I admit it wholeheartedly; I, dear readers, am a Grinch. Christmas has turned into my least favorite holiday, and it's all I can stand to just get through it.
There's no magic in it anymore. What have we done? We have been brainwashed into the "corporate" view of Christmas: more presents, more decorations, more food, more wine. More shopping, more debt, more traffic, more crazy people pepper-spraying fellow shoppers at a Walmart to grab the last X-Box. More and more, bigger and better, keep up with the Jones' and max out your ego. For two months, insanity reigns, and Christmas carols bombard us in stores and television ads to get us into the mood to shop incessantly. Stress to arrange parties, plan huge meals, decorate, get everything done in a timely fashion rides high throughout late November and all of December. The pressure in on, and afterward I hear the majority of the people say, "Thank God it's over."
Thank God it's over? Then why are we doing this idiotic ritual? Was this what Christmas was supposed to be about? Did Jesus add a new commandment, "Thou shall shop 'til thy drop, in My name"?
Let me tell you when Christmas was last sacred and magical to me. I was a child, on a quiet night, alone in my living room while my parents were in the other room watching television. The lights were out, and the Christmas tree was directly in front of me, five feet away. I gazed at the lights blinking at me. The ornaments I knew well...each had a special meaning in my child's mind. One celebrated my first Christmas, and another was a converted card from my grandmother. Others had stories that I made up about them; the birds with the long feathered tails had names and histories, and the fabric elves played together when we all went to bed. The angel above looked down upon me and smiled. I could stare at that tree for hours and hours, not moving, completely captured by the beauty of color, lights, and sacred objects.
And then there was Santa Claus. A child has a hard time imagining God, but Santa was clearly attainable...you could write letters to him, and see him in the department stores. Santa WAS magic; he knew who you were, could see inside your soul, and on Christmas Eve night I left out the best cookies for him as my respectful offering. He had a long journey, and he must have been starving! And if not him, then surely the reindeer might like a bite, too.
Did I think he would bring me loot? Sure! I was a spoiled brat already brainwashed. But I thought the Tooth Fairy was amazingly magical, too, and she just left me a quarter. With proper training, I would never have known what I was missing...it would have been enough to have been visited personally by the Divine, and if left a small token, I would have joyously seen it as a sign of approval. I think that would have been more than enough for me.
I read an article on Yahoo a few weeks ago about how Justin Beiber (I'm not a fan, by the way) was told "the truth" by his mother when he was a child. This boy grew up without a Santa Claus. I felt sad for him; to have been selfishly excluded from The Mystery at so young an age just breaks my heart. Christmas was magic to me because of the beauty, the stillness, and the Divine Presence pulsating around my home on Christmas Eve. I had hoped that night that I would be honored with a glimpse of what was beyond ordinary reality. The possibilities took my breath away.
When Santa turned out to be nothing more than my exhausted parents shoving presents under the tree, when Dad turned out to be the guy eating my cookie offerings and dumping out the milk in the sink (he was lactose intolerant), my world became smaller. And when I worked retail for several years at the end of my teens and saw how people really treated each other during the Christmas shopping rush, it became smaller still. Where was the Divine? In Macy's we trust? Really?
If this makes me a Grinch, then I'm all for it. I look forward to my ghostly visitations from the Spirits of Past, Present and Future. Take me away and show me the goodness of greedy commercial insanity, where carols are no longer special because they are played incessantly everywhere for two months. Show me how social guilt, which causes everyone to max out their credit cards for the benefit of the banks and large corporate interests, is a wonderful thing. I want someone to explain it to me. Because, I gotta tell you, Christmas now just makes me feel dead inside. That little girl from years ago has had her heart broken.
Next year, perhaps I will take my Christmas back. Maybe I will decide to believe in Santa Claus again. Maybe I will write him a letter and beg him to come back to us, and ask him to give us the gift of Divine Love. Maybe I'll ask him to lead us out of bondage and to bring us back home, where presents no longer matter, but where the Sacred takes our breath away in happy squeals. That is my Christmas wish to all: may you find where it has been hiding, and may it bless you with abundant love. May you see the magic clearly with the eyes of a child and spread that light wherever you may go.
May the Divine, in whatever form it takes for you, bless you and hold you sacred in this coming New Year.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Bad Poetry Day
I'm not a real poet. At least, not a real good one.
For the bulk of my life, I have never understood poetry. I still can't say that I do. I have no sense of rhythm, rhyme or pacing. But sometimes, on occasion, a feeling chokes me so hard that all I can think about is random images or phrases. Emotions are tricky things...they defy words. Emotions are not of the left brained world. I wish, most times, that I could plug into someone, have them see the pictures flashing through my brain, hear the song (or songs) playing through my head, and let the feelings that are overwhelming me crash about them, frothy beach swirls of liquid turmoil, fluid tendrils reaching up and pulling them seductively into the depths of my sensations. But alas, all I have are words, crusty barnacled trash barfed up by the beauty of the waves underneath. Words are no match for experience. The intensity loses much in the translation.
So, is my barnacled drivel any good? Nope. My stuff is rubbish in the grand world of poetry. I am a great admirer of people who can write well...I may not read a lot of poetry, but I'm pretty keen on song lyrics. My songwriting heroes can do things with words that completely blow me away. Joni Mitchell, Sarah McLaughlin, Chris Cornell, Steve Hogarth from Marillion...I would give up a kidney to be able to write as well as they do. But it's not quite my gift, so instead, dear readers, you get the kindergarten attempts below.
This first poem was from a day when I felt so much inside, yet I had no way to give it an outlet. Ever feel that way? Below the surface, emotions churned and threatened to crack my whole body. I always see it as a black hole in my center, ready to quickly explode, then reverse and implode down into a tiny, heavy, microscopic dot in the effort to maintain control. It then turns into a weird feeling...to be so full, yet so empty...so full of passion, and yet dead inside. How does one reconcile such extremes?
