Am I dreaming?

Since I left work this evening, I've had a series of encounters that leave me wondering if I've actually awakened from a long nap. It started when I left work in the middle of a severe thunderstorm. Rather than wait it out at work, I decided to brave the rain and go on home. I had a late night last night and an early morning today, so I thought I might catch a nap before my evening kicked into full swing. I should have stayed at the seminary.

The pouring rain that I ran through at work to get to the car turned to serious lightening, then hail that sounded like five-pound bricks hitting the car as it came down. Cars were pulling off to the side of the highway and lining up under overpasses attempting to escape the hail. I drove on, again, desperate for a few minutes sleep.

When I got home, I waited in the car for a few minutes but could tell that the rain wasn't going to slow anytime soon. Since the hail had stopped, I jumped out of the car and ran to the front door of my apartment building, key in hand ready to unlock the door and burst inside. Except the front door was jammed, and the lock would not turn. I had to run around to the back of my building and up another flight of stairs to my back door to get in. By the time I got through the door, I was completely soaked. I stripped down and only after I collapsed on the bed did I realize that the electricity was out.

I don't need electricity to sleep, so I closed my eyes, and within a few seconds was sound asleep. The phone woke me about an hour later. The electricity was still off, so after I chatted with a friend and made a plan to talk more later this evening (thank the gods for the nap!), I went out to get some dinner. I chose a place with wifi so I could catch up on some e-mail and read a few blogs. When I walked in the door, there was a table on my right with a sign that said "Meet up," and on my left as I walked forward to place my order, I saw an older man holding a plate under the mouth of a young man while he threw up.

I'm not sure why I didn't just turn around and leave.

The only table with an electrical outlet was directly across the table from the one with the "meet up" sign. Two guys were seated next to each other, engaged in conversation, but not making any eye contact with each other while they talked. Snippets of their conversation floated over the restaurant noise and it became immediately apparent that they were waiting for some women to arrive. One of the guys was telling the other that he always thought you learned more when you listen than when you talk. One woman later showed, and the other guy proceeded to tell stories about his childhood. He was bent over at the shoulders, his arms resting on the table, his hands folded, but nervously wagging while he talked. The other guy looked the other direction and the woman listened with a disinterested look on her face. After awhile they got up and left.

A few minutes later the guy who was looking away walked up to me and asked if I was Marie or Amy. I told him no, and he went on to ask if I'd heard any of the conversation they were having. I looked at him curiously but didn't answer. He explained that they were there with meetup dot com and this guy showed up who was, in his words, "STRANGE!" He wondered if I was one of the two women who were supposed to meet them and had decided to sit close and just check them out.

Like I said, I should have just left earlier.

He left and another guy sat down at the table next to me, plugged in his computer, sat back, and proceeded to pull at his crotch. Not once. Several times.

And by golly, if I had electricity at home, I'd have left this restaurant by now. News headlines say there's a downed transformer in my neighborhood. It may be a long night.

I'm glad I took a nap.

Returning to former state

I'm going to my PhD town on Sunday for the day. It's the first time to return there since I moved in August of last year. A friend of mine is being ordained (and it will be a fabulous celebration), so I'm going down for the service. New friend from city west of here is going with me, for which I'm extremely grateful. Later next week I return to PhD town for nearly a week on business.

But, I'm really dreading going back there....

Expertise

Just thought I'd point out that someone from New Jersey just found my blog doing a google search for "proper way to eat grits."

Sugar and butter. Don't let anyone tell you differently.

An old post

I dug up this old post (May 2005) from the Friday Mom blog days to pass along to a friend last night. Since it was one of my favorites, I thought I'd post it here....

To Welcome the Tears and Not Be Afraid

There are days when SFW cries without any apparent discernible reason. It's different than the times when he cries because his head hurts or because he's anxious about a test at school or because he's mad at someone. We can ask questions, get answers, suggest solutions, and help him return to his usual state of happy when the tears have words. Other days when he cries, he's inconsolable. His tears seem to come from a primal place deep within him, an expression of something that no improvement in his cognitive capacity or speech function would ever give voice to.

When the inconsolable tears come, we don't urge him to talk. We give him space, let him cry without the burden of a lot of questions and the need to comfort us by giving us an explanation for the way he feels. He could never express it, but he has a way of making sense of it himself. It never lasts long, a few hours at most. Our first clue that it's over is the blaring stereo from his room. He sings along at the top of his voice, dancing wildly to the music's beat. The tears are his sackcloth and ashes. His dance is ritual, a way of marking the end of his sadness. The music bathes him in joy, washing away the darkness of the longings and loss expressed in his tears. Whatever it is that births the tears gives way to a contentment and joy that is equally devoid of explanation.

I don't know what it means for him. There's always a temptation to put words to his experience. His speech disorder invites that kind of power-over response. We work hard to understand the ways in which he does communicate with us, but there is a fine line between understanding and interpreting. All too often, I fear, I cross that line. I hate that it takes away what little voice he has.

I don't try to interpret the meaning of his inconsolability because I believe there is much about his life that it is painful and for which there is nothing that brings comfort. The space to cry affirms his sense of anger and outrage, of despair and longing that comes from being made fun of or ignored because he's different or from wanting something more out of life. The emotions proclaim loudly that he deserves better. I believe he needs to hear their message.

While I don't want to interpret his experience, reflecting on it has become a window on my own life, making visible the depth of sadness and anger that I sometimes feel with or without explanation. The weeping comes and I can't explain it. It scares me. I'm afraid if I welcome it, it will never leave. I fear its power and worry that it will consume me.

SFW has taught me to practice hospitality toward my own emotions. I'm learning to welcome the sadness and anger when they come, even when I can't directly connect the feelings to a specific experience. I think the tears that come from a deep place in my soul are planted by the winds of a spirit that connects me to the universe, to the generations that have come before me, to a world that groans with the pain and suffering we cause for ourselves and others. They play the part of prophet, a messenger of God naming my brokenness. They speak of what's not right and demand justice.

I still fight sadness and anger when they show up, but I'm learning to welcome them as trusted friends in my life. I don't always like what they tell me. But when I listen, they speak truth and bring healing. They don't stay forever, and when they do go, I find that they've left gifts. Peace and strength take up residence in their place, giving me freedom to embrace all that is good, to enjoy God, to celebrate this human life.

Letting go of the side of the pool

I let go of the side of the pool today and found out that it wasn't what I had expected or hoped for, but it's what I needed to do. I've seen that I can do what scares me most. Even if it doesn't end the way I'd hoped.

I'm going to take a break from the blog for a few days. See you soon.

Company's comin'

....and I went shopping. It's a convertible couch that will fold down into a full-size bed or double chaise lounge.


....and I went shopping. It's a convertible couch that will fold down into a full-size bed or double chaise lounge.

Embarrassing

Two things...

• I registered on Facebook earlier this week for the sole purpose of getting JM's new phone number, since she announced on her blog that her contact info was available that way. I just wanted to know how the unpacking was coming and all, so really, a phone number was all I needed. I couldn't imagine that navigating Facebook would be all that hard, but well, it was. Somehow when I registered, it pulled up everyone in my gmail contacts and had them checked to send e-mail invites to "friend" me. I went down the list carefully unchecking everyone except Julie.
  
  Or so I thought.... If you read here and maybe have commented a time or two and you got an e-mail request from Facebook saying that I wanted to "friend" you, please understand that, while I'm sure you all would be wonderful friends and all, that e-mail was sent because I'm pretty sure Facebook just randomly selected you. It couldn't be that I screwed up. No, it couldn't. I don't really intend to do anything with Facebook. I already have too much online stuff to occupy my attention.
• 
  
• I went shopping for a futon for my living room this evening. I want a nice loveseat or small couch, but um, well, I needed to get something sooner, so I thought I'd get a futon that I could move to the second bedroom when I buy a loveseat/couch. I didn't find anything I liked in the first store I went to, but when I came out of the store, I noticed that one of my front tires is nearly bald and there's a bad spot on it. How did that happen?!? I knew I was getting close to needing new tires, and had planned to do it after the next payday. I can't believe how bad it is!
  
  So, tomorrow I'm buying two new tires and the seating for the living room will have to wait. Do you think if I should happen to have company before then, like maybe this coming Sunday, that we could just go sit in the car and admire the new tires while we try to have a nice conversation?
  

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

I went to the doctor today for my well woman exam. My organs? Still normal.

