28 May 2013
I stood in the Dickey's parking lot, west of Austin, each grandchild coming back to me for one more hug and one more kiss. "Please stay?" "Why do you have to leave?" "Let's go swimming!" "I love you, Nana."
The wave that flowed over me confused me. I keep saying to others that the last ACTS retreat was so powerful, that is changed their lives...and things were going to be different. But the only real truth I can say in these moments is that I will never be the same.
I will never be the same.
As I was "allowed" for the first time to be the woman I know myself to be during this last retreat...and happily not being beaten for being unique, I found that I was loveable. Love-able.
In seminary at SMU, I learned about Prevenient Grace, which connects so nicely into I John 4:19 "We must love because He first loved us," which I learned in 1996 while reading a book by Henri Nouwen called "Reaching Out." ( How's that for a string of thought---that is more of what goes through my head. I always have to slow down my thoughts to write, and I still do it poorly)
In Christian History, I learned about "the Fall."
In the beginning,
Adam and Eve were "not able to not sin"
After the Fall, Adam and Eve were "able to sin"
With Christ, Adam and Eve were "able to not sin"
That's about the shortest version of redemption I learned. But there were many stories, all of them good...I have nearly all of my three years of classwork from seminary on cassette tapes. Most of those professors are not at SMU anymore. I have a machine to convert the tapes to MP3 files, and have only done a few. My friend who lent me the machine is not in a hurry about getting it back...
sigh...I always stall when I have something important to write.
We have a new deacon at church now. Before Mass yesterday, I went to shake his hand. I said, "Sam, right?" and he replied, "DEACON Sam." And I thought, 'oh really? Did you think I couldn't tell with your little green side sash? ' And my mind jumped to judgement: pride. Immediately I was reminded of another, a priest, a baby priest, who thought much of himself. And then I was convicted of the pride that came a bit more slowly to me, when I was a Methodist minister, and the DS insisted on calling me "Reverend Johnson." I thought that was a bit much. I considered myself a pastor, not "the Reverend" and besides, one of the associate pastors at the large church where I worked insisted that the title "Reverend" not be used for those of us not yet ordained. But his two words felt like a man drawing a line in the sand: let us be clear on who I am and who you are not.
He could not possibly know anything about me or my struggles...and my wounded, dark side thought, "Oh, I am so gonna mess with him." Arrogant men still drive me crazy. For that matter, so do arrogant women. But I just walk away from arrogant women. But arrogant men, I think back to how men treated me as a child, or a young woman...and I say to myself, in my best Bugs Bunny voice, "Of course you know this means war." I no longer have to submit myself to the whims and desires of men...but apparently I have not yet forgiven them for using me for their own pleasures.
Deacon, huh?
Would you like to engage in a theological discussion? You pick the topic. Let's have a go.
I will assess his level of understanding...and begin there. (I'm going to have to fight him with my left hand...otherwise it will not be sporting)
I do not like arrogant men. Yet, clearly, in this examination, they still have some control over me...because part of me still wants to fight them. To make a point. To matter.
He's got a long way to go before becoming a priest.
But my path...on this earth...is much longer, I fear.
Back to the little hugs and hands and kisses.
What has been healed in me is connected to the little Adam and Eve story of sin, but with a twist.
I was born "not able to not love"
Bad people entered my life and suddenly I was "able to not love."
Healing and forgiveness, given to me through others who understood Jesus Christ created in me
"able to love."
Standing with my son and his family, I suddenly understood that I had value that went beyond my ability to write a check. That my part in this family was not simply the duty of social norms, I was actually wanted. This is a completely foreign thing for me. I had spent my entire life trying to be what others needed or wanted. I was desperate to be included...while at the same time so afraid of people's power over me that I knew my job was take all power whenever I could. A strange way of looking at things, but reasonably accurate.
The last retreat, it seems like I finally "came of age." I did the work I was born to do, I did it well. I spoke the truth...and most importantly, I remained completely under the submission of God. I did not hide my gifts to be liked or included. I did not hide them from the priest in attendance. I was not afraid of what he might do if he didn't "like" what I was doing. I remained always to working only what I was asked to work...I did not hide myself nor flaunt myself...I was in every respect that I could understand, a pastor...I was going to write priest, but I am not that. I do not presume to fully understand the rituals the Catholic Church requires...not do I know if I would want such responsibilities. I am, however, a pastor. I can shepherd from the front, from the back and from the middle. I can shepherd one, or many...and I can bend without fear to people with power, who do not claim power because they "need" it, but because it was given to them as God saw their humility and knew that they knew they were not in charge.
