below us.  She always sits in the same exact spot of green lawn in the garden.  Just sits there, looking out into the little world that is her back yard, with her paws curled beneath her.  I don't know why, but it makes me happy.

-- three --

I pilfered seven!!! well-kept articles of used clothing for Roan this week at the charity shop.  For 1.75 pounds.  Good old British charity shops!

I also found the complete set of Beatrix Potter books--in their original children size formatting!--for under 5 pounds total!  They're a 1990's printing, in box sets, in pristine condition.  At a different charity shop.  Ever since listening to the {Read Aloud Revival} episode about building a personal library, my spidey senses are heightened for bargain classics.

-- four --

Afon is starting school next week!  We're meeting with the head teacher today to discuss uniforms, etc.

I always give a lot of thought to educational methods this time of year, and I have some thoughts half written out about Waldorf education, a style which has mystified and intrigued me for several years now.  Hope to get that up on the blog sooner rather than later.

-- five --

Today is one of my feast days on the liturgical calendar.  Saint Rosalia was my confirmation saint.  And while I chose her, at the time, for the way her name would sound with mine, I'm since convinced that there was providence in our meeting.  In another life, I could have been a hermitess.  I think about how she withdrew to pour her all into her vocation, and I can envision a parallel world where I live in a tiny studio apartment, poor as dirt, and write.

So, some pink moscato and a rosy cake for today's name day celebration?

Santa Rosalia, ora pro nobis!

-- six --

Lately, on Everything to Someone:

• my {baby bonnet obsession} reaches an all-time high with autumnal hues.
• I think (don't hold your breath!) I've discovered the three techniques I need to master in order to have {a good start to the day}!
• my friend Caitlin indulged my curiosity and tapped out a guest post about how to be sensitive, as a blogger, to {readers who don't have children}.
• our {life in Wales}.
• and what's {in my makeup bag}.

-- seven --

Quick and interesting clicks!  Check out:

• this intriguing {saint calendar with original portraits} commissioned by some sort of Italian fashion magazine.
• chic graphic design freebies and printables from {We Lived Happily Ever After}.
• these insanely {trendy and chic Catholic jewelry} pieces.

Linking up with Christy! this week for {Seven Quick Takes Friday}.

7 Affordable Ways to Make Your Week Beautiful

It's great that it's the weekend, but you know when you've had one of those weeks that just sort of make you disappointed that it's almost over and you haven't done what you wanted to, planned to, or simply found meaningful?

Don't despair!  I'm here with some juvenile inspiring ideas to make you sure you shake things up and get to live a little.

1.  Buy yourself a bouquet of flowers.

{They don't have to be expensive.}  Just a $3.50 one from the grocery store will do.  Put it on your home altar or on the dresser in front of the mirror (like a diva's dressing room)!

2.  Mail something unusual to a friend.

Like a swim noodle--you can write the address directly on it in permanent marker.  (I have done this.  Unless the rules have changed, the U.S.P.S. will mail it.)  Or recycle a 2 liter soda bottle and fill it with sand and seashells, then stick the shipping label on the outside.  (Make sure to use packing tape to keep the lid on!)

3.  Make your bed first thing in the morning.

This really gets your morning jump-started: you've already accomplished something, your bedroom looks pretty, and you're less likely to want to climb back into bed if you went through all the effort to make it.  Even if you do take a nap later, it's nice to get a head-start on the day.

4.  Write a list of band names.

See my new favorite movie {The World's End starring Simon Pegg} for examples.  It's so much fun.  Do it with a friend or spouse; make a game out of it by saying you have to use objects in the room; or the name of a pet + a color; or an obscure language + your favorite fruit:

• Window Mirror
• Sadie's Red
• Tunisian Pears

5.  Move the furniture around in one room.

Pick the room you live most in and just hit the refresh button.  It's like redecorating but absolutely free and with all your favorite stuff.  The change also gives you a creativity boost.

6.  Go bowling in prom dresses.

I've done this, too.  Get some girlfriends, put on your old prom dresses (if they still fit) or an evening gown or cocktail dress, get all fancied up, and then go bowling.  It's so much fun!  You can totally do it if you're a man, too!

7.  Make a collage or inspiration notebook.

Use up those old magazines and newspapers and make something creative; there doesn't have to be a theme, unless you want there to be!  Or decorate a notebook and use it as a "real" scrapbook, where you jot down memories, paste clippings and photos, record inspiring quotes and poems, an doodle.

