this way,
when I can't think of the right thing to say
you have space;
think your own thoughts.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
I knew. I know.
He had never learned about wind. The wind itself almost carried the question away. And so, in earnest, he wondered aloud.
“Where does wind come from?” It was like a gull against the breeze, or like a seed with wings and it landed at my feet, hoping for a crumb or at least, hoping to be spared the boot.
I knew. I know.
I know where wind comes from. I know about rotating planets, ocean currents, molecular movements, atmospheric pressure and barometers. Don’t ask how or where I learned; I can’t tell you. So I had a choice to make. Either let him in on the secrets of meteorology, or leave him alone to imagine. Instead of choosing one or the other I chose a path right through the deepest waters of his question.
“Lots of molecules moving at once.” I tried to say it the way I offer a reassuring comment, as though to second his amazement because, well, wind is amazing, whether or not you know what makes it. It was such a tender moment and had I not participated as he noticed the wind and the grandeur of creation, the teachable moment would have been lost. The gull would have flapped away; the seed would have been crushed under my foot.
He hadn’t imagined I would know. Now that I did know, he seemed to feel safer asking more question. Nestled in the following conversation were two seemingly common queries that belied his beloved bewilderment: “What do you mean? You know? How?”
Nevermind how hard I studied in grammar school. Disregard the months of preparation for my California teacher credentialing exams. The best teachers know in the core of their being that the states of matter don’t matter in moments like this. The best teachers remember that if I speak without love I am just a noisy gong. So we exercise the muscles of our awareness, we memorize facts and proverbs, all the while remembering that we too have fragile questions and that teachable moments must be handled with care.
To know me is to know that although I truly enjoy reliable answers to my questions and participate in modernity’s love affair with empirical data, I much prefer imagination to factoids. In a matter of seconds I run through a checklist in my head whenever a question like this is laid at my feet. I ask myself does the query matter to me? How? Why? Why not? But mostly, finally, fundamentally, I wonder how I can foster a love for creativity, imagination alongside the desire for knowledge? In other words, I wonder how can I use any question to deepen faith in all the things that make up a whole life.
I don’t want to offer facts alone, as though they were all we ought to try to believe. I don’t want to neglect facts or scientific method, as though they don’t matter at all. I want to use what I know of the world and the way life works as a spring board so we can jump together into what we don’t know. And I want to do so in a way that communicates my own curiosity and doubt.
It doesn’t always work out. My attempts to co-construct knowledge misfire if a more solid answer is needed. A child continues to pursue the adult asking, “but why?” until she is satisfied. Adults tend to quit vocalizing quandary while they’re ahead: hm hmmming along with the explanation even if they are lost early on—but then keep wondering, searching or feeling frustration for hours, days, years...
But this time it worked. I took a small stick of driftwood and drew the Earth in the sand, I blew the grains across it as if they were molecules of oxygen, nitrogen and hydrogen. He said, “wow.” I said, “yeah, wow, right?” Even as I explained I thought of holes in the plot of the story of a breeze. I found myself asking questions too. I explained that I don’t know whether this breeze is because of the water or the hills or both. We wondered aloud together and then imagined these molecules had once flown over Argentina or been puffed out of a whale’s spout in the Atlantic Ocean.
And then it kept working.
Months later (many moons and traumas later) I heard him pose the question to a friend. This time it was with wonder and awe that he posed almost the exact same question: “Do you know where wind comes from?!” It was a shining moment for this self-designated teacher, preacher and poet. I caught his eye as I overheard him in conversation and we smiled at one another. It was as if he were about to describe a gift he’d been given or a story he’d read recently. He was honestly posing the question out of his hope for more knowledge, even though he knew more about the topic now than he ever had before. There was a tiny twist of pride in his voice, but not enough to stifle the curiosity of the person he asked. So it was.
Those who know me have heard me tell stories like this about my students ad nauseum but this one is especially important to me because it is not about answering a child’s question. It is about a grown man--a powerful, business suit wearing, beard-growing, bill-paying grown up. Somehow he managed to access wonder, awe, imagination in spite of all the chaos of his childhood reverberating in his heart, the aches in his overworked muscles and the daily stressors of adult responsibilities. But it is the perfect example of imagination at work and it goads me on in hopes that it is possible for adults to learn to imagine faithfully and to pass it on…
“Where does wind come from?” It was like a gull against the breeze, or like a seed with wings and it landed at my feet, hoping for a crumb or at least, hoping to be spared the boot.
I knew. I know.
I know where wind comes from. I know about rotating planets, ocean currents, molecular movements, atmospheric pressure and barometers. Don’t ask how or where I learned; I can’t tell you. So I had a choice to make. Either let him in on the secrets of meteorology, or leave him alone to imagine. Instead of choosing one or the other I chose a path right through the deepest waters of his question.
“Lots of molecules moving at once.” I tried to say it the way I offer a reassuring comment, as though to second his amazement because, well, wind is amazing, whether or not you know what makes it. It was such a tender moment and had I not participated as he noticed the wind and the grandeur of creation, the teachable moment would have been lost. The gull would have flapped away; the seed would have been crushed under my foot.
He hadn’t imagined I would know. Now that I did know, he seemed to feel safer asking more question. Nestled in the following conversation were two seemingly common queries that belied his beloved bewilderment: “What do you mean? You know? How?”
Nevermind how hard I studied in grammar school. Disregard the months of preparation for my California teacher credentialing exams. The best teachers know in the core of their being that the states of matter don’t matter in moments like this. The best teachers remember that if I speak without love I am just a noisy gong. So we exercise the muscles of our awareness, we memorize facts and proverbs, all the while remembering that we too have fragile questions and that teachable moments must be handled with care.
To know me is to know that although I truly enjoy reliable answers to my questions and participate in modernity’s love affair with empirical data, I much prefer imagination to factoids. In a matter of seconds I run through a checklist in my head whenever a question like this is laid at my feet. I ask myself does the query matter to me? How? Why? Why not? But mostly, finally, fundamentally, I wonder how I can foster a love for creativity, imagination alongside the desire for knowledge? In other words, I wonder how can I use any question to deepen faith in all the things that make up a whole life.
I don’t want to offer facts alone, as though they were all we ought to try to believe. I don’t want to neglect facts or scientific method, as though they don’t matter at all. I want to use what I know of the world and the way life works as a spring board so we can jump together into what we don’t know. And I want to do so in a way that communicates my own curiosity and doubt.
It doesn’t always work out. My attempts to co-construct knowledge misfire if a more solid answer is needed. A child continues to pursue the adult asking, “but why?” until she is satisfied. Adults tend to quit vocalizing quandary while they’re ahead: hm hmmming along with the explanation even if they are lost early on—but then keep wondering, searching or feeling frustration for hours, days, years...
But this time it worked. I took a small stick of driftwood and drew the Earth in the sand, I blew the grains across it as if they were molecules of oxygen, nitrogen and hydrogen. He said, “wow.” I said, “yeah, wow, right?” Even as I explained I thought of holes in the plot of the story of a breeze. I found myself asking questions too. I explained that I don’t know whether this breeze is because of the water or the hills or both. We wondered aloud together and then imagined these molecules had once flown over Argentina or been puffed out of a whale’s spout in the Atlantic Ocean.