I have been give discernment. I am grateful to God.
I know that I am able to love.
I know that I am loveable.
That was the great and powerful miracle that arrived after God took nearly everything away from me. And almost sadly, I cannot write more now.
It is time to go to church.
Lover, let the love flow freely.
You will never have less
Never be less
Because love is...
etraordinary
does not follow
the rules
of physics
or time
It increases
when it should decrease
it loves anyway
it works miracles
it lives
with or without us
is directed
but never allows
us to control it.
It requires only one thing
for us to say yes
to open our heart
and let it do
what it wants
when it wants
it makes us cry
and laugh
and sing
It is beauty
and sadnesss
and loss
and desire
and is
completely
totally
undeniably
wonderful.
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Cinnamon sticks and water
circa 18 May 2013
I feel like I've done so little today. But I've prayed well, and attended Mass at St Mark's...where things seem to affect me differently there. This time, it was the water in the new baptismal font...and as I heard it flowing, I knew I had to figure out a way to get there more often...and just be still with God.
Each time I return there, it is as if it is a surprise. I can't exactly explain it. Something must have happened there, something primal or deep inside me. I look up at the stained glass stations of the cross, the ones placed along the 'wrong' wall (Msgr. Smith intended them to be on the dawn wall, not the dusk wall)...and I look at the 11th Station: Jesus dies on the cross...I am drawn like a fly to that one...because it looks like that night of the full moon, back in 96, during Lent...a retreat down near Possum Kingdom...with the choir from the Methodist Church. Once I knew everyone was asleep, I went out to the fire pit, where the wooden cross stood, pretty much life size...and cried like a little girl about the impending divorce...like a speeding train, I knew I could not stop it...and some part of me was glad it was happening, because I didn't like who I was becoming in my marriage. I found a stone and I seemed to remember offering some kind of prayer to God that said, "I give up. I can't live like I was living, but I don't know how to live now. I don't want to live now, but I have to keep living. So I give my life to you. I don't want it. I don't want anything anymore, but I know I have to live. So it's yours. Do with it what you will." and I placed the rock on the cross. I had to stretch to reach the cross bar. The wind was gently blowing on that spring night...and there off behind the cross, through the trees that did not yet have any leaves...the full moon was rising. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seem...and I just stood there, hugging the cross...wishing that somehow, placing that stone on it, I could just let go of all the mistakes I had made...and I could somehow learn to be happy.
I feel that moment every single time I go to Mass at St Marks. During the Mass, I am mesmerized by that stained glass image of the cross...and I love it as if it was the most important thing in the world. I look at it, and I feel that night, I live that night over and over again. It seemed like the beginning of God courting me...and one always likes to remember that first date. Yet it was so much more than that. I had spent so much time in the woods at night with Bob, when we were dating...God knew that, to seduce me, He had to take me to my favorite place...and provide me with my favorite things: a river, barren trees, a full moon, a gentle breeze. I can fall in love so easily under a full moon. And I guess I did. Why that stained glass seems to be connected, why it is the little drops of blood falling from an empty cross seem so important to me, I cannot explain. It is just who I am...and who God is...to me.
A thousand thoughts go through me. Ah...it becomes clearer now. Grandbury, the tornadoes, traveling there with friends...Glen Rose, that was the retreat center. I remember now. All the little pieces. Returning to the Eucharist at St Marks, how I fell to the ground in happiness...why would such a little thing affect me so? Because, to me, it is no little thing.
I cannot speak too well in a contemplative state and I vaguely feel myself going there right now. It is kind of a seduction, this God relationship, which takes all the parts of me and mixes them in a bowl and I feel myself swimming around, much like the wind of a tornado, strong, but not destructive like a tornado. I should have anticipated this...after one amazing retreat, with so much good birthing and so much death being buried this past weekend...and then retelling the story this afternoon to my spiritual director Liz...I didn't think it was going to happen today, but I write and I am really not here. I hear the birds outside my window, singing their night prayers...saying good bye to the sun and thanking God for the day...and I feel all the memories of the Mass, and the telling of the story...
Do you remember what God said?
And Paul?
Be courageous. Time is getting close. Don't let false spirits confuse you...they are everywhere. They want you to be afraid, discouraged.
The things I did, the way I did them...if it was me, I would be sad or embarrassed or something...but I did what I was told to do.
