realtheresaweiler

The Brood: How to Be a Bad Catholic

Bad Catholics don’t pray the rosary, but have at least five stashed around their house (and one in their car). Bad Catholics have no idea when the Holy Days of Observation are. Bad Catholics will receive the Eucharist at your wedding or funeral, even if they already broke their fast by toasting you in the parking lot

The Brood: Reasons to Marvel

“Look C!,” I exclaimed, in that desperately upbeat tone we parents use when stuck somewhere boring with our children, “It’s um…the Incredible Hulk, and…uh..Iron Man, right? The red one? And that’s….well, that’s Scarlett Johansson…?”

The Brood: Root Chakras and Wildflowers

Last week my therapist hinted that I might be having problems with my root chakra. Like, it might be blocked. Or, if not blocked, congested. In need of a spiritual neti pot or some such.

The Brood: Tired

Crossing the finish line to the condescending cheers of the lingerers who had already eaten all the bagels, I took my complimentary medal, tore off my running shoes, and walked into the sea sobbing like a little bitch.

The Brood: Back to the Source

I can live landlocked for a while, but after a year or two away from the sea I end up feeling muffled, like I’m wearing extra layers around my psyche. I will never be as awake and alert and present as I am when I return to the source. My ancestors were born, lived, and died near the sea. I will always belong there.

The Brood: Transition

So much happened in those years. I nursed my last baby and celebrated my first teenager. I concluded my teaching career. I walked with my husband through the loss of a parent. I battled with my child through a series of mental health crises. I ghosted the Church. I separated from friends. I sheltered my family through a pandemic. I never wrote about what was happening, though, only what it felt like.

Like grasping at vapor. Like fighting in a fog. Like abandoning my humanity and becoming an android. Like disappearing into myself.

The Brood: Summertime, and the Living is…Something

I move languidly from chore to chore, wiping peanut butter off of surfaces, running back and forth to the store for the items that disappear faster when everyone is home, losing track of hours and days and weeks. Routines govern my life, and in the transition from spring to summer, all routines are upended.

The Brood: Nothing Has Happened

Six months ago, our seniors painted the rock by the football field, “OXFORD STRONG. I wondered, would they paint it over? I wondered, how many coats?

The Brood: Brooders Just Wanna Have Fun

Work is important. We all need to work. But don’t we all need to play, too?