And then it kept working.
Months later (many moons and traumas later) I heard him pose the question to a friend. This time it was with wonder and awe that he posed almost the exact same question: “Do you know where wind comes from?!” It was a shining moment for this self-designated teacher, preacher and poet. I caught his eye as I overheard him in conversation and we smiled at one another. It was as if he were about to describe a gift he’d been given or a story he’d read recently. He was honestly posing the question out of his hope for more knowledge, even though he knew more about the topic now than he ever had before. There was a tiny twist of pride in his voice, but not enough to stifle the curiosity of the person he asked. So it was.
Those who know me have heard me tell stories like this about my students ad nauseum but this one is especially important to me because it is not about answering a child’s question. It is about a grown man--a powerful, business suit wearing, beard-growing, bill-paying grown up. Somehow he managed to access wonder, awe, imagination in spite of all the chaos of his childhood reverberating in his heart, the aches in his overworked muscles and the daily stressors of adult responsibilities. But it is the perfect example of imagination at work and it goads me on in hopes that it is possible for adults to learn to imagine faithfully and to pass it on…
Monday, August 16, 2010
potent
For the sake of balance I am putting this here.
See, Jackson and I have a real problem with the idea of potential because it creates such a pressure and has such a cold front that nothing but a hurricane of emotions is sure to come of it. And then there are also people who use that word with such aplomb, like a giant Eff You to the pressure to be more than I have to be.
Vicki is one of those.
I started writing about all that confusion and it turned out so, well, helpful I just couldn't keep it from you.
We have such big plans these days... to bear such good fruit. Growing branches strong enough is tricky but not impossible thanks to folks like Vicki.
Potent
For Vicki
Her hands clench air near her heart
Like claws wrenching flesh from bone
To show me how this unraveling takes time.
It is as though her fingers are working
One strand of each:
Hope into past.
The things to recover from are still piling up
All around us even as she says
You would let them build with blocks,
Talk to them, teach them and listen.
She talked of my potential as though it
Were my best friend
And the future
Is someone to meet for coffee
I imagined I could chat and reminisce with whoever
I want
to be,
Who I am going to be
When all this unravels and I
Go along with it.
See, Jackson and I have a real problem with the idea of potential because it creates such a pressure and has such a cold front that nothing but a hurricane of emotions is sure to come of it. And then there are also people who use that word with such aplomb, like a giant Eff You to the pressure to be more than I have to be.
Vicki is one of those.
I started writing about all that confusion and it turned out so, well, helpful I just couldn't keep it from you.
We have such big plans these days... to bear such good fruit. Growing branches strong enough is tricky but not impossible thanks to folks like Vicki.
Potent
For Vicki
Her hands clench air near her heart
Like claws wrenching flesh from bone
To show me how this unraveling takes time.
It is as though her fingers are working
One strand of each:
Hope into past.
The things to recover from are still piling up
All around us even as she says
You would let them build with blocks,
Talk to them, teach them and listen.
She talked of my potential as though it
Were my best friend
And the future
Is someone to meet for coffee
I imagined I could chat and reminisce with whoever
I want
to be,
Who I am going to be
When all this unravels and I
Go along with it.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
how to
There is this awful thing we did when I was growing up in daycares. It went like this:
"She hit me!"
"Say you're sorry."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
There were usually three people involved. You might be thinking an adult always proctored the exchange, but that was not always the case as I remember it.
These days, in the places I work, it goes more like this:
"She smashed me."
"Are you all right?"
"She smashed me."
"Let's go talk to her."
"Did you mean to smash her?"
"Yeah, she wouldn't move when I asked her to."
"Oh, I see. When someone is in our way, we try to use our words first. So that was right. But the hard part is to go slowly and to be patient with our friends when they don't do what we asked. Look, at her face. It's telling me she is still hurting from when you smashed her body. When you're ready to go slow again you can come back out and play with her. You might even get ready to say you're sorry. But come sit with me for a few minutes to rest your body and give yourself a time out. You can tell me a story while you rest. I'd like that."
Sometimes the offender does apologize, sometimes she doesn't. When she does her friend just thanks her for apologizing, rather than giving her the vague ol' "it's okay" routine. If you have more questions about how and why it "works", when to use it, or what to do when it doesn't work just let me know.
Grownups often insert their sense of deeper injustice into situations like these, and then compensate by oversimplifying the dialogue because they've given up on confession, repentance, and much of reconciliation on a deeper level anyway.
At my house, we've been talking about being pastoral toward people we really can't handle.
We say things like, "How would you be pastoral with him?" or "I don't think I can be her friend, but I can be pastoral... right?" or "What would it take to be pastoral in this situation?"(I know there is a good chance this kind of dialogue annoys you, but we can't get enough... call it cheese ball heaven, living in fantasy, or a downright misrepresentation of dinner table conversation, but we chalk it up to a love of vocation and a return on our investment in seminary and therapy.)
And most of the time you can substitute the word compassion or even the word human for the word pastoral. I don't know that I'd advise the feint of heart to try it out... but if you're up for a little growing up then I'd say, go for it with gusto.
The real hard part is that you can't just dabble in being compassionate, human or pastoral. You've got to go big or go home when it comes to being anything (yeah, the scent of college football season is in the air--even the skinnytree abides the first day of practice). Being is a big job. You might think you could go around just sort of being, but then you start to simply do stuff, instead of really being. And, I know you're about to get lost in the philosophy-ish tone of this post, but hold on!
Insert some adjectives if you want, they may help. Try this on "You might think you could go around just sort of being, but then you start to simply do stuff, instead of really being... being anything compassionate, angry, eccentric, ________... You fill in the blank.
I don't want to mess with your interpretation of these thoughts too much so take a little break, reread that last paragraph and then read this:
I think I'm finding out that if I try to do too much stuff, I can't be anything really good. If I try to do something compassionate about a problem or person its a sort of one time deal (sure I did something--one thing--compassionate or maybe compassionately but then I find it that much harder to really be compassionate which is to have compassionate thoughts and feelings because I was too busy acting the part out there instead of in my head, in my heart.
Apologizing and receiving an apology well are the rocket science behind compassion because they are all about changing, choosing, curiosity and they allow us to rewrite the script and the story.
So here is the open letter to the folks who I'm struggling with and for.
Dear _________,
I know you* treated me like junk because people often treat you like junk.
I know I have treated you like junk too. But I really regret the nasty things I said and thought about you. And I hope it will ease your pain to know that I see how I'm hurting you and you're hurting me in return is a very understandable and human reaction.
I won't be returning to our friendship until we can get this straightened out and writing is the best way for me to do that. And even when we reconcile things will be very different. This is scary for me and I am pretty confused by my feelings, which are very strong these days.
So send word if you want because sometimes when I stop talking and writing folks they tell their friends and family I'm giving them the "silent treatment." But in my head and heart I'm just trying really hard to shut up and listen well. I'm trying to talk to myself about all that went down between us so that I won't be exposing you to more words that could cause more confusion for either of us. I figure you'll either get to a place where you are ready to say the things I need to hear. When you're ready to repent or confess or apologize, in your own way and time too I'll be all ears, I promise. And we can go from there.
