Let's say I had my own notion of how, when, and where I would do God's work.
Let's say that, along with this idea, I knew the grade I'd be getting for my hard work.
Let's, for the time being, say that I knew - or would know - when my work would be celebrated.
Let's say I was dead wrong.
And just when success was close enough to smell, I realized that my definition of success - perhaps my understanding of the ENTIRE ASSIGNMENT - was completely off base...
I had neglected to listen to the simplest of instructions.
I should have held fast to the simplicity of the demands that the Light makes of me.
Instead, I constructed a much more complicated assignment (albeit one that took little real sacrifice.) I'd fashioned a tailor-made assignment, so exlusive that no one but me could complete it.
I had written an assignment that defined "arriving" by a road map that I could travel. And I'd mapped that road so specifically, that no one else could travel it.
The demands that the One makes of me and of everyone are far simpler than any I could have written:
- Empty yourself
- Love me more than everyone
- Let go of all your attachments
- Pray without ceasing
SO SIMPLE!
I am not asked to empty myself
of everything EXCEPT
old stuff
or organic stuff
or purple stuff.
I am asked, "Empty yourself [of ALL stuff]"
I am not commamded
to love God more than people across the street or across the globe.
I am created
to love God more than ANYONE or ANYTHING
to let go of everything
and to pray ALL of the time.
I love the simplicity of this.
I shudder, because I fail to come close to meeting this simple request.
But I am also unimpressed by theologies
and catecheses
and rule books
and rituals
that attempt to define (and make simpler) the HUGE demands that God places on creation.
"Instead of emptying oneself, one must:
(a) tithe
(b) fast
(c) give alms
and here is the magical formula for knowing how much is expected:
blah, blah, blah..."
NO!
There is no simple solution
for finishing this massive assignment...
"Did I put the sun
and the moon
and the stars in the sky?" God asks.
"How is it that you should believe that you know ME so well that you could define, for everyone, who I am or why I love you, or what I created you to be. All I ask for is your acceptance of my simple, unfenced, and unmetered request."
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
I
(Laura)
came before God's throne.
No, that's not quite it.
I
(Laura)
was.
and then I realized that God was there with me.
I didn't make a first move,
I just happened to look up.
The brilliance of God's word,
The beauty of God's voice,
The breathtaking elegance of God's amile,
All presented to me
in one glorious second
as,
by chance,
my eyes happened to look up
and find God there.
"Don't move," I thought.
Don"t blink or breathe.
Just hold God's gaze forever.
For there, in that millisecond
existed every hope fulfilled
and every dream made true.
And yet,
so unfamiliar with the fire of love,
I hid my gaze
for fear of burning.
I withheld my faith
and wore instead:
a mask of self-loathing, calling it humility
a mask of self-destruction, calling it sacrifice
a mask of self-pity, calling it servanthood
The Light saw through it. Of course it did.
How could I fool myself into believing that
the One who painted the orange-pink-purple of sunset
the One who composed the flute-trumpet-tympani of a summer storm
and who created me
would fail to see my sadness
or hear my dispair.
What gifts would God give me to bring me comfort?
Peace, Joy, Love
to calm fears, to raise me out of sadness and to shower unconditional love on others.
What would God expect in return?
Everything.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
If the church
(any church, not just the one you're frustrated with today)
sets forth innumerable and ridiculous
(and unachievable)
rules to lead us to God,
it is only because
the church desires to make our approach
a manageable, methodical process.
It isn't designed to exclude.
I have too much faith in the human heart to believe that.
But because this process is authored by a few
who share common hopes, dreams, sins, and failures,
the map drawn by the few in only useful to the few.
And the volume of voices shouting out directions
drowns out the simple instructions that God provides to everyone.
Man-made laws and rules,
man-defined sins and temptations,
man-created roads, paths, and walkways.
All of these contribute to NARROWING the gate to heaven.
These rules filter anyone different
from our version of faith.
By focusing only on the steps, the words, the icons,
the liturgy created by man,
we find ourselves taking our eyes away from God.
How could we every think God would want that?
If there ever was a crisis of my faith,
it was when I felt controlled
- shut out or fenced in -
by rules.
It would have been when the face of God on someone different
or on me
was hastened away for the greater good.
How could we have imagined this as Light?
YOU!
Priests!
Bishops!
You mighty leaders!
YOU faithful people!
How is it that you exclude
someone with just as many heartbeats and breaths
because they have not read the same scriptures,
or prayed the same prayers?
You frighten me when you do that.
You remind me of the times I felt excluded.
And you sactify my own judgement of others.
You reflect me and my exclusivity.
By banishing the brother who I don't approve of,
you allow me to do the same.
By banishing the sister I love so dearly,
you banish LOVE.
You make us
ALL of us
incomplete.
If we,
as people of God,
are to ever feel the warmth of God's hand in ours,
we must find courage to calmly hold the hand
of our most frightening brother.
If we, as people of God,
are to ever see the wisdom in God's face,
we must find the tolerance
to quietly listen to the most dischordant of words
spoken by our most unusual and hostile speakers.
If,
as people of the Light,
we are to ever taste the fullness of God's love for us,
we must raise our chalice
to the most dusty and dirty of souls.
We must bring our silver cup to their lips,
pour freely of the wine that God provides,
AND be unafraid
to drink
from the very same cup.
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
Pilgrimage: (noun)
(1) a physical journey that mirrors and energizes my inner spiritual journey.
(2) a trip to the Canadian Rockies, a trip to find God, to question God, and to either join or say farewell to God.
(as in)
Where are You?
My friend suggests we need to talk,
but I've been
talking-crying-pleading
for a while now
and I don't hear Your reply.
