Erma, Son and the Holy Ghost

There are about four or five sock puppets hanging around my shoulders at all times, sometimes whispering, sometimes barking at me to remember how to deal with the sudden loss of my dad, the savvy navigation of my divorce and boundaries to be maintained with my ex, the mindful single-mom raising of my only-child son, the finding of a job, the maintaining of all the household finances without said job, and the low-grade yearning I still have for another child which surges every time someone asks me how many kids I have. These puppets are in lieu of a best girlfriend-- something I am sorely lacking these days but am clearly not meant to have at this time-- and a husband-- something I have chosen to do without. So my sock puppets fill in. They hover at ear level and say things like, "Let go," "Accept," "Be Strong," and "Forgive." They whisper, "Be there for yourself," in one ear while cooing, "Reach out towards others," in another. They keep me from throwing all of my estranged husband’s belongings onto the front lawn and kicking him in the shins. Like me, they're doing the best they can.

Last night it was vaguely suggested to me that life is unfair, bub, and I'm welcome to go jump in a lake. I had just that morning been to therapy and yoga and found myself in a swivet that church was days away. Who would mollify my whiny prattling in the interim? Who would soothe me with balms of reason? My kitchen cabinets were bespeckled with self-help post-it notes but suddenly, they seemed lackluster and dusty. My sock puppets lacked pith.

There was one thing left to do, I thought. (Actually, there are the drugs and prostitution cards I'm still keeping close to my chest.) But before I play them, there's this other thing I keep hearing about. They call it praying.

I know. I make a slight squinchy face every time I say it, too.

People I know talk about it and others I would never suspect slip it into conversation. I figured I’ve got to try it. I know I probably should have been doing it all along since jumping back on the church bandwagon last year, but I haven't. Not in a person-to-person sense. I've chimed in for the rote-learned religious limericks that are the mainstay of every organized service. I take heart the messages embedded in the little stories that we mumble in unison reminding us of Jesus and his father and friends, and the epic Spanish soap opera that was their lives, but alone in my car, in my room or my head? No, I don't. I don't "do" praying.

But last weekend, two unsuspecting friends, a Christian and a Jew, both told me that they drop to the floor in the mornings before brushing their teeth. One hits her knees and thanks the good Lord for all her blessings. (The Jewess) The other slithers onto the rug against her bed and meditates for a full ten minutes. (The lapsed Catholic) I was surprised at both of these revelations. I wouldn't have pegged either woman for the type. You know, the praying kind: the Wal-Mart-shopping, bible-meeting-attending, teddy-bear-collecting, scrapbooking kind. In other words, not me.

Maybe it’s the lexicon. I could call it meditation. That would be socially acceptable to the others in my 30 Rock-watching, Target-shopping, NPR-listening demographic, but then I’d have to actually meditate. As far as I can tell, praying is different from meditation. Meditation, from what little I've learned from my kundalini yoga teacher and from reading “Eat, Pray, Love” only once, is the emptying of one's thoughts so that the mind may be clear and hollow enough to allow one's own strength and wisdom to bubble up from within. It's the act-- or, non-act, as it were-- of listening to one’s inner teacher or honing your intuition but only after emptying the head of all its administrative and emotional pablum.

Sound easy? It is and it isn’t.

The sock puppets get in the way, interfering, as is their wont. They leap into my head with all the subtlety of a Mexican hat dance, reeling off lists of phone calls to make, emails to return, chores to do and permission slips to sign. Most importantly, they remind me not to obsess over things out of my control. It’s loud and crowded in there. Asking them all to leave with an alamand left seems like a worthwhile pursuit but one that might take a full lifetime to master and monks don’t get health care benefits.

So, always one to explore the easy way out, I thought I'd give praying a little go round. Praying is more like a little chit-chat with your supreme being of choice, your own personal god or what have you. I liked the idea of it because I could just keep talking and complaining, as if I were on the phone, to my imaginary friend, who, I'm told, is always listening. When I've said my piece and explained my side of the story, I can wrap up the conversation with a closing sentiment akin to, "So, there you have it. Please give me the strength and guidance to see this through in whatever manner you see fit. Ball's in your court." And then I would sign off with pretty much the same panache as hanging up a phone. No stillness or time to reflect on the solution. Gotta run.