Thanks,
Abigail
*Notice I didn't say, "you only treated me like shit the other day..." I do speak that way sometimes. But only when I'm scared. I'm trying to cut back and anyway to use a minimizing word would undermine the power of the shitty treatment, and offer them excuses for inexcusable behavior and neither of those is what I am trying to write about.
And then I guess I go on from there. Depression is real and comes in various stages and strengths so I'm not pretending that a letter like this won't bring it on or be cause to work harder to fend it off.
I either get on the Feelings Schedule (I'll re post it underneath to refresh your memory) and work on myself or I won't. But if I don't then I'm breaking the promise I made and that sucks for me and the offender. In fact, I don't know what I'd do if one of you just copied and pasted the letter in an email and sent it to me. I hope I'd be able to respond right away by thinking through what I am ready to confess to you, figure that out, write an honest email that says, "I'm ready to repent." And nothing else: no excuses, no reactions, no withholding behaviors, no drama or hyperbole. But that may take me a long time.
Just to put it in perspective: It has been a year since my husband of almost 7 years and I split. And though there has been healing this year I am nowhere near knowing what to confess, how to repent, or what reconciliation will mean for us.
You can go on and say the letter is controlling or manipulative or rude. You can criticize it all you want but maybe you just don't like it for the same reasons I have never written it down before today: it is a lot to deal with... and rightly so! When we hurt people there is no easy, right or graceful way out. You have to go deeper in, you have to risk, trust, slow down, be awkward and its going to hurt. It might even get messier than it already was. But not the destructive, chaotic kind of mess, more like the sewing room, the craft shack, the workbench or the potting shed.
And it is growth, creation and so it takes time.
Jackson says she and I will be friends for the rest of our lives and so I am constantly reminded that grace can be spread out over a long period of time. She refers to the way we'll have the rest of our lives to watch reruns, but it also reminds me that I will have the rest of my life to learn to be a good friend.
I guess I spend a lot of time hoping that the things I regret and want to change would match up with whatever offense hurting friends have located. Often it doesn't and won't.
For example, I've been accused of being a bitch and that is just too vague so I can't apologize for that. I've also been accused of being mean, which I most certainly am, and more than I should be, but I can't apologize for that either because its too big a part of my story... I'd need a more direct and caring call to repentance. I'd need someone to brave the windstorm of my insecurities, look at me and carefully, slowly (as should have been done when we were children) say, "You have hurt someone you love. You don't have to do something right now, but you have a choice. You can choose compassion. There is no need to be ashamed or afraid. But there is a need for you to be aware of your impact on the people around you. Practice compassion in a safe place and when you're ready to risk bigger, to be curious and forgiving, you can be compassionate with yourself and everyone else in ways you have neglected today."
I've been accused (quite recently, and harshly) of dishonesty, infidelity,unchristian behavior, chicanery, abandonment, distrusting, antisocial behavior, passing judgment, insanity, stupidity and narcissism. I've been told that therapy, marriage, a certain book, a certain spiritual practice, a better outlook on life, or a change in habits or friends would force me to change my behavior, then I'd be a better person, then I'd be worthy of forgiveness, then I'd be worthy of friendship or trust or generosity or... compassion.
I will admit it probably works that way for some people sometimes, and I will admit that if it worked that way for me, if that were good enough for me, I'd be easier to live with already!
But! I am human which means two things: 1)I'll never be able to earn your esteem, 2)I'm a part of creation and that is enough to make me worthy of compassion--even yours.
Although I am honest, faithful, willing to believe in God's goodness, generous, loyal, trusting, social, justified, sane, intelligent and self-aware when it is safe for me to be so, I cannot act in all those ways all the time--no one can. Therefore I cannot do anything to change myself so much that I would someday earn your friendship.
And what is more, I am trying real hard to stop expecting you to, too... I'm trying to stop expecting so that I can live in the grace of curiosity over the particulars as to why it is so hard for the president, the mothers, the bothers, the congressmen, flight attendants, baristas, publishers--everyone from St. Peter on down to the neighbor kids to be more of who we were made to be.
As promised: You might need this later because you probably have regrets or repentance to deal with... or maybe just because you're human.
The Feeling Schedule is a little poem I wrote last summer it is actually called
Today
Wake up
Stare at the ceiling
Refuse to get out of bed
Think of the things that make you feel
overwhelmed, angry, hateful, sad, depressive
count to ten, slowly
Roll over, yes you have to.
Think of all that you don’t have and feel pretty shitty, count to ten, or maybe twenty
But you can’t stay there
There are birds learning to fly just outside
Push away the mattress, slide out from between a blanket or sheet, stand up as tall as
you can
Lift your head, yes you have to.
Think of the people that make you feel
Loved, angry, loved, angry, loved…
Eat breakfast, watch television, pull on some clothes, socks, a hat maybe, yes you have to
Feel the soft clothes against you
Don’t worry about what it smells like, looks like or
the way they mock the shape of you and the shape the day will take.
The day is hot and wet, give in to the sweat and feel the knot in your stomach, or throat
Think of all that grows here: trees, boys, and clouds that refuse to gather and
Tell yourself that is good
And when the anxiety comes
When the hatred and fear swell like a tsunami
When the nausea and sickness threaten to engulf you
Try them on,
think of wind and rainstorms inside your body,
thunder and lightening in your veins
Think of boys racing down the slight sloped hill on skateboards
girls hoping you will call and lots of lost love
Try to think of mothers screaming in the throes of birthing pains and
Little boys with fat tears falling on scraped knees
Think of bandaids generous enough to cover new wounds
And scars covering old wounds
&
when you are alone again,
Hiding in a public bathroom stall, against the wall holding you vertical
Or in the car, put on your seat belt and let it press into your chest
Like the hand of God pressing against your lungs
so all you can do is
Stay right there
Slump down, against a wall or window and
put your hand On your head,
cover your face and cry. Let the sadness and frustration and grief
shake your shoulders, shake itself out.
The hot tears are sticky and ooze out and you have to let them out
Let them out, spit them off your lips, blow them out your nose,
Push them out, not in
Wipe them on your shirtsleeve like snail trails,
So you can see the tracks of slow moving sadness
Breathe in and out
Breathe in and out like a dog panting in the heat of your emotions
Open your mouth and lungs
and the ache will either get worse
or dissipate
If it gets worse, stay a little (one) longer, wipe away a few more tears
If it goes away, and trust me, that ache will go away eventually,
If you respect it,
Then you can go on.
&
At the end of the day when you crawl back into the bed
Just lie still
Scrunch up your nose at the stench of wrongdoing all around you
Clench your jaw and steel yourself against the nightmare you are living.
Think back on the day, the downward spiral you are riding
Jokes and drunks and all
And imagine what you would tell the one person you want to talk to most
That this is bad
this is not good
That you are so lonely and you don’t know what you are doing here and
Why did your mother fail and your father get you into this mess?