Something like {Wreck This Journal} looks like tons of fun!

Have you ever done one or more of these things before?  Do you think you will in the future?  Have any suggestions for me?

Linking up with Kelly for {Seven Quick Takes}.

32/52

"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2015."

Afon:  He loves the water, like a labrador retriever (or maybe just an Aspie kid).

Roan:  Roan looking perky at the seashore in his {Whole Parenting Goods} cap.

I can't even begin to understand my kinship with the sea.  I was born in Panama City, Florida, and we made yearly pilgrimages to Pensacola and the sweet, blue Gulf of Mexico.  But I've talked before about the mineral, primordial sea of the British isles and Ireland, and how it calls to me in an especial and mysterious way.  Then it catches me off guard, that they are in fact the same sea.

I'm full of thoughts like these of late, and {this film} has only fanned the flames of inspiration.  I am in love.  If you enjoyed {The Secret of Kells}, you will adore {The Song of the Sea}.  It's more child-freindly, as the threat of death is knocked down a few notches into a "mere" threat of being turned to stone.  It's very reminiscent of a Miyazaki film in that there is no real villain.  I honestly can't tell you which one I like better; they are both sublime.

These lines from Yeats make up the opening monologue of the film.

I'll have to write a full review later, probably for {Spinning Straw into Gold}, but I'll let you know when I do.

Roan Reuel's Birth Story

(Note: My husband was in Wales during the birth of our second son, which explains his absence.  We Skyped as soon as we could afterwards, but my mother was my attendant during the birth.)

It was about 4:45 am, and there was a gush like a waterfall.  Where the heck was all that hiding?  So I sat in the bath, told my folks, felt a few contractions that went away, went back to sleep for several hours, and my mom was like . . . we better go in, just to make sure Baby is okay.  I felt some weak, irregular contractions.  There was a second gush, and I wager that's why the baby was measuring so big.

We tried to three times to drive to the hospital before getting very far.  First, my father's car was making a treacherous noise.  So we doubled back around.  My father sent us on, telling us not to worry about it.  The noise got worse.  So we took a detour to our trusty mechanic's.  He is an island man who runs his shop off of the abbey's property.  He has one of those mouths always on the verge of laughter and a generosity of spirit that staggers.  His rates are fantastic and his loyalty even better.  So we feel we can show up any time and are pretty confident that he'll find room for us in an emergency.  As we cruised up and rolled the window down on the passenger's side, we let him know what was up.

"Oh, my God!" he said, in Trinidadian accents.  His smile split his face it was so broad.  "I can't believe it.  You're in labor?  You're so calm!"

I brought him a hearty helping of entertainment that day, as  he went on that I had always had such a laid back personality.  He gave us one of his loaner cars and we were at last on our way.

I arrived at the hospital, filled out paperwork, etc.  They wanted to induce me, of course; because like last time, my baby was in no hurry to come out.

That takes hours, first they take you to triage to listen to the baby's heartbeat, then they prep you with a big bag of IV fluids (???), then they hook you up to the Pitocin.   My platelets were just shy of the minimum level to get an epidural, 101.  100 is the cut off.  Normal platelets are three-hundred something. 

Then the anesthesiologist came in and wasn't happy with the IV because it was too small.   If there was an emergency, he said, they'd need a bigger needle.  So he stuck me four more times trying to find a vein, and oh my gosh it hurt!   I still had this massive blue-black bruise in the inside of my right arm two weeks later.   Then he gave up and shared with me that if I were ever in a real emergency, like ambulance/ER, they'd have to go right to the neck in my vein, no messing around.  Eep!  (My girlfriend, whose mother is a nurse, told me he was exaggerating and that there is always someone in the hospital who they can call on who is a whizz with small veins.)  He was from Nigeria, very handsome and soothing-sounding, and he wanted to get me epidural-ed up pretty quick, but the midwife was kind enough to consider my personal empowerment during labor and chased him away, firmly but professionally.

So then the contractions got quite painful.  I don't think they're worse on Pitocin, but the progress is a lot faster than natural labor, which may make it seem more painful.  Experienced moms, is that the case?  Anyway, I asked for the epidural, and the anesthesiologist had me lean forward against my mom and plunged the needle into my spine--at which point, my right leg immediately seized up, and it felt soooooo much more painful than when I had it with Afon.   They lowered me back down, and I don't think the pain ever went away completely.   I remember the anesthesiologist making a comment about how I could still move my legs too well.  But I don't know why they didn't do anything about it.  