Is the problem that my ears
(as well as my eyes and my heart)
are closed?
Should I look for You first?
Here, in the grandeur of these mountains
I can surely see You.
But, hearing only silence,
I ache even more.
Feeling only darkness and emptiness
I am even more lonely for You.
This pilgrimage, I come to realize,
is not to places AWAY from,
but instead to places TOWARD and WITHIN me.
It is not about moving
and searching
and plowing
through fields for a mustard seed of God.
This first pilgrimage is about waiting at the shore
for the tide that will inevitably come.
This pilgrimage is about opening my ears
for longer than the time it takes
for a honeybee to collect pollen from a flower.
My ears must remain open
to hear the seedling burst through the soil,
to hear the sprout throw off its heavy shell,
to hear the leaves unwrap themselves,
and unfold to the sunlight,
to hear the stem rise and thicken,
bracing itself for the weight of its own beauty,
to hear the bud grow and ripen and erupt
in anticipation of the honeybee.
And my heart must remain open even longer.
This pilgrimage is about stillness
and anticipation
in a time of seeming darkness.
(3) a visit to a hostel of peace among the Sisters of St. Joseph, to seek direction and purpose.
(as in)
I feel YOU present in these women of Peace!
How determined they are to speak,
sing,
dance,
work,
and SOAR on winds of peace
that You whistle, rustle, and blow their way.
I want to stay here!
I want to wrap this soft warm blanket of safety
around my shoulders, elbows, knees, and ankles,
closing my eyes and my mind to the grief
and sadness
and anger that threatens to push me so hard
that I fall over a cliff of rage.
Oh please Lord, give me rest here forever!
My feet are worn,
my back is crooked,
my arms are weary,
my hands tremble.
Give me my salary for the work
I have at least started,
and pass my burden on to someone else.
Allow me the space
and the peace
and the quiet
and the solitude
and the loneliness...
+ + + + + + + + + + + +
There is a new pilgrimage awaiting me.
This time, I will need walking shoes.
The time of quiet self-reflection has revealed
important corners, cracks, and crevices in my faith
and to know where these are is critical to my preparation.
The wind no longer blows cold
through these gaps and holes.
In some cases,
where cracks are really just spaces
between who I am and who I want to be,
I have fashioned brightly colored flags.
When the wind weasles its way through
and would seek to knock my over,
the flags signal me to hold steady
and they trap the bone-chilling
gusts and blows.
In other cases,
where the crevices span gaps
between what others
(mentors and followers, enemies and friends)
would want me to be
and what I would try to accomodate,
I have planted gardens.
In so doing,
I not only acknowledge the spaces,
I celebrate them.
And so...
with the fruit of celebration in my pack,
and the anthem of waving flags,
I am ready to embark on a new pilgrimage,
perhaps under the watchful eye
of Saint Francis.
By my design,
cradled in my prayers,
this pilgrimage would be gentle on my body,
melodic to my heart,
and shared with a companion
whose soul is laced with mine.
If I were only a tourist on this journey,
a spiritual tourist, rather than a spiritual pilgrim,
I would pack EVERYTHING I might need
(just in case my destination couldn't offer me
everything I would want or need).
This would include food and water
both for my body and for my spirit.
This would include a pillow to help me rest,
and a blanket to keep me warm.
There wouldn't be ANYTHING in my pack.
But I don't desire to be just a tourist.
I YEARN to be a spiritual pilgrim.
This means that what I pack for my journey
is meant for those I meet.
Not for me.
I prepare to serve others,
rather than to be served by others.
I become an instrument of God's peace.
Chasing Francis.
I may end up with food, water, a pillow,
and a blanket in my pack.
Just as before.
But I embark on this adventure
looking for the hungry, thirsty, weary,
or cold one in need.
In the process,
I am ministered to
by those I serve.
I am filled in body and in spirit.
for anyone else.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Expect More
I expect
flesh and bones
and other earthly things
are restricted
to formality
and front doors.
Should someone knock
for directions
or delivery
I'd know no spirit there.
I'd have no expectations.
Spirits and souls
need not knock
I expect.
Their friendly arrival
whispers through keyholes
slips through the hinges
and turns
the deadest bolt.
I hadn't expected you.
The door was locked
and barricaded,
but you drifted into my field of view.
you took a seat by the fire,
inserting yourself deftly
willowy
ethereal
with spirited charm.
You cast your spell
and claimed yourself
a long-lost page of music
named yourself
a work of art
framed humble.
You called yourself
Soulmate.
Eager and entranced,
I could not resist
expecting.
Hoping
that you were the spirit you claimed to be
the soul sent to dance
to revel
in the miracle
of heavenly discourse.
My heart stirred
when you rested there,
and in the fireplace
the smoky flame burned brighter.
Just as surely as dawn follows dusk
I'd been waiting and expecting
wonders miracles hope and you.
Are you so accomplished at trickery
that you'd prefer to fool me
than to be the sister spirit
I'd been promised to expect?
I refuse to believe
I expected too much.
And yet you say you expected nothing from me.
As if it weren't bad enough
that in the midst of holy conversation
you'd refuse to allow me
to hold you in the high esteem
of a soulmate,
expected,
dreamed of
and prayed for.
You would not have me expect
that you could love me.
You would not have me expect
that our meeting was meant to heal us both.
And,
worst of all,
you expected nothing from me.
I thought you were an answer to a prayer,
and you expected nothing.
I hoped we'd lift one another up, but you expected nothing.
You got so much more than you'd expected
flesh and bones
and other earthly things
are restricted
to formality
and front doors.
Should someone knock
for directions
or delivery
I'd know no spirit there.
I'd have no expectations.
Spirits and souls
need not knock
I expect.