Not like when I gave up, and tried to kill myself again by sleeping with the wrong man. That was long ago...and I learned from it...how a woman can kill herself and still breathe. It's actually pretty easy. Yes, I tried to stop all this foolishness of God, in the only way I knew how...and even then, God did not let go. I suspect no one would really value anything I might write or say, because of the choices I've made, the mistakes I allowed...trying to die because I was too scared to live.
I get confused about it all, trying to offer some rational explanation for the things that keep happening, how I am allowed to witness so much healing...and even be a part of it. And how I know that, if I hadn't had horrible things happen, I would not be able to be the servant I am allowed to be. It is just all so confusing...and definitely not logical.
Be courageous. Speak from your heart what you have learned. Do not fear the truth. Do not fear death. The Evil One thrives on making us afraid of ourselves. I have seen heaven and hell...and the healing that lives between them.
It all seemed to begin with that cross, that stone...that blood that dripped onto the dirt beneath, mixing with my great tears of grief and loneliness and sorrow...thinking about the ones who cried there before me, and the ones who will cry later...under a full moon.
There are things I want to write, but I am still afraid, not for me...but for my children and grandchildren, who may not ever understand...yet must know, we are so much more than dust and water.
We are more than mud.
I loved
without knowing love
but I loved
waiting
for her to return to me.
I loved
when they hurt me
knowing
they hurt me
because
in their own hearts
they were waiting
for love too.
In prayer
I am overcome
by the emptiness
of this world
and its
great hunger
waiting
to be filled
with love.
I endure
their loneliness
ignoring my own.
No, understanding
my own.
He sees it all.
Use me Lord,
Let my ears
hear their truth
feel their pain
sing their song...
just enough
to make them brave
to sing
all by themselves
a love song
to You.
Empty me
enough
to be space
for them
Fill me
enough
to help
to start their song
Remove me
when they
begin to walk
And let me be happy
to leave
Because when my work is over
And I have no more hands to hold
I know you'll be there
holding my hand
And taking me
home.
Such odd words. I'm not sure why I write them. But I'll know later.
Love, Cindy
I feel like I've done so little today. But I've prayed well, and attended Mass at St Mark's...where things seem to affect me differently there. This time, it was the water in the new baptismal font...and as I heard it flowing, I knew I had to figure out a way to get there more often...and just be still with God.
Each time I return there, it is as if it is a surprise. I can't exactly explain it. Something must have happened there, something primal or deep inside me. I look up at the stained glass stations of the cross, the ones placed along the 'wrong' wall (Msgr. Smith intended them to be on the dawn wall, not the dusk wall)...and I look at the 11th Station: Jesus dies on the cross...I am drawn like a fly to that one...because it looks like that night of the full moon, back in 96, during Lent...a retreat down near Possum Kingdom...with the choir from the Methodist Church. Once I knew everyone was asleep, I went out to the fire pit, where the wooden cross stood, pretty much life size...and cried like a little girl about the impending divorce...like a speeding train, I knew I could not stop it...and some part of me was glad it was happening, because I didn't like who I was becoming in my marriage. I found a stone and I seemed to remember offering some kind of prayer to God that said, "I give up. I can't live like I was living, but I don't know how to live now. I don't want to live now, but I have to keep living. So I give my life to you. I don't want it. I don't want anything anymore, but I know I have to live. So it's yours. Do with it what you will." and I placed the rock on the cross. I had to stretch to reach the cross bar. The wind was gently blowing on that spring night...and there off behind the cross, through the trees that did not yet have any leaves...the full moon was rising. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seem...and I just stood there, hugging the cross...wishing that somehow, placing that stone on it, I could just let go of all the mistakes I had made...and I could somehow learn to be happy.
I feel that moment every single time I go to Mass at St Marks. During the Mass, I am mesmerized by that stained glass image of the cross...and I love it as if it was the most important thing in the world. I look at it, and I feel that night, I live that night over and over again. It seemed like the beginning of God courting me...and one always likes to remember that first date. Yet it was so much more than that. I had spent so much time in the woods at night with Bob, when we were dating...God knew that, to seduce me, He had to take me to my favorite place...and provide me with my favorite things: a river, barren trees, a full moon, a gentle breeze. I can fall in love so easily under a full moon. And I guess I did. Why that stained glass seems to be connected, why it is the little drops of blood falling from an empty cross seem so important to me, I cannot explain. It is just who I am...and who God is...to me.
