In Memoriam

Today we celebrate the abbreviated life of David Gentiles.  I don't understand it, nor do I believe I won't see him again, arms folded across his chest, listening intently, bursting into animated gesticulation without warning. Surely during his memorial, fittingly on a baseball field, he will jump up from the stands and proclaim it all a farce, hugging everyone and laughing because we are all together.

What I do understand is that it is my turn to do those things myself that I depended on David for: the dirty jobs he shouldered without complaint, the attention he paid without tiring, the trials he endured alone.  It is now my challenge to step up and do as needs doing, to love as needs loving, behaviors I'm afraid of.


It is hard to say or see right now, but I somehow trust in shalom: all must be as it should be.

A lament

Someone beloved and critically important in my faith community was injured today, and lies in critical condition in an intensive care unit. It doesn't really matter the how or the why; the what sat in my darkened car with me as I returned home from a vigil for him, and I'm sure I'll find it waiting there in the morning when I go back.

To think of him is to think of sanctuary. He has protected me on more than one occasion. I had the privilege of teaching one of his daughters, the same clear blue light in her eyes that illumines his own (though I use "teaching" loosely here: Calla had everything she'd ever need when she came to me at 17). When he prays, knots loosen and problems resolve. When he speaks, tears spring from his eyes as life flows through him, unimpeded. We all see him as an angel, lover of baseball and flawed humanity.

My words are hollow. If prayer is presence, my heart is open and listening, Lord, and that hurts, but it is good. I lift him up to You. I lift up his family, his countless friends, his sacred, beautiful life.

Shalom.

Hope

A rainy, cool Sunday is drawing to a close. My elder son just woke up from a nap, sweetly asked for cookies and milk, and drowsily told me about some new videos I might like on YouTube. A week ago we were barely on speaking terms. Today, spontaneously, he hugged me and told me he loves me. No, he won't go to church, but he is willing to be a part of the family and try to make a contribution.

I don't understand all the workings of the human mind, but I'm beginning to see a few things more clearly. First, Rainer Maria Rilke was right when he said, "Be kind to all you meet, for we are all fighting a hard battle." We are, each one of us, and defending our ignorance keeps us from the vulnerability of learning a new way of thinking and behaving. Second, all the love we need is constantly surrounding us. We are taught, however, at some point in life that it isn't real by defective humans who themselves don't believe in it. We then shut ourselves off from that love and walk around with darkness clouding the lenses through which we look at the world. The fear caused by that cloudy vision makes us attack each other as a scared animal bites when frightened. We listen to others who are also afraid, who have agendas based on fear, and the situation grows to global proportions. But all that is needed is openness to the love that already exists. When we meet someone who has opened themselves to love, we sometimes allow them to dispel the darkness within us, too, until we become afraid again and close down. This openness transcends belief system and ethnicity and location and political affiliation and economic power.

I want to be open, and if I have to pry myself apart each day to do so, perhaps that is a good thing. I am grateful for this insight.

Shalom.

Faith

There's a groove that I get into, right or wrong, that leads me through the days of work and decisions and money problems and relationship issues so I can manage them, not so I can necessarily feel or understand them. I depend on this groove to keep my feet on the ground, so to speak, even if the ground is too soft to stand my weight for long. Things must keep moving. Perhaps the insupportability of my weight is partly what demands the forward motion.

Recently I realized that my parents are simply people I'm concerned about, not a pair of interested parties. The quilt my mom and I worked on for my bed will never see completion. Their system of addiction works for them; they acknowledge this functionality, and are fine with my objection to it. I am simply a small obstacle to their general groove. At first I was hurt by their choice of lifestyle over relationship. I now understand that to get to acceptance, I had to see how my groove and their groove aren't that different. I had to see them as they truly are: addicts, just trying to keep the balls in the air. I cannot condemn them for doing what best serves the working system, but I can choose to abstain from exposure to the system.

I can become as they are, or choose to maintain my freedom. The more difficult path is definitely the latter, but it is one I commit myself to again. Seeing anything binding as critical to my selfhood, as my parents view their addictions, is toxic. It seems, instead, that looking outward from the self into the doing of life is where the grace to stay free lies.

A pressing question

I spent yesterday afternoon with two different sets of people: some of the most wonderfully free people I know from our beautiful Journey IFC at Barton Springs Pool (along with a host of colorful, hot people splashing about in the emerald murk), and a man who has been both lover and friend (sometimes both) off and on for almost four years. All of these extraordinary individuals confirmed (affirmed?) the importance of freedom. They aren't waving flags, but they aren't anti-American, either. They are all artists, though, who remind me of the divine perfection that is brought forth through our cooperation with God. Through my specific cooperation--something I find ways to avoid sometimes.