Gayly,
Linda

P.S. And the cough that you don't know about? It's most likely allergy-related and may be early stages of asthma.

Protection revisited

I've been reading Eat, Pray, Love a little at a time each morning. The book is written by Elizabeth Gilbert. She writes about a year that she took to travel to Italy, India, and Indonesia. In it she chronicles the rich spiritual insights she gained from her journey. I like it because it's honest and vulnerable and deeply connected to real life. I'm not very far along in the book. The chapters are short, so I read a little each morning and find some rich things to think about.

The chapter I read this morning brought to mind last week's post about protection. In that post, I stated that I needed to find a new image of protection, one that leads me to engage rather retreat, one that encourages trust in the universe instead of assuming that I'm alone to face the world. In this chapter she talks about the painful process of waiting for her divorce to be finalized. When it reached the point of the ridiculous in terms of her ex-husband's insistence on contesting details of the settlement, she ends up on a small publicity tour for a book she'd written. She took along a friend whom she describes as having some sort of special round-the-clock connection to the universe.

Conversation during a long day of driving turned to Liz's divorce and when Liz exclaimed her wish that she could petition God to just end it, her friend encouraged her to do just that, to write a petition to God, explaining that Liz, as a member of the universe, has the right to petition and make her feelings known. So, in the car at that moment, Liz wrote a petition to God and signed it. Her friend told her she'd sign it too, then asked Liz who else she thought would sign it and so she begins to name people she knows, and then others whom she could imagine standing with her on the issue of her petition. Her friend encouraged her to call on anyone, living or dead, and start collecting signatures, and the list grew and grew. This is how she described it:

The names spilled from me. They didn't stop spilling for almost an hour, as we drove across Kansas and my petition for peace stretched into page after invisible page of supporters. Iva kept confirming--yes, he signed it, yes, she signed it-- and I became filled with a grand sense of protection, surrounded by the collective goodwill of so many mighty souls.

And there it was for me, in black and white, my new image for protection. Maybe what I need to do is take some time to write my own petition asking the universe to help me engage rather than retreat. And then I can imagine all those whom I think would sign that petition and in the moments when I find myself starting to retreat remember "the collective goodwill of so many mighty souls," and find the sense of protection I need to turn and engage instead.

I think it just might work, with some practice of course.

Learning to swim

I didn't take to the water naturally when I was a kid. My mom didn't know how to swim and for some reason, I absorbed her fear. When I was in first or second grade, she signed me up for a week of swimming lessons at the public pool, two hours per day for five days. For the first eight hours, I sat on the edge, my feet dangling in the soft, cool blue water, the scent of chlorine filling my nostrils, while I watched friends splash and swim and enjoy themselves.

I don't know what I was afraid of. It went completely against my character to be afraid of something of that nature. And in reality, the water in the section of the pool where we were taught wasn't over my head. If I'd felt myself struggling when I swam, all I would have had to do is stop beating the water and stand up.

But my fear kept me firmly affixed to the side of the pool for four days. The teacher patiently offered me opportunity after opportunity to join the class, and I politely declined each time.

On the last day of our lessons, I was suddenly motivated by the realization that the promised trips to the public pool throughout the summer were dependent upon me being able to swim. Thoughts of being the only one left behind in the neighborhood full of kids in which I grew up compelled me to dig deep for some courage and jump in to join the rest of my class on the last day of the lessons. Fortunately, I was a quick learner. I even managed to swim the length of the deep end by the end of the lesson, enabling me to use the diving board throughout the summer.

I've been thinking about that experience all weekend. There's something strikingly familiar about that particular fear that has crept up on me over the past few weeks. And I can just feel that I'm on the verge of jumping in.

If I could just let go of the side.

Monday gratitude

I am grateful today for unlimited mobile-to-mobile minutes through my cellphone service, because gas ain't cheap and there are a lot of miles between here and city of west of here. :-)

Cough

I caught a cold back in May that lasted for a couple of weeks. Since then, I've had a dry, irritating, annoying cough that gets worse at night and seems to be connected to either cottonwood or something else in abundance in the air right now. My chest is tight and achy. When I went through the check out line at the grocery store today, I couldn't get through a sentence without coughing (it's the only time I've talked to anyone today, so I suppose it has nothing special to do with the store clerk or the store itself.)

I go to the doctor on Thursday. I'm not particularly proud of how long it's taken me to make that appointment. Aside from it being an irritation and an obvious indication that something's not right, I guess I just didn't think of it being a big enough deal to go to the doctor. There may be a bit of denial there.

Supervision needed

Last night I house/dog-sat for some friends who are out of town. It should have been a sign to me that trouble was ahead when I had my pj's on by 8:00 p.m., was curled up on the couch with the dog, my laptop, and the cable remote control.

Five hours later I went to bed.

Even though I'd only had 3.5 hours of sleep the night before.

Oh, and there was a nice big bowl of homemade ice cream thrown in there somewhere too. On top of a big dinner out with the gang.

And what did I watch? Planet Earth and the Food Channel. There was a lot of channel surfing too.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic, I tell you. How is it that a perfectly disciplined person, when out of her normal routine and presented with the option of watching TV (without supervision), turns into a perfectly sluggish couch potato?

The dog seemed perfectly content to keep me company though.

Protection

The house in which I spent most of my childhood was a split-level ranch home with a basement. When my mom and step-dad married, we added on a section to the back of the house that included an expansion of the kitchen and dining room, two bedrooms, a bathroom, and an unfinished bedroom in the basement.

The dining room was on the upper level. An outside door was on the south wall of the dining room and a staircase led from a landing just outside the door to the ground level. A stairwell down to the basement door sat behind the staircase, creating a semi-enclosed space under the stairs. I could slip into that space and feel like I was hidden from the world.

It was useful for all sorts of things. I had my first kiss there. His name was Kirk and he was in the third grade. He had a head full of curly blonde hair and wore stylish wireframe glasses. My brother was dating his sister and I guess we had the idea that these things should be all in the family, so we did what we saw them do. It went something like this:

Me: I think the boy is supposed to lean in and put his lips on the girl’s. That’s what I’ve seen my brother do. I’ll close my eyes and you try it.
Him: Are you sure?
Me: Yeah. I have a lot of brothers and sisters. I’ve seen it a lot.
Him: Okay. [Closes his eyes and slowly leans in to kiss me quickly]
Me: I don’t understand why they like that so much.
Him: Me either. Let’s play tetherball.

It wasn’t exactly romantic, but definitely true to our eight-year-old selves. We lived for tetherball. The story is remarkable only in that it was out of character for us to let anything interrupt the endless hours of hitting the ball back and forth, trying to get it past the other player until it wrapped tightly around the pole. Romance was lost on us.

The space under the stairs was also the sight of a disgusting experiment with cigarette butts, yet another attempt to push past our age and try on adulthood. Limited access to matches or lighters, and probably some sense that we didn’t really want to taste the smoke, kept us from actually lighting up. We were more concerned about the look and perhaps the feel of the cigarette in our mouths.

But more than a place for the occasional premature foray into adulthood, the space under the stairs was my private getaway. My most vivid memories of that space are of sitting against the stairwell with Pierre the poodle on my left and Sugar the pointer on my right. They were my most trusted advisors. Their keen ears heard my deepest secrets.

I had a lot of secrets. At the age of four, my father dead and my mother out of commission for awhile with the heavy grief of widowhood and single parenthood, I learned to take care of myself. And even after the heaviness lifted, the habit of holding in my pain was firmly established. I had a skillfully crafted appearance of strength and resilience in front of my family, but the dogs knew better. They heard what it was like for me to lose a father to cancer, and then to lose him again when all mention of him was erased to help assure my step-dad that my mom’s loyalty was to her present husband. They knew how scared I was when my mother would rage through the house, angry at everyone, but no one in particular. They knew the intense fear I felt about losing my step-dad when my mom dared to suggest she might divorce him. In that small space, with the dogs on either side of me, I felt safe and protected. For the time that it was necessary, it served me well. It helped me cope with things children shouldn’t have to face.

I think about that place a lot when I feel insecure and unable to articulate to others what I’m feeling. There was something freeing about not having to have words for the dogs. Their love and attention and loyalty remained steadfast whether I spoke or not. In my child’s mind I was certain they understood. And because it brought relief I developed the habit of protecting myself by retreating from others and coping with the feelings on my own.