A thousand thoughts go through me. Ah...it becomes clearer now. Grandbury, the tornadoes, traveling there with friends...Glen Rose, that was the retreat center. I remember now. All the little pieces. Returning to the Eucharist at St Marks, how I fell to the ground in happiness...why would such a little thing affect me so? Because, to me, it is no little thing.
I cannot speak too well in a contemplative state and I vaguely feel myself going there right now. It is kind of a seduction, this God relationship, which takes all the parts of me and mixes them in a bowl and I feel myself swimming around, much like the wind of a tornado, strong, but not destructive like a tornado. I should have anticipated this...after one amazing retreat, with so much good birthing and so much death being buried this past weekend...and then retelling the story this afternoon to my spiritual director Liz...I didn't think it was going to happen today, but I write and I am really not here. I hear the birds outside my window, singing their night prayers...saying good bye to the sun and thanking God for the day...and I feel all the memories of the Mass, and the telling of the story...
Do you remember what God said?
And Paul?
Be courageous. Time is getting close. Don't let false spirits confuse you...they are everywhere. They want you to be afraid, discouraged.
The things I did, the way I did them...if it was me, I would be sad or embarrassed or something...but I did what I was told to do.
Not like when I gave up, and tried to kill myself again by sleeping with the wrong man. That was long ago...and I learned from it...how a woman can kill herself and still breathe. It's actually pretty easy. Yes, I tried to stop all this foolishness of God, in the only way I knew how...and even then, God did not let go. I suspect no one would really value anything I might write or say, because of the choices I've made, the mistakes I allowed...trying to die because I was too scared to live.
I get confused about it all, trying to offer some rational explanation for the things that keep happening, how I am allowed to witness so much healing...and even be a part of it. And how I know that, if I hadn't had horrible things happen, I would not be able to be the servant I am allowed to be. It is just all so confusing...and definitely not logical.
Be courageous. Speak from your heart what you have learned. Do not fear the truth. Do not fear death. The Evil One thrives on making us afraid of ourselves. I have seen heaven and hell...and the healing that lives between them.
It all seemed to begin with that cross, that stone...that blood that dripped onto the dirt beneath, mixing with my great tears of grief and loneliness and sorrow...thinking about the ones who cried there before me, and the ones who will cry later...under a full moon.
There are things I want to write, but I am still afraid, not for me...but for my children and grandchildren, who may not ever understand...yet must know, we are so much more than dust and water.
We are more than mud.
I loved
without knowing love
but I loved
waiting
for her to return to me.
I loved
when they hurt me
knowing
they hurt me
because
in their own hearts
they were waiting
for love too.
In prayer
I am overcome
by the emptiness
of this world
and its
great hunger
waiting
to be filled
with love.
I endure
their loneliness
ignoring my own.
No, understanding
my own.
He sees it all.
Use me Lord,
Let my ears
hear their truth
feel their pain
sing their song...
just enough
to make them brave
to sing
all by themselves
a love song
to You.
Empty me
enough
to be space
for them
Fill me
enough
to help
to start their song
Remove me
when they
begin to walk
And let me be happy
to leave
Because when my work is over
And I have no more hands to hold
I know you'll be there
holding my hand
And taking me
home.
Such odd words. I'm not sure why I write them. But I'll know later.
Love, Cindy
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
After the rain
23 May 2013
Quite a storm last night. I confess, listening to the news, I became a little afraid. I don't like myself when I am afraid. The old timey Catholic in me tells me it is a sin to fear;be sacred], to not always know that God is in charge...but fear is a part of faith...in fact, all of the so-called negative emotions are a part of the great mystery of our creation. Some people may suggest that is too secular...but I will counter with the idea that God created ALL things...and ALL things shout daily toward a belief that things not only can work, but are supposed to work out for the good.
Why good?
Because I believe in God.
Even in the presence of unceasing evil.
Is that simply a moral declaration promised by a somewhat civilized human being? Am I declaring a social contract: "I will work for your good even if you choose to not work for mine."? Yes, I suppose I am. What motivates me to do good in spite of evil? What makes me let go of justice...or fairness...or equality...to make doing good my priority?
Well, I suppose it's because...I choose to love.
In spite of everything...maybe because of everything...I choose love.
And God is love. (I believe that is best expressed in I John 4) So by mathematical proof, by my definition, grounded in the Holy Canon, I choose God.