Sunbaked earth
Hot dry land
Fertile mud drained into useless dust
Water travels
Trapped underneath
Flows through labyrinth caves of hollow emptiness
I can't swim
My breath runs out
This cavern, so full, suffocates and warps heart and soul
Ground above
Cracks with tremors
As all implodes within
----------------------------------------
This next one is really old. Its from the last time that I was in love. I now think that the man in question is a complete toad, and I have no idea why I was ever attracted to him, let alone in love with him. At the time, however, I was pretty heartbroken. Isn't it funny when you can look back in time and ask yourself, with raised eyebrow and scornful eyes, "What the heck was I thinking? Yuck!"
The mouth
You've kissed
Holds words unsaid
Years of words
Painfully swallowed
Choking my life away
You say you need
Love, but with total freedom
My devotion, but only conveniently
My body, but only when you desire it
But what of me?
Do I not need?
Your taste, your touch
Your eyes speaking volumes
Of tenderness, of sweetness
Of happiness that I am yours
The silence
Yours and mine
Echos against crystal walls within my heart
As I'm left again
Wounded, near death
In unloved darkness
For the bulk of my life, I have never understood poetry. I still can't say that I do. I have no sense of rhythm, rhyme or pacing. But sometimes, on occasion, a feeling chokes me so hard that all I can think about is random images or phrases. Emotions are tricky things...they defy words. Emotions are not of the left brained world. I wish, most times, that I could plug into someone, have them see the pictures flashing through my brain, hear the song (or songs) playing through my head, and let the feelings that are overwhelming me crash about them, frothy beach swirls of liquid turmoil, fluid tendrils reaching up and pulling them seductively into the depths of my sensations. But alas, all I have are words, crusty barnacled trash barfed up by the beauty of the waves underneath. Words are no match for experience. The intensity loses much in the translation.
So, is my barnacled drivel any good? Nope. My stuff is rubbish in the grand world of poetry. I am a great admirer of people who can write well...I may not read a lot of poetry, but I'm pretty keen on song lyrics. My songwriting heroes can do things with words that completely blow me away. Joni Mitchell, Sarah McLaughlin, Chris Cornell, Steve Hogarth from Marillion...I would give up a kidney to be able to write as well as they do. But it's not quite my gift, so instead, dear readers, you get the kindergarten attempts below.
This first poem was from a day when I felt so much inside, yet I had no way to give it an outlet. Ever feel that way? Below the surface, emotions churned and threatened to crack my whole body. I always see it as a black hole in my center, ready to quickly explode, then reverse and implode down into a tiny, heavy, microscopic dot in the effort to maintain control. It then turns into a weird feeling...to be so full, yet so empty...so full of passion, and yet dead inside. How does one reconcile such extremes?
Sunbaked earth
Hot dry land
Fertile mud drained into useless dust
Water travels
Trapped underneath
Flows through labyrinth caves of hollow emptiness
I can't swim
My breath runs out
This cavern, so full, suffocates and warps heart and soul
Ground above
Cracks with tremors
As all implodes within
----------------------------------------
This next one is really old. Its from the last time that I was in love. I now think that the man in question is a complete toad, and I have no idea why I was ever attracted to him, let alone in love with him. At the time, however, I was pretty heartbroken. Isn't it funny when you can look back in time and ask yourself, with raised eyebrow and scornful eyes, "What the heck was I thinking? Yuck!"
The mouth
You've kissed
Holds words unsaid
Years of words
Painfully swallowed
Choking my life away
You say you need
Love, but with total freedom
My devotion, but only conveniently
My body, but only when you desire it
But what of me?
Do I not need?
Your taste, your touch
Your eyes speaking volumes
Of tenderness, of sweetness
Of happiness that I am yours
The silence
Yours and mine
Echos against crystal walls within my heart
As I'm left again
Wounded, near death
In unloved darkness
Saturday, December 17, 2011
How Long Must the Soul Cry Out?
Now that I'm officially on winter break I can begin reading fun books again. I recently borrowed from a friend Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy by Eric Metaxas. I have a stack of books on my nightstand begging to be read, but they'll just have to wait until I can manage to get through these 624 pages.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a Lutheran theologian and pastor who made the difficult decision to be part of a plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler. After an unsuccessful attempt, he was arrested, placed in a concentration camp and later executed for his actions against the Reich. At a time when many other "Christian" leaders were condoning Hitler's Final Solution, Bonhoeffer became one of the first to not only speak out against Hitler, but to actually risk his life in order to prevent the genocide from continuing. Though I've barely begun, I am looking forward to getting deeper inside this book to learn all about Bonhoeffer's heroic story.
I see in Bonhoeffer qualities that I wish I had. Here was a man of exquisite intelligence. His thirst for knowledge, his natural curiosity, was limitless. With a nimble mind and an affinity for deep subjects, Bonhoeffer never shied away from troubling topics or discussions, but instead excelled at working out difficult solutions and devising unique perspectives. He was full of life and passion, and through amazing discipline, he channeled his energies into expanding who he was while staying humble and grateful. This expansion lead him to alter the lives of so many others in positive ways. How I wish that I was more like this. I know it all comes down to a moment of decision and commitment; and yet, I seem to just keep falling back to old, easy, uninspired patterns.
As my last post shows, I have been depressed and struggling with the image of the person that I have become. Bad choices, careless actions, and a twisted pride alienated me and actually kept me from reaching my true potential. I have wished over and over and over again that I could change who I am. Interestingly, an insight from Bonhoeffer could be the answer, if only I can muster up the courage to move forward with it.