Their unified message? Get out into the doing. Don't think too much (something I have trouble with). God works through me when I don't listen to the "form over substance" folks. I know my friends are right; when I close my eyes and let my heart speak, colors and shapes form that I haven't brought into the world yet, stories that need telling present themselves. My shaking hand is guided (albeit jerkily) toward communion with Christ, humble and tangible and holy as cedar wood. When I allow my "self" to dissolve into this truth, my agenda disappears, my divided self is healed, my comparison to others and its accompanying vanity or deprecation dissipates, and I am literally unbound from my humanness. So why don't I opt for that most of the time? I belive it is because I worry that if I do too much of that "artsy" stuff, I'll lose sight of the mortgage payments and the showing up on time, prepared, to teach my classes. But immediately another argument surfaces: would I not be a better instrument of God if I were open to Him in other ways? If I were truly willing, truly serious, about His taking over my life?

I have no defense, and Christ sits on the table, swinging his leg, smiling in wait for my answer.

Father's Day

I hear a lawnmower outside my window. I don't have any female neighbors who cut the grass, and all my neighbors have children (home or grown), so I'm guessing it's a dad out there doing it. It is part of the dad tradition, right? (When there is one in the house; my fifteen year old son and I do the lawn together, and I really like that arrangement).

What else is a dad tradition? Spending time with your children, the people who make you a dad? My ex husband decided it was okay not to see his sons today. It is just another day to him. I asked my fifteen year old about it; he admitted it bothered him a little, but that he'd see him tomorrow, so it wasn't a big deal. But I wonder, when his dad said in front of him that it was just another day and he didn't want to see them, how Isaac felt. I felt weird, and I can't stand being around their dad for very long.

I'm about to call my own father, hoping he is still sober (if I wait until six p.m., he probably won't be). I have forgiven him for the ways in which I have judged him a poor father, felt gratitude for the things he excelled in, and am trying to let go of the rest that I can't reconcile. God asked that we honor our fathers and mothers; absent is the "you're off the hook if they aren't good parents" clause in that request. I admit I have not honored my parents well. My resentment and anger toward them for serious abuse and neglect has lasted my entire life. But I change nothing by carrying that around; there is no moment belonging to my upbringing that is the least bit affected by my energy directed toward it. What can be done, now, is that I can parole them both; I can let them go and release all the stuff I haven't been able to reconcile, as it isn't mine and never was. My father constantly apologizes and justifies his past actions when I see him; he is amazed that I've turned out as well as I have. He can't stand it when I say, "It's all God," because he (a cradle Catholic) decided a few years ago that God is a crutch. He's decided fear is the better thing to believe in and has given his life over to it. I am sorry about that; I love my dad and enjoy our conversations now because he has accepted me as a "liberal." He even accepted my gay cousin and cried in awe when Barack Obama, a black man, was elected president. I hate seeing him afraid, telling me constantly about the worrisome things happening around the world, especially conspiracies. I am grateful I can now distance myself and seek understanding instead of becoming frustrated with his zealous attempts to convert me to his way of thinking.

So I need to grow a little more today, opening my mind and heart to this man who did his best. Isn't that all any of us can do in our shriveled, warped little ways? God bless those who are open, even those who had to be broken open. Like me.

Easter

So.  It is Easter evening, and the patterns of golden light on the wall are growing amber.  I have been with friends off and on all weekend, loving people who fuss over me and ask questions that make me think and who keep me moving in the direction of my dreams.  How did I get here, among them?  

The challenge in the message today at Journey is to live the Resurrection.  To honor the human being in everyone, including myself, get up from my tomb, and live the glory of God.  Put down the bag of rocks on my back that contains a grudge against my mom, judgment, who I think I am, where I like to keep Christ, excuses for not making art, wasted time and money, guilt used to justify self-deprecation and stuck-ness, the woulda-shoulda-whatifs that people my past, and most interestingly, my efforts to give my life and choices away to someone (or something) for safekeeping when they are too demanding.  If I leave the bag, what will I put things in?  Who will find it?  I find this embarrassing, to be without baggage.  It's like wearing a swimsuit indoors; it isn't me to travel with nothing heavy hanging on me.  But look at my posture!  And the smile on my face?

Is this taking control of my life, this living the Resurrection, the gift of seeing life beyond death?  Kierkegaard's explanation of those who drive and those who are driven around seems to apply.  I don't need to drive anyone around (except maybe my boys, and even that is limited to the physical act more often than not), but I must drive myself.  I always allowed others to drive me, suffering fairly constantly from car sickness, longingly looking out the window, until very recently when I decided I wanted to drive my own car.  A small, low-maintenance one. And I'm finally happy.  And now that I look at it, I anxiously realize there's no room for my bag of rocks when there are people in the car.

The rocks will have to go.  

Shalom.

Dating in 2009

So.  Since I only attract guys in their twenties when I'm out and about, I thought I'd see what is happening online.  I have some good friends who have fallen in love with guys they've met electronically.  I understand why--how could you beat the sifters they use to show you only people who've fit most of your desirables? There's no bouncer at the door of your favorite nightclub who would do that for you.