You can debate with me all night long about the Jesus question. You can tell me it didn't happen, he was a myth, or just a good prophet, or a scapegoat, or whatever. Love is one of those attributes of humans...and I think maybe even animals, some animals, especially dogs, express love through loyality, devotion, determination...so that makes my little theory even more complicated. I don't care, the fact that dogs love does not mean that God does not exist.
Blue jay going after bugs on one side of the fence while a cardinal scurries off into the safety of a crepe myrtle. The rain made the air so clean...and I am so rich, I can sit outside in my back yard, which is in need of much work to the eyes that think only order is pretty...but I sit here with my little laptop computer, hearing the traffic heading to the school, the birds, the still air telling me to breathe it in while it is clean...I can hear the dew falling off the leaves, although, today it is no doubt dew and rain...I have a little music on the gift of a Kindle, that my son and his family gave me...I am rich.
I know about two jobs in south Texas, one in a Baptist hospital, one Catholic, on the coast. If I could have hand picked them, I could not really be more pleased. Should I apply? Yes. Are they already taken? Possibly. You see, when I praying before the retreat, with a most holy woman who believes in me, the Brazos river came to my mind...I'm supposed to move onto the Brazos River...And oddly, when I had a surprise encounter with a fellow chaplain, he gave me these two options. I looked and smiled.
Go ahead and tell me there is no God. And I will hold your hand and tell you that I love you. Because I know that believing in such outrageous things is so damn hard.
We have the possibility to connect to the universe much more than with our bodies and only in finite moments of time. You simply have to accept the possibility that living is more than what we see...and that is most obvious in the "reality" of love.
In spite of all warnings, I think I am choosing to be with people in their deaths, but God always seems to put me in that place. I wonder sometimes because, when I hear the words :"Going to die" or "hospice" or "we've done all that we can", I just don't care...it's not that I don't believe it, I simply refuse to let that reality interfere with living. With doing good...up until the very last breath. I won't sit in simply waiting for what will be.
That is because, I know that when the body expires, that is all that stops. The life force created in it just moves to another place, doing different things...and those who want to see can see. And those who really want to die get to die. The scary time is for all the people who don't yet know what they want to do next.
So I find myself again in a conversation about forgiveness...and it takes it's own turn...like it always does...to where the person wants to go. They tell me their truth...knowing I will hold it in my heart till I die...and then offer it up as another part of my own garden. And I was again humbled by what was happening...those close to death have the chance to see so clearly, if they choose to see...and if they are generous, they can teach me things about myself. They tell me what they really see. They are not being polite or kind...or cruel...but they speak the truth...and death always brings truth, spoken or not.
My rule as midwife to the next place, is to never think I have a right to the gift given to my companion...I am there to herald the moving on, if I am allowed...in silence or word or song. Or just touch.
So my question to God this morning is, why the dreams of not feeling competent? Why was I getting lost in trying to catch up to my peers? Why the feelings of being judged? Why do I still think I'm not good enough to do a job I know in my head that I do very well? That is what the dream tried to say. So I must still be holding on to an unworthiness still in my heart. I wonder today if my job is not to counter the sins of understand of myself, but rather to befriend them...yes, I have the constant struggle of not measuring up...so instead of saying "go away"...I can give it a cookie and tell it to "sit in the corner and be quiet."
I had a great challenge last week. I was with someone I wanted so much to love me. So much that it hurt...but that person is not ready or able to love me. Instead of just sitting in my car and crying about it, of using that person as my measuring stick for my worth, I remembered all the people who are not afraid to love me...and I sat inside of the blanket of the ones, who have no good cause to love me, still love me, choose to love me...and I think I grew up in that moment. Sometimes, the ones we want to love us, will never be able to love us...or not in the way we want them to love us...and that is okay, because God brings others to us, who want to love us, who can love us, who choose to love us anyway...what we must do..is turn our eyes toward the love and to the ones who care...and let that cover us in safety and give us strength to do our work, and to love those we are able to love...allowed to love.
If that person chooses to love again...I will dance the happy dance...but I can love enough now to allow that part of my life to be whatever it needs to be. And to let go of trying to fix it. Ah...how often, we call it love when we try to make someone love us...so far from love, it is...to attempt to seduce for personal gain.
These are hard lessons, but needed before a good death.
And the dying, they teach them to me everyday.
Not morbid...not sad...
Tears for having loved well...
And learning how to not ask for more...
Unless we are asking from God...
who can always give more.
Do you want to be healed?
Then pick up your mat and walk.
The mat is our life, good and bad, pretty and ugly
It is not too hard to carry
As long as we carry only our own mat.