Their friendly arrival
whispers through keyholes
slips through the hinges
and turns
the deadest bolt.
I hadn't expected you.
The door was locked
and barricaded,
but you drifted into my field of view.
you took a seat by the fire,
inserting yourself deftly
willowy
ethereal
with spirited charm.
You cast your spell
and claimed yourself
a long-lost page of music
named yourself
a work of art
framed humble.
You called yourself
Soulmate.
Eager and entranced,
I could not resist
expecting.
Hoping
that you were the spirit you claimed to be
the soul sent to dance
to revel
in the miracle
of heavenly discourse.
My heart stirred
when you rested there,
and in the fireplace
the smoky flame burned brighter.
Just as surely as dawn follows dusk
I'd been waiting and expecting
wonders miracles hope and you.
Are you so accomplished at trickery
that you'd prefer to fool me
than to be the sister spirit
I'd been promised to expect?
I refuse to believe
I expected too much.
And yet you say you expected nothing from me.
As if it weren't bad enough
that in the midst of holy conversation
you'd refuse to allow me
to hold you in the high esteem
of a soulmate,
expected,
dreamed of
and prayed for.
You would not have me expect
that you could love me.
You would not have me expect
that our meeting was meant to heal us both.
And,
worst of all,
you expected nothing from me.
I thought you were an answer to a prayer,
and you expected nothing.
I hoped we'd lift one another up, but you expected nothing.
You got so much more than you'd expected
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Light
I raise you to the Light
A Light so strong
that He can bend His rays
around you
and illuminate you
A Light so clear
that She can penetrate
the layers heavily curtained
transforming burlap
into lace
I raise you to the Light
that spears your heart
burns your tongue
courses through
your blood
with such sun, moon, starlight
that shadows flee
from the path ahead
and lag behind
until they lose your trail
Be ye enlightened, friend
Raise your sapphire eyes
and allow each of their facets
to catch a piece of Holy
to basque in wretched wonder
to bathe in quiet peace
and to reflect
for all with strength to see.
Let your tearful beacon eyes
reveal the light of hope
burning white hot
within you.
A Light so strong
that He can bend His rays
around you
and illuminate you
A Light so clear
that She can penetrate
the layers heavily curtained
transforming burlap
into lace
I raise you to the Light
that spears your heart
burns your tongue
courses through
your blood
with such sun, moon, starlight
that shadows flee
from the path ahead
and lag behind
until they lose your trail
Be ye enlightened, friend
Raise your sapphire eyes
and allow each of their facets
to catch a piece of Holy
to basque in wretched wonder
to bathe in quiet peace
and to reflect
for all with strength to see.
Let your tearful beacon eyes
reveal the light of hope
burning white hot
within you.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
symphony unfinished
What happened to the music
that played between us
wind, string, percussion rich?
Didn't we sense the spirit conducting the song?
Wasn't there a clean and precise drum beat
keeping our pace synchronous
trumpets freeing consciousness
from the need for words
flutes playing in and out of each measure
providing us freedom and frame
for trusting and giving and listening and taking
strings and adagios
weighless
dancing
fearless
jumping
no less
boundless
Wasn't that the tune you heard?
intoxicatingly safe
a symphony of thoughts
without orchestral limits
jazz at it's best
rythmn above count
melody transcending key
a tune that faded to pianisimo
begging me as listener to lean forward
and then resuming in perfect time
memorable enough for me to hum along
yet fresh enough each day
to prompt me to incline eagerly toward the movement
I revelled most in six eight time
marvelled at how it was expressed
and re-expressed
two beats to each measure
or three
or six
sounding similar
feeling new
urgently seeking a beat
any beat
waltz-march-gallop-run
I chased the syncopation
focused intently on the beat
tapped my toe to keep it
immersed myself
in the harmony
without being aware
of how caught up in the song
I'd become
The music fell silent
not a whisper
not a pause
breaths held
hands suspended
I turn to the conductor
was His baton still raised?
No.
The podium stands empty.
that played between us
wind, string, percussion rich?
Didn't we sense the spirit conducting the song?
Wasn't there a clean and precise drum beat
keeping our pace synchronous
trumpets freeing consciousness
from the need for words
flutes playing in and out of each measure
providing us freedom and frame
for trusting and giving and listening and taking
strings and adagios
weighless
dancing
fearless
jumping
no less
boundless
Wasn't that the tune you heard?
intoxicatingly safe
a symphony of thoughts
without orchestral limits
jazz at it's best
rythmn above count
melody transcending key
a tune that faded to pianisimo
begging me as listener to lean forward
and then resuming in perfect time
memorable enough for me to hum along
yet fresh enough each day
to prompt me to incline eagerly toward the movement
I revelled most in six eight time
marvelled at how it was expressed
and re-expressed
two beats to each measure
or three
or six
sounding similar
feeling new
urgently seeking a beat
any beat
waltz-march-gallop-run
I chased the syncopation
focused intently on the beat
tapped my toe to keep it
immersed myself
in the harmony
without being aware
of how caught up in the song
I'd become
The music fell silent
not a whisper
not a pause
breaths held
hands suspended
I turn to the conductor
was His baton still raised?
No.