I don’t have a stairwell to retreat to anymore, but I still withdraw. I have a wealth of ways of keeping people at a distance when what I’m feeling seems to contradict the exterior of strength and self-sufficiency. Pushing people away so I can retreat is like creating that space under the stairs, where I’m left with only myself and a couple of inarticulate dogs to comfort me. I think that’s protection. I think I’m keeping myself safe. But maybe it’s just a cowardly way of trying to reinforce that false notion that I’m self-sufficient. Maybe it’s just a way of recreating the temporarily necessary reality of my childhood, while simultaneously robbing myself of some the richness life has to offer.

I need a new image of protection, one that leads me to engage rather than retreat, one that encourages trust in the universe, instead of assuming that I’m alone to face the world.

This and that

I had to go out of town on business this weekend, well, business mixed with a little pleasure. I rented a car for the excursion, and when I showed up, AJ the manager handed me keys to a Mazda 5. Someone suggested this is God's way of helping me get in touch with my mom side. I still refuse to think it's a van.

I learned a really big lesson about being myself and saying what I think this weekend. It seems some people really want you to say that difficult thing that you think they don't want to hear. I mean, I know that's true for me, but I learned in a new way how important it is for me to say it to someone I care about even though I think they might not want to hear it.

I have a new office. I moved up the hall one office from where I was. I have more space and will eventually have a door cut into the back wall of my office to give me easier access to my admin assistant. The office switch meant moving two other people. I don't know for sure, but I may be the only one who is happy about the move.

I've had a lot going on in the past couple of weeks that's forced me to work hard at some things that don't come naturally to me. It's hard work for changes that I want, not the kind of hard work that seems never to bear any fruit. What I'm doing now is leading to some good things, and I feel really happy about it, but I have to admit, I'll be glad when it isn't quite so hard.

Life is good, my friends. Very good. But I really need to go to bed now.

As requested

I'm getting a lot of blogging mileage out of the new table and chairs. Here are a couple of pictures. As you can see, PPBob thinks the table and chairs are hers.


There are two more chairs and a bench to go with the table, which aren't pictured.

Momentous occasion, the second

I cooked dinner and had people over.

Actual people.

In my apartment.

Eating food I cooked.

At my new table.

:-)

Momentous occasion

Ladies and gentleman, I purchased a dining room table and six chairs today for a very good price. Craigslist is my friend.

The cat is confused. She can't decide which chair to sit in.

New life

This morning I was greeted by a baby raccoon and his mother. Their chirping chatter, warning me to keep a safe distance, caught my attention as I raised my leg to do hamstring stretches alongside the concrete barrier across from my apartment. I looked up to see the baby shyly peering from the other side of a tree, his masked face looking curiously my way. When he saw that I wasn’t going to move in his direction, he cautiously crawled to the top of the tree trunk and watched me. A short while later his mother appeared behind him.

It’s hard to say who was more curious about whom. The mutual interest interrupted morning routines. I could have watched them for a long time, but my curiosity slowed them down. We were engaged in a staring match, a game I was destined to lose. And, it was keeping me from my appointed task. I took my first step down the path, looking back over my shoulder as I did. With me a safer distance away, they went about their morning’s work. I turned to watch as the baby slid face first into a hole in the tree trunk, his hind feet perched carefully on the rim of the hole, his backside twitching as he dug deeper. His mother stood guard, keeping a watchful eye fixed on me until I was out of sight.

Minutes later, one of the young foxes I see every morning ran confidently up the path toward me. He stopped a few yards in front of me and sat to watch as I ran by. He has the gangly features of an adolescent. His triangular head sits awkwardly atop his long, thin body. He cocked his head as I ran past, life’s universal sign of curiosity.

There is new life all around me, exploring the world for the first time, taking everything in with the intense curiosity of a child’s mind, certain that there is no finer thing, nothing more fascinating than the fan that whirls above its head or the leaf that mysteriously blows into the house through the open screened door. The intensity of their fascination explodes into squeals of delight, their little bodies unable to hold the sheer pleasure of exploring and seeing, of being alive in a world so full of new things to experience.

I am a child again. Every breath I take surprises me with the life it brings. It settles deep in my belly, a satisfying wave of peace and joy splashing me as it finds its resting place deep inside me. I see what has been there all along. I hear with new ears the sounds that have always filled the days of my life, but instead of allowing them to become a low roar in the background of the darkening dullness of depression, they become the messengers of life’s magnificent goodness. I’m seeing for the first time what I’ve known all along, hearing with new ears creation’s ancient testimony of each creature’s place and worth, of our connectedness and blessed dependence.

I am not alone. I am kept in the watchful eye of loved ones who see what lurks in my blind spots. I am embraced by love that knows the urgency of truthfulness. The certainty of its presence, once questioned, now trusted, straightens my back and lengthens my stride. I feel it pulsing through me with each breath I breathe. I have dared to believe that I belong to the earth, nurtured at its breast, attentive to its lessons of purpose and meaning, living into the freedom that comes when I surrender to my own humanity.

8 random things

Katherine tagged me for the 8 random things meme. I can't remember the last time I did a meme. This is a perfect one for me tonight.

1. I am remarkably gifted at wasting my free time, even without the distraction of TV.
   
2. I never tire of the humor in the Pink Panther movies (the originals with Peter Sellers). I can watch them over and over again and laugh every time. Oddly, PPBob and I have developed a Cato-Clouseau kind of relationship. She likes to hide and attack me.
3. Apparently I'll be going to Yosemite the day after JM turns in her dissertation in about four years so that we can hike Half Dome. This just came to me in a dream or something.
   
4. I do not own a dress or skirt that fits anymore. I have no intentions of buying one that fits. That's remarkably liberating to me for some reason.
5. I have very ticklish ears.
6. I would love to learn to play the guitar.
7. I am very good at remembering people's names, but I can never remember the names of movies, songs, actors, or musicians that I've seen or heard.
8. I had a ridiculously difficult time coming up with 8 random things about myself.

Vanity

I had to travel for work today, so my work day started with a trip to the rental car agency to pick up my vehicle. AJ the manager checked me in and asked if I wanted a Mazda 5 or a Subaru. When I rent for work, I usually choose something that blends into the background, is relatively conservative and businesslike, and gets decent gas mileage. I asked for the Mazda 5. I signed the documents, grabbed the keys, and looked as AJ pointed me in the direction of my car.

AJ said Mazda 5 and I replied Mazda 5, but I pictured Mazda 6, a nice generic, nondescript sedan, preferably white or grey in color, something that just sort of disappears into the road when I barrel down the highway. I have this fantasy that neutral- colored cars decrease the likelihood of a ticket. The warning ticket tacked to my bulletin board at work is a testament to the falsehood of that fantasy. Still, I believe it.

At first I thought he was pointing to the red car directly across from me, until I realized, to my relief, that it was a Toyota. I walked up two more cars and saw the car I’d rented. It didn’t look like anything I’d rented before. It was kind of young and hip, I thought. It looked a little like a hatchback, only bigger. I walked up next to it and unlocked the doors so I could put my things in the back seat. As I got closer, I saw that it had a sliding door. “Good god!,” I thought. “I’ve rented a minivan. I can’t drive a minivan. I’m not a mom. I’m single. I’m, I’m, I’m….cool!” I tried the key, thinking maybe the car was unlocked and that I hadn’t, in fact, opened the right car. The key worked.

I pulled the door back and looked in to find that there were six, possibly seven seats. I got serious van vibes and worried about my image. Nevertheless, I was running late and had to get going. I put my things in the back seat and drove off.

It didn’t drive like a van. I was sitting up high, but not above everyone. I could maneuver it easily. Clearly, I was driving a hatchback, I reasoned. I sat back, put a cd in the player, cranked the volume, and set my mind on the trip ahead.

I decided to stop for coffee at a place I frequent. I did a u-turn, pulled into the parking place in front of the shop, got out and walked in. Isaiah the barista walked up from the back room. He smiled and greeted me by name. I’m a regular.

Isaiah is twenty-something, a rock climber who wears designer jeans, retro shirts, and whatever you call those shoes that look like something I rented at the bowling alley when I was twelve. His curly blonde hair flows from his head like a bush. His beard makes him look like Grizzly Adams.

“You get a new car,” he asked. I was stumped. He’d come out from the back of the shop when I walked in. It hadn’t occurred to me that he saw me drive up. I hesitated. “Your car. Is it new? I don’t remember you driving a van.”