I remembered Carolyn's advice. "As soon as you wake up, get right onto the floor and pray. If you don't do it first thing, you'll never do it." Easy I thought. If I can remember to put a thermometer in my mouth the moment after opening my eyes, still supine, which is what I did for all those years while trying to get pregnant, then I can do this. I called her a few days later.

I said, "Carolyn, I just wanted to tell you that I thought and thought last night before bed about praying in the morning."
"Good," she said.
"I went to sleep with it on my mind. I even visualized doing it the next morning," I said.
"Excellent," she said.
"It was the very last thought I had before slipping into unconsciousness," I went on.
"Fantastic," she said.
"And do you know what happened the very next morning?" I asked.
"You forgot," she said very matter-of-factly.
"I forgot," said I, "how did you know?"
"Because it's hard to start. It's hard to get in the habit. Keep tryin' and keep me posted."
"Alright. Seeya," I said.
"Bye," she said and hung up.

Then, this morning, I visualized my conversation or my prayer if you must. I thought about praying to Jesus, who always looked a bit too much like a Dead Head for my comfort zone, but praying to him seemed dishonest-- too fake, too Grammys. I envisioned Mister God with his fabulous, white Grizzly Adams hair and beard, all tumbling down and well groomed. But what does he know from girlfriends and husbands, mothers and pregnancy? My god needed to be a woman, at least to start with. I know there are a bazillion goddesses out there, but I'm not familiar with them and didn't want to feign familiarity. I was already on thin ice in that department. So I thought and thought. Who would I cast as God if I could cast anyone?

I started with Madeline Khan, of course. I pictured her draped in white silk, very Dior, cut on the bias, her auburn hair fluffed up around her face like a halo but she seemed too young and flip for the job. It’s imperative that my God have a great sense of humor, but also the gravitas to take her responsibilities seriously. I needed someone with a little heft, a little deity-esque bravado. I considered Bea Arthur. She's got the seasoned age thing and the white streaks in her hair so she certainly looks the part. I would put her in something long and loose with bell sleeves and a golden rope belt. She'd want to wear one of those long-to-the-floor vests she favored on "Maude" which would be fine with me as long as it was white, too.

But my god is a benevolent god and Maude was tough and cutting. I needed her to have warmth and compassion, the scathing remarks I could do without. My own local reverend fit the bill, but I was wary of deifying anyone mortal and refused to have her in the running. She was politely asked to leave the audition.

Then a face came to mind; female, wizened, kind and forgiving, with a great sense of humor and a warm, comforting smile. My God would be Erma Bombeck. Or at the very least, have her face. I put her in something scoop necked with pleats and long sleeves because, like my mother, she is mindful of the loose skin under her forearms dangling. A shimmering white, cotton-poly blend would be most flattering and breathable and she may chose to belt her robes or not depending on how fat she feels that day.

I think I chose well when I chose Erma. It's been a few weeks since I started this essay and I would say that I remember to pray about half of the time. Curiously, I rarely conjure Erma’s face or anyone’s face for that matter. It’s just nice to have her on retainer if I need her.

I wake up and roll down onto my knees, my head and upper body flopping onto my folded arms on the bed because I’m too tired to hold up my spine. If anyone shuffled by at 6:30am they might think I was drunk. I begin by briefly thanking Erma for yesterday, and then ask her to give me strength and guidance for today. I acknowledge, with the nudge of a sock puppet, that I’m not in control and that I’m sure she’ll do right by me. A handful of times, I’ve slithered onto the floor and done a few deep breaths, clearing out the lungs as I attempt to quietly empty out my brain. This is my spine’s big chance to straighten up and fly right and my mind’s opportunity to shut down. It doesn’t. It thinks about the day, and I berate myself for being so inept. Then my sock puppets berate me for berating myself. So, up I get to brush my teeth and forget about the whole thing until the next time I remember.

I'm trying. Like someone determined to follow a diet, I'm going to try with all my might. Why is it so hard to fold this into my routine? The ground seems so far away. Do I think I'll get sucked under my mattress? Am I afraid of becoming a weirdo? I put toothbrush to tooth and these thoughts, too, fly out of my mind.

"Chicken," the sock puppets say, moving their heads side to side, eyes cast down. With a few muffled clicks of their wooly tongues they say again, “chicken.”