It Is What It Is

St. Eugene de Mazenod

Patron Saint of Dysfunctional Families
mixed media shrine

Last year I told my husband that if we were rich we could leave the country during the holiday season and escape to some place where they've never heard of Christmas. Christmas has been kicking my ass for years. About ten years ago I decided that enough was enough, and every year since then I have been letting go more and more of all of the deadline induced anxiety and guilt induced panic. I've been examining all of the weird capitalist driven hype surrounding the (not even his actual) birthday of Jesus Christ, the most socialist, egalitarian, non-materialistic holy person to ever walk the earth. I've deconstructed the crazy messages foisted on us by our unrelenting capitalist economy, like that a sweater bought at the Gap for Christmas is somehow much better than that same sweater all of the other 364 days of the year, and that the actual Spirit, the Real Meaning of Christmas can in fact be purchased, wrapped, and imparted to the recipient in the form of that sweater from the Gap! They will actually experience a warm, happy glow and hear tinkling bells, and they will love you for it. Yeah, I've been actively deprogramming myself, and I've been trying to figure out how to celebrate Christmas in a way that is meaningful to me. I've been very frank with myself about being realistic with my time and resources. And that is all great. Year by year I've been letting go more and more. But there is something I struggle with every year, and that is not how I do Christmas, it is with whom I do Christmas. Which is what this blog is really about.

U R TOAST
detail of St. Eugene de Mazenod shrine

I suspect that the average person feels really, really bad at Christmas. Because the perception is that everyone else's family is having a Christmas card picture perfect jolly old heart warming time of it from November until January. Everyone except us, that is, with our alcoholics, weirdo recluses, co-dependents, martyrs, people prone to angry outbursts, the dead who we miss terribly, and those who choose to be estranged. Somehow it seems so important that on this one day everybody be who they are not, and this big Christmas expectation can condense and intensify our feelings of sadness, loss and disappointment about what is lacking in our family relationships into crisis proportions. I also suspect that the reason for all of the crazy doing, spending, and rushing around is that it serves as a huge distraction from how bad we feel. Because, let me tell you, the less crazy Christmas doing I do, the more painful feelings I have to get through about my family relationships.

"Old Great-Grandad Booze"

detail of St. Eugene de Mazenod shrine

That being said, a step back and a look at the big picture is in order. I believe that each person was purposely put upon the earth for one, or some, or all of these reasons: to teach, to learn, and to witness. I believe that I could not possibly be the person I am without my family: all that is good, all that is bad, and everything else has made me grow. I am discovering that when I stay rooted in what is I am not derailed by sadness over what is not. It has been a hard lesson to learn—forty years in the making—that I have been spending the holidays with the idea of who I want my family to be as opposed to who they are. I love them and accept them in sickness and in health, in absence and in presence, in grumpiness and in shame inducing nagging all of the other 364 days of the year in varying degrees of compassion (on a 0-10 scale). Yet on Christmas I expect some facsimile family. They don't exist. And they always disappoint me. Not like my real family, from whom I know exactly what to expect and who are consistently themselves, December 25th or no. And so I must own, that they were not screwing up my Christmases, I was. Thank God I am finally getting a handle on why Christmas kicks my ass. And so my plan this year for serenity, sanity, and hopefully enjoyment is as follows:

1. I will practice this wisdom from the Dalai Lama: " I am open to the guidance of synchronicity, and do not let expectations hinder my path."

2. I will remember these wise words from St. Milarepa, himself the child of a dysfunctional family: "I have understood this body of mine to be the product of ignorance, composed of flesh and blood and lit up by the perceptive power of consciousness. To those fortunate ones who long for emancipation it may be the great vessel by which they may procure Freedom. But to the unfortunates who only sin, it may be the guide to lower and miserable states of existence. This our life is the boundary mark whence one may take an upward or downward path. Our present time is a most precious time, wherein each of us must decide, in one way or other, for lasting good or lasting ill." (emphasis mine)

3. I will pray. A lot. Especially to St. Eugene de Mazenod, the patron saint of dysfunctional families. I will ask him to look over us and to help me detach with love.

4. I will talk my husband's ear off, and the ears of my other trusted friends, so that I can stay centered, see the big picture, and not be ruled by my feelings.

St. Milarepa
mixed media shrine

I think I can reasonably expect to survive.

St. Anthony of Padua

St Anthony of Padua is the patron saint of lost things: objects, obviously but also people, relationships, and faith, the kind of losses that can really kick your ass. It took me until a couple of years ago to fully realise that loss is a part of the human condition, that when we show up here it's part of the deal and that I'd be a lot better off if I could accept it. I was able to discover this very important piece of information because I was in grief counseling. I was in grief counseling because my brother has ALS and because our Gramma Sara died suddenly and unexpectedly. Unlike my beloved grandfathers and great- grandmothers she was not ill or in decline and I had no reason to expect that I would not see her later that day or the next as planned.