Looking down to find my frequent buyer card, I mumbled, “It’snotavan.”

“What?”

“I said it’s not a van!”

“What is it then?”

“It’s a Mazda 5.”

He nodded his head. “Right. A van.”

“Define ‘van.’”

“You define ‘van.’ You seem to be the one with specific ideas about what it is and what it isn’t. I think you’re a little sensitive about this,” he said chuckling. He stepped back to start my drink. The cup was sitting on the counter under the espresso machine. He pulled the shots and began to the steam the milk. “What’s wrong with driving a van?”

“I’m not a mom. I’m, I’m….well, I’m not a mom.”

“Is there something wrong with being a mom?”

“No. I’m just not one, so I don’t think I should be driving a car that makes me look like one.” I suddenly remember that I’d been offered the Subaru and wondered why I didn’t just take it. Sure, it screams lesbian, but I am one. I could drive it with my authenticity intact, and in that moment, we would have had a very different conversation.

The sound of the steam blowing against the bottom of the metal milk container brought me back. I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t actually ordered a drink. I was curious what he was fixing me. “What are you making for me?”

“The same thing you’ve order the last 25 times you’ve been in here.”

“I haven’t been here 25 times.”

“Okay. The same thing you’ve ordered the last 15 times you’ve been here. A large mocha.”

“Oh.”

“Is that okay?”

“Um, yeah. I was just going to get something different today. One of those Previa mochas.”

“What’s a Previa mocha?” The blood rushed from my face. As soon as he said it, I knew what I’d done, but I tried to cover it up.

“You know. A mocha with semi-sweet European chocolate. Not that sweet American stuff.”

“That’s not a Previa. Where did Previa come from? Wait. I know what a Previa is. It’s a VAN, a Toyota, isn’t it?”

“Um. Yeah.”

He nearly dropped the milk from laughing so hard. “Why did you think of Previa?”

“Well, I have some friends who have one.”

“Really. Do they have kids?”

“No.”

“So, it’s not a mom-car to them.”

“Well, no. But, it’s still not right. I mean, I drive up to their house and see it sitting there and I wonder who’s visiting them. They’re not van people. I don’t really know why they have a van.”

“Or maybe you’re just narrow-minded about the whole van thing. Is the regular mocha okay, or do I need to make a Prague mocha?”

“Regular is fine. You’ve already started it.” He picked up the cup, carefully poured the milk, creating the perfect swirl of coffee and milk to look like a leaf. I paid and walked away.

“I’m going to go get in my van now,” I said, looking back over my shoulder.

“That’s right. Embrace it, Linda. Embrace the van.”

Why I'm thinking about the RWBB these days

PPB asked if I was trying to get the draft below "right." The answer, in short, is no. I have no particular plans for the actual writing of the post beyond the process of identifying the emerging meaning of the event. My sense of the post not being satisfying was more with feeling like I hadn't/haven't arrived yet at an understanding of the meaning. That's fine. I'll know when the time is right.

But, I did mention in the comments that there is a reason why I'm spending some time reflecting on the red-winged blackbird right now. Let me see if I can articulate this, and then, I'm done with the RWBB for awhile....

There was a convergence of three things last Sunday that brought something into clearer focus for me. First, while having breakfast with my friend J., I got a glimpse of how important it is to me that I have the freedom to allow my evolving theology to develop without the confines of a religious creed. She modeled her own sense of freedom to wrestle with ideas and it just helped me be able to admit outloud for the first time that, though I don't know if this will happen, it is conceivable to me that I may ultimately reach a point of rejecting any construct of God at all. [It still makes me nervous to say that!] Shortly after saying that, my friend T. preached about rational mysticism. She began with a definition of theology that helped me make an important shift, from making God the central subject of theology to making the process of meaning-making the central subject. [Again, it still makes me nervous to say how important that shift is to me.] Later that afternoon, during the marathon Pride interfaith service, a minister whose call to ministry sounded similar to mine as I experienced it early in my life, ended with a song, "Jesus Knows Me, This I Love." One of the verses refers to Jesus' knowledge of the many ways in which we hide. I had already felt some stirring inside me earlier in the service, as I listened to some rather meaningful stories and experiences, to pay attention to my sense of call to ministry. As she sang that particular verse, I became aware of ways in which I still hide. I'm out in most areas of my life now, so it's not so much my sexual orientation that leads me to hide anymore, but the habit of hiding is deeply engrained, and in some real ways, I'm hiding from that sense of call.

That evening I thought a lot about why I'm hiding from it. I think the answer is that I'm not sure how to conceive of my identity as minister with the shifts in theology I've experienced over the past few years. And, I've been afraid of making the commitment ordination requires given the fact that my theology has shifted enough that I've already had to leave two denominations. I don't feel comfortable entering into an ordination covenant if it means limiting my freedom to grow. More to the point, I'm not comfortable tying my career and living to a particular dogma or creed that I may ultimately reject.

The last conversation I had with my CPE supervisor when I finished the residency last year was about my relationship to the church and how it might ultimately impact on my decision to seek ordination. One of the great awarenesses that came out of the residency was the extent to which I've lived in a co-dependent relationship with the church most of my adult life. I've seen myself as a servant of God, available to help meet the needs of the church, without ever expecting anything in return from the church. I made a commitment in that last meeting with my supervisor that I would no longer live that way, that I would carefully consider what I need from the church and not be afraid to expect those needs to be met, and if a call to ministry re-emerged in the process of developing a healthier relationship with a faith community, then I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.

The gift of the convergence of ideas on Sunday is that it helped me name one of the great needs I have before I can agree to the covenant I make if I am ordained. I need freedom to grow. Words cannot express the depth of my conviction nine or ten months ago that there was no church that could offer me that much freedom. That conviction has been consistently challenged the past several months, and on Sunday, I was able to acknowledge that the UU church may very well be the kind of partner I need to live out my call.

So what does this have to do with the red-winged blackbird? My thoughts were taken back to the sight of the flock of birds that I saw for the first time in March as I wrestled with the events of Sunday. I wondered if the UU church is a flock with which I'm meant to fly, not just in terms of being a member, a reluctant flockee flying on the edges of the flock looking for an available escape, but as one that is fully committed to the liberal religious tradition that seems to offer a much needed breath of fresh air.

I have no idea if this makes sense to anyone but me, but there you have it.

Dinner with L.'s family

On Thursday I helped M. move some of her stuff to her new home in city an hour and a half away. We drove in a caravan of four loaded cars with M. in the lead, her brother and I in the middle, and L. taking up the rear. M. wasted no time getting there.

Our first stop was her 95-year-old mother's house. D. had dinner waiting for us. We helped get it on the table. M., L., and M.'s brother S. were exhausted. They'd been working all day in the heat trying to get things out of the house and cars loaded, that on top of the days, well, weeks of packing and preparing the new house. D. has been keeping them fed and helped guide the movers when they arrived with M.'s stuff on Wednesday, so she too was pretty tired.

We sat down to eat, the table full of food, everyone politely waiting for a blessing. D. looked around at the weary bunch and decided she would pray. She thought she was likely the least tired of the bunch, so we bowed our heads and waited.

"Good God," she said, more like a curse than a loving address, and I was immediately in trouble. It struck me as so funny I wasn't sure I could sit quietly. I started shaking and noticed what I thought were snickers around the table so I looked up. When I opened my eyes, I saw L. shaking and quietly laughing, a big smile across her red face. S. and M. were both smiling, heads still bowed and eyes closed. As soon as I made eye contact with L., I was done for. Trying to hold the laughter back resulted in a squeaky, pained laugh that I immediately tried to cover up with a cough. Mercifully, D. finished her prayer very shortly after that.

They all teased D. and she responded with a playful, "What? You don't think God is good?"

I've been laughing about it ever since.

Red-winged blackbird: Part II DRAFT

The following is a draft. I've been working on it the past couple of days (when I haven't been slightly preoccupied, that is). I'm not at all satisfied. I'm trying to work out my understanding as I write and I'm not there yet. I thought it might be helpful to post a draft and get some feedback, and then write some more.