And walk.
Staying in the same place
is a kind of death
A declaration that
This is as good as it gets
But walking
while carrying our mat
which reminds us of where we were
We do not look at the mat
But where we are going...
and somehow
as we walk...
I think the mat gets lighter...
and one day...
we discover
we have stopped carrying it
we don't need it anymore
....
and then
we can finally see
who is carrying us
Love, Cindy
Quite a storm last night. I confess, listening to the news, I became a little afraid. I don't like myself when I am afraid. The old timey Catholic in me tells me it is a sin to fear;be sacred], to not always know that God is in charge...but fear is a part of faith...in fact, all of the so-called negative emotions are a part of the great mystery of our creation. Some people may suggest that is too secular...but I will counter with the idea that God created ALL things...and ALL things shout daily toward a belief that things not only can work, but are supposed to work out for the good.
Why good?
Because I believe in God.
Even in the presence of unceasing evil.
Is that simply a moral declaration promised by a somewhat civilized human being? Am I declaring a social contract: "I will work for your good even if you choose to not work for mine."? Yes, I suppose I am. What motivates me to do good in spite of evil? What makes me let go of justice...or fairness...or equality...to make doing good my priority?
Well, I suppose it's because...I choose to love.
In spite of everything...maybe because of everything...I choose love.
And God is love. (I believe that is best expressed in I John 4) So by mathematical proof, by my definition, grounded in the Holy Canon, I choose God.
You can debate with me all night long about the Jesus question. You can tell me it didn't happen, he was a myth, or just a good prophet, or a scapegoat, or whatever. Love is one of those attributes of humans...and I think maybe even animals, some animals, especially dogs, express love through loyality, devotion, determination...so that makes my little theory even more complicated. I don't care, the fact that dogs love does not mean that God does not exist.
Blue jay going after bugs on one side of the fence while a cardinal scurries off into the safety of a crepe myrtle. The rain made the air so clean...and I am so rich, I can sit outside in my back yard, which is in need of much work to the eyes that think only order is pretty...but I sit here with my little laptop computer, hearing the traffic heading to the school, the birds, the still air telling me to breathe it in while it is clean...I can hear the dew falling off the leaves, although, today it is no doubt dew and rain...I have a little music on the gift of a Kindle, that my son and his family gave me...I am rich.
I know about two jobs in south Texas, one in a Baptist hospital, one Catholic, on the coast. If I could have hand picked them, I could not really be more pleased. Should I apply? Yes. Are they already taken? Possibly. You see, when I praying before the retreat, with a most holy woman who believes in me, the Brazos river came to my mind...I'm supposed to move onto the Brazos River...And oddly, when I had a surprise encounter with a fellow chaplain, he gave me these two options. I looked and smiled.
Go ahead and tell me there is no God. And I will hold your hand and tell you that I love you. Because I know that believing in such outrageous things is so damn hard.
We have the possibility to connect to the universe much more than with our bodies and only in finite moments of time. You simply have to accept the possibility that living is more than what we see...and that is most obvious in the "reality" of love.
In spite of all warnings, I think I am choosing to be with people in their deaths, but God always seems to put me in that place. I wonder sometimes because, when I hear the words :"Going to die" or "hospice" or "we've done all that we can", I just don't care...it's not that I don't believe it, I simply refuse to let that reality interfere with living. With doing good...up until the very last breath. I won't sit in simply waiting for what will be.
That is because, I know that when the body expires, that is all that stops. The life force created in it just moves to another place, doing different things...and those who want to see can see. And those who really want to die get to die. The scary time is for all the people who don't yet know what they want to do next.
So I find myself again in a conversation about forgiveness...and it takes it's own turn...like it always does...to where the person wants to go. They tell me their truth...knowing I will hold it in my heart till I die...and then offer it up as another part of my own garden. And I was again humbled by what was happening...those close to death have the chance to see so clearly, if they choose to see...and if they are generous, they can teach me things about myself. They tell me what they really see. They are not being polite or kind...or cruel...but they speak the truth...and death always brings truth, spoken or not.
My rule as midwife to the next place, is to never think I have a right to the gift given to my companion...I am there to herald the moving on, if I am allowed...in silence or word or song. Or just touch.