The podium stands empty.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Looking Glass
years forward
cobwebs cleared from tarnished mirrors
hand-poured glass over gray-silver
provides partial view of what I know I knew
a distorted reflection
covered in layers of dust undisturbed
wrapped haphazardly in spiderwebs
long since abandoned
safe and patient
wise listeners
weeping friends
soft embraces gently tug away
spider webs
that tied memory to place
to sound
to touch
unbiased, unafraid, unflinching counselor
wipes clean
thick dust like powdered ash
without fear of charred residue marking her hand
she wisks clean the glass on silver
and with chosen words
stern
simple
clear and confident
she directs my eyes to the reflecting glass
how frightening to bring this darkness into day
how can I be made certain
that to focus on this image
won't transport me to that moment
when my mind created dust
ash
cobweb
for the single purpose of survival
the answer is
if nothing else
as weak in reassurance
as it is strong in hope
take a look at the image
in the mirror
and believe
wavy, warped, mis-shapen
as old mirror glass can get
when the gravity of all that seeks to reshape it
overshadows
underemphasizes
convex overblown
and concave understabilized
this distortion typified the image I beheld
small threats were magnified
sources of safety, hidden
nothing rational or logical or sensible
or smart
could be revealed
and addressed
and explained
until reality was wielded
by making straight and sharp
each surface
and of course
by choosing
to look
at the image
my greatest fear
is of my own reaction
to the puzzle
as it is solved
cobwebs cleared from tarnished mirrors
hand-poured glass over gray-silver
provides partial view of what I know I knew
a distorted reflection
covered in layers of dust undisturbed
wrapped haphazardly in spiderwebs
long since abandoned
safe and patient
wise listeners
weeping friends
soft embraces gently tug away
spider webs
that tied memory to place
to sound
to touch
unbiased, unafraid, unflinching counselor
wipes clean
thick dust like powdered ash
without fear of charred residue marking her hand
she wisks clean the glass on silver
and with chosen words
stern
simple
clear and confident
she directs my eyes to the reflecting glass
how frightening to bring this darkness into day
how can I be made certain
that to focus on this image
won't transport me to that moment
when my mind created dust
ash
cobweb
for the single purpose of survival
the answer is
if nothing else
as weak in reassurance
as it is strong in hope
take a look at the image
in the mirror
and believe
wavy, warped, mis-shapen
as old mirror glass can get
when the gravity of all that seeks to reshape it
overshadows
underemphasizes
convex overblown
and concave understabilized
this distortion typified the image I beheld
small threats were magnified
sources of safety, hidden
nothing rational or logical or sensible
or smart
could be revealed
and addressed
and explained
until reality was wielded
by making straight and sharp
each surface
and of course
by choosing
to look
at the image
my greatest fear
is of my own reaction
to the puzzle
as it is solved
Thursday, July 10, 2008
What Have I Done
From the security of my own ash heap
I heard your cry
and assumed it was your reaching
from the security of your own
rubble, debris, refuse
for my words
ear
touch
I spoke without filtering
every thought
every sentiment
not taking any time
to brush off dirt and ashes
not being careful
oh my God
not being careful enough
with my own heart
I listened intently
or so I thought
but in my eagerness to serve you
to heal you
to console you
to comfort you
I finished your sentences
I filled spaces you might
have revealed
had I waited
and my spirit
awake, attentive
stirring within my heart
rushed to find you
without even pausing for practical thought
without using words to announce
or listening for invitation
my being
skin on flesh on bone
physical driven by emotional
my very self
all of me
hurled forward
to seek you out and find you
something strong
wanted deeply to see your face
to tap away tears
to offer shoulder, hand
just to brush away
your sadness
and deliver comfort
as eager as I was
to be attentive
I somehow failed to pay
close attention
for the gate around your own trash heap
which was surely open
when you called out
began to close quickly
when I announced my approach
for some reason you fear my approach
how ridiculous of me to push
with such intensity
while at the same time
baring my heart
which could only
have frightened you
more
and so now
only minutes
from rising out of ashes
brushing myself off
sending words of comfort
half-listening
(that's where I must have erred most)
and running towards
the sound of your voice
I must return
with only the memory
of my words and yours
hands still reaching
in your direction
this pile of ashes
is so much dirtier
and drearier
having taken time away
and now returning
I heard your cry
and assumed it was your reaching
from the security of your own
rubble, debris, refuse
for my words
ear
touch
I spoke without filtering
every thought
every sentiment
not taking any time
to brush off dirt and ashes
not being careful
oh my God
not being careful enough
with my own heart
I listened intently
or so I thought
but in my eagerness to serve you
to heal you
to console you
to comfort you
I finished your sentences
I filled spaces you might
have revealed
had I waited
and my spirit
awake, attentive
stirring within my heart
rushed to find you
without even pausing for practical thought
without using words to announce
or listening for invitation
my being
skin on flesh on bone
physical driven by emotional
my very self
all of me
hurled forward
to seek you out and find you
something strong
wanted deeply to see your face
to tap away tears
to offer shoulder, hand
just to brush away
your sadness
and deliver comfort
as eager as I was
to be attentive
I somehow failed to pay
close attention
for the gate around your own trash heap
which was surely open
when you called out
began to close quickly
when I announced my approach
for some reason you fear my approach
how ridiculous of me to push
with such intensity
while at the same time
baring my heart
which could only
have frightened you
more
and so now
only minutes
from rising out of ashes
brushing myself off
sending words of comfort
half-listening
(that's where I must have erred most)
and running towards
the sound of your voice
I must return
with only the memory
of my words and yours
hands still reaching
in your direction
this pile of ashes
is so much dirtier
and drearier
having taken time away
and now returning
Saturday, June 28, 2008
We Meet Again
And so we meet again
here.
I know in my older, more confident, bigger self
that we aren't just meeting
that You've been by my side
But my weary, smaller self
has perceived You
as larger than everyday life.
Outside my circle,
Beyond my reach,
Too majestic
and too far away
to touch.
So, like I said
we meet now
again
first time
new place
You were just inside the front door
with a face very much like mine.
Soft, somewhat sad.
Eyes that welcomed.
You pointed to the living room
and chuckled
"isn't every room a living room?"