My dad was a red-winged blackbird, in a metaphorical sense that is, and my association of him with the bird has often helped me understand the many ways in which he is always with me, even when I lived far away and saw far too little of him, even after he died. The shift in perspective that’s happened for me since seeing the flock of them has been the growing awareness that I, too, am a red-winged blackbird, at least in the sense that the meaning I associate with the bird’s behavior and habits provides a deepening self-understanding. Just as I watched my dad withdraw to a solitary place, and like I’ve seen the solitary nature of the red-winged blackbird, I’ve understood myself to be one who prefers to be alone. I’ve attributed that to a long struggle with shyness, to a genuine comfort with silence and aloneness. Those things are true about me, but like any trait that becomes so fixed that one is limited in her ability to reach out for things that are longed for, hoped for, they are not inviolable assumptions. They can be brought into relationship with other aspects of my self that at times reject the more dominant self-understanding.

The sight of the flock of red-winged blackbirds rising out of the field like a dark storm cloud was jarring. It brought into question what I had assumed to be true, capital “T” true. Red-winged blackbirds don’t flock. They’re solitary. In reality, as I’ve read about them since, they do flock in the late winter, early spring, just prior to mating season. It is only when mating and brooding that the birds spread out, become territorial, and live alone.

The question, the sense of being jarred by the sight, I believe is more self-revealing than it is a genuine curiosity about the behavior of birds. As I’ve thought about it, I realize that in some way the sight of a lone red-winged blackbird was affirming to me. It gave me a way of making sense of my need or desire to stand on the outside of the communities or groups with which I’ve been associated. Some creatures are just meant to be alone; they don’t really need others, I would reason. It offered an explanation for why I felt alone and not entirely connected to the people or groups with which I was associated, but, though I’ve struggled to admit this, it’s never been satisfying. However clumsy I’ve been in seeking it, however awkward my pursuits of intimacy have been, I want the deep connectedness that comes with intimate, trusting, loving relationships. I want to fly with the flock now. Or, perhaps more realistically, I’m ready to move in and out of the flock, able to affirm my solitary nature and my longing for connection.

Lest you think I’m embracing the new self-understanding with great confidence, let me assure you that I’m the bird flying on the edge of the flock, my exit route in clear sight. It’s hard to write about the flock of red-winged blackbirds. I don’t have enough of that experience yet to know what it feels like, to have any sense of the meaning that ultimately I will draw from it. What I see are possibilities. My life is rich with people who are longing for the same thing, but I still find I’m surprised by that. Has that been absent in the past or is there a greater readiness for it on my part that enables me to see where it’s present? I know this feeling of seeing possibilities, though. I’ve been there before, but found that as I grew and changed, I started separating more and more from the flock, or maybe they separated from me. It’s happened with my family. It’s happened with the churches of which I’ve been a part. It seems there’s a cost to growth. The more I live out of my own integrity, the greater the likelihood that I will be alone.

But perhaps that’s the gift of the red-winged blackbird, the opportunity to see that the creature with which I so strongly identify moves in and out of the flock, able to see that there is a time to fly together, and a time to fly alone. That does not keep me from longing for something more permanent. My experience teaches me that permanence does not exist. And perhaps freedom, the kind that I long for, the kind without which I am no longer willing to live, means living with that both/and, trusting myself to know how to live into what the present moment offers, able to embrace the gift of a solitary life and a life lived with the deepest of connections, yet always aware that the next moment may lead to change.

Red-winged blackbird: Part I

There’s a ditch that runs along the exit ramp where I turn off to go to the office. The ditch is deep. A stream of water runs through it and the grass grows tall and thick along its banks. Everyday I see a red-winged blackbird perched atop the grass, as if suspended in air. How the grass holds its weight is a mystery to me. I’ve wondered about these things for a long time.

The red-winged blackbird has flown in and out of my life since I can remember. I grew up in the middle of the country, surrounded by farmland and prairies. As I rode my bike on the country roads of my childhood home, flying up and down the gravel hills, I watched the red-winged blackbird fly low over the grasses and up into the sky, the arc of its flight dramatic and pronounced, like the flight of a fighter jet in an air show. The bright red spot on the wings seemed to glow as an ember in the dark coal of a campfire. They were mysterious to me, always solitary, lonely, quiet.

Their presence on the quiet fishing trips I took with my dad throughout my life was so common and dependable that I began to associate them with the man who taught me to love nature and who loved me with an intensity that only a parent knows. He was a quiet man who often retreated from the noisy kitchen where we kids congregated while my mom cooked dinner to his recliner in the den to read the newspaper or watch the news on TV. He operated with an economy of words that was profound in its scarcity. He chose words carefully, speaking slowly and deliberately. Each word mattered and by the time he got around to saying something, he had boiled down his meaning to the bare bones, nothing flowery, nothing to sift through. What he meant was always clear.

Our fishing trips were times of silent companionship, times when a deep sense of mutual understanding and appreciation grew, seldom ever through the words exchanged, but from watching for and listening to what wasn’t said. From the time we loaded the truck with our poles and tackle and bait until we returned home, few words were spoken, and seldom more than the usual, “You get a bite?” or “That’s a beauty. Looked like he put up a fight.” Occasionally we would stop to discuss the quality of the water and the kind of fish we knew to be in the pond so we could decide what lure or bait to use. But mostly we stood next to each other for hours without ever saying a word.

It’s hard to convey all that was communicated in that silence. I grew to appreciate it with a deep sense of gratitude. The silence taught me to listen and pay attention, to know that words are seductive, often veiling what happens between two people. We were two solitary creatures standing near each other, preferring the quiet company of one to the often loud and boisterous company of our large family life back home. And just as I came to count on the strength of his quiet presence, I grew to appreciate the red-winged blackbirds that always seemed to watch us from their tallgrass perches, inspiring awe as they flew off, the brilliance of the red that colored their wings standing in stark contrast to the oily blackness of their bodies.

My dad died a little over four years ago. A stroke in the middle of the night a few weeks before Christmas landed him in the hospital. I made hurried arrangements to be gone from work and drove to the hospital to be with him. We had a great afternoon talking about family and fishing. The next morning when my mom and I returned to his room, he was seizing. I quickly called for a nurse and while we waited for him to come, my mom and I each took my dad’s hands and talked to him. His speech was garbled and barely audible, but I listened carefully to what he was saying. Over and over again he said, “I love you,” first to my mom and then to me. In a matter of minutes he was in a coma, making even this quiet man of few words seem strangely silent. I stayed by his side the whole day, holding his hand, wiping his brow, rubbing the fingers on his big, strong hands. I was a hospital chaplain, used to watching the breathing of people who were dying. I didn’t need reports of brain scans. I knew our time together was drawing to a close. Within a few hours, he quietly stopped breathing, and I had a deep sense of his spirit lifting, flying high in the dramatic arc of the red-winged blackbird.

Family had been contacted in the morning to alert them to the seriousness of the second stroke. They started arriving that evening and the house grew noisy with stories of fast trips to the hospital and reports of who was coming when. The dissonance of multiple cellphones ringing at the same time echoed in my ears and I found myself drawing quieter and quieter, withdrawing into myself, trying to find a quiet place. The house was loud, and it grew louder over the next two days as more people arrived, and the sheer number of opinions about how the arrangements should be handled increased the likelihood of disagreement.

My brother and I were charged with doing a eulogy. He had strong opinions about how it should be done properly in order to honor God. I was more concerned about honoring my dad. We locked horns and fought fiercely at one point, opting to separate and return to the task after I had had a chance to sleep and calm down. My oldest brother had a hotel room down the street and offered to let me retreat to it that night, and in the solitariness of that room, I was able at last to find the quiet place I needed. My mind carried me to the edge of a pond in a field of tall, green grass, where I felt a gentle breeze on my face and watched as the red-winged blackbird flew just over the field. His quiet, calm presence gave me the words I needed to capture the picture of my dad that I wanted to convey.

Throughout the years of my life, I’ve seen the red-winged blackbird flying over the lake on the mountain where I hiked in California, in the countryside surrounding the city where I lived in Texas, and now along the river at home and in the ditch near my office. I had never seen them when they weren’t alone or in small groups of two or three until this past March when JM and I were returning from our trip to Yosemite. We drove through the rich farmland that rests between the mountains and the ocean, the sun shining brightly on the lush green fields. I looked out the window just as a cloud of black arose out of the field next to me. I turned to watch a flock of blackbirds fly and as I looked back, I saw the familiar bright red spot dotting each wing. The richness of color, red on black against the blue sky, above the green field, took my breath away.

I've been trying to understand the meaning of that sight ever since. Why now? Why did the solitary creature choose this time in my life to show me that sometimes it chooses to be in a flock?