So my question to God this morning is, why the dreams of not feeling competent? Why was I getting lost in trying to catch up to my peers? Why the feelings of being judged? Why do I still think I'm not good enough to do a job I know in my head that I do very well? That is what the dream tried to say. So I must still be holding on to an unworthiness still in my heart. I wonder today if my job is not to counter the sins of understand of myself, but rather to befriend them...yes, I have the constant struggle of not measuring up...so instead of saying "go away"...I can give it a cookie and tell it to "sit in the corner and be quiet."
I had a great challenge last week. I was with someone I wanted so much to love me. So much that it hurt...but that person is not ready or able to love me. Instead of just sitting in my car and crying about it, of using that person as my measuring stick for my worth, I remembered all the people who are not afraid to love me...and I sat inside of the blanket of the ones, who have no good cause to love me, still love me, choose to love me...and I think I grew up in that moment. Sometimes, the ones we want to love us, will never be able to love us...or not in the way we want them to love us...and that is okay, because God brings others to us, who want to love us, who can love us, who choose to love us anyway...what we must do..is turn our eyes toward the love and to the ones who care...and let that cover us in safety and give us strength to do our work, and to love those we are able to love...allowed to love.
If that person chooses to love again...I will dance the happy dance...but I can love enough now to allow that part of my life to be whatever it needs to be. And to let go of trying to fix it. Ah...how often, we call it love when we try to make someone love us...so far from love, it is...to attempt to seduce for personal gain.
These are hard lessons, but needed before a good death.
And the dying, they teach them to me everyday.
Not morbid...not sad...
Tears for having loved well...
And learning how to not ask for more...
Unless we are asking from God...
who can always give more.
Do you want to be healed?
Then pick up your mat and walk.
The mat is our life, good and bad, pretty and ugly
It is not too hard to carry
As long as we carry only our own mat.
And walk.
Staying in the same place
is a kind of death
A declaration that
This is as good as it gets
But walking
while carrying our mat
which reminds us of where we were
We do not look at the mat
But where we are going...
and somehow
as we walk...
I think the mat gets lighter...
and one day...
we discover
we have stopped carrying it
we don't need it anymore
....
and then
we can finally see
who is carrying us
Love, Cindy
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Thick in Grace
Thick in grace
Amazing place
Where forgiveness and charity meet
He paved the way
for our judgement day
from His mercy seat
We hide no more in shadows
Ignoring that "where are you?"
We know that love will win
... We know now what to do
We tell our truths
and hear His Truth
And hold each other's hand
We say our names
Play no more games
Bringing love thoughout our land.
The new day begins
and sorrows end
our hearts made flesh from stone
we sing our song
knowing right from wrong
We no longer walk alone.
14 May 2013
Love, Cindy
Amazing place
Where forgiveness and charity meet
He paved the way
for our judgement day
from His mercy seat
We hide no more in shadows
Ignoring that "where are you?"
We know that love will win
... We know now what to do
We tell our truths
and hear His Truth
And hold each other's hand
We say our names
Play no more games
Bringing love thoughout our land.
The new day begins
and sorrows end
our hearts made flesh from stone
we sing our song
knowing right from wrong
We no longer walk alone.
14 May 2013
Love, Cindy
Monday, May 13, 2013
Mother's Day Retreat 1
Images flying through my head
The words I heard
The images I saw
The food I tasted
I laughed and I cried
Without noticing the difference
I looked at two priests
Conversing in the gazebo
Just before sunset
Both I loved
And hadn't seen
in more than a year.
"Who's feeding you?"
I asked the one standing,
letting him know, in my subtle way,
"You're too thin"
The one on the bench
Obviously had a good cook.
They were both part of my formation
into the woman I am now.
One was there when I told my truth
my important truth
the very first time.
The other lived the life I wanted
Told the story the way I would tell it
Got to have the good life
After deep suffering.
When the student is ready
The teacher arrives.
This was one of those weekends
when I think
"I'll probably die tomorrow."
When you finally find
your own sweet spot
and, even though hard,
it's all good...
That's when I think,
"I'm finished. He's gonna take me now.
I got to make that last big play.
So my story must be over now."
Nearly 50 women
Miracles dripping off the trees like dew
I held nothing back.
I declared to them,
"Tell your truth.
God is here. All around.
In the women,
In the priests
In the trees that shelter us
And the birds that sing to us.
Tell your truth
To find His truth
And His Truth will set you free."
I was a spiritual director,
and found the greatest gift
of my work
was my vulnerability.
From uncontrollable crying
before holiness
in women much braver than me
to flinging my arms wide
on a merry-go-round
To dragging myself to the top
of a hill at dawn,
wrapped in a blanket
because I'd given all my cloaks away.
