Everything is Connected, Somehow

That's my mantra as a teacher -- "Everything is connected." When the kids want to know why we are talking or writing about something obscure, like the discovery of agriculture or the Enlightenment, I tell them that "Everything is connected."

Of course, sometimes it comes right back at me like a boomerang. One morning one of the eighth grade girls began the day by launching into an extended monologue about a recent shopping trip to Washington, D.C. When she finally came up for air, I said, "Sweetheart, that's all very interesting, I'm sure, but could you tell me why you are subjecting the rest of us to this particular topic during history class?"

She looked at me very seriously and said with great dignity, "Ms. C, we are studying the founding of our country, and I am talking about Washington, D.C, and you always say that everything is connected."

Checkmate.

So, in furtherance of my conviction that Everything Is Connected, my day and thoughts:

Thanks to my comments, I have learned a great deal more than I ever thought possible about the waxing of various body parts. I am probably grateful to you all, although maybe not. I did sit between two women of my era (mid-50s) at the Anne Lamott presentation on Thursday, one a longtime friend in mothering, the other a newish-acquaintance and minister, and both of them assured me that they do not wax their brows. I am far too discreet a person to have asked about other anatomy.

This morning I did a Powerpoint presentation at church about religious history in America. We haven't made it to the Revolution yet, but I think it was very cool. And in the process, I learned to my dismay that Our Hero Sam Adams, he who never became president but is largely responsible for tea being heaved into the Boston Harbor and a number of men screwing up their courage to sign the treasonous Declaration of Independence, thought Catholics were worse than the Stamp Act. Well, no one is perfect.

Palms waving all over the place this morning, and a semon that included the following from Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah:

And love is not a victory march,

It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

which you may, of course, interpret as you please, but this time around you might want to think about a procession involving a man on a donkey.

Went for a walk in the cemetery, followed by the calls of red-bellied woodpeckers, tufted titmice, and flickers and, since I didn't have a camera, encountered a deer who let me walk to within ten feet of her. She was standing on a grave covered in ivy, selectively munching those little purple flowers that are popping up all over right now. I hope that whoever planted those bulbs for the beloved departed got to see them in bloom this morning, because they are long gone by now.

And now, I have to write a paper for my Medieval Writings class on El Cid -- another gory epic, this one in Spanish. And this one, unlike Roland or Beowulf or the Volsung Saga, has damsels in distress, which I guess means that we are moving on from the all-male action flic (in a manner of speaking) to the appearance of sex as an essential element of plot . . .

which brings us back to the waxing thing and demonstrates that yes, there are baffling connections in this world.