Way way back, before color TV...I was required to take naps in the afternoon. By age four, I was not interested in sleeping away the afternoon...there was always so much to see and do. Being forced to stay in the back room for about two hours, I developed an elaborate imagination and a keen sense of hearing...being still enough to hear every sound in the house and every sound around the house. A tea glass being set on the kitchen counter, my mother washing dishes by hand, the plop of fresh potatoes into hot oil. And in the yard, I would hear the birds in the trees, the leaves hitting in other in the gentle breeze, dogs barking, the sound of laughter from MacArthur Park across the street, the sounds of cars whizzing by the house...and most often, the sound of the lawn mower. The mower was often the best sound to me, because it meant the fragrance of fresh cut grass.
Nothing compared to it. It was (and still is to me) the perfect smell. It smells like freedom and innocence and adventure. It smells like the best things of childhood. Playing tag football in Elaine Miller's front yard. Kicking footballs and praying that the ball never went near the mesquite trees, or it would be punctured by the thorns even more easily than the thorns through our flip-flops. Hitting tennis balls on Patty's garage door. Running through the sprinklers...in every yard...and picking qumquats from the tree at the end of the block...so sour! Wandering down into the creek bed to gather tad poles and honeysuckle...peeking under the bridge and daring each other to go across where 'the dead body' might be found.
And always, always rolling in the grass, climbing trees...packing along a PB and J sandwich and some Kool-aid or sweet tea.
Open windows take me back to a simpler time...a time of illusion and fantasy and hope. Right now, I must keep the balance of these good things while I reach into the darker things, that which still must be healed. I must remember open windows and cut grass.
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Reading the book "Strong Fathers, Strong Daughters." Makes me want to throw up. Scares the hell out of me. I do not want to write about it. I do not want to think about it. I do not want to open that door ever again. And I ask myself and God, "Why this? Why now?" I hate these feelings. I want to throw things, break things...and I know that if the right kind of man comes along now, I could be in serious trouble. And yet, I have an inner sense that I am stronger than I have ever been before. That is a blessing and a curse.
I have spent some time in the past few weeks with women in particular, and hearing about their relationships with men...and while I peek into this book, very carefully...I realize it is key to understand why so many of us women put up with or tolerate so much crap from men. And it explains to me why I prefer the company of priests even more.
It all boils down to our relationships with our fathers. For me, that brings a smile and a tear. For me, early on, men were a means to acquire a child, and not much more. Short, uncommitted moments of pleasure and then get out of my life...please. It was funny, how much I didn't want and used men back when I was 18. Now it is sad. Love was always hidden from me. I didn't have a clue what that was...but the other stuff...that I understood very well. I knew those rules...and my journals from those days show very specifically and sometimes graphically how I learned them.
Being beautiful was terrifying for me, growing up. I have great compassion for those silly men and women who are actors on TV. I know how beauty captivates us, seduces us and then betrays us...people look at a pretty face and expect certain things, just as they look at an ugly face and expect things.
And all this, sadly, depends on how our fathers view us. If they view us at all. I never met my father. I don't even know what he looks like. The one who raised me...was not the best by any standard...but I know in my heart I love him. And I know in my heart that he loved me, right? I know he wanted to love me...somewhere inside him. And I know in my heart...I never felt his love.
So consider the priest, who comes into my life...who, joyfully, is not a bad one...who is the only good model of what a father is supposed to be...can you imagine how much that bends my head? It's like being short-circuited. I know what men are. I know what they want. I know how to stay in charge. And now this...I have no rules for this new thing...and to trust it, to trust them...is scary as hell.
I write that here because those of you lucky enough to get to be priests, never underestimate this power. Respect it. You will change lives with it, both for the good and the bad. Handle it well. There are too many people today without good fathers.
And so while I am entering my next dark night in facing the truths about my life, I am encountering too many women telling me stories...in the midst of a sea of tears...and their relationships with men. And because I am just beginning to understand the power that "the father" has over the child...I am consumed with personal anger at the mistreatment of the child inside the person I am with. I hear the "broken record" messages these sweet people live with....knowing with humility I still cannot stop the record playing in my own head yet...and knowing that my woundedness will help another if I let it...
But because this knowledge is all so new to me, part of me wants to run away, check out...go back into the hard shell I built to protect my heart, shut the door. I can't make it go away for them and I sure cannot make it go away for me...I know I have to really see it for what it is, then befriend it and name it...take its power to wound away...and that can happen only with this Christian thing...agape. A love without strings. A real love. Not an attachment, not a means to an end. Real love. From God Himself. And in that Love, I can be healed and be a healer.
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So while I look into these hard things, it is good to remember open windows and cut grass. Take with me into the suffering of this world they very happy, innocent, generous thoughts of the great goodness of God's creation. It's the only way to go into the darkness...we have to take the Light with us...
And is it just a coincidence that I'm hearing James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" while I am finishing this up? I think not. It's a song he wrote about a woman who tried to look inside herself and...suffered from a lack of imagination...she killed herself.
It's good to know the truth about ourselves...but just remember...don't do it alone. Rest in the anchor God brings to you, the one who can hold you up and show you your true and real beauty.
I know this is poorly composed, but I will post it anyway. These are all first drafts of my symphony. Sorting it out. Not really know where I am going, but trusting the process. Perhaps it will cause you to think. Maybe the missteps are exactly what is needed for you to find your right ones.
Love, Cindy
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