Imagine the face of a friend, tearing up, eye lashes sticking together and nose running
For you
All for you, over you, all around you
Wrap the blankets around you tight and think of the warm bodies of close friends
Next to you
On a porch, on a bench, on a beach, on the hood of a car, on a diner booth bench,
on a bar stool, on a couch,
on a hopeful day
&
think of how hard it is
to loose your innocence over again, just when you thought
you didn’t have any more innocence left to lose
think of a carpenters’ roof beams raised high above your head and let your soul lay across
think of the ancient Egyptian pylons and let self and body stand tall between them
think of Grecian columns, slant 6 engines, old growth redwoods, and tug boats
because you are stronger now and you are taking your place among them
whenever you feel this way
whenever you feel
whenever
you feel
this way
everyday.
"She hit me!"
"Say you're sorry."
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
There were usually three people involved. You might be thinking an adult always proctored the exchange, but that was not always the case as I remember it.
These days, in the places I work, it goes more like this:
"She smashed me."
"Are you all right?"
"She smashed me."
"Let's go talk to her."
"Did you mean to smash her?"
"Yeah, she wouldn't move when I asked her to."
"Oh, I see. When someone is in our way, we try to use our words first. So that was right. But the hard part is to go slowly and to be patient with our friends when they don't do what we asked. Look, at her face. It's telling me she is still hurting from when you smashed her body. When you're ready to go slow again you can come back out and play with her. You might even get ready to say you're sorry. But come sit with me for a few minutes to rest your body and give yourself a time out. You can tell me a story while you rest. I'd like that."
Sometimes the offender does apologize, sometimes she doesn't. When she does her friend just thanks her for apologizing, rather than giving her the vague ol' "it's okay" routine. If you have more questions about how and why it "works", when to use it, or what to do when it doesn't work just let me know.
Grownups often insert their sense of deeper injustice into situations like these, and then compensate by oversimplifying the dialogue because they've given up on confession, repentance, and much of reconciliation on a deeper level anyway.
At my house, we've been talking about being pastoral toward people we really can't handle.
We say things like, "How would you be pastoral with him?" or "I don't think I can be her friend, but I can be pastoral... right?" or "What would it take to be pastoral in this situation?"(I know there is a good chance this kind of dialogue annoys you, but we can't get enough... call it cheese ball heaven, living in fantasy, or a downright misrepresentation of dinner table conversation, but we chalk it up to a love of vocation and a return on our investment in seminary and therapy.)
And most of the time you can substitute the word compassion or even the word human for the word pastoral. I don't know that I'd advise the feint of heart to try it out... but if you're up for a little growing up then I'd say, go for it with gusto.
The real hard part is that you can't just dabble in being compassionate, human or pastoral. You've got to go big or go home when it comes to being anything (yeah, the scent of college football season is in the air--even the skinnytree abides the first day of practice). Being is a big job. You might think you could go around just sort of being, but then you start to simply do stuff, instead of really being. And, I know you're about to get lost in the philosophy-ish tone of this post, but hold on!
Insert some adjectives if you want, they may help. Try this on "You might think you could go around just sort of being, but then you start to simply do stuff, instead of really being... being anything compassionate, angry, eccentric, ________... You fill in the blank.
I don't want to mess with your interpretation of these thoughts too much so take a little break, reread that last paragraph and then read this:
I think I'm finding out that if I try to do too much stuff, I can't be anything really good. If I try to do something compassionate about a problem or person its a sort of one time deal (sure I did something--one thing--compassionate or maybe compassionately but then I find it that much harder to really be compassionate which is to have compassionate thoughts and feelings because I was too busy acting the part out there instead of in my head, in my heart.
Apologizing and receiving an apology well are the rocket science behind compassion because they are all about changing, choosing, curiosity and they allow us to rewrite the script and the story.
So here is the open letter to the folks who I'm struggling with and for.
Dear _________,
I know you* treated me like junk because people often treat you like junk.
I know I have treated you like junk too. But I really regret the nasty things I said and thought about you. And I hope it will ease your pain to know that I see how I'm hurting you and you're hurting me in return is a very understandable and human reaction.
I won't be returning to our friendship until we can get this straightened out and writing is the best way for me to do that. And even when we reconcile things will be very different. This is scary for me and I am pretty confused by my feelings, which are very strong these days.
So send word if you want because sometimes when I stop talking and writing folks they tell their friends and family I'm giving them the "silent treatment." But in my head and heart I'm just trying really hard to shut up and listen well. I'm trying to talk to myself about all that went down between us so that I won't be exposing you to more words that could cause more confusion for either of us. I figure you'll either get to a place where you are ready to say the things I need to hear. When you're ready to repent or confess or apologize, in your own way and time too I'll be all ears, I promise. And we can go from there.
Thanks,
Abigail
*Notice I didn't say, "you only treated me like shit the other day..." I do speak that way sometimes. But only when I'm scared. I'm trying to cut back and anyway to use a minimizing word would undermine the power of the shitty treatment, and offer them excuses for inexcusable behavior and neither of those is what I am trying to write about.
And then I guess I go on from there. Depression is real and comes in various stages and strengths so I'm not pretending that a letter like this won't bring it on or be cause to work harder to fend it off.
I either get on the Feelings Schedule (I'll re post it underneath to refresh your memory) and work on myself or I won't. But if I don't then I'm breaking the promise I made and that sucks for me and the offender. In fact, I don't know what I'd do if one of you just copied and pasted the letter in an email and sent it to me. I hope I'd be able to respond right away by thinking through what I am ready to confess to you, figure that out, write an honest email that says, "I'm ready to repent." And nothing else: no excuses, no reactions, no withholding behaviors, no drama or hyperbole. But that may take me a long time.
Just to put it in perspective: It has been a year since my husband of almost 7 years and I split. And though there has been healing this year I am nowhere near knowing what to confess, how to repent, or what reconciliation will mean for us.
You can go on and say the letter is controlling or manipulative or rude. You can criticize it all you want but maybe you just don't like it for the same reasons I have never written it down before today: it is a lot to deal with... and rightly so! When we hurt people there is no easy, right or graceful way out. You have to go deeper in, you have to risk, trust, slow down, be awkward and its going to hurt. It might even get messier than it already was. But not the destructive, chaotic kind of mess, more like the sewing room, the craft shack, the workbench or the potting shed.
And it is growth, creation and so it takes time.
Jackson says she and I will be friends for the rest of our lives and so I am constantly reminded that grace can be spread out over a long period of time. She refers to the way we'll have the rest of our lives to watch reruns, but it also reminds me that I will have the rest of my life to learn to be a good friend.
I guess I spend a lot of time hoping that the things I regret and want to change would match up with whatever offense hurting friends have located. Often it doesn't and won't.
For example, I've been accused of being a bitch and that is just too vague so I can't apologize for that. I've also been accused of being mean, which I most certainly am, and more than I should be, but I can't apologize for that either because its too big a part of my story... I'd need a more direct and caring call to repentance. I'd need someone to brave the windstorm of my insecurities, look at me and carefully, slowly (as should have been done when we were children) say, "You have hurt someone you love. You don't have to do something right now, but you have a choice. You can choose compassion. There is no need to be ashamed or afraid. But there is a need for you to be aware of your impact on the people around you. Practice compassion in a safe place and when you're ready to risk bigger, to be curious and forgiving, you can be compassionate with yourself and everyone else in ways you have neglected today."