The contractions got worse and worse until they were ready to have me push, but Roan was not facing the way they wanted him to be, so they made me go on my side, first one, then the other, to try to push him out.   He wouldn't come.   No progress at all, and each time, his blood pressure shot up. He was happier when I lay flat on my back. 

Then I heard them start talking about prepping for a C-section.  Now, during this time, I was pretty fairly screaming, and I told my mom I was dying, and everyone had to keep telling me to calm down and stop screaming and remember to breathe.  It was about that time I started asking for a priest. They were like, "You're not dying," but I kept asking.  I asked if they could somehow pull the baby out, and they said they'd only do that as a last option.

"Mommy, why does it hurt so much?"

"Because God was really, really mad at Eve."

They ordered a STAT C-seciton, which means, like, NOW.   So my mom couldn't come in with me.

It felt like an eternity of time between them rolling me out of the delivery room into the operating room.  The last thing I said to my mom was, "Pray for me," and I was saying "Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy," over and over again.  They rolled me down the hall and I could see a surreal reflection of myself on the ceiling in something metal.  Every time I had a contraction, I'd whip my head back and forth and reach out like a crazy person and twist my legs.  I was a regular Gollum, pawing and begging.  They took forever to prep for surgery, and I kept asking where the anesthesiologist was. 

"I want to go to sleep," I said. 

 I must have asked four times, and the fourth time, I said, with the best pathetic smile I could manage, "Is he really coming, or are you all just telling me he's coming." 

 Because, like, I knew I was asking every 30 seconds or less. 

 "No, he's really coming." 

In a second, they kept saying. 

I suspect they didn't know the timing, they were just telling me that to shut me up!  

When the anasthesiologist finally came in, I reached my arm out to him and weakly tugged his short sleeve, brushing his arm with my fingertips, and he looked at me, a little bit startled.  

The midwife said, "She wants to go to sleep." 

I pawed a few more people, squeezed the midwife's hand, and told the nurse that if anything happened to me or the baby, would she please call a priest? and she said she would. 

Then I ceased to exist.

When I existed again, it was in scraps of distant conversation and a sensation of moving.  They were saying things like, "wisdom teeth" (the only other operation I've had) and "only one blood clot."  I had to move off of the stretcher onto a bed, I think, or maybe that was before, or later, and the male nurse in the recovery room was saying something to someone else about how his daughter had moved back in with them, and that she was "preggers," weird choice of words.  He didn't seem worried at all, that's why it stood out to me, my dad would have been so disapproving.  Funny what you remember when you're only barely conscious.

When I tried to talk, my voice came out hoarse; I could barely speak.  (Later, I was told they shoved a tube down my throat to get oxygen into me during surgery.)

"Was it a boy or a girl?"

"A boy, I think.   Let me check."  In and out, he was talking to someone.   "Yes, a boy."

I was disappointed for a few seconds, then was made to move, I think--or they let me go back on my side (I was there before? they seemed to intuit that I had a preference)--and then I asked how much he weighed, and the nurse said at first 7 lbs 8 oz (which was wrong because Roan was exactly 6 lbs 8 oz, like Afon).

Then I appeared in a different room, and my mom came out of my peripheral vision to the left, and she said, "Oh, Christie, he's so cute." And they rolled him up in his bassinet and put me in his arms and I thought he looked so much like Afon!

It was the worst pain I've ever felt in my entire life, but you know I would still have done it if I'd known.   With a lot less grace than Jesus in the Garden, though!  I'm so glad we don't know the future!

For many days after, I thought back on those last minutes, when I was begging to go to sleep and reaching out to any kind soul that would touch me.  I can't explain what it was like, except to say that in those minutes I loved each and every one of those doctors and nurses in the operating room with me.   I was totally dependent on them, like a child, and I could barely grasp that they were there to help me, that they were going to look after me.  It must be what a dog feels for its master or a baby for its mother, just complete, reckless, total love and gratefulness.   I'll never even see those people again, but I'm still in awe that we would do this for each other.  I was suffering, and they helped me.

I choose not to know the sex of my babies, so as to have something to look forward to, though in both instances, and especially this one, all else is extinguished from my brain but pain and primal concentration.  The name I held onto for a girl was Elsbeth--don't worry, I've been assured many times over that it was a good thing this never came to pass, though I stand by it stubbornly--but the names for boys have always been more difficult for me to settle on.  The gendered names of my babies change often throughout pregnancy, but a few days before his birth, I'd fluttered around the name Roan, and had it in my mind during labor, as I had Afon's, so that when he was presented to me, I thought Roan.  An Irish name meaning "little redhead."