Much living here
much talk about living
the point of it
the need for it.
Here we go again!
More work to do
in Africa.
Your message to me this time?
How should I respond?
I recall You insisting
that I cannot do this.
So now?
I will sit back and restrain
my hands
and voice
and heart
from taking on this new need
as if it were mine to take.
here.
I know in my older, more confident, bigger self
that we aren't just meeting
that You've been by my side
But my weary, smaller self
has perceived You
as larger than everyday life.
Outside my circle,
Beyond my reach,
Too majestic
and too far away
to touch.
So, like I said
we meet now
again
first time
new place
You were just inside the front door
with a face very much like mine.
Soft, somewhat sad.
Eyes that welcomed.
You pointed to the living room
and chuckled
"isn't every room a living room?"
Much living here
much talk about living
the point of it
the need for it.
Here we go again!
More work to do
in Africa.
Your message to me this time?
How should I respond?
I recall You insisting
that I cannot do this.
So now?
I will sit back and restrain
my hands
and voice
and heart
from taking on this new need
as if it were mine to take.
The Difference in One Day
What a difference a day can make.
I follow many of yesterday's paths
I've enjoyed the quiet.
I can hear my own thoughts
almost as if the wind
and rustling trees
and rusty trains
and rippling
emerald green
splashed water
were echoing the words
without me even speaking them.
And I think
I hesitate at the word "think"
I sense
Yes,that's the word
I sense that You have begun
to enter my silent space
I look around me
peak after peak after majestic peak
How silly of me
to sense You only now.
You began this space
There wasn't any need for You to enter it
OK, so my silent space
must be one and the same
with this space
around me Holy
my silent space
has been void of Holy
probably not because You left altogether.
I must have brushed You into a corner
and painted You
the corner
empty
gone.
I do recall not so long ago
telling You
yelling You
pleading for an answer
I CAN'T DO THIS
You said You already knew that
I can't
You said that "THIS" isn't for me to do
You said"let go of THIS"
"get out of the way of THIS"
You said that You are in charge of THIS
not me.
At that time
I didn't necessarily want You to agree
with my conclusion
that I couldn't do "this"
Maybe I wanted You instead
to boost me up with courage
to bundle me up with strength
to tell my simply
that I could.
I wanted to fix the world
I wanted to make everything better
I wanted to displace every angry, jealous, hurtful, hateful, violent pain
with peace.
The problem
(You know this already)
was that I had
I have
no peace
to trade for all the pain.
So I couldn't do "this"
because "this" was carrying, fixing, and erasing all the world's anger.
There was little chance of me
fixing a world-size problem.
When You said, "I know you can't"
I thought You were saying
that such problems
should be left
to more powerful forces
than me.
I thought you were saing that I needed to give You
these world-size problems
because You are much better suited
for "world-size".
Maybe that was part of Your message.
But the other part was hidden.
Until now.
The reason I can't do this
is that I first need to create a space
within me
for peace
Collect enough of it
and dispose of enough anger and shame
that I have something to give.
If my heart only holds sadness
than the world won't benefit much.
I follow many of yesterday's paths
I've enjoyed the quiet.
I can hear my own thoughts
almost as if the wind
and rustling trees
and rusty trains
and rippling
emerald green
splashed water
were echoing the words
without me even speaking them.
And I think
I hesitate at the word "think"
I sense
Yes,that's the word
I sense that You have begun
to enter my silent space
I look around me
peak after peak after majestic peak
How silly of me
to sense You only now.
You began this space
There wasn't any need for You to enter it
OK, so my silent space
must be one and the same
with this space
around me Holy
my silent space
has been void of Holy
probably not because You left altogether.
I must have brushed You into a corner
and painted You
the corner
empty
gone.
I do recall not so long ago
telling You
yelling You
pleading for an answer
I CAN'T DO THIS
You said You already knew that
I can't
You said that "THIS" isn't for me to do
You said"let go of THIS"
"get out of the way of THIS"
You said that You are in charge of THIS
not me.
At that time
I didn't necessarily want You to agree
with my conclusion
that I couldn't do "this"
Maybe I wanted You instead
to boost me up with courage
to bundle me up with strength
to tell my simply
that I could.
I wanted to fix the world
I wanted to make everything better
I wanted to displace every angry, jealous, hurtful, hateful, violent pain
with peace.
The problem
(You know this already)
was that I had
I have
no peace
to trade for all the pain.
So I couldn't do "this"
because "this" was carrying, fixing, and erasing all the world's anger.
There was little chance of me
fixing a world-size problem.
When You said, "I know you can't"
I thought You were saying
that such problems
should be left
to more powerful forces
than me.
I thought you were saing that I needed to give You
these world-size problems
because You are much better suited
for "world-size".
Maybe that was part of Your message.
But the other part was hidden.
Until now.
The reason I can't do this
is that I first need to create a space
within me
for peace
Collect enough of it
and dispose of enough anger and shame
that I have something to give.
If my heart only holds sadness
than the world won't benefit much.
Draw Me Closer
Surrounded by You
everywhere I look
every direction
You.
Grand
Breathtaking
Larger than life
and yet
Much further away
than it might appear.
So much further
Beautiful but untouchable
I think if I could take the height
the steep slope
with no foothold
I would climb for days and days
but still
You would rise up from the distance.
You present Yourself
with that breathtaking grandeur
more beautiful than anything
but so very untouchable.
Is this how Moses felt
in your fiery presence
entranced by your beauty
but burned by your touch?
Is this how You want me to feel
if I were listening as closely
as I wish I could?
Would Your whispers be like wind
sending messages
from mystery
rather than from certainty
This had to be the last place
the best place
the only place
beside You.