Bonhoeffer had a time in his late teens when he looked at the Catholic Church with interest, but not as a convert. He had spent time in Rome and was fascinated by the history that was intertwined with the religion. To be Catholic was to be Roman (after Constantine and the Nicaean Council, of course). He contemplated the early theologians and the Catholic sacraments; did the sacraments, as practiced by the church today, still mean what they originally meant to the faithful?
I found myself laughing at this. I remembered the sacrament of Confession; as a young Roman Catholic girl, I went to St. Mary's Elementary School and was taught how to successfully confess all of my sins. If I had none, I was told to go into the quiet box and whisper a sin that I had made up. To lie was a sin, unless it helped you to fulfill your duty in the confessional.
Once I confessed whatever ugliness my young child mind was capable of creating (it was never THAT exciting...I had a reputation as a "good girl" to maintain, or else I had to withstand my parents' wrath), the priest would gently tell me to go say three Hail Mary's, two Our Fathers, yada yada. That was penance. Go to the front of the church, kneel down and count out your prayer list. Easy, peasy...sin's all gone! For centuries this has been the way to clear your soul in the eyes of the church: confess, pray your list or pay the priest money (a.k.a. Black Market Absolution), and your soul is squeaky clean again. Off you go to sin again, for you are a sinning human by design and changing your ways is not in the cards. See you next week! Next sinner, please...
In my struggle with myself, I have begun to see this sacrament differently. Grace and absolution isn't that easy, nor should it be. I view the concept of "sin" not as "inherent evil in the human soul", but as a separation. Sin, to me, is to be separate from The Great Mystery. It is to be separate from your own soul. It is when your divine light births itself into the world, and you are taught from that time to love, to trust, to believe in yourself is wrong. You are trained to be a puppet of others so that they can manipulate you into something small, and for the rest of your life you believe it. That, to me, is sin. And I have sinned fully, faithfully and completely.
To confess, to me, is not something one does lightly. It is not a weekly ritual. It is the time when one gazes at oneself and sees that one has done damage. It may be damage to others, or it may be damage to oneself. The sinner realizes that they are separated from who they truly are, and they fall to their knees, weeping, understanding that in order to move forward they must make the decision to change and commit with full mind, body and soul. An alcoholic cries, sees how he's hurt his family, and he is not only sorry, but vows to never do this action again. An addict realizes that they have degraded themselves, and with threadbare soul chooses another life that will revalue their self worth. Confession should not be an empty act. Confession should be a point of cataclysmic change. The soul has cried out, has spoken volumes within a quivering mass of flesh, and that flesh becomes reborn, humbly, into a new life.
Though I speak of Confession in Christian terms, no one religion has a monopoly on this sacrament. It goes beyond religion. Whenever a person has a moment of profound sorrow and regret that brings upon a life conversion, it is an act of Spirit. Somewhere, somehow, divine light breaks through, and if the ego mind is strong enough, courageous enough, to submit to Spirit, then anything is possible in the convert's life. Anything.
I have confessed over and over, but I have been stuck in my childlike training that three Hail Mary's and two Our Fathers can make everything okay. Just take a pill and you will heal, no diet change or exercise plan necessary. But it doesn't work like that. I must be brave and strong; I must want a change so badly that to rest in my twisted comfort zone is more painful than the effort I must put into something better. I have to stop being a victim, stop blaming God, parents, a bad economy, etc. It is the choice of responsibility; I have to quite whining and grow up.
I pray for the gift of grace and strength. Something's got to give. It's time to channel the spirit of Bonhoeffer. Will my courage hold out? I can only pray that it will.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a Lutheran theologian and pastor who made the difficult decision to be part of a plot to assassinate Adolf Hitler. After an unsuccessful attempt, he was arrested, placed in a concentration camp and later executed for his actions against the Reich. At a time when many other "Christian" leaders were condoning Hitler's Final Solution, Bonhoeffer became one of the first to not only speak out against Hitler, but to actually risk his life in order to prevent the genocide from continuing. Though I've barely begun, I am looking forward to getting deeper inside this book to learn all about Bonhoeffer's heroic story.
I see in Bonhoeffer qualities that I wish I had. Here was a man of exquisite intelligence. His thirst for knowledge, his natural curiosity, was limitless. With a nimble mind and an affinity for deep subjects, Bonhoeffer never shied away from troubling topics or discussions, but instead excelled at working out difficult solutions and devising unique perspectives. He was full of life and passion, and through amazing discipline, he channeled his energies into expanding who he was while staying humble and grateful. This expansion lead him to alter the lives of so many others in positive ways. How I wish that I was more like this. I know it all comes down to a moment of decision and commitment; and yet, I seem to just keep falling back to old, easy, uninspired patterns.
As my last post shows, I have been depressed and struggling with the image of the person that I have become. Bad choices, careless actions, and a twisted pride alienated me and actually kept me from reaching my true potential. I have wished over and over and over again that I could change who I am. Interestingly, an insight from Bonhoeffer could be the answer, if only I can muster up the courage to move forward with it.
Bonhoeffer had a time in his late teens when he looked at the Catholic Church with interest, but not as a convert. He had spent time in Rome and was fascinated by the history that was intertwined with the religion. To be Catholic was to be Roman (after Constantine and the Nicaean Council, of course). He contemplated the early theologians and the Catholic sacraments; did the sacraments, as practiced by the church today, still mean what they originally meant to the faithful?
I found myself laughing at this. I remembered the sacrament of Confession; as a young Roman Catholic girl, I went to St. Mary's Elementary School and was taught how to successfully confess all of my sins. If I had none, I was told to go into the quiet box and whisper a sin that I had made up. To lie was a sin, unless it helped you to fulfill your duty in the confessional.