My sister suggested the middle name Reuel ("friend of God" in Hebrew), after Tolkien, and after John's hearty approval, I announced his arrival to our little world.

26/52

"A portrait of my children, once a week, every week, in 2015."

Roan:  He's grown so very much in the last week alone; looking more six months than five months.  Still wobbly on his Bumbo, though.  Almost all of the brown hair is gone, replaced by soft white-blonde fuzz.

Afon:  The last picture of the wild man before his haircut.

Afon's wanderings--and they would be far further than we would like, if he had his way, remind me of this poem; or maybe the poem reminds me of him.  Either way:

Spring Morning, by A.A. Milne 

Where am I going? I don't quite know.
Down to the stream where the king-cups grow-
Up on the hill where the pine-trees blow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know. 

Where am I going? The clouds sail by,
Little ones, baby ones, over the sky.
Where am I going? The shadows pass,
Little ones, baby ones, over the grass. 

If you were a cloud, and sailed up there,
You'd sail on water as blue as air,
And you'd see me here in the fields and say:
"Doesn't the sky look green today?" 

Where am I going? The high rooks call:
"It's awful fun to be born at all."
Where am I going? The ring-doves coo:
"We do have beautiful things to do." 

If you were a bird, and lived on high,
You'd lean on the wind when the wind came by,
You'd say to the wind when it took you away:
"That's where I wanted to go today!" 

Where am I going? I don't quite know.
What does it matter where people go?
Down to the wood where the blue-bells grow-
Anywhere, anywhere. I don't know.

And that's half the year!  Except that I missed the first couple of weeks in January; late pregnancy and immediate postpartum ailments are more focused on survival than documentation.

What are you thoughts halfway through 2015?  Summer Christmas has passed and today is the solemnity of Sts. Peter and Paul.  It's the ideal time to be still and reflect on the past months, to follow the new ones into the future, as you might follow a stone thrown out over the water.

That One Time I Handed My Baby to a Stranger in a Waiting Room

Being around a baby warms people like a pat of butter in a pan.

In the grocery store checkout line, the folks behind my shopping cart, facing Roan in his car seat, get all wide-eyed and full of expression; turn to their companions and smile a comment; then look back and play peek-a-boo with a baby whom they've only just met (unofficially).

It helps that Roan is exceedingly friendly and free with his smiles.  But it works with newborns, too: "Look at the baby, sweetie," say the mothers, with cheer and nostalgia, to their little girls.

A baby is a bridge between people; a universal commonality; a bond.

So when I notice people ooing and awing over Roan in a waiting room, I give him to them.  I've got nowhere to go, nothing to do.  I'm going to be there for a while yet.  And I have absolutely no fear for my child: their admiration for him is saturating, and I'm right there if he needs me.

It might start a casual but human conversation; there's no talk of Great Things or Deep Confessions, just a connection that wasn't there before.  Two or three people being real with each other.  But more often than not, they hold the baby for a few minutes; gather sustenance from those chubby legs; and hand him back with a smile of authenticity otherwise absent in a stranger.

It was in one of those waiting rooms that an older hispanic man, with a sun-browned, worn, and kindly face, kept looking at us--at Roan--and looked away again before we could make eye contact.  (We're taught it's rude to stare.  To so pertinently engage somebody and be present to that person in that infinite moment.  It's a violation, because we are all of us hiding from ourselves.)  I don't know how, but I knew this man needed to hold Roan.  So I stood up and walked over, offering up my baby.

He accepted him eagerly, openly, with the tender affection of a grandfather.  He knew no English to speak to me but held my five-month-old son in his arms and murmured to him in Spanish.  Just a few minutes.  They bonded, and he gave Roan back, eyes crinkled in a gratitude that will humble me for years to come.

Photography as Meditation

I love editing my photos, maybe even more than I love taking them.  It is practice in meditation, viewing the same faces over and over again; pulling up the contrast here; blowing out the black there; sharpening in this one; softening in that one; changing the white balance to best compliment skin tone.

After a while, my brain goes on automatic, and I'm not totally aware of what I'm doing.  I don't think about the technicalities of post-production; but I do think about the people.  My muse whispers, "make his smile pop," "show off the mischievous glint in her eye," "convey the tangible warmth in these human relationships," and these things happen as if by magic, intuitively, and I'm not really thinking about the process at all anymore.