So.  The vulnerability.  The sweet angst, the pleas, the loneliness, the triumph over bad relationships or working too much, the wondering over how you begin again in your thirties or forties or even fifties, how to even get started at that age.  I've only been on two days and I've already received three beautiful love letters.  What do you say to that?  

And the posturing: I don't know what the ladies are doing because I'm not looking at them, but the guys have screen names like "stox" and "nupassion" and are mostly talking about their partnerships at law firms, their chiropractic practice, their body building routines, their love of football and scuba and dogs.  And then there are those, like my little brother, whose photos proudly display their tool belts and names like "Bobby" embroidered on the left shoulder of their shirts.  They are all in earnest, all unable to find who they are looking for because she's not at the bar, she's working, or she's afraid to sit in a bar alone (that's just sad, her mama would say) or walk in the dark alone, or she's tired and is having some dinner while she listens to her children's litanies about injustice on the playground and can I have money for this, please?  And I think the available guys are changing the oil or making Hamburger Helper or sausage wraps, reading the paper.  And, of course, checking their online dating site for interesting females.

I used to have a puritannical view of online dating, but I now think it is a compassionate, sometimes bitter, very often sweet look at how the indomitable human spirit is picking itself up after midlife trauma and seeing what might be possible in the newest phase of life.  And even I am hopeful.

Shalom.

Gratitude

As Spring Break draws to a sunny, windy close, the guys lying around in front of video games, snacking on miscellany, I'm weaving toward and away from the table laden with ideas belonging to so many people I love and am somewhat responsible for.  The part I hate about grading is not the encouragement and guidance part - it is assigning a grade to someone's thoughts (or lack thereof).  I can never get over that.  The great joy is having students write or come by to see me who have gone off to college, out into the world, and want to share something of their insights or changes.

Though nothing much has happened to me of import, I feel better, more alive, than ever in my life.  I gave up alcohol and shopping for Lent, realizing both can easily be stuffed in the space better left open that lies within me.  What has happened is, with this sobriety, I see my and other people's behavior in a new light.  I see how many things we use to distract ourselves from the fact that what is here, who we are, is all there is.  There isn't some place we're eventually arriving, there isn't some celebrity coming some day to knock on our doors and save us from boredom or aging, there is just us and our lives, right here and now.  I am the only one who can make my life worth living.  Much of that making has to do with my attitude toward the everyday - how I spend my everyday.  If my daily life is cluttered with people who are bored and looking for distraction, I find myself bored and looking for distraction.  If my daily life is viewed as a gift and I am surrounding myself with those who are actually living, doing things to help others and creating, who are awake and unmedicated, who cry when they need to and laugh when they feel it and deal with their humanness, I am awake and grateful for the pain and the difficulty and the joy and the confusion all at once.  I no longer need parenting or saving beyond what I am empowered and inspired to do myself.  I do need friends, guides, those who give me a reason to keep going, the surprising and perennial grace of God.  But I no longer feel the need to escape my life, no longer desire to be someone else in some other circumstances.  And I'm not sure there is a greater joy than the relief of putting down the burden that has plagued me all my life.

Shalom.

Feminine Energy

Wow, have I neglected this forum.  I must ask forgiveness.  Two students faithfully posted responses to my questions about writing, for which I have boundless gratitude.  So much love goes unrecognized, unrequited...

So.  A recent realization about something that was causing me pain ended in my making an unpopular decision and (by the grace of God) delivering it gently.  And it occurred to me how important and underrepresented feminine energy is in the world.  I'm not talking about the "drop dead gorgeous" 25-year-old who has no idea what's going on in the world but looks flawless (it isn't her fault - time just hasn't gotten to her yet) who receives all the attention.  I'm talking about the women who are mountains - those you simply must admire, who inspire love in you no matter how they look because they embody true strength, true beauty, true fortitude.  My neighbor is like that - milk chocolate skin, constant white guile-less smile stretched across her face, who hugs me when I'm sweaty and asks me over for pie when she sees I'm stressed.  She always takes the blame for our distance, before I can say anything.  Her figure is ample and her love is even more generous.  She is the center of a group of people who revere her without question because her back is straight and her word, true.  Vanessa is larger than any problem they may have, life or death.  She is holy and beautiful beyond measure.  Our culture cannot sell anything through her, so they don't try.

I am reminded frequently of this power that has nothing to do with our cultural sense of control or the sexual role in which girls are cast from an early age.  I am humbled by the number of girls, who I affectionately call "my girls," who look to me as a role model (though I am unfit in many ways).  I do what I can for them in my small way, encouraging them to choose something besides the playing of the "pretty" card or the "controlling siren" card, both of which lead to emptiness for the player and pain for the victim.  Instead, I remember boys I knew who were slain when I was virtuous, unable to stand in the face of holiness - the kind of holiness only women possess and the whole world is in desperate search of.  I did not wield this power when it became manifest in my life, but I remember stepping aside so it could be perceived by those who needed to see it.   Acknowledging my own need of it helps me understand how I might make more room for it in my life.  How blessed each of us are in our own ways.

Shalom.