I've been accused (quite recently, and harshly) of dishonesty, infidelity,unchristian behavior, chicanery, abandonment, distrusting, antisocial behavior, passing judgment, insanity, stupidity and narcissism. I've been told that therapy, marriage, a certain book, a certain spiritual practice, a better outlook on life, or a change in habits or friends would force me to change my behavior, then I'd be a better person, then I'd be worthy of forgiveness, then I'd be worthy of friendship or trust or generosity or... compassion.
I will admit it probably works that way for some people sometimes, and I will admit that if it worked that way for me, if that were good enough for me, I'd be easier to live with already!
But! I am human which means two things: 1)I'll never be able to earn your esteem, 2)I'm a part of creation and that is enough to make me worthy of compassion--even yours.
Although I am honest, faithful, willing to believe in God's goodness, generous, loyal, trusting, social, justified, sane, intelligent and self-aware when it is safe for me to be so, I cannot act in all those ways all the time--no one can. Therefore I cannot do anything to change myself so much that I would someday earn your friendship.
And what is more, I am trying real hard to stop expecting you to, too... I'm trying to stop expecting so that I can live in the grace of curiosity over the particulars as to why it is so hard for the president, the mothers, the bothers, the congressmen, flight attendants, baristas, publishers--everyone from St. Peter on down to the neighbor kids to be more of who we were made to be.
As promised: You might need this later because you probably have regrets or repentance to deal with... or maybe just because you're human.
The Feeling Schedule is a little poem I wrote last summer it is actually called
Today
Wake up
Stare at the ceiling
Refuse to get out of bed
Think of the things that make you feel
overwhelmed, angry, hateful, sad, depressive
count to ten, slowly
Roll over, yes you have to.
Think of all that you don’t have and feel pretty shitty, count to ten, or maybe twenty
But you can’t stay there
There are birds learning to fly just outside
Push away the mattress, slide out from between a blanket or sheet, stand up as tall as
you can
Lift your head, yes you have to.
Think of the people that make you feel
Loved, angry, loved, angry, loved…
Eat breakfast, watch television, pull on some clothes, socks, a hat maybe, yes you have to
Feel the soft clothes against you
Don’t worry about what it smells like, looks like or
the way they mock the shape of you and the shape the day will take.
The day is hot and wet, give in to the sweat and feel the knot in your stomach, or throat
Think of all that grows here: trees, boys, and clouds that refuse to gather and
Tell yourself that is good
And when the anxiety comes
When the hatred and fear swell like a tsunami
When the nausea and sickness threaten to engulf you
Try them on,
think of wind and rainstorms inside your body,
thunder and lightening in your veins
Think of boys racing down the slight sloped hill on skateboards
girls hoping you will call and lots of lost love
Try to think of mothers screaming in the throes of birthing pains and
Little boys with fat tears falling on scraped knees
Think of bandaids generous enough to cover new wounds
And scars covering old wounds
&
when you are alone again,
Hiding in a public bathroom stall, against the wall holding you vertical
Or in the car, put on your seat belt and let it press into your chest
Like the hand of God pressing against your lungs
so all you can do is
Stay right there
Slump down, against a wall or window and
put your hand On your head,
cover your face and cry. Let the sadness and frustration and grief
shake your shoulders, shake itself out.
The hot tears are sticky and ooze out and you have to let them out
Let them out, spit them off your lips, blow them out your nose,
Push them out, not in
Wipe them on your shirtsleeve like snail trails,
So you can see the tracks of slow moving sadness
Breathe in and out
Breathe in and out like a dog panting in the heat of your emotions
Open your mouth and lungs
and the ache will either get worse
or dissipate
If it gets worse, stay a little (one) longer, wipe away a few more tears
If it goes away, and trust me, that ache will go away eventually,
If you respect it,
Then you can go on.
&
At the end of the day when you crawl back into the bed
Just lie still
Scrunch up your nose at the stench of wrongdoing all around you
Clench your jaw and steel yourself against the nightmare you are living.
Think back on the day, the downward spiral you are riding
Jokes and drunks and all
And imagine what you would tell the one person you want to talk to most
That this is bad
this is not good
That you are so lonely and you don’t know what you are doing here and
Why did your mother fail and your father get you into this mess?
Imagine the face of a friend, tearing up, eye lashes sticking together and nose running
For you
All for you, over you, all around you
Wrap the blankets around you tight and think of the warm bodies of close friends
Next to you
On a porch, on a bench, on a beach, on the hood of a car, on a diner booth bench,
on a bar stool, on a couch,
on a hopeful day
&
think of how hard it is
to loose your innocence over again, just when you thought
you didn’t have any more innocence left to lose
think of a carpenters’ roof beams raised high above your head and let your soul lay across
think of the ancient Egyptian pylons and let self and body stand tall between them
think of Grecian columns, slant 6 engines, old growth redwoods, and tug boats
because you are stronger now and you are taking your place among them
whenever you feel this way
whenever you feel
whenever
you feel
this way
everyday.
Friday, July 23, 2010
for Cristy whose maiden name matters.
My new best friend, Mrs Madeleine L’Engle, has quite an interest in science and temper tantrums and theology (She’s the one who wrote A Wrinkle in Time, which we told you about today)… I read this quote today, only a few hours after hearing about your struggle against putting plow to earth, telling your best friends that their opinion isn’t God, and deciding whether to put your own story in its proper place in the order of things so that you can be healthy and whole…
so I thought this might be helpful to you… and lots of other friends of the skinnytree who are going through similar ordeals over ideals:
“In a world where fewer and fewer people believe in God at all, where life is for so many an unimportant accident with no meaning, where we are born only to slip back into annihilation, we need to stop arguing [even with ourselves and our deepest desires] and affirm the goodness of creation, and the power of love which holds us all. As far as the evidence of science shows today (and the evidence of science is always open to change with new discoveries), evolution [or perhaps the science behind nutrition and psychiatry] seems a likely explanation… If new evidence should prove that evolution [or Bastyr or MHGS] is not how it all happened [or should happen] that won’t do anything to change the nature of God, any more than Galileo’s discoveries changed the nature of God. Nor would it shatter my faith. …Not only are stars and people and fireflies born, not only do they die, but what we as creatures do during our life span makes a difference. We are not just passive, acted upon; we are also actors in the great drama of creation. …God urges us to be willing to change, to go out into the wilderness, to wrestle with angels, to take off our shoes when we step on holy ground. And to listen. God asks us to listen, even when what el [sic] asks of us seems most outrageous.”
So…(sigh) there it is, as I see it.
Or maybe: You want to point at those meanies that criticize you for taking such risks and say it: “So there!” But probably its best to do that quietly, to yourself for now: revenge can be sweet but often requires that you make an ugly face… and there is no need for them to see your gentle smile so contorted. Besides, the mothers and aunties are always telling you, “you keep making that ugly face it just might get stuck like that.” And I think that is probably one of the truer things in life.