Once I confessed whatever ugliness my young child mind was capable of creating (it was never THAT exciting...I had a reputation as a "good girl" to maintain, or else I had to withstand my parents' wrath), the priest would gently tell me to go say three Hail Mary's, two Our Fathers, yada yada. That was penance. Go to the front of the church, kneel down and count out your prayer list. Easy, peasy...sin's all gone! For centuries this has been the way to clear your soul in the eyes of the church: confess, pray your list or pay the priest money (a.k.a. Black Market Absolution), and your soul is squeaky clean again. Off you go to sin again, for you are a sinning human by design and changing your ways is not in the cards. See you next week! Next sinner, please...
In my struggle with myself, I have begun to see this sacrament differently. Grace and absolution isn't that easy, nor should it be. I view the concept of "sin" not as "inherent evil in the human soul", but as a separation. Sin, to me, is to be separate from The Great Mystery. It is to be separate from your own soul. It is when your divine light births itself into the world, and you are taught from that time to love, to trust, to believe in yourself is wrong. You are trained to be a puppet of others so that they can manipulate you into something small, and for the rest of your life you believe it. That, to me, is sin. And I have sinned fully, faithfully and completely.
To confess, to me, is not something one does lightly. It is not a weekly ritual. It is the time when one gazes at oneself and sees that one has done damage. It may be damage to others, or it may be damage to oneself. The sinner realizes that they are separated from who they truly are, and they fall to their knees, weeping, understanding that in order to move forward they must make the decision to change and commit with full mind, body and soul. An alcoholic cries, sees how he's hurt his family, and he is not only sorry, but vows to never do this action again. An addict realizes that they have degraded themselves, and with threadbare soul chooses another life that will revalue their self worth. Confession should not be an empty act. Confession should be a point of cataclysmic change. The soul has cried out, has spoken volumes within a quivering mass of flesh, and that flesh becomes reborn, humbly, into a new life.
Though I speak of Confession in Christian terms, no one religion has a monopoly on this sacrament. It goes beyond religion. Whenever a person has a moment of profound sorrow and regret that brings upon a life conversion, it is an act of Spirit. Somewhere, somehow, divine light breaks through, and if the ego mind is strong enough, courageous enough, to submit to Spirit, then anything is possible in the convert's life. Anything.
I have confessed over and over, but I have been stuck in my childlike training that three Hail Mary's and two Our Fathers can make everything okay. Just take a pill and you will heal, no diet change or exercise plan necessary. But it doesn't work like that. I must be brave and strong; I must want a change so badly that to rest in my twisted comfort zone is more painful than the effort I must put into something better. I have to stop being a victim, stop blaming God, parents, a bad economy, etc. It is the choice of responsibility; I have to quite whining and grow up.
I pray for the gift of grace and strength. Something's got to give. It's time to channel the spirit of Bonhoeffer. Will my courage hold out? I can only pray that it will.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Stranger in a Stranger World
For several years now, I've been stalked by a creeping dark thing.
It began hiding in places I knew well. I would be in the middle of a crowd, and there it was, giving me a sly wink as if I was in on some sort of joke with it. Then it moved into my own home, especially when my now ex-husband was around. It chuckled in the corner, puffing on a nasty little cigar that stank up the room and burned my stinging nostrils. Finally, it moved deep inside of me, reaching into my empty spaces and stretching itself over my heart, no longer laughing, no longer attempting an evil grin. It found a home, and the joke had played itself out. It won, and the joke seemed to be on me.
Loneliness and alienation can be deadly entities. They slide into one's soul cavities like a gentle poison, or like a thunderous blow that explodes your heart. Sneaky, sly, malicious in their intent, they destroy self-esteem and pride, cast out happiness and the love of life. Depression is their side-effect, the steady creation of hopeless surrender and a sense of unlovability.
When I was a kid, I strove to be different. I wanted to stand out, be an individual, march to a beat that was unique and heard by only me. I enjoyed being a free thinker. I used to say that I had no desire to follow or lead; I would take the odd path and see things others were blind to. I read books that had uncommon viewpoints...they pushed me to reevaluate all that I had been taught by my elders and community. I played with concepts many would deem as heretical. I stretched my ideas to include many topics and interests, joyful with each new glimpse and glimmer that Universe awarded me. To learn, to grow, to expand was orgasmic. I was addicted, and I sought further fixes.
I outgrew my family. I outgrew my friends. I outgrew my boyfriends. I moved from my state of birth and found new cultural norms elsewhere. I moved yet again. Further and further from where I began, I would look back on occasion and say, hallelujah, I made it out. I'm no longer uneducated, narrow minded, stagnant. I'm free. Whoo hoo!
And then relationships became uncomfortable. I got bored. I was young, attractive, and though not a genius, I had a decent brain that behaved well. The world was my oyster. Why did I want to stay with only one person? Why did I want to sign up for a routine existence? I turned away from friends again, broke the hearts of lovers (one I particularly regret), and kept forging my own path. And I looked upon with disdain all those who couldn't see what I saw plainly. Snobby. Snarky. Ugly.
I am now very far removed. Life hit me with what I wanted. I have Rheumatoid Arthritis. I have so many food allergies that I eat powder ("medical food"...rice based protein nutrition) instead of real food. I can't stomach television with bad plots, scripts, and acting. My thoughts on food, politics, government and conspiracy theories, my sense of humor, my health...everything holds me outside of social belonging. I feel cast out and thrown away.
I've done it to myself. I had wanted this. I established no long term relationships. I kept no customs to share. And sadly, what I've become is painfully...ordinary. I accomplished nothing. Neither follower nor leader, I became a loser adrift in a rather boring way. What path have I really forged? Who did I really become? No one, that's who.