Nothing much to say

I wonder why I feel compelled to put something up on the blog even when I don't have much to say. Hmmm... There's a lot on my mind right now, but much of it is unbloggable for a variety of reasons. Have no fear, though. Things are good here. Very good.

I haven't been running for three weeks. That's going to change tomorrow. The cold that would not end is finally over, so it's time to get back with it. After a week or so of not running, I started slipping back in to some old habits, so I've become very aware of how much order that daily practice brings to my life.

I had to travel for work yesterday. I rode with one of my colleagues. It's the last time I ride with her when she drives. The fact that I awoke with a deep sense of gratitude for my life today is due in no small part to the fact that I feel quite fortunate to have arrived home alive yesterday evening.

I went to church this morning and to an interfaith service that was part of Pride week in our fair city. That, plus all of the denominational meetings I've attended this past week, I figure I've had enough church to last a month or more. The service this afternoon was 2.5 hours long, about 1.5 hours too long in my estimation. I guess practicing radical inclusion takes a really long time.

That said, there were parts of the service that were particularly moving for me. I came away with an awareness that there are ways in which I'm still hiding. In fact it was in the words to a song sung by a pastor whose call to ministry sounds awfully familiar that I found the words to name that awareness. Anyone want to guess how I see myself hiding still?

Okay, for nothing much to say, this post seems awfully long.

Random moments from an interesting week

I've had some interesting moments this week. None of them is really worthy of a post by itself so I thought I'd just share a few of them here...

• I went to a regional denominational meeting in the city west of here. It's not my denomination, so I wasn't familiar with how business is conducted. I went to hear a report from another institution that's planning to start a branch campus in city west of here and to do some recruiting. Waiting for the report was an experience. I was with a couple of colleagues, including one of our vp's who quickly resorted to various attempts at entertaining himself. At one point, he started making cracks about the people on the podium. After one man was introduced, he said, "And his nickname is giraffe." I looked up to see a man whose head sat squarely atop his shoulders without a hint of neck to be seen. Totally made me laugh. Guess you had to be there. Guess you had to be as bored as we were.
• When I arrived in city west of here, there were three major accidents on the freeways running through town. All the major routes to the part of town I needed to get to were closed, so I had to wander through on side streets. Never seen anything like it, not even in major metropolitan area where I lived before I moved here, the city where people drive like idiots.
• Because I'm apparently highly suggestible, the story of a friend's recent experience of ordering spinach enchiladas, even though she doesn't like spinach unless it's raw, persuaded me to order spinach ravioli at dinner Wednesday night, even though I don't like spinach unless it's raw. I, however, was quite pleased with my meal, and even enjoyed the bite of spinach gnocchi my companion offered me. What is it with the spinach?
• While having coffee with my Wednesday dinner companion on the patio at a bookstore in city west of here, our conversation was interrupted when she felt the distinctive plop of bird poop on her head. She reached up to confirm her suspicions and discovered that said bird hit her just so that it dripped down on to her suede jacket too. We laughed. Not ten minutes later, I felt the distinctive plop of bird poop on my leg. We laughed harder. It's now known as the bird shit bonding experience. Nothing brings you together like the mutual experience of being shat upon. There was much rejoicing that the birds did not appear to have eaten berries for dinner.
  

Birdsong and abundance

I was at a meeting at church tonight where we talked about abundance. The meeting started with a time of centering, during which we quieted ourselves and listened for our own heartbeat and focused on sounds outside the room. I could hear birds chirping just outside the window behind me. I imagined a nest with two or three babies. The chirps were high-pitched and a bit anxious, or maybe excited.

As I listened to a reading about abundance, with the sounds of the birds in the background, and my own heartbeat pounding a rhythm for my thoughts, my mind captured a memory of what abundance feels like to me. It was the memory of my first morning after leaving AM. Just 24 hours earlier, I had to leave the house in haste, taking with me only my briefcase and the clothes on my back. Later that evening a friend helped me retrieve some personal things, a few work clothes and papers and books, but not really even enough to fill the back seat of my car.

That night I fell asleep in the bed of my friends' son. In spite of the upheavel in my life, I slept peacefully for the first night in many months. When I awoke, I could hear the birds outside, the volume of their song increasing as the morning light cast out the darkness of the night. I got up, poured myself a cup of coffee, and went out to the front porch to listen to the birds and watch the sun rise. With a deep sense of peace and calm that I had not known for years, I sat on the porch, tears streaming down my face, and knew abundance, a richness to life that had escaped me all the time I tuned out what my heart was telling me was important so I could chase down what AM thought was important. With a deep awareness of my freedom, the chance to hear my own heart again, to truly listen to it and follow it, I knew in that moment I had everything I needed. I remember thinking, "I don't ever want to forget what this moment feels like." I paid careful attention to everything around me and in me, memorizing the feelings, the sights, the sounds, the smells.

My life is very full now. I've felt some fear creep in over the past few weeks, concern and worry that the richness of friendship and spiritual connection to the place and people here will vanish, that I could mess up and lose it all. I've found myself looking for something that would help me know I'm losing my grasp on the groundedness that nurtures the sense of abundance. I thought if I could just know what will be a sign that I'm out of balance, then I can know to move back toward those things that will help me regain my balance.

As I sat listening to the others in the group, while holding the memory of that morning on the front porch of my friends' house and feeling it again with the same intensity I felt that day, I knew in my heart what speaks to me of the abundance of my life. It's the sound of birdsong filling my house, waking me each morning, and breaking through during the day, sometimes even in the dark of night. As long as I can hear them, I'll know I have everything I need.

Go. Read. Now.

I was really shy about letting people I know in real life find out about my blog when I first started it a couple of years ago. Eventually, I told a couple of friends and they started reading. One of those friends already had a blog; the other just started hers.

Katherine and I started the PhD program nine years ago (shhhh! We don't talk about how long ago that was!). She wrote her dissertation about the authentic self in the postmodern world. I remember her consistent voice throughout the program critiquing the fragmentation that is often characteristic of postmodernity. It's a voice I didn't always get when I was in coursework with her, a fact which makes a great deal more sense to me now, knowing how terribly fragmented I was in those days. I'm a believer in authenticity now, and that is in no small part to the consistency of her argument throughout our work together.

She's a pastor, a spiritual director and pastoral counselor, and now.... She has a blog! Go. Read. Now: Meaning and Authenticity. She's feeling rather adventurous about the blogging thing, so welcome her to the blogosphere and add her to your blog roll. You'll appreciate her great writing, deep thought, and thoughtful ideas.

New look

Well... I haven't done any cleaning yet. I'm about to get started on that. But I have done some redecorating of the blog. I still need to do a blogroll, but that will have to wait for another day.

So much for the plan to stay away from the computer today!

Off to get some laundry done....

Quiet weekend

It's been a quiet holiday weekend for me. I'm not complaining. Work has been quite busy lately, and with travel this week and several day trips for work in June and a nine-day trip in July, I'm happy to have the quiet.

I spent most of Saturday with friends. Yesterday, I helped M. pack to move and read for a good long while. Today I will clean house and pay bills. If the weather holds out, I might go for a long walk.

I hadn't planned on it, but I stayed away from the computer for most of the weekend, except for a little research I did last night. I'll probably maintain that plan for much of today.

Hope you all are having a great weekend.

Something I learned today

I've learned a lot on my new job. The culture here is different than anywhere I've ever worked before. Take for example today's lesson: When the Dean has a lunchtime cookout at his house to celebrate the end of the year and they serve wine with lunch, that's a clue that you aren't expected to go back to work for the rest of the day.

Who knew?

My middle American family, Part 112

I received an e-mail from my sister yesterday, a forwarded e-mail sent to her by her sister-in-law. It was one of those "This is a true story written by someone who has a ministry; pass it on to everyone on your e-mail contact list" type, stopping just short of saying something bad will happen to you if you don't. The content of the e-mail was the story of a man who works with a prison ministry who went through volunteer training for a prison in my home state. Part of the training included education on different religious views, including Islam. The e-mail says the part on Islam was presented by an imam, and the prison ministry guy asked him a question that led to an exchange in which the prison ministry guy supposedly got the imam to admit that most Muslim clerics have called for jihad and agreed that it is incumbent on those of the Islamic faith to "kill the infidels. " The story continued with the prison ministry guy victoriously arguing with the imam to the point of making him cower.