But it is true also that:
You (all of you!) are very much inclined to change, even created to change, to evolve, to grow, to be an actor in the drama of creation. Science will only validate this over and over… just as surely as your story will, my dear.
And I am so pleased to hear that you are
That you are that…
You are!
And then there is the old Avett Bros bit about “when you run make sure you run to something and not away from, lies don’t need an aeroplane to chase you anywhere.” Don’t worry about the running from… sometimes it is okay to run toward safety (which I am finding does require a certain abrupt leaving which can often look like “running away" while it is yet simply a running from), toward what it best for you. When they try to tell you that you are wrong to dream a big dream and follow it, it is a lie and lies like that will always follow you, but they are still just lies. Maybe that isn’t what the song is about, but that is often what it makes me think about, and that matters too.
One more thing for you who are so easily judged because you don’t try as hard as they want you to:
Firstly, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again and again until you have all looked into it: sometimes trying harder is simply not the answer
Secondly, my new discovery is that the folks who are judging you for doing whatever it is you need to do today were always slated to judge you at some point in your life… You can’t make them love you more, you can’t change their opinion about you… you can only change your mind about the value of their remarks—and you may find that in the end you love them more as a result of this change in yourself.
I know the grammar of this post makes it a bit awkward but I simply had to rush it because, well, I can't let perfectionist tendencies run our lives... So go back and reread if you have time, or go with what you got the first time--that may very well be all you need for now.
so I thought this might be helpful to you… and lots of other friends of the skinnytree who are going through similar ordeals over ideals:
“In a world where fewer and fewer people believe in God at all, where life is for so many an unimportant accident with no meaning, where we are born only to slip back into annihilation, we need to stop arguing [even with ourselves and our deepest desires] and affirm the goodness of creation, and the power of love which holds us all. As far as the evidence of science shows today (and the evidence of science is always open to change with new discoveries), evolution [or perhaps the science behind nutrition and psychiatry] seems a likely explanation… If new evidence should prove that evolution [or Bastyr or MHGS] is not how it all happened [or should happen] that won’t do anything to change the nature of God, any more than Galileo’s discoveries changed the nature of God. Nor would it shatter my faith. …Not only are stars and people and fireflies born, not only do they die, but what we as creatures do during our life span makes a difference. We are not just passive, acted upon; we are also actors in the great drama of creation. …God urges us to be willing to change, to go out into the wilderness, to wrestle with angels, to take off our shoes when we step on holy ground. And to listen. God asks us to listen, even when what el [sic] asks of us seems most outrageous.”
So…(sigh) there it is, as I see it.
Or maybe: You want to point at those meanies that criticize you for taking such risks and say it: “So there!” But probably its best to do that quietly, to yourself for now: revenge can be sweet but often requires that you make an ugly face… and there is no need for them to see your gentle smile so contorted. Besides, the mothers and aunties are always telling you, “you keep making that ugly face it just might get stuck like that.” And I think that is probably one of the truer things in life.
But it is true also that:
You (all of you!) are very much inclined to change, even created to change, to evolve, to grow, to be an actor in the drama of creation. Science will only validate this over and over… just as surely as your story will, my dear.
And I am so pleased to hear that you are
That you are that…
You are!
And then there is the old Avett Bros bit about “when you run make sure you run to something and not away from, lies don’t need an aeroplane to chase you anywhere.” Don’t worry about the running from… sometimes it is okay to run toward safety (which I am finding does require a certain abrupt leaving which can often look like “running away" while it is yet simply a running from), toward what it best for you. When they try to tell you that you are wrong to dream a big dream and follow it, it is a lie and lies like that will always follow you, but they are still just lies. Maybe that isn’t what the song is about, but that is often what it makes me think about, and that matters too.
One more thing for you who are so easily judged because you don’t try as hard as they want you to:
Firstly, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again and again until you have all looked into it: sometimes trying harder is simply not the answer
Secondly, my new discovery is that the folks who are judging you for doing whatever it is you need to do today were always slated to judge you at some point in your life… You can’t make them love you more, you can’t change their opinion about you… you can only change your mind about the value of their remarks—and you may find that in the end you love them more as a result of this change in yourself.
I know the grammar of this post makes it a bit awkward but I simply had to rush it because, well, I can't let perfectionist tendencies run our lives... So go back and reread if you have time, or go with what you got the first time--that may very well be all you need for now.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
usually hate
Transition is like a trek into a wilderness. It seems equilibrium, balance, and pattern are all in question. This wandering is foolishness. What kind of a leader abandons the post and moves into the woods, away from the people she came to serve? There isn’t much to do out here but pay attention to myself and those who are willing to risk a visit. It is a frightening negotiation to pay such attention to myself, to raise the drawbridge against the onslaught of opinions and feelings in order to protect those sequestered close to me.
My friend Donna says that when you stop trying to win the fight by getting big, you can actually shrink your ego, dig a hole, climb out from under the fence and be on your way… away from the things that kept you penned in and scared. Care of the soul is such an important part of ministry, but who will care for mine? I suppose only I will be able to do that. I only wish it didn’t seem like I was doing it at the expense of caring for the souls of others.
So that is where frustration hardens into hatred, for myself as I seem to be running like a bandit from the scene of the crime, and for others who would cover me.
I usually hate (I was going to keep going with that sentence but maybe it should stop there for a moment and rest).
I usually hate.
But its time for something different and this is how I can tell.
There is this book.
It’s the kind I usually hate because of its polished look, bible bookstore styling and cloying, inefficient title. Not to mention the lengthy forward, far-reaching preachy “Praise for…” page, and prescriptive subheadings—even the title has one (apparently six words wasn’t enough)! But I also worry because it was written by someone who used to work for Willow Creek Community Church and still claims her work there in her author’s bio, like it’s a huge accomplishment, when really, I find it to be more like a warning. See, plenty of reasons to hate it, right? Of course. But I don’t.
Turns out you can’t judge a book by its cover… or by its title, subheadings, references, its author’s so-called credentials, or awful serif!
Turns out there are lots of good ideas in this book. Ideas about wilderness that came at just the right time for a lot of people I know and love, but especially me. Try this on: “Just as the physical law of gravity ensures that sediment swirling in a jar of muddy river water will eventually settle and the water will become clear, so the spiritual law of gravity ensures that the chaos of the human soul will settle if it sits still long enough.” Or this: “Some of us will wear ourselves out trying to change ourselves before we realize that it is not about fixing; it is about letting go—letting go of old patterns that no longer serve us.”
I freaked out yesterday. It was lunch time, which is such a wicked time for the unemployed. You know how Carson McCullers wrote in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter that 3 o’ clock is the worst time of day or night? Well, I think she must have been employed when she wrote that because clearly, were she unemployed she would have realized that lunchtime can happen at 3! So I think, logically, we should go with lunchtime, don’t you agree? Anyway, I am Hispanic and always have been, so it seems strange that I would burn myself making a quesadilla. But I did. And I blame it on Lunchtime being such an awful time to be cooking. I began cursing, and swearing (yes, they are two different things when I do them) and I accidentally turned the whole kitchen into quesadilla. Not a very domesticated way to do things, I know, because if there is one thing I know for sure: I am the kind of woman who is willing to entertain the notion that I am better behind at typing than making lunches.
