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.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
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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