It took no time to look the story up on Snopes and discover that the details of the story are widely disputed. There was a volunteer training exercise that included religious diversity education at the prison, but the person who spoke about Islam was an inmate without adequate training to respond to the questions posed to him. Even the supposed author of the story back pedals some when asked about the story's truthfulness. It's pretty clear he wrote it, but embellished for effect. It's sickening, really. It made my skin crawl reading it.

So, I e-mailed my sister and asked her a question: What did you think and feel when you read this? Her reply contained some form of the word fear in three of the five sentences she wrote in response, and as I suspected, she accepted the claim of authority at the end of the e-mail as true. She thinks that all the bad things that have happened in the world can be traced back to Muslims, and because she believes that and it makes her afraid, she has no reason to question the content of this story.

I replied to her this morning, pointing her to the Snopes article about the story and spoke from my experience of working with Muslims on interfaith projects over the past few years. I made some comparisons between the Bible and the Q'uran, showing that the Bible, in the hands of the wrong people, has been and could still be used to justify killing in the name of God.

This is not the first time someone in my family has said or forwarded something like this, but it is the first time I've responded. I'm nervous about how she will respond to me. But, I'm tired of living with their fear. I know how to respond to the intellectual issues, to show how the beliefs are not true. I just don't know how we begin to address the rampant fear that so many people cling to. It breaks my heart.
______
Updated 2:00 p.m.: Holy cow! The approach I took worked with her. She's already done some research on her own and learned a lot more about some of the ideas she's had that were wrong! She even made the connection that we need to be just as concerned about Christian extremists. She asked a ton of questions and even wants to know what religion it is that I practice now and how it's different than the baptists. Oy. Guess I'm going to have to come out as a Unitarian.

On being irrelevant

I don't blog about politics, primarily because there are others who write about these things far more intelligently and eloquently than I could ever hope to. But, this is a bit of news I can't resist commenting on.

Apparently Jimmy Carter recently made some remarks in an interview for an Arkansas newspaper in which he calls Bush the worst president in history. Of course, I can't agree more myself, but it does seem unusually bold for Carter. I'm not complaining, mind you.

But what just slays me is the White House response. Apparently the best they could come up with was to say Carter is "increasingly irrelevant."

Increasingly irrelevant? What the hell kind of slam is that? Totally made me laugh.

Read about it here.

Thoughts on Sacred Activism

I've been home sick for the last day and a half. It's nothing major, just an allergy-related cold. Something is in the air that's dealing me a fit. I have not had time to get to the doctor to deal with the allergies in a responsible way, so it got the better of me. I will admit, however, that it's brought back sweet memories of last year's bout of bronchitis and the subsequent journey to urgent care where I met Angela the PA. Anyone remember her? She certainly had a way of boosting my spirits!

Well, I digress....

As reported, I spent a day and a half last week attending the Sacred Activism conference. It spurred a lot of thought for me, not the least of which is some new ideas to shape my ongoing desire to find a place to work on issues of importance to me, to work toward change in the world. I think the most important thing I took away from the conference is some new ideas for practices that will help me further identify that, as well as new motivation to make that effort.

Sacred activism is a term introduced by Andrew Harvey. At the risk of over-simplifying, the basic idea behind the term is a fusing of the mystic's love for god with the activist's passion for justice. The result of bringing the two together in individuals is a guarding against the potential for spiritual practice that is so self-centered that it becomes narcissistic and activism that is not adequately grounded in the strength of spiritual practice.

The conference brought together people from a number of faith groups and was sponsored heavily by Wisdom University. Much of my criticism of the conference centers on the way in which it was organized. There was a heavy paternalism that permeated much of the structure. The primary architects of the movement and the terms which shaped the conference's agenda come from white men associated with Wisdom University. The plenary sessions that I attended employed a lot of either/or thinking that felt manipulative at times. I acknowledge a significant sensitivity to that way of presenting, the appeal to the presenter's own authority based on experience or expertise and level of passion about the topic to motivate others to change. There was some fear employed too, and while I tend to agree with the scenarios depicted that inspired some fear, I have to work extra hard not to throw away what's being said solely because it feels manipulative to me. It's a lot of baggage I carry from years in the evangelical churches of my youth. I own that, but I do think there is an extent to which this style of presentation shuts down dialogue.

Now, having said all of that, here are some things that are sticking with me...

• One of the presenters I heard referred to a group in our population that he calls the cultural creatives (the link is actually for a questionaire that will help you determine whether or not you are one). There was a lot of hype to what he had to say about this group, not all of which I believe, but a conversation I had with a new friend Friday afternoon helped solidify for me the importance of naming this phenomenon in our culture. This friend is the daughter of my former admin assistant. She's gay, grew up in a church that was remarkably supportive, though not entirely and her memories of church are relatively positive, but she feels a great deal of disillusionment with church in general because it feels to her like it's become irrelevant, concerned about its own identity to the point of losing touch with the real problems in the world, most of which she identified in terms that would clearly mark her a cultural creative. I threw out the term sacred activism to her and she found it very appealing. She longs for a spirituality that leads her to find her place in the world, to make a difference, and she wants to connect with others who share that passion. Her friends don't necessarily share her concerns, so she feels isolated. In our part of the country, I suspect that isolation is far more common tha nwe have any way of knowing. So, in that regard, conferences that bring people like that together seem very important, but only if they are accompanied by follow up that enables participants to remain connected and come out of their isolation. Sacred activism that is radically individualistic and which carries no sense of accountability with it will be passionate, to be certain, but I fear it will remain largely unfocused, potentially narcissistic and self-serving, even dangerous, and has a much higher potential of flaming out in a hurry. Besides, I think it misses the deep longing of people like my friend, to be in conversation with people who are like her, to know that she is not alone, and that her deep concerns are shared by others who have concerns of their own. For many, myself included, there is great potential for meaningful relationships to form around these issues and interests. That in and of itself is meeting a deep need in this world, one that needs to be met in order for the nurturing care of the world to be maintained.
  
• I was struck, yet again, with how the conference drew a largely white, middle to upper middle class audience. I have a growing concern for and interest in asking the question, "How do we change this?" This is troubling to me. It is a problem with us white, middle class people, for sure. But, I don't know how we get at solving it. It's something with which I find myself constantly wrestling. Any solutions we find to the issues which are before us should be ones that call into question the dominant culture's dominance, not ones that solidify it, however benevolent and good they may be. There I said it. Now, just pray I find a way to contribute something toward changing this dynamic and not just pointing out the fault.

Mother's Day at Small Town Middle-America Baptist Church

So I went to church with my mom today. It was Mother's Day. I didn't get to my mom's until 5:00 last night. If I was going to spend any time with her this weekend, I had to. I'm really glad I did though, because I learned a lot.

Take, for example, the fact that God has blessed us all with extended family to help us raise our children. Excuse me, but unless I get to choose my extended family members (i.e., no one actually related to me), I don't want my extended family doing that. The 4 hours I spent with my brother yesterday solidified that for me, not that I plan to be raising children any time soon.

Oh, and then there was the tidbit about how America is the greatest nation (frankly, I didn't know there was a nation called America, but whatever) in the world because it was founded on the absolute truth of the bible. Aside from the fact that I failed to figure out how nationalism got into a Mother's Day sermon, I find it interesting that the pastor actually accused all the godless people of the United States of re-writing history. Hmmm.... I wonder who's really done the revision?

And as for Mother's Day and nationalism, I guess the pastor did realize that was a bit of a stretch, so he made explicit what the connection is. Apparently the point of motherhood, well parenthood in general, is to raise up children who read and know the bible so that they'll make the right choices so America doesn't end up like Sodom and Gomorrah. Yeah, you know where this is headed, because clearly it's those homosexuals who were at the heart of S and G's downfall. And, you know all those people who don't think the truth is obviously derived from a literal interpretation of the bible are the ones paving the way to our demise as a nation. All of the natural disasters we've experienced recently are an indication. Heck, even the leak at the front of the church today, the one that created a nice big puddle right where the pastor stands when he receives people at the altar call, is an indication that God's wrath is imminent.

Who knew?

Busy!

This is a crazy week at the seminary....lots going on trying to empty out the place to make room for all the new students we're bringing in next year! (Just kidding.)

On top of all of that I've spent a good bit of yesterday and today at a conference that's given me a lot to think about. You'll be hearing about it, I'm sure. Just need some time to figure out how to articulate what it's stirring in me.