Processing digital photos is addicting.  I never quite know how the photos are going to come alive and assert themselves.  It's the way with all art.

Change

Tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle!

We wake to the birds' beautiful racket in the morning.  The sun is hot but the air, under the shade, retains a tinge of spring.  Each year, April becomes a reflective time for me--a time of change, of renewal, but a renewal outward rather than starting over, like a tree putting on rings.

Changes are coming.  I'm excited and nervous and ready.

Sapphires on Ash Wednesday

One month as of February 14, 2015.

At one month old, one can already tell his eyes will be blue.  They are dark and deep as sapphires, but so were Afon's before they lightened into something sky-like, and then faded to a greeny-blue gray, like his father's.

Roan smiles.  He's been smiling since he was born.  I was in the hospital and I saw it, but I regret not saying anything to someone because I have this unfounded idea that no one will believe me.  They'll say, "It's just gas."  But it wasn't.  His soul was in there.  It was never more clear to me than when he emerged from the dark, warm nothingness with it intact, whole, utterly itself.  A soul that struck me with awe because it was Not Afon's.  Not Mine.  Not Anyone's.

Even now, his smile is a clear response to stimulus; to the sound of my voice or the bright ceiling light.  We joke and say, "He's like a real human being!" and "He's almost a real person!"  But of course there are some who would say that a month ago, he wasn't a real human being, wasn't a real person.  Or at least, that his life didn't merit protection as one.

He was barely two weeks during the March for Life, and I couldn't bear to see all the worthy reporting and testimonies in my social media feeds; and yet, I couldn't bear not to.  I cried tears of joy to see all the souls, especially youth, step out in droves to speak for the tiny and voiceless.  I cried tears of sorrow that they even have to.

I wished to add my voice to the millions but was too emotional and raw at the time.  I wanted to say, "Look!  I brought this child forth amidst much suffering; through sickness that lasted months with no relief and sucked the joy out of me; through sorrow so deep that when I looked up I saw the bottom; in childbirth, through pain that wracked my body and made me wish for death.

"I died and was in the ground and didn't know if I would ever see the light of day again.  I was Osiris, broken and scattered to the four winds.  I was unmade.  And from the ruins, God lifted my son, perfect and immortal, and put me back together again.  Don't be afraid!  It is through such peril and labor and hardships that precious and wonderful things are made."

Things of great value require great sacrifice.  That's the very meaning of worth.

Where I've been. . .

Roan Ruel

born Jan. 14, 2015

5:28 am

6 lbs 8 oz.

19 in

"I doubt if anyone of any tenderness or imagination can see the hand of a child and not be a little frightened of it.  It is awful to think of the essential human energy moving so tiny a thing; it is like imagining that human nature could live in the wing of a butterfly or the leaf of a tree." -- G.K. Chesterton

Superstitions, Sacraments, and the Incarnation

Bonnie has a good post about the use and abuse of Saint Joseph statues when trying to sell a home.  I don't disagree with what she writes: putting Saint Joseph in a place of honor where you can see him and remind yourself to ask for his intercession seems like a better idea than burying him upside down and out of sight.  Poor, cold Saint Joseph!  And it's certainly not recommended that people with no faith or only passing faith partake of the superstition when they've no personal relationship with Jesus, let alone St. Joseph!  But it got me thinking about superstition in Catholicism, what it means, where it came from and why, and what its place is in our Faith.

I've always been a Catholic, and there's never been a time when I haven't been.  There are no moving reversion or conversion stories to be told, though I certainly came to a greater understanding of my faith as I grew older, and that "conversion" is still happening today, and much needed.

I'm also a poet.  I've been a poet as long as I've been a Catholic.  I'm also a poet because I'm a Catholic; and this is why.  I remember feeling as a child what the poet feels (and have since discovered others who have experienced the same): the stirring of the soul where the divine reaches into nature and seeing with some hidden, heightened sense, but for a moment, as one whose vision has suddenly cleared, how things really are.  C.S. Lewis called it joy.  We partake of this joy in the Mass, the Communion of Saints, though it doesn't always feel so obvious to us.  Now, imagine that kind of earth-splitting revelation occurring in the everyday.  An Annunciation of nature, as it were.  When the certain slant of light on the grass or a glimpse of cloud or a line from a song shatter one's mundane existence and show the true face of the world.  It's so beautiful it hurts.  And it disappears just as quickly as it came, or else one would die from the joy of it.