My depressed musings were inspired by a book I read for one of my classes. All Soul's: A Family Story from Southie, written by Michael Patrick MacDonald, brought me back to my childhood growing up in the Northeast. Though I wasn't from Boston, nor did I live in the Irish projects, there were some social norms that were very similar to my Irish/Polish upbringing in Connecticut. The author is only three years older than I, so I was able to place myself exactly in the same time frame with him, could picture all the funky clothes and bad hair, hear the same music pouring out of the windows of my neighbors. And I thought to myself again, with a sigh of relief, thank the Great Mystery that I made it out. Thank God I no longer have to hear that talk in those accents again. Thank YOU, most Divine, for arranging my get-away car.
But then I remembered something, as if in a dream: these people found home with each other. They wore a particular clothing style that identified themselves in their neighborhood. They marked themselves with a "Southie dot", a green dot tattooed on their wrist to show where they were from. They knew each other for many years, grew up together, and even old grudges were forgotten among them when they rallied together for the neighborhood's benefit. They stuck together, held each other's secrets, and were there for each other when times were tough.
This is the power of Community. Community gives one a sense of identity, of belonging, of safety. In a true community, one has a home.
I've lost my home. I walked away from it. And now I don't quite fit in anywhere anymore. I am an acquired taste and no one wants to try it.
What's a girl to do? How do I go back to what I was and begin again? How do I unlearn all I've learned so that I can choose mediocrity? I've ended up there, anyway...I'd rather be there surrounded by loved ones and a sense of home than completely alienated. Mediocre and alone is just plain pathetic. Sometimes I just feel stuck.
How do I find my home?
It began hiding in places I knew well. I would be in the middle of a crowd, and there it was, giving me a sly wink as if I was in on some sort of joke with it. Then it moved into my own home, especially when my now ex-husband was around. It chuckled in the corner, puffing on a nasty little cigar that stank up the room and burned my stinging nostrils. Finally, it moved deep inside of me, reaching into my empty spaces and stretching itself over my heart, no longer laughing, no longer attempting an evil grin. It found a home, and the joke had played itself out. It won, and the joke seemed to be on me.
Loneliness and alienation can be deadly entities. They slide into one's soul cavities like a gentle poison, or like a thunderous blow that explodes your heart. Sneaky, sly, malicious in their intent, they destroy self-esteem and pride, cast out happiness and the love of life. Depression is their side-effect, the steady creation of hopeless surrender and a sense of unlovability.
When I was a kid, I strove to be different. I wanted to stand out, be an individual, march to a beat that was unique and heard by only me. I enjoyed being a free thinker. I used to say that I had no desire to follow or lead; I would take the odd path and see things others were blind to. I read books that had uncommon viewpoints...they pushed me to reevaluate all that I had been taught by my elders and community. I played with concepts many would deem as heretical. I stretched my ideas to include many topics and interests, joyful with each new glimpse and glimmer that Universe awarded me. To learn, to grow, to expand was orgasmic. I was addicted, and I sought further fixes.
I outgrew my family. I outgrew my friends. I outgrew my boyfriends. I moved from my state of birth and found new cultural norms elsewhere. I moved yet again. Further and further from where I began, I would look back on occasion and say, hallelujah, I made it out. I'm no longer uneducated, narrow minded, stagnant. I'm free. Whoo hoo!
And then relationships became uncomfortable. I got bored. I was young, attractive, and though not a genius, I had a decent brain that behaved well. The world was my oyster. Why did I want to stay with only one person? Why did I want to sign up for a routine existence? I turned away from friends again, broke the hearts of lovers (one I particularly regret), and kept forging my own path. And I looked upon with disdain all those who couldn't see what I saw plainly. Snobby. Snarky. Ugly.
I am now very far removed. Life hit me with what I wanted. I have Rheumatoid Arthritis. I have so many food allergies that I eat powder ("medical food"...rice based protein nutrition) instead of real food. I can't stomach television with bad plots, scripts, and acting. My thoughts on food, politics, government and conspiracy theories, my sense of humor, my health...everything holds me outside of social belonging. I feel cast out and thrown away.
I've done it to myself. I had wanted this. I established no long term relationships. I kept no customs to share. And sadly, what I've become is painfully...ordinary. I accomplished nothing. Neither follower nor leader, I became a loser adrift in a rather boring way. What path have I really forged? Who did I really become? No one, that's who.
My depressed musings were inspired by a book I read for one of my classes. All Soul's: A Family Story from Southie, written by Michael Patrick MacDonald, brought me back to my childhood growing up in the Northeast. Though I wasn't from Boston, nor did I live in the Irish projects, there were some social norms that were very similar to my Irish/Polish upbringing in Connecticut. The author is only three years older than I, so I was able to place myself exactly in the same time frame with him, could picture all the funky clothes and bad hair, hear the same music pouring out of the windows of my neighbors. And I thought to myself again, with a sigh of relief, thank the Great Mystery that I made it out. Thank God I no longer have to hear that talk in those accents again. Thank YOU, most Divine, for arranging my get-away car.
But then I remembered something, as if in a dream: these people found home with each other. They wore a particular clothing style that identified themselves in their neighborhood. They marked themselves with a "Southie dot", a green dot tattooed on their wrist to show where they were from. They knew each other for many years, grew up together, and even old grudges were forgotten among them when they rallied together for the neighborhood's benefit. They stuck together, held each other's secrets, and were there for each other when times were tough.
This is the power of Community. Community gives one a sense of identity, of belonging, of safety. In a true community, one has a home.
I've lost my home. I walked away from it. And now I don't quite fit in anywhere anymore. I am an acquired taste and no one wants to try it.
What's a girl to do? How do I go back to what I was and begin again? How do I unlearn all I've learned so that I can choose mediocrity? I've ended up there, anyway...I'd rather be there surrounded by loved ones and a sense of home than completely alienated. Mediocre and alone is just plain pathetic. Sometimes I just feel stuck.
How do I find my home?
