Do you know what I recently discovered? Lent has started and Easter is less than 40 days away. Also, March 1st was the start of “meteorological spring,” which should mean that spring is just around the corner. Then someone said that Mueller should be releasing his report soon. Looks like if any of these things actually show up, it’s going to be a bombastic spring. But all three of these items (spring, Easter, and Mueller) seem to be in jeopardy, if you ask me—if you really want to know.
I suppose, as a spiritual being, I should really be getting myself prepared for Easter (I haven’t even thought about giving up a thing for Lent—except maybe news coverage about Trump), but I can’t concentrate because the weather is kicking my ass. According to Joel Achenbach from The Washington Post, spring is going to be delayed because we’ve entered a polar vortex (“the very cold air mass that normally circulates in the Arctic”), and it has broken “into pieces, with a fragment hurtling south and creating dangerously cold conditions in the Lower 48 states.” I didn’t need Achenbach to tell me that the world seemed to be coming to an end via the weather, all I had to do was look at the weather map. Snow where no snow has rarely gone, temps going as low as minus 60 degrees in states other than Alaska, floods and tornadoes wiping out entire communities, and rains coming down so frequently that this year is considered the wettest year on record. It’s beginning to feel like these are the days of Noah.
Although I’m praising God that I don’t live in Minnesota and the Dakotas (recorded 30 – 60 below zero temps last month), California (mudslides), Seattle (record snow), Tennessee (flooding), Alabama and Georgia (tornadoes from Hell), I am really sick and tired of being sick and tired of rain in Virginia. It has been raining almost nonstop for over a month, and everything is covered in mildew—including my body. I got so ill from the weather that I became a walking, hacking, sneezing mucus factory.
About 2 ½ months ago, it started to rain, and in the midst of all that rain, I woke up with an upper respiratory infection that felt like bricks had been piled on top of my head while I was being water-boarded. No matter what I did, I couldn’t rid myself of the symptoms. No antibiotics helped. After 20 boxes of tissues, my nose was stripped raw of its skin leaving it too tender to even touch and looking like I had the beginnings of vitiligo on my skinned bulbous. Scores of chickens were sacrificed at the altar of soup cauldrons to make chicken soup—Jewish penicillin—and I combed the Earth looking for effective cough meds like a junkie looking for her next fix. My husband was banished to the guest room to escape my incessant hacking cough, and my friends started making the sign of the cross whenever I came into their presence. Somewhere in the middle of my snot and sneeze tour, I went deaf (WTF!!). When I dragged myself into the ENT (ear, nose, and throat doctor), he came at me with a suction tube on one side of my head and a miniature ice cream scoop on the other. The nurse told me (after reviving me from my fainting spell at the horror of it all), that she and the doc had scoped out a candle factory’s supply of wax in the left ear and sucked out six months’ worth of mucus in the right ear—restoring my hearing within minutes. In the midst of this torture, Punxsutawney Phil didn’t see his shadow and proclaimed an early spring which has turned out to be a big fat lie, and if I ever get my strength back, I shall hunt him down and open up a can of whup ass on him that he’ll never forget. (Nasty-ass rodent!)
Having nothing better to do in my snotty state of mind (how much snot can a 70-year-old woman expectorate? Turns out that the answer is: 2 tons!), I started meditating on liars—inspired by Punxsutawney Phil.
According to dictionary.com, a lie is: a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; an intentional untruth; a falsehood. Something intended or serving to convey a false impression…. Well, clearly my nurse practitioner had lied when she told me the antibiotics and the little translucent cough pills would do the trick and clear my symptoms right up. In reality, she had no idea her advice would work, but she charged me $234.19 and sent me on my way, anyhow. I started watching the Cohen testimonies from my sick bed and realized that I was watching a professional liar trying to shed himself of a professional liar who is now our President, while those that still follow him continue to lie to themselves that “Trumpee, Trumpee, he’s our man, if he can’t save us, no one can!”
When the Cohen testimonies made me sick at heart, I turned to the coverage of the Vatican’s cover-up through the years about the pedophilia priests in their midst, and immediately erased Pope Francis from my Christmas card list. (Seriously, Francis, I thought you were going to be different than all the other popes, but all you’ve done is talk, talk, talk. For Christ’s sake: call the police and throw all those sick pervs in jail. How hard can that be?)
My disappointment in the current Pope really made me really sick at heart, and I thought I couldn’t get any sicker until I watched the four-hour HBO documentary and Oprah’s follow-up interview on Michael Jackson’s alleged years-long serial pedophilia against two of his victims and scores of other children from ages 5 to 14 or so. This was after I had grooved to a dance mix of “Thriller,” “Bad,” “The Way You Make Me Feel,” and “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” (suddenly those lyrics take on a whole new meaning!) to try and cheer me up from the stories about pedophilia in the Catholic church. Yuck! Being a Michael Jackson fan, how the hell did I miss this? If these stories are true, M.J. was one sick fuck.
At that point, I turned off the television, crawled under the covers in despair with another bowl of chicken soup and my tissue box and made a declaration that I planned to stay there. I mean what’s the point of trying to get well when humans are such horrid creatures. (Physical sickness causes me to feel really sorry for myself and very agitated with the world at large. If you look at me the wrong way, I’ll fling my snot at you. Be glad I don’t have any magic powers or you’d all be turned into fried frog legs. God may have had his Noah’s flood, but I’d come at the Earth with a zapping power that would fricassee everybody’s ass who got on my nerves.)
Then I was reminded that Easter was coming soon. I love Easter! It’s my favorite high holiday. It is connected to spring, and it reminds me that winter won’t last forever, bad people won’t get away with murdering the hearts of the innocents ad infinitum, and that I need redemption and salvation just as much as those that I’m judging. As I poked my head from underneath the covers, I began to recite this anonymous prayer I found on the Google machine to ease my aching body and soul:
“Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in springtime. No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn. Easter is meant to be a symbol of hope, renewal, and new life. For I remember it is Easter morn and life and love and peace are all new born.”—Anonymous
The problem is—with me, as with many others—will we recognize Easter when it shows up?
I’m discovering that I have no idea when the madness—physical, political, sociological, or meteorological—will end. I just know I’m tired of being sick and tired. (To my horror, I just got in a CNN News bulletin on my phone: FLU SEASON MAY NOT HAVE PEAKED, AND THERE’S ANOTHER WAVE OF SEVERE INFECTIONS UNDERWAY, CDC SAYS.) What to do…what to do? Shall I take the chance and come out from underneath my covers and reenter the world? Shall I look to the sky in anticipation for spring while hoping and praying for the resurrection of Easter to sweep away the dross of winter from our human hearts—from here to the Vatican on down through the Michael Jackson fans who are threatening violence against the survivors of M.J.’s alleged sexual abuse? I think so, because if I’ve learned anything, hope does spring eternal and winter never lasts.
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