Tonight is the seminary's centennial kick-off celebration. Tomorrow is graduation for the seminary, and afterwards I'm going to my mom's until Sunday early afternoon. Things are likely to be pretty quiet around here.

Life is good. Very good actually. I'll fill you in next week.

Mother's Day card from my cat

I got a Mother's Day card in my box at work today. Looks like PPBob coerced a colleague into doing a favor for her. The card reads...

From the Cat

Thanks for understanding me,
Even when I'm finicky,
Even when I need to be alone.

Thanks for never getting cross
Just because you can't be boss.
--------
[on the inside]
There's no human I'd rather own!
Happy Mother's Day!

Love,
PPBob

What are you most afraid of?

A friend forwarded an e-mail with a handout on it that describes some things related to resistance. It was quite helpful, one statement in particular: "The more afraid you are, the more likely it is this is what you're supposed to do."

I opened the e-mail just before I sat down for my morning meditation. Not surprising, the question, "What are you most afraid of?" came immediately to mind. I found it useful to reflect on it. It's been my experience that the initial gut response to such a question is often the most helpful, the response you have before your brain kicks in and starts questioning it. My gut responded with two things: falling in love and finishing the PhD.

I realize that falling in love is not something we can necessarily set out to do. There's an awful lot left to chance, but I do think there are things we do to open ourselves to love and though it scares the hell out of me to think of doing it, the very fact that I'm scared of it points to what I believe is a sincere desire for love in my life. Rather than allowing the resistance to push me back from that desire, it may be time to surrender to it and trust that the awareness I have of being open to it will help me be attentive to the problems relationships might pose, the things about falling in love that scare me.

The other issue, finishing the PhD, is one which has clearer, more concrete steps I can take. I took a small one today, in fact. I voiced my interest in a safe way to someone who could help scout out whether or not the door would be open with my PhD school for me to apply to be re-instated. The news is good, and I now have much to think about. It will be hard and I feel like I have to be fully committed to doing all of the hard work it will take to meet the requirements that will be placed on me, but for weeks now, something has been stirring inside me to give this serious thought. It will be a matter of prayer and discernment over the next few weeks.

It's an interesting question. Give it a try. What are you most afraid of?

Losing patience

For the past year, I've done a pretty good job of celebrating the changes and progress toward health, but there are days when it just isn't enough and I get discouraged and frustrated. Today has been one of those days. I'll spare you the litany of patience lost. It's mostly the same stuff...finances, not making much progress on improving my fitness level, not having the guts to take some risks socially, not having much to show for my efforts at work, being too self-centered...blah, blah, blah. Nothing new.

All of this leaves me open to let jealousy creep in and I hate it when I start feeling jealous of others. I have no reason to do that. I know no good comes of it, but it's all just part of the magical thinking that I slip into when I'm frustrated with where I am and feel stuck.

Which I guess is really the whole point...I feel stuck. I wish I knew how to let myself off the hook and be okay with the progress I'm making and just patiently keep looking for the next step, not overwhelming myself with unrealistic expectations.

I suppose most of the time I can do that pretty well, but tonight I'm struggling, but it's time to stop and just figure out what I can do to get unstuck.

A good kind of tired

I wish someone could have followed us with a video camera today. We started out at 8:45, a gay male couple who borrowed a van that belongs to one of their parents, a newly out gay woman, her two kids (girls, seven and almost four) and her new girlfriend, a straight couple and their two kids (girl, almost four, and a boy who is one), and me. We go to the same church and were all in a class on the basics of our church's faith together earlier in the year.

We drove to a state park one state over, the same state park that I like for camping and hiking. It's a great place for kids. We picked one trail, only 1.5 miles long, but it has three caves, and a waterfall. It was the perfect hike for our group. We arrived in the park, had lunch, and then hiked the trail for about two hours. Everyone, without exception, had a fantastic time. Not once did anyone (myself included) cry. I've never seen kids who were so ready to enjoy nature. They really had a great time and the three older ones, covered in mud and wet from walking through the waterfall, were disappointed when it was time to leave.

It was an absolutely perfect day, and now I'm tired and ready to fall asleep.

All's well

I went one state over to hear a good friend and colleague do a series of lectures on Christic Heart for chaplains and other pastoral care givers. It's the first pastoral care thing I've done since I left the hospital last August. It was fun to be around chaplains again. And my friend has an amazing way of convincing me not to let go of all of the heavy theological language and images from scripture. I wasn't sure he could convince me this time, but he did. The lectures were very good!

One of the chaplains told me about a park that he recommends for running, so I got up early enough yesterday to go out there. It was beautiful. Everything was so lush and green. I saw a lot of birds I don't see in town when I run...yellow finches and bluebirds and I don't know what all. I saw a bunch of rabbits too. It was a lovely way to start the day.

Today I'm going back to the state next to us to hike with a group of people from the new member's class at church. It promises to be an adventurous day. They've been giving me a hard time about my extreme organizational skills. I had to apologize because I realized I was planning the trip just like I did an excursion for college students back in the day when I did campus ministry. I wonder what they'll do when I make them go to the bathroom before we leave. The guy driving the van in which I'm riding has promised to lead us in the singing of showtunes during our ride to and from the park. I don't think he's kidding either.

I went to a fabulous service at church last night, full of music and drama and a great message, reminding me of a truth that became evident to me when I lived in Korea and which opened up the possibility for me to question the faith with which I grew up.

Life is good. Hope it is your part of the world too.

On being privileged

I made a comment when I interviewed for the new position a few weeks ago that has caused some conversation among folks at the seminary. I suggested that the presence of minority students at our school did not make us a diverse institution. I believe we need to dig deeper and examine the ways in which we protect white privilege and undermine our efforts at hospitality in the way we run the school, and be willing to surrender that privilege in order to truly welcome all. Okay, it was an interview and I was responding off the top of my head. My answer wasn't exactly that well-stated, but that's the gist of what I said.

The irony, as some see it, is that the person who got the job is from a minority group. I don't really think it's ironic. I think the best person got the job, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart. I'm a competitive person and don't give in easily, but even I know when I lose fairly. I lost out in a very fair process and the right decision was made. That does not mean, however, that there aren't those who are assuming the other person got the job largely because we need to diversify. Hearing such comments makes me angry, very angry.

But all of this has heightened my awareness of how deeply rooted white privilege is in our institutions, and what a threat it poses to very good, very well-intentioned people who fear the outcome of allowing things to change when we welcome new ways of doing things. The students in my reflection group found their way to a similar question tonight as they talked about some issues related to race. I left wondering what I mean when I say we have to be willing to surrender our privilege.

As I think about it, I don't think it means giving up on our values and what we think is important to let another group take over, but I think it means letting go of our need to say what we value and say is important is the right way or the best way, to welcome others to the table to discuss what is right and best for the institution, and to trust that we together can make decisions that will lead us to change.

My attendance at a luncheon earlier in the day I think heightened my attention to this issue. I had that deep sense of being out of place that often accompanies me when I go to events that include people who are wealthy and by many standards, very successful. It's not that I'm unsuccessful. I get that. It's not that I'm uneducated and incapable of intelligent conversation. I know that too. I guess I'm seeing that the sense of not belonging has as much to do with the fact that no matter how well I do, how much education I have, what my job title becomes, there will always be a sense of dis-ease in those situations, because, and this may sound entirely cynical and unfair, it seems like it's just a bunch of well-to-do white people patting themselves on the back for all the good things they do. Don't get me wrong. They do some amazingly good things. But to what extent does this way of doing things serve only to protect white, upper middle-class privilege?

I'm wide open for people to tell me how I'm looking at this in the wrong way, but maybe I'm not meant to feel okay in those situations. Maybe that sense of discomfort has a message for me entirely different than the old messages I usually hear, the ones about not being good enough or accomplished enough or not having good enough social skills to be accepted in such groups. Maybe the message comes from what I know about being on the margins and not really fitting in. I can't make my blue-collar upbringing go away. I can't discard my experience of being a gay woman in a largely heterosexual male dominated world. Perhaps the discomfort is telling me to pay attention to those issues of dominance that shouldn't just be taken for granted.

And the scary part...maybe that message is there because I'm meant to do something to work for change.

Aargh!

Gah! I hate being shy!!!!! I hate the way it just takes over in certain situations and no amount of preparing for it helps! Gah!