I burned my arm. It’s going to leave a mark. I’ll have this scar for a while. A pink mark, in the spot where my friends have tattoos, I have this reminder that the skin I’m in is fragile.
I have such self-loathing when I end up acting like a real domestic. For example the laundry piles up and I consider it evidence that I must be getting the writing done instead of the wash. When I’m in a good mood that means I am busy doing important things; when I’m in a bad mood that means I’m busy with trivial things. I hate it piling, but I really don’t appreciate doing the laundry alone these days. It just seems so responsible of me, and that seems disingenuous. I do like going to the Laundromat, I like the smell of clean laundry, I like the sorting and folding but this week I feel like it’s too house-wifeish a task for someone like me.
This shouldn’t bother me because I have such respect for women who run the household while the men are behind desks or hammers. These brave women are the domestic technicians, efficiency experts and nurturing whizzes. I admire their ability to self-motivate, micromanage or see the big picture and then conduct with aplomb the speeding bullet train of family life. I am not angry with them for doing all these things with such grace and dignity, I just get angry with myself for participating as though I know how to do these things—as though I am one of them. It feels like such fakery.
I hate how I must have been such a let-down as a domestic partner. How I missed the mark because I couldn’t pull it all off perfectly anymore. Moreover, I hate that I tried so hard. and I hate knowing that, in the end, I handed over the housekey, even though I’ll be responsible for the mortgage if something goes wrong. What is more I’ll be paying for that house and all that went on inside of it (and inside of me when I was there) for many years. And it is now impossible to go to the office and hide behind work.
So Laurita has come in and saved me once again. Even though she is all the way out in Gulu learning about reconciliation between murderers and rape victims she is unabashed to reconcile me to myself when I just don't know what to do about this new rhythm of life. I feel a little lazy for not working but so exhausted by the idea of working because I have so much to do that has nothing to do with parish ministry and even less to do with house keeping. In fact, the things I have to do have more to do with cleaning out my little brain, rather than the kitchen sink or organizing my gentler thoughts instead of organizing Sunday school volunteers.
I know this is getting a little sickening but don’t you dare stop reading now because I’m trying to tell you something really important: I’m trying to tell you that it is okay to take some time to think this sort of thing. In fact its so important that if you don’t stop and think about why you hate what you hate or love what you love you’ll go crazy. Or you’ll have to quit your job too. You won’t be you if you don’t take time to think about yourself, for yourself, in between driving your kids (either in the car or crazy), reading theological texts (Calvin! Hobbes! Even Calvin and Hobbes), paying rent, convincing your boss to give you a raise so you can pay your rent, shaving your armpits, flossing your teeth, planting perennials and rearranging furniture. Find time, make time and do it goddamnit.
So here is what Laurita and I came up with: Grace.
But not your average, cheap, two for a dollar, gravelly turn-out, moss-covered, pasteurized prepared cheese product grace. She has it figured out like there is a certain kind of grace offered to renegade women like us who don’t have a soul connection to what composes everybody’s everyday dishes and wishes and washing. What I mean is that there are plenty of women out there who found a way to see the divine in doing the chores—I’m just not there yet.
And I will never get there by forcing myself.
Laurita said to tie on a bandanna and consider myself a kind of renegade partner… you know, more like somebody who’d ride the dusty trail with you, cook over an open flame and risk the burn. We are the grace-rustling, hope-hustling, grin-toting few and we’ve been riding all day. We’re more likely to break the dishes than wash them, tickle the babies or encourage them to wail it out—this life is rough! We’re prone to running after buses, pouring cocktails out on mean men, and, well, we dance like we mean it and don’t care who knows it. We even stop them dead in their tracks. We even stop ourselves as we ramble on… we brake mid-sentence and decide to shut up, whenever we tire of nagging our partners, or over-explaining things to little ones. We are the William Wallaces of womanhood, making ourselves up with blusher and mascara like war-paint, embellishing, but never covering up these good eyes God granted, with which we survey the terrain and spot the target of our affection. We raise our fists and spears and then we wisely shout, “Hold!” And we know this requires its own brand of wisdom and grace.
So we offer ourselves grace, the expensive kind, that is so hard to find. And lots of it. I’m sure it’s the same quality of grace that the classic forms of wifehood and motherhood require, because it comes from the same source. It is the grace that we know as a result of giving in to what we have discerned to best for ourselves and those we love, right now.
And that means I’m holding, still, and in a way I never have been before: the way a woman knows how to wait and watch even when there are dirty dishes in the sink and dust on the window ledge. So thank you to Ruth Haley Barton. I’m sorry I judged you so harshly at first but you won me over because you seem to be one of us. If you don’t want to be associated with us I apologize. And for superimposing the image of renegade, I apologize—I may have misread your pages. But I will say this: ever since you nearly crashed into a fellow employee as you ran down the office hall, cell phone stuck to your ear, checking on your sick child as you rush toward a meeting—ever since that is what it took to make you realize the importance of holding still—you are one of us. So welcome: welcome to my affection and admiration, welcome to the renegade band.
My friend Donna says that when you stop trying to win the fight by getting big, you can actually shrink your ego, dig a hole, climb out from under the fence and be on your way… away from the things that kept you penned in and scared. Care of the soul is such an important part of ministry, but who will care for mine? I suppose only I will be able to do that. I only wish it didn’t seem like I was doing it at the expense of caring for the souls of others.
So that is where frustration hardens into hatred, for myself as I seem to be running like a bandit from the scene of the crime, and for others who would cover me.
I usually hate (I was going to keep going with that sentence but maybe it should stop there for a moment and rest).
I usually hate.
But its time for something different and this is how I can tell.
There is this book.
It’s the kind I usually hate because of its polished look, bible bookstore styling and cloying, inefficient title. Not to mention the lengthy forward, far-reaching preachy “Praise for…” page, and prescriptive subheadings—even the title has one (apparently six words wasn’t enough)! But I also worry because it was written by someone who used to work for Willow Creek Community Church and still claims her work there in her author’s bio, like it’s a huge accomplishment, when really, I find it to be more like a warning. See, plenty of reasons to hate it, right? Of course. But I don’t.
Turns out you can’t judge a book by its cover… or by its title, subheadings, references, its author’s so-called credentials, or awful serif!
Turns out there are lots of good ideas in this book. Ideas about wilderness that came at just the right time for a lot of people I know and love, but especially me. Try this on: “Just as the physical law of gravity ensures that sediment swirling in a jar of muddy river water will eventually settle and the water will become clear, so the spiritual law of gravity ensures that the chaos of the human soul will settle if it sits still long enough.” Or this: “Some of us will wear ourselves out trying to change ourselves before we realize that it is not about fixing; it is about letting go—letting go of old patterns that no longer serve us.”