To those familiar with this world, superstitions make a good deal more sense.  There are connections between the reality outside our physical world and this one, and we aren't able to fully understand them, not until we're in heaven.  It was these seemingly unconnected connections that helped Chesterton to believe in orthodoxy, which he expounds upon in the book of the same name in the chapter titled "The Ethics of Elfland."

To grasp the essence of superstition one need only read fairy tales.  Fairy tales are infested with them!  Why else should cutting off a cat's head save a princess from a wicked witch?  There's no natural connection between the cat, the cutting of its poor head, and the princess and the magic of her evil stepmother.  And yet, intuition accepts the precept without question.  It is the kind of intuition that we see in children, which survives past childhood, if we are lucky and humble enough to let it.  If we don't let accusations of "what superstitious nonsense!" tell us to stop looking for otherworlds in the back of wardrobes or down rabbit holes.  (Or stop hoping that a dying god somehow killed death.)

Through this lens, superstitions make a little more sense.  I don't think it's coincidence that the Catholic Church is accused of having superstitious rituals.  Why should lighting a candle somewhere halfway round the world usher God's grace to a friend in need?  Why should chanting an ancient conversation between a girl and an angel at twelve noon each day be more appropriate than at other times?  Why, for that matter, should repeated words work as a spell and transform simple bread and wine into divine Flesh and Blood?

John Collier, The Annunciation

Here is what dictionary.com has to say about the word superstition:

su·per·sti·tion [soo-per-stish-uhn]
noun
1. a belief or notion, not based on reason or knowledge, in or of the ominous significance of a particular thing, circumstance, occurrence, proceeding, or the like.
2. a system or collection of such beliefs.
3. a custom or act based on such a belief.
4. irrational fear of what is unknown or mysterious, especially in connection with religion.
5. any blindly accepted belief or notion.

Let's look at the first definition, which I think is what most people mean when they are talking about it in context with Saint Joseph.  "A belief or notion not based on reason or knowledge."  Well, then what is it based on?  A feeling?  How about an instruction, from an authority you trust?  Ah, now we're getting somewhere!  As Catholics, we know that the authority of the Church grants legitimacy to what might otherwise be superstitions--things not based on reason or knowledge per se . . . like the example of the candle I mentioned above.  But we also know that God reveals Himself through his creation, and so those who have not been born into the faith, or who lived and died before the faith was available to them, can come to know Him through nature, and in this way are not exempt from salvation.

Materialists say that men imbue things with meaning willy-nilly, but we know that meaning is there, whether we are granted the sight to recognize it or not.  Some people, I think, are more sensitive to this "sight" than others.  Particularly the mystics.  St. Thérèse of Lisieux was given a superstition of roses.  St. Teresa of Avila, a castle.  Other saints were sent animals as messengers.  Many of them talked.  These "superstitions" repeatedly point to relationships.  One relationship in particular.

A "custom or act based on such a belief" arises in solidarity with these saints, and those devoted to her ask, with St. Thérèse, for a rose, which may or may not be given.  And people who wear a little vestigial garment around their necks are promised heaven.  Not  because scapulars have any rational connection, in and of themselves, to eternal life, but because something, someone, beyond our understanding has designated it so.

All of the sacraments are superstitious in this sense.  A splash of water repels the devil like the Wicked Witch of the West.  Making a sign in the air and saying the words, "You are forgiven," actually makes it so.  The laying on of hands apprentice young men to the profession of Christ.  And it's a very physical thing that consummates a marriage.

A name causes the very rocks to cry out.  God becomes a man and suddenly, nothing physical is ordinary.  Nothing is coincidence.  Everything is significant.

So, why put Saint Joseph on his head?  Is that just a meaningless superstition?  Perhaps.  But I like to think it came from somewhere, from some shrewd, pious, superstitious old lady, who knew him well.  Perhaps she said, "Put him on his head, turn him upside down!  That'll give him a headache, and remind him to pray and pray for you!"  And as she cackles and walks away, you fancy you can see the vague figure of a Jewish carpenter, as she swings an arm around him in what can only be the most intimate of affections.

A closing note for the concerned: should the Church ever make a definitive pronouncement against all things superstitious, I shall drop my stance at once, at a single word from the Magisterium.  How superstitious of me!  c;

♥

If you liked this post, you may also be interested in:

• The Flower of the Imagination: a Case for Dragons
• The Secret of Kells and the Art of Making
• Three Reasons I Love Catholicism
• Liturgical Living: What to Do about Father Christmas?