Draw me closer
for You are too far away
and I'm having difficulty
hearing
feeling
knowing
trusting
understanding
believing You.
Please draw me closer in
so that I can hear, feel, know, trust, understand, and believe
the way I did when I first fell in love with You.
everywhere I look
every direction
You.
Grand
Breathtaking
Larger than life
and yet
Much further away
than it might appear.
So much further
Beautiful but untouchable
I think if I could take the height
the steep slope
with no foothold
I would climb for days and days
but still
You would rise up from the distance.
You present Yourself
with that breathtaking grandeur
more beautiful than anything
but so very untouchable.
Is this how Moses felt
in your fiery presence
entranced by your beauty
but burned by your touch?
Is this how You want me to feel
if I were listening as closely
as I wish I could?
Would Your whispers be like wind
sending messages
from mystery
rather than from certainty
This had to be the last place
the best place
the only place
beside You.
Draw me closer
for You are too far away
and I'm having difficulty
hearing
feeling
knowing
trusting
understanding
believing You.
Please draw me closer in
so that I can hear, feel, know, trust, understand, and believe
the way I did when I first fell in love with You.
Seeking
A mutual friend
suggested
that You and I
need to talk.
Chicken Burrito and a Diet Coke
with a latin tango
This seems like the best place
for me to share my heart
without coating it
with anger.
Four couples share lunch.
Two to my left have just met.
Those across the room have been together for years.
This ought to be the perfect place
for me to finally wait
be quiet
listen
for You to speak.
The two to my right struggle
to find a common language - a blend of english and korean.
My friend reminded me to ask
perhaps You haven't heard my questions.
Perhaps I wrapped them up to tightly in my fists.
I may have never even offered them to You.
The two by the door aren't sharing words or space.
So
I'm attempting
to release my grip
on the questions
so that I can hear
Your answers.
Lunch is served.
So...
perhaps You and I
are much the same
as these couples sharing lunch with me.
Once upon a time I felt You
like the young girl to my right
feels the presence
the energy and warmth
of her new found friend.
You
and Your unconditional love
were exciting and so full of hope
I smiled at the thought of You
just like she does
and I yearned so much
for Your closeness
that I pushed my chair next to Yours.
And then there were times
when I couldn't understand
Your words and ways
and most especially
the unconditional love bit.
When it came to meeting You
at the table
I felt like a foreigner
not like all the rest who celebrated Your presence
flaunted it, if you ask me
and used it to build walls that excluded my friends.
How was I to deal with that?
I wasn't sure if we were speaking the same language.
Your face - in the faces of your followers
was unlike my own.
I must have gotten too tired to care.
Perhaps it took to much energy,
or perhaps the habit
of our distance
of my dis-similarity
to those who piously, reverently,
with knees bent, prayer shawls, beads,
self-denial in a decorative frame of self-celebrating hypocracy.
Perhaps I just got used to that
and began to share our meals
together, surely
two separate in an empty room
at a bare table.
And so,
eventually
we became the couple by the door.
Quickly, grab a bite to eat.
"How's the weather?"
"...and your day?"
I stopped listening for Your answers.
Did you still keep hearing my questions?
My friend is right.
We need to talk.
I need You to speak to me.
Have patience
while I learn to listen again.
suggested
that You and I
need to talk.
Chicken Burrito and a Diet Coke
with a latin tango
This seems like the best place
for me to share my heart
without coating it
with anger.
Four couples share lunch.
Two to my left have just met.
Those across the room have been together for years.
This ought to be the perfect place
for me to finally wait
be quiet
listen
for You to speak.
The two to my right struggle
to find a common language - a blend of english and korean.
My friend reminded me to ask
perhaps You haven't heard my questions.
Perhaps I wrapped them up to tightly in my fists.
I may have never even offered them to You.
The two by the door aren't sharing words or space.
So
I'm attempting
to release my grip
on the questions
so that I can hear
Your answers.
Lunch is served.
So...
perhaps You and I
are much the same
as these couples sharing lunch with me.
Once upon a time I felt You
like the young girl to my right
feels the presence
the energy and warmth
of her new found friend.
You
and Your unconditional love
were exciting and so full of hope
I smiled at the thought of You
just like she does
and I yearned so much
for Your closeness
that I pushed my chair next to Yours.
And then there were times
when I couldn't understand
Your words and ways
and most especially
the unconditional love bit.
When it came to meeting You
at the table
I felt like a foreigner
not like all the rest who celebrated Your presence
flaunted it, if you ask me
and used it to build walls that excluded my friends.
How was I to deal with that?
I wasn't sure if we were speaking the same language.
Your face - in the faces of your followers
was unlike my own.
I must have gotten too tired to care.
Perhaps it took to much energy,
or perhaps the habit
of our distance
of my dis-similarity
to those who piously, reverently,
with knees bent, prayer shawls, beads,
self-denial in a decorative frame of self-celebrating hypocracy.
Perhaps I just got used to that
and began to share our meals
together, surely
two separate in an empty room
at a bare table.
And so,
eventually
we became the couple by the door.
Quickly, grab a bite to eat.
"How's the weather?"
"...and your day?"
I stopped listening for Your answers.
Did you still keep hearing my questions?
My friend is right.
We need to talk.
I need You to speak to me.
Have patience
while I learn to listen again.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Searching for Ghosts
I didn't have much of a father growing up. An unbiased observer would have called him a hermit or a loner or a trash-picking, self-centered, abusive, loathsome jerk. Being biased, I refused to name him, denying his presense completely. When he sat at the dinner table, shirt off and skin sweaty, I made him absent, neither seeing or smelling him. When his temper grew beyond control and his voice shook the house, I used my mind to silence him and to put right the tilted picture frames on the wall. When he walked throughout the house naked, an emporer proud to be without clothes, I found within myself the magic words that made him vanish. This man failed to keep me safe from attack; making him disappear didn't rob me of protection.