This St Anthony of Padua shrine is about losing my Gramma Sara. When I was sketching out ideas for a St. Anthony piece the memory of cleaning out Gramma's house kept coming back to me. Gramma had lived in that house for over fifty years. My dad and uncle grew up there. We had the luxury of waiting six months before having to touch anything. At first it was strange, but then exciting as all sorts of interesting things were unearthed from drawers, closets and cupboards: love letters to my Grampa, photographs, vacation souvenirs from long ago, the pinking shears my dad loved cutting paper with as a child. And then, it was empty. I think it was the sight of Gramma's closet that really hurt, that really felt...final. All of the familiar clothes that she inhabited, her shoes, her lady-like pocket books, were gone, dispersed amongst us or donated to the women's shelter. The shoe rack- where I had stashed the box of chocolates she begged me to hide on her so she wouldn't eat them when I was six- gone. I got my sweet tooth from Gramma Sara. So the emptied closet was what I used to communicate that feeling of loss in this shrine.

back of shrine: drawing of Gramma

I treated the top of the shrine like it was the top of Gramma's dresser, which was a place of great interest for me as a child. I used the space to tell the story of what happened and also evoke that which is particular to her: the dresser scarf, her pincushion, the drawing which came from a photograph of Gramma on my Uncle John's First Communion day, her earring. The pincushion became the holder for the painting, or retablo, of Gramma's soul leaving the hospital, where she passed away. The toy ambulance tells how she went to the hospital, that it was sudden, an emergency from which she could not recover.






The small painting itself shows St. Anthony of Padua finding Gramma- because he finds what is "lost"- and guiding her to Heaven. I painted this for my own comfort, because I wanted to believe that Gramma continued on in her journey, her soul evolving and growing, healing, free from worry and knowing peace. Word has it, though,that she and Grampa John are still at the house, where my youngest cousin and his family are now living. I'm not sure wether to worry about this or not: are they stuck, or simply choosing to stay by the family they were so devoted to in life, in the home they made over fifty years ago?

It's All About the Story

I have been making art since childhood. Then, as now, I have an internal dialouge with myself, contemplating the nature of the subject at hand,telling myself a story.

This is the St. Claire of Assisi/Rabbi Harold Kushner shrine. St. Claire is also known as "the Illuminator", and she is the patron saint of television. She is known for transmitting some extremely powerful and effective prayer. Rabbi Harold Kushner wrote the following:

"If prayer worked the way many people think it does, no one would ever die, because no prayer is ever offered more sincerely than the prayer for life, for health and recovery from illness, for ourselves and for those we love.

People who pray for miracles usually don’t get miracles, any more than children who pray for bicycles, good grades, or boyfriends get them as a result of praying. But people who pray for courage, for strength to bear the unbearable, for the grace to remember what they have left instead of what they have lost, very often find their prayers answered. They discover that they have more strength, more courage than they ever knew themselves to have."


The reason I made this shrine is because my brother has ALS, and it is dedicated to people who have chronic or terminal illnesses, their families and caregivers. The words on the TV set say "Pray for Courage". The word painted inside of the shoe is "hope". It is difficult to see it in the photograph, but there is a rose growing out of the TV antenna. On the back of the shrine is Rabbi Harold Kushner's quote and a prayer bank- a slot to deposit written prayers.

This is the story I was telling myself as I was making this shrine: First, it must take place is Los Angeles, because the little house was inspired by the films of David Lynch. An older lady who looks a lot like my Granmma Sara comes home from the hospital. She always looks nice when she goes out- purse, skirt, hair just so. It is late, and she has been there all day. As a matter of fact she has been there every day for the last week or more. Her husband is terribly sick and no one knows what is wrong with him. She has spoken with every specialist, she has waited on all of the test results. Her stomach has been clenching and unclenching. She has been walking around on hope all week. She doesn't want to lose him. Today she and her husband were told that he has an incurable illness that will claim his life. She goes into the living room and kicks off her shoes, something she never does, she always puts her shoes away in the bedroom closet. The shoe lands under the TV and she doesn't care. She was walking around on hope, but the worst has happened. Now she has to go to sleep alone in their bed. Now she has to imagine life without him. Now she has to anticipate the terrible pain of loss. At this point I just want to help this lady who reminds me of my Gramma Sara so badly. I don't want her to be crushed by hopelessness. The mermaid sits on the TV where she has been for the last fifty years, probably a wedding gift. She has been dusted every week, not a chip on her. She is sweet, but no help really. So I put Rabbi Harold and St. Claire in the room to look over the lady, so she won't be so alone. I need to know that someone has this lady's back, or I won't sleep. She's going to need their help.