Sunday, December 4, 2011
A Common Language
A favorite client of mine came in the other day. His name is Pete; he's eighty-three years old and has Parkinson's. It's joyful for me to have him here. He's sharp as a tack, has a wicked sense of humor, and gives nice hugs. We enjoy our talks together immensely, he telling me stories of his boyhood and youth, and me telling him about my weird philosophies of life. Somehow, we just click. Soulmates come in all shapes, sizes and ages.
After his therapy session, we sat in our little room and had our usual chat. He asked me what I was up to, as of late, and I mentioned to him that I was coming into finals week at school. We talked about my studies, and then he asked me the big question.
"So, young lady, what are your goals?"
Of course I had a few humorous answers for him, which delighted both of us with peals of laughter. But finally I gave him the serious answer, which was that I had an eventual plan to attend one of the local seminaries for my Masters degree. He became silent; his brow furrowed, as it does when he's focused and paying attention. I explained that we have two schools in town, one being very conservative and the other being very liberal. In the first, you need to sign a specific faith statement, declaring yourself saved by "the Lord" and that the Holy Book is the only true word of God. In the latter, things are much more...flexible. Its more about finding "God" on your own terms. The thinking is more fluid, open to other interpretations and influences from other faiths. This, I told him, is much more my speed. I am a student of history and of world religions; this perspective allows me to move easily between ideas that others see as contradictory, such as, let's say, evolution vs. creationalism. It need not be one or the other...it can easily be both, in my world.
I explained to him that, to me, a religion is merely a language. We all long to speak to the Divine, so we pick a language. Perhaps my language is Christianity; I now know to address the Divine as "God" or "Jesus", and I have a working formula on how I expect the relationship to proceed, according to my own emotional needs and beliefs. I also then clearly tell the Divine how I wish it to speak to me. It now can teach me of faith through stories of Abraham, or help me get through my trials with tales of Job. It can lead me through temptation with stories of Christ in the desert. But it is a language, a way the Mystery and I can walk together within established terms and agreed upon images. It helps us communicate together.
The choice of religion, or of language, is a unique thing and is strictly between the individual and the Divine. How the communication is downloaded and received...whether through dreams, scripture, intuitions, songs on the radio, odd coincidences, etc., is an individual experience that can't be proven or quantified. It just happens, and when one is open to it, the intimacy between one and the Divine grows stronger. But one needs the languaging first; one must choose. Otherwise, the Divine hears us, but the communication is only one way. We must be able to hear and respond in order to continue the dance.
To me, it makes no matter which language you choose. My idea of evangelizing is to encourage someone to pick a language....ANY language...and to begin the conversation as soon as you can. I don't care if it's paganism, Islam, Buddhism...it doesn't matter. For some, its science; I know of self proclaimed atheists who become overwhelmed at the intricacies of a black hole, or amazed at the sublime beauty of String Theory. They may not believe in a God, per se, but they know that the Universe holds mysteries and possibilities beyond their comprehension, and they are complete in awe of it. And the Divine, in turn, communicates to them in mathematical equations of exquisite beauty and depth. They won't admit it, but to them, it's like seeing a piece of the face of God.
And so, I told my dear friend Pete, I am in search of further ways to expand my vocabulary. This is why the liberal seminary is a goal of mine. It is part of my own unfolding into my relationship with the Mystery.
Pete stared at me with great focus. Nervous that I had been far from articulate and instead resembled nothing more than a babbling fool, I asked him if I had made any sense.
"Yes, very much so," he answered softly. "But you will never find a man."
Not the answer I was expecting, I choked back my laughter and asked him why.
"Because, my dear, you are deep. You will never find anyone who you can talk to."
"Well, Pete," I chuckled, "then it's a shame for me that you're already a taken man."
His blue eyes twinkled in full mischief as the grin grew wide across his face. We sat there, he and I, in silent seconds, complete in our appreciation of each other. No words can describe my adoration for this man.
"Well," he finally said, "I best get back to the Warden."
The Warden is Dot, his wife. Patiently she was waiting in the lobby for his session to end. Before they had come in that morning, Pete had apparently pressed some of her buttons. She told him that he was coming home with her only if he rode in the trunk. Pete laughed hard; after close to fifty years of marriage, he knew his lovely bride well. There was no worry in his face. He probably would have willingly ridden in the trunk just for the joke of it.
I hugged my friend goodbye, grateful that we spoke the same language. To share in the same vernacular as others is a beautiful blessing, and one that should never be taken for granted.
After his therapy session, we sat in our little room and had our usual chat. He asked me what I was up to, as of late, and I mentioned to him that I was coming into finals week at school. We talked about my studies, and then he asked me the big question.
"So, young lady, what are your goals?"
Of course I had a few humorous answers for him, which delighted both of us with peals of laughter. But finally I gave him the serious answer, which was that I had an eventual plan to attend one of the local seminaries for my Masters degree. He became silent; his brow furrowed, as it does when he's focused and paying attention. I explained that we have two schools in town, one being very conservative and the other being very liberal. In the first, you need to sign a specific faith statement, declaring yourself saved by "the Lord" and that the Holy Book is the only true word of God. In the latter, things are much more...flexible. Its more about finding "God" on your own terms. The thinking is more fluid, open to other interpretations and influences from other faiths. This, I told him, is much more my speed. I am a student of history and of world religions; this perspective allows me to move easily between ideas that others see as contradictory, such as, let's say, evolution vs. creationalism. It need not be one or the other...it can easily be both, in my world.
I explained to him that, to me, a religion is merely a language. We all long to speak to the Divine, so we pick a language. Perhaps my language is Christianity; I now know to address the Divine as "God" or "Jesus", and I have a working formula on how I expect the relationship to proceed, according to my own emotional needs and beliefs. I also then clearly tell the Divine how I wish it to speak to me. It now can teach me of faith through stories of Abraham, or help me get through my trials with tales of Job. It can lead me through temptation with stories of Christ in the desert. But it is a language, a way the Mystery and I can walk together within established terms and agreed upon images. It helps us communicate together.