I sought out with intention the very softest and gentlest of soulmates, one who was without aggression, abusiveness, and anger. God, who could be father in spite of me, sent a man into my life who was more likely to whisper than to yell and to hold me than to hurt me. And with this man, God also granted me a long forgotten wish.
When I first met my husband's father - who was everything a dad should be - he didn't have a clue what to do with me, to expect of me, or to say to me. To an only child who'd raised only sons, the perspectives and intentions of an intelligent young woman were foreign territory. A busy man who'd taken all bread-winning responsibility - leaving hands off as his wife solely managed child-rearing - he had never known a woman like me. It took at least a decade for him to recognize my daughter-hood, and for me to trust him with a daughter's heart. But once the unfamiliarity of loving a younger girl and trusting an older man were dusted away, we fell quite effortlessly into a place of nurturing wonder and eager, hopeful warmth. When he would sign messages to me with a simple "Love, Dad" the joy I felt must've been measured out into a vacuum of sadness in my heart, for it always caught me by surprise as it spilled out of me in tears.
He never missed an opportunity to tell me he was proud of me - of how I was raising my sons and how I cared for my students. He knew when to encourage me, and he also knew when to guide me away from dangerous or destructive thoughts. He worried about me when I got sick and asked me frequently about current diagnoses and new treatments. He was patient with me during days of depression, and supportive of me when I felt like I was up against the world. In all things and in all ways, he had an economy with words. But he spared nothing in showing his happiness with loud laughter, his confidence with unwavering eye contact, and his love with unrestrained tears. He was as lavish with his love for me as with any of his children.
When he visited in the fall of 2006, I had just completed the process of applying for promotion to the rank of Professor. He was eager to look over the volumes of documentation I'd created, and because he knew my field and was a scholar himself, his review had extra value to me. It made me feel so wonderful to see his pride in me! One week after he arrived, the ballots were cast among senior faculty in my department, and I was notified that my work was insuffient for promotion. I felt weak and empty when I returned to my family with the news.
Having that mysterious second-sense that loved ones do, he knew what had happened as soon as he saw me and outrage took over his expression. Although I trusted this man with my heart - completely - as soon as I felt tears returning to my eyes, I made my way to another room to cry in private.
He followed me. He hovered just on the edge of my peripheral vision as I emptied a dishwasher and straightened a countertop. When I couldn't avert my face any longer, I looked up to find him crying. He reached out for me and held me and said words to me that I coninue to hold close.
"You Are So Strong."
Not "what fools they are," or "how could they be so stupid," or "damn them - you should quit!"
Instead four simple words. An insight into who I have been in the past, and an observation about who I am today, and a promise about who I will be tomorrow. Strong.
Economy of words. Knowing my heart. Loving me and caring for me.
Dad got on the airplane the next day to return home. And then, the next day, Dad died.
The year that followed was a difficult one. My appeals to promotion committees and provosts went ungranted. My multiple sclerosis robbed me of concentration and left in it's place a new level of depression. And post-traumatic-stress-disorder bled fears and rage into my rational mind. Somehow - I'm still amazed by it - with the help of the gentle, patient man I'd married and the insight and advice of caring friends - I made my way through, around, and over these obstacles. I pushed my paperwork to the level of my University's President, and although this had never been done successfully before, he overturned all of the negative decisions that had preceded his. I scoured every source I could find on cognitive losses and poured myself into brain exercises to compensate for anything that multiple sclerosis might try to take away. And I began to face my rape and PTSD and the way that memory can attach and distort and cripple.
I also harbored an irrational hope that there would come a special day when I'd hear his voice again. A little reassurance, his image once again in my peripheral view. A ghost, albeit. I'd accepted his death. I just needed to see him, to hear him on more time. And I needed that so badly that I came to believe that I would.
A year passed - of promotion paperwork and brain scans and psychotherapy. Though I listened for his voice in quiet moments and looked for his face in windows and around corners, I didn't find his ghost. When I gave up on my hope of seeing him, when I let go of my need to hear his voice again, it was then that I realized where he had been all year long.
I protect my pride and I rarely take on a task that I'm not sure of completing. To have forced my credentials upon one academic after another would never have been my style. But whether I recognized it or not, at every turning point along my path to promotion, dad's voice said, "You are so strong." Knowing that, without consciously hearing it, I was able to push past everything that stood between me and the rank I'd earned.
I made a "deal" with God when I was diagnosed with MS - I'd give up my balance and my gait and my mobility as long as I could keep my mind. When it began to appear that my memory, my concentration, and my problem solving ability were gradually leaving me, I was more than willing to give up on living. With the words, "You are so strong," playing softly in my mind, I learned new ways of thinking and creating that I'd never understood before.
For at least thirty years, I was blessed with a wall around childhood memories of being attacked. When flashbacks and irrational fears found their way through cracks in that wall, I recalled full-force and repeatedly the horror of being terrified and victimized and almost destroyed. I had friends to listen and to comfort, and a husband to guide me from my frightened child to my protected adult. And reflecting on that time I now am sure that the words, "You are so strong," helped me face my sadness, my anger, and my grief.
I still wish I could hear his voice again. I still ache for the secure warmth of his strong embrace. Even though I have his picture pasted or hung or on display in every room, I still long for his smile. My search for his ghost, however, no longer takes me to places away. I'm learning to find peace when I'm frightened and to be stirred from depression's sleep. I'm learning to put away the crutches and swords that I've relied on to carry me and defend me from a monster long-since gone. By recognizing and believing in the inner strength that he revealed, I am learning to let go and to walk on.