I freaked out yesterday. It was lunch time, which is such a wicked time for the unemployed. You know how Carson McCullers wrote in The Heart is a Lonely Hunter that 3 o’ clock is the worst time of day or night? Well, I think she must have been employed when she wrote that because clearly, were she unemployed she would have realized that lunchtime can happen at 3! So I think, logically, we should go with lunchtime, don’t you agree? Anyway, I am Hispanic and always have been, so it seems strange that I would burn myself making a quesadilla. But I did. And I blame it on Lunchtime being such an awful time to be cooking. I began cursing, and swearing (yes, they are two different things when I do them) and I accidentally turned the whole kitchen into quesadilla. Not a very domesticated way to do things, I know, because if there is one thing I know for sure: I am the kind of woman who is willing to entertain the notion that I am better behind at typing than making lunches.
I burned my arm. It’s going to leave a mark. I’ll have this scar for a while. A pink mark, in the spot where my friends have tattoos, I have this reminder that the skin I’m in is fragile.
I have such self-loathing when I end up acting like a real domestic. For example the laundry piles up and I consider it evidence that I must be getting the writing done instead of the wash. When I’m in a good mood that means I am busy doing important things; when I’m in a bad mood that means I’m busy with trivial things. I hate it piling, but I really don’t appreciate doing the laundry alone these days. It just seems so responsible of me, and that seems disingenuous. I do like going to the Laundromat, I like the smell of clean laundry, I like the sorting and folding but this week I feel like it’s too house-wifeish a task for someone like me.
This shouldn’t bother me because I have such respect for women who run the household while the men are behind desks or hammers. These brave women are the domestic technicians, efficiency experts and nurturing whizzes. I admire their ability to self-motivate, micromanage or see the big picture and then conduct with aplomb the speeding bullet train of family life. I am not angry with them for doing all these things with such grace and dignity, I just get angry with myself for participating as though I know how to do these things—as though I am one of them. It feels like such fakery.
I hate how I must have been such a let-down as a domestic partner. How I missed the mark because I couldn’t pull it all off perfectly anymore. Moreover, I hate that I tried so hard. and I hate knowing that, in the end, I handed over the housekey, even though I’ll be responsible for the mortgage if something goes wrong. What is more I’ll be paying for that house and all that went on inside of it (and inside of me when I was there) for many years. And it is now impossible to go to the office and hide behind work.
So Laurita has come in and saved me once again. Even though she is all the way out in Gulu learning about reconciliation between murderers and rape victims she is unabashed to reconcile me to myself when I just don't know what to do about this new rhythm of life. I feel a little lazy for not working but so exhausted by the idea of working because I have so much to do that has nothing to do with parish ministry and even less to do with house keeping. In fact, the things I have to do have more to do with cleaning out my little brain, rather than the kitchen sink or organizing my gentler thoughts instead of organizing Sunday school volunteers.
I know this is getting a little sickening but don’t you dare stop reading now because I’m trying to tell you something really important: I’m trying to tell you that it is okay to take some time to think this sort of thing. In fact its so important that if you don’t stop and think about why you hate what you hate or love what you love you’ll go crazy. Or you’ll have to quit your job too. You won’t be you if you don’t take time to think about yourself, for yourself, in between driving your kids (either in the car or crazy), reading theological texts (Calvin! Hobbes! Even Calvin and Hobbes), paying rent, convincing your boss to give you a raise so you can pay your rent, shaving your armpits, flossing your teeth, planting perennials and rearranging furniture. Find time, make time and do it goddamnit.
So here is what Laurita and I came up with: Grace.
But not your average, cheap, two for a dollar, gravelly turn-out, moss-covered, pasteurized prepared cheese product grace. She has it figured out like there is a certain kind of grace offered to renegade women like us who don’t have a soul connection to what composes everybody’s everyday dishes and wishes and washing. What I mean is that there are plenty of women out there who found a way to see the divine in doing the chores—I’m just not there yet.
And I will never get there by forcing myself.
Laurita said to tie on a bandanna and consider myself a kind of renegade partner… you know, more like somebody who’d ride the dusty trail with you, cook over an open flame and risk the burn. We are the grace-rustling, hope-hustling, grin-toting few and we’ve been riding all day. We’re more likely to break the dishes than wash them, tickle the babies or encourage them to wail it out—this life is rough! We’re prone to running after buses, pouring cocktails out on mean men, and, well, we dance like we mean it and don’t care who knows it. We even stop them dead in their tracks. We even stop ourselves as we ramble on… we brake mid-sentence and decide to shut up, whenever we tire of nagging our partners, or over-explaining things to little ones. We are the William Wallaces of womanhood, making ourselves up with blusher and mascara like war-paint, embellishing, but never covering up these good eyes God granted, with which we survey the terrain and spot the target of our affection. We raise our fists and spears and then we wisely shout, “Hold!” And we know this requires its own brand of wisdom and grace.
So we offer ourselves grace, the expensive kind, that is so hard to find. And lots of it. I’m sure it’s the same quality of grace that the classic forms of wifehood and motherhood require, because it comes from the same source. It is the grace that we know as a result of giving in to what we have discerned to best for ourselves and those we love, right now.
And that means I’m holding, still, and in a way I never have been before: the way a woman knows how to wait and watch even when there are dirty dishes in the sink and dust on the window ledge. So thank you to Ruth Haley Barton. I’m sorry I judged you so harshly at first but you won me over because you seem to be one of us. If you don’t want to be associated with us I apologize. And for superimposing the image of renegade, I apologize—I may have misread your pages. But I will say this: ever since you nearly crashed into a fellow employee as you ran down the office hall, cell phone stuck to your ear, checking on your sick child as you rush toward a meeting—ever since that is what it took to make you realize the importance of holding still—you are one of us. So welcome: welcome to my affection and admiration, welcome to the renegade band.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
is this a... what day is this?
i have a habit of falling asleep to the The Big Lebowski... the morning afters are one of the best reasons for why I do this. See, my computer allows me to clap it shut and fall asleep so
when I wake up and open it in the morning the movie starts playing again. Its like a jump start to the day without all the commitment of taking a shower.
So this morning I woke up, made coffee while I did the dishes and sat down to get some writing done only to open my computer and there he was
Jeff Bridges, The Dude, His Dudeness, dressed in an old hoodie, shorts, dirty white V neck and jelly shoes. He is seated on the receiving end of a giant, antique, F*&# you! desk and he leans in to address well, me, I guess and says, "Employed?" and laughs. The fat, white suit on the other side of the desk lectures him about going out on a weekday to look for a job, dressed like that and the Dude answers, "Is this a... what day is this?"
yeah, I am living the dream.
when I wake up and open it in the morning the movie starts playing again. Its like a jump start to the day without all the commitment of taking a shower.
So this morning I woke up, made coffee while I did the dishes and sat down to get some writing done only to open my computer and there he was
Jeff Bridges, The Dude, His Dudeness, dressed in an old hoodie, shorts, dirty white V neck and jelly shoes. He is seated on the receiving end of a giant, antique, F*&# you! desk and he leans in to address well, me, I guess and says, "Employed?" and laughs. The fat, white suit on the other side of the desk lectures him about going out on a weekday to look for a job, dressed like that and the Dude answers, "Is this a... what day is this?"
yeah, I am living the dream.
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