The choice of religion, or of language, is a unique thing and is strictly between the individual and the Divine. How the communication is downloaded and received...whether through dreams, scripture, intuitions, songs on the radio, odd coincidences, etc., is an individual experience that can't be proven or quantified. It just happens, and when one is open to it, the intimacy between one and the Divine grows stronger. But one needs the languaging first; one must choose. Otherwise, the Divine hears us, but the communication is only one way. We must be able to hear and respond in order to continue the dance.
To me, it makes no matter which language you choose. My idea of evangelizing is to encourage someone to pick a language....ANY language...and to begin the conversation as soon as you can. I don't care if it's paganism, Islam, Buddhism...it doesn't matter. For some, its science; I know of self proclaimed atheists who become overwhelmed at the intricacies of a black hole, or amazed at the sublime beauty of String Theory. They may not believe in a God, per se, but they know that the Universe holds mysteries and possibilities beyond their comprehension, and they are complete in awe of it. And the Divine, in turn, communicates to them in mathematical equations of exquisite beauty and depth. They won't admit it, but to them, it's like seeing a piece of the face of God.
And so, I told my dear friend Pete, I am in search of further ways to expand my vocabulary. This is why the liberal seminary is a goal of mine. It is part of my own unfolding into my relationship with the Mystery.
Pete stared at me with great focus. Nervous that I had been far from articulate and instead resembled nothing more than a babbling fool, I asked him if I had made any sense.
"Yes, very much so," he answered softly. "But you will never find a man."
Not the answer I was expecting, I choked back my laughter and asked him why.
"Because, my dear, you are deep. You will never find anyone who you can talk to."
"Well, Pete," I chuckled, "then it's a shame for me that you're already a taken man."
His blue eyes twinkled in full mischief as the grin grew wide across his face. We sat there, he and I, in silent seconds, complete in our appreciation of each other. No words can describe my adoration for this man.
"Well," he finally said, "I best get back to the Warden."
The Warden is Dot, his wife. Patiently she was waiting in the lobby for his session to end. Before they had come in that morning, Pete had apparently pressed some of her buttons. She told him that he was coming home with her only if he rode in the trunk. Pete laughed hard; after close to fifty years of marriage, he knew his lovely bride well. There was no worry in his face. He probably would have willingly ridden in the trunk just for the joke of it.
I hugged my friend goodbye, grateful that we spoke the same language. To share in the same vernacular as others is a beautiful blessing, and one that should never be taken for granted.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Mirrors Reflect Too Well, Sometimes...
For the past year or so, I've been attending classes at a local college to finally finish my Bachelors. I'm currently taking "Introduction to Western Religions", and I have to admit, it's not quite what I had planned. The professor has a whole different idea of what this class should cover; while I, foolishly, thought that it would cover the history and philosophy of "The Big Three Religions", namely Judaism, Christianity and Islam, my professor has, instead, slightly warped the focus to encompass something a bit darker.
My professor, I have found, is terrified of the Apocalypse. TERRIFIED. The classroom has become his private soapbox, thick with politics and pleas for sanity. Sometimes he stands at the head of the room, face red, eyes that would make a puppy look mean, and almost beg for us to alter how we view others of different faiths. The problem is, I don't find that any of us have any issues with other faiths. I think we're all there because we're open and want to learn more. But we're not learning as much as we could, because everything seems to be focused on the current politics and on how we seem to be sliding into World War III.
It's interesting to me to notice how trauma can alter our focus. The stories we tell are told from a fearful perspective. What we see around us looks demonic. We almost seem to enjoy working at talking ourselves into feelings of helplessness and desolation. Our imaginations run wild, giving us invisible enemies (or greatly exaggerating those we have) and things to fight. We give our power away willingly, and then wrestle it back through destructive or violent tendencies. What is wrong with us?
I used to have a dear friend who went back to seminary to get her Masters. Somewhere in her courses she was introduced to the ideas of "Demons", Satan's little helpers. They were everywhere, taunting us with their evilness. She became darker as she talked about them, became obsessed with fighting off demons everywhere she went. It eventually destroyed our friendship, because to hang with her in that kind of fearful space made me feel sick. I had to get away from her just to breathe.
The Great Mystery decided to teach me a lesson about how focus creates reality. Years ago I was reading in bed, and my little runt kitty, Chili, was curled up beside me. She was a tiny thing, and used to get beat up by the other two cats on a regular basis. Shaman, my big male cat, walked into the bedroom and began to sniff around; he was just being curious. Chili sat up, and before I knew it she had left my side to go to the edge of the bed to perch, eyes sharply focused on Sha, waiting for an attack. The threat had entered the room, and she was on it.
Shaman, who wouldn't have seen her otherwise, now was aware that Chili was in the room. He was ready to play, of course, and after a few uncomfortable moments of locked eyes, he charged after her. She sprang from the bed, full scream piercing the air, and he chased her out of the room were I now had to go in order to end the chaos. Chili was panting and panicked, and Shaman had no idea what he had done wrong. He was just being a boy, after all.
The moral to the story? Chili, by being so afraid, created her own situation. She was sleeping against me, a place where she was protected and safe. Had Sha jumped onto the bed, I was there to push him down, away, or whatever was needed. He never would have touched her. But she took her eyes off of me and placed them squarely on the threat, and in that action she had made herself visible to him. Her focus determined her fate. And it turned a relaxing situation into one that needed damage control.