I sought out with intention the very softest and gentlest of soulmates, one who was without aggression, abusiveness, and anger. God, who could be father in spite of me, sent a man into my life who was more likely to whisper than to yell and to hold me than to hurt me. And with this man, God also granted me a long forgotten wish.
When I first met my husband's father - who was everything a dad should be - he didn't have a clue what to do with me, to expect of me, or to say to me. To an only child who'd raised only sons, the perspectives and intentions of an intelligent young woman were foreign territory. A busy man who'd taken all bread-winning responsibility - leaving hands off as his wife solely managed child-rearing - he had never known a woman like me. It took at least a decade for him to recognize my daughter-hood, and for me to trust him with a daughter's heart. But once the unfamiliarity of loving a younger girl and trusting an older man were dusted away, we fell quite effortlessly into a place of nurturing wonder and eager, hopeful warmth. When he would sign messages to me with a simple "Love, Dad" the joy I felt must've been measured out into a vacuum of sadness in my heart, for it always caught me by surprise as it spilled out of me in tears.
He never missed an opportunity to tell me he was proud of me - of how I was raising my sons and how I cared for my students. He knew when to encourage me, and he also knew when to guide me away from dangerous or destructive thoughts. He worried about me when I got sick and asked me frequently about current diagnoses and new treatments. He was patient with me during days of depression, and supportive of me when I felt like I was up against the world. In all things and in all ways, he had an economy with words. But he spared nothing in showing his happiness with loud laughter, his confidence with unwavering eye contact, and his love with unrestrained tears. He was as lavish with his love for me as with any of his children.
When he visited in the fall of 2006, I had just completed the process of applying for promotion to the rank of Professor. He was eager to look over the volumes of documentation I'd created, and because he knew my field and was a scholar himself, his review had extra value to me. It made me feel so wonderful to see his pride in me! One week after he arrived, the ballots were cast among senior faculty in my department, and I was notified that my work was insuffient for promotion. I felt weak and empty when I returned to my family with the news.
Having that mysterious second-sense that loved ones do, he knew what had happened as soon as he saw me and outrage took over his expression. Although I trusted this man with my heart - completely - as soon as I felt tears returning to my eyes, I made my way to another room to cry in private.
He followed me. He hovered just on the edge of my peripheral vision as I emptied a dishwasher and straightened a countertop. When I couldn't avert my face any longer, I looked up to find him crying. He reached out for me and held me and said words to me that I coninue to hold close.
"You Are So Strong."
Not "what fools they are," or "how could they be so stupid," or "damn them - you should quit!"
Instead four simple words. An insight into who I have been in the past, and an observation about who I am today, and a promise about who I will be tomorrow. Strong.
Economy of words. Knowing my heart. Loving me and caring for me.
Dad got on the airplane the next day to return home. And then, the next day, Dad died.
The year that followed was a difficult one. My appeals to promotion committees and provosts went ungranted. My multiple sclerosis robbed me of concentration and left in it's place a new level of depression. And post-traumatic-stress-disorder bled fears and rage into my rational mind. Somehow - I'm still amazed by it - with the help of the gentle, patient man I'd married and the insight and advice of caring friends - I made my way through, around, and over these obstacles. I pushed my paperwork to the level of my University's President, and although this had never been done successfully before, he overturned all of the negative decisions that had preceded his. I scoured every source I could find on cognitive losses and poured myself into brain exercises to compensate for anything that multiple sclerosis might try to take away. And I began to face my rape and PTSD and the way that memory can attach and distort and cripple.
I also harbored an irrational hope that there would come a special day when I'd hear his voice again. A little reassurance, his image once again in my peripheral view. A ghost, albeit. I'd accepted his death. I just needed to see him, to hear him on more time. And I needed that so badly that I came to believe that I would.
A year passed - of promotion paperwork and brain scans and psychotherapy. Though I listened for his voice in quiet moments and looked for his face in windows and around corners, I didn't find his ghost. When I gave up on my hope of seeing him, when I let go of my need to hear his voice again, it was then that I realized where he had been all year long.
I protect my pride and I rarely take on a task that I'm not sure of completing. To have forced my credentials upon one academic after another would never have been my style. But whether I recognized it or not, at every turning point along my path to promotion, dad's voice said, "You are so strong." Knowing that, without consciously hearing it, I was able to push past everything that stood between me and the rank I'd earned.
I made a "deal" with God when I was diagnosed with MS - I'd give up my balance and my gait and my mobility as long as I could keep my mind. When it began to appear that my memory, my concentration, and my problem solving ability were gradually leaving me, I was more than willing to give up on living. With the words, "You are so strong," playing softly in my mind, I learned new ways of thinking and creating that I'd never understood before.
For at least thirty years, I was blessed with a wall around childhood memories of being attacked. When flashbacks and irrational fears found their way through cracks in that wall, I recalled full-force and repeatedly the horror of being terrified and victimized and almost destroyed. I had friends to listen and to comfort, and a husband to guide me from my frightened child to my protected adult. And reflecting on that time I now am sure that the words, "You are so strong," helped me face my sadness, my anger, and my grief.
I still wish I could hear his voice again. I still ache for the secure warmth of his strong embrace. Even though I have his picture pasted or hung or on display in every room, I still long for his smile. My search for his ghost, however, no longer takes me to places away. I'm learning to find peace when I'm frightened and to be stirred from depression's sleep. I'm learning to put away the crutches and swords that I've relied on to carry me and defend me from a monster long-since gone. By recognizing and believing in the inner strength that he revealed, I am learning to let go and to walk on.
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