I remember being a young girl of about twelve. I was surrounded by well-meaning adults who told me about the Book of Revelations, and how it corresponded to the prophecies of Nostradamus. I began to fear the end-times, and I worried about the year 2000 happening in my lifetime. Prone to panic attacks, I hate to tell you how many nights I stayed awake, fearful over the eventual destruction of the world. Finally I resolved it, temporarily, at least, with the thought, "I will be thirty then, a certified adult, and I will know what to do." Well, I'm forty-two and still have no clue, but 2000 came and went with every other year and the earth still turns. What a waste of thought and energy.
You have to focus on the good. Not in a Pollyanna kind of way, but in a way that allows you to have hope. You can only control what you can. You have to live your life. I voiced this to my poor, confused professor, and he was not happy with my solution. He told me that my philosophy was "religious". I disagreed, and said it was practical...my favorite schoolmate, who sits next to me, very eloquently backed me up. It IS practical. Surviving is fine, but if you can't survive happily, then what's the point? If everything is full of fear, then let's blow this clambake and end it now. Being practical keeps you out of addictions and into the love of life. When its all fear and shadow, its all a waste of breath.
As tough as I like to talk, I am also fully aware that my focus gets dark often. My professor is a great mirror for me. My anger and frustration with him could very well be my anger and frustration with myself. I ask myself: if I focused on the light, if I trusted in higher wisdom, if I walked boldly, as a child does, within The Great Mystery, would I need to be rescued so often? Am I making the Universe work harder to protect me from my own demons, those nasty thoughts that bite and cut my soul to shreds? If I slept, like a kitten, in the arms of the knowledge that I am loved and safe, would my life radically change?
Mirror, mirror! Help me see
How I produce insanity....
My professor, I have found, is terrified of the Apocalypse. TERRIFIED. The classroom has become his private soapbox, thick with politics and pleas for sanity. Sometimes he stands at the head of the room, face red, eyes that would make a puppy look mean, and almost beg for us to alter how we view others of different faiths. The problem is, I don't find that any of us have any issues with other faiths. I think we're all there because we're open and want to learn more. But we're not learning as much as we could, because everything seems to be focused on the current politics and on how we seem to be sliding into World War III.
It's interesting to me to notice how trauma can alter our focus. The stories we tell are told from a fearful perspective. What we see around us looks demonic. We almost seem to enjoy working at talking ourselves into feelings of helplessness and desolation. Our imaginations run wild, giving us invisible enemies (or greatly exaggerating those we have) and things to fight. We give our power away willingly, and then wrestle it back through destructive or violent tendencies. What is wrong with us?
I used to have a dear friend who went back to seminary to get her Masters. Somewhere in her courses she was introduced to the ideas of "Demons", Satan's little helpers. They were everywhere, taunting us with their evilness. She became darker as she talked about them, became obsessed with fighting off demons everywhere she went. It eventually destroyed our friendship, because to hang with her in that kind of fearful space made me feel sick. I had to get away from her just to breathe.
The Great Mystery decided to teach me a lesson about how focus creates reality. Years ago I was reading in bed, and my little runt kitty, Chili, was curled up beside me. She was a tiny thing, and used to get beat up by the other two cats on a regular basis. Shaman, my big male cat, walked into the bedroom and began to sniff around; he was just being curious. Chili sat up, and before I knew it she had left my side to go to the edge of the bed to perch, eyes sharply focused on Sha, waiting for an attack. The threat had entered the room, and she was on it.
Shaman, who wouldn't have seen her otherwise, now was aware that Chili was in the room. He was ready to play, of course, and after a few uncomfortable moments of locked eyes, he charged after her. She sprang from the bed, full scream piercing the air, and he chased her out of the room were I now had to go in order to end the chaos. Chili was panting and panicked, and Shaman had no idea what he had done wrong. He was just being a boy, after all.
The moral to the story? Chili, by being so afraid, created her own situation. She was sleeping against me, a place where she was protected and safe. Had Sha jumped onto the bed, I was there to push him down, away, or whatever was needed. He never would have touched her. But she took her eyes off of me and placed them squarely on the threat, and in that action she had made herself visible to him. Her focus determined her fate. And it turned a relaxing situation into one that needed damage control.
I remember being a young girl of about twelve. I was surrounded by well-meaning adults who told me about the Book of Revelations, and how it corresponded to the prophecies of Nostradamus. I began to fear the end-times, and I worried about the year 2000 happening in my lifetime. Prone to panic attacks, I hate to tell you how many nights I stayed awake, fearful over the eventual destruction of the world. Finally I resolved it, temporarily, at least, with the thought, "I will be thirty then, a certified adult, and I will know what to do." Well, I'm forty-two and still have no clue, but 2000 came and went with every other year and the earth still turns. What a waste of thought and energy.
You have to focus on the good. Not in a Pollyanna kind of way, but in a way that allows you to have hope. You can only control what you can. You have to live your life. I voiced this to my poor, confused professor, and he was not happy with my solution. He told me that my philosophy was "religious". I disagreed, and said it was practical...my favorite schoolmate, who sits next to me, very eloquently backed me up. It IS practical. Surviving is fine, but if you can't survive happily, then what's the point? If everything is full of fear, then let's blow this clambake and end it now. Being practical keeps you out of addictions and into the love of life. When its all fear and shadow, its all a waste of breath.
As tough as I like to talk, I am also fully aware that my focus gets dark often. My professor is a great mirror for me. My anger and frustration with him could very well be my anger and frustration with myself. I ask myself: if I focused on the light, if I trusted in higher wisdom, if I walked boldly, as a child does, within The Great Mystery, would I need to be rescued so often? Am I making the Universe work harder to protect me from my own demons, those nasty thoughts that bite and cut my soul to shreds? If I slept, like a kitten, in the arms of the knowledge that I am loved and safe, would my life radically change?
Mirror, mirror! Help me see
How I produce insanity....
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