I witnessed miracle after miracle
As we kind of tripped our way
through the retreat.
Entering into darkness,
the darkness of the cross...
discovering the holiness there...
the love within it...and climbing out
perhaps as the women
traveling with us,
held us in their arms
as women do...
it was just mind-blowing
to see the good that could happen
when you have yourself permission
to be in communion with others.
We are not the women we were before
We climbed the hill
Of Gethsemene
with our sisiers
and carried our dead down
to the grave
where we washed our sins
in tears and gentleness
and buried them
and waited
not knowing what to expect
we trusted and remained still
and waited
The dawn arrived
And seemed to hurt our eyes
We'd been so long in the darkness
It took time
To see the miracle
Before us.
But we did see it.
In others...and inside us.
Then, almost cruelly,
and too suddenly
we had to leave
Go back into the world
and into the darkness...
but we were armed now:
We knew a bit more
How to do it.
We saw our beauty
We carried our light,
and in our hearts
We carried the love
We learned from our sisters (and brothers)
We gave them strength
And they gave us strength
Because He was there
in every moment
whispering in our ears,
"I loved you...first."
Love, Cindy
The words I heard
The images I saw
The food I tasted
I laughed and I cried
Without noticing the difference
I looked at two priests
Conversing in the gazebo
Just before sunset
Both I loved
And hadn't seen
in more than a year.
"Who's feeding you?"
I asked the one standing,
letting him know, in my subtle way,
"You're too thin"
The one on the bench
Obviously had a good cook.
They were both part of my formation
into the woman I am now.
One was there when I told my truth
my important truth
the very first time.
The other lived the life I wanted
Told the story the way I would tell it
Got to have the good life
After deep suffering.
When the student is ready
The teacher arrives.
This was one of those weekends
when I think
"I'll probably die tomorrow."
When you finally find
your own sweet spot
and, even though hard,
it's all good...
That's when I think,
"I'm finished. He's gonna take me now.
I got to make that last big play.
So my story must be over now."
Nearly 50 women
Miracles dripping off the trees like dew
I held nothing back.
I declared to them,
"Tell your truth.
God is here. All around.
In the women,
In the priests
In the trees that shelter us
And the birds that sing to us.
Tell your truth
To find His truth
And His Truth will set you free."
I was a spiritual director,
and found the greatest gift
of my work
was my vulnerability.
From uncontrollable crying
before holiness
in women much braver than me
to flinging my arms wide
on a merry-go-round
To dragging myself to the top
of a hill at dawn,
wrapped in a blanket
because I'd given all my cloaks away.
I witnessed miracle after miracle
As we kind of tripped our way
through the retreat.
Entering into darkness,
the darkness of the cross...
discovering the holiness there...
the love within it...and climbing out
perhaps as the women
traveling with us,
held us in their arms
as women do...
it was just mind-blowing
to see the good that could happen
when you have yourself permission
to be in communion with others.
We are not the women we were before
We climbed the hill
Of Gethsemene
with our sisiers
and carried our dead down
to the grave
where we washed our sins
in tears and gentleness
and buried them
and waited
not knowing what to expect
we trusted and remained still
and waited
The dawn arrived
And seemed to hurt our eyes
We'd been so long in the darkness
It took time
To see the miracle
Before us.
But we did see it.
In others...and inside us.
Then, almost cruelly,
and too suddenly
we had to leave
Go back into the world
and into the darkness...
but we were armed now:
We knew a bit more
How to do it.
We saw our beauty
We carried our light,
and in our hearts
We carried the love
We learned from our sisters (and brothers)
We gave them strength
And they gave us strength
Because He was there
in every moment
whispering in our ears,
"I loved you...first."
Love, Cindy
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Honor
From yesterday's reading. Acts 16:
Love, Cindy
When the jailer woke up and saw the prison doors wide open,
he drew his sword and was about to kill himself,
thinking that the prisoners had escaped.
But Paul shouted out in a loud voice,
“Do no harm to yourself; we are all here.”
He asked for a light and rushed in and,
trembling with fear, he fell down before Paul and Silas.
Then he brought them out and said,
“Sirs, what must I do to be saved?”
he drew his sword and was about to kill himself,
thinking that the prisoners had escaped.
But Paul shouted out in a loud voice,
“Do no harm to yourself; we are all here.”
He asked for a light and rushed in and,
trembling with fear, he fell down before Paul and Silas.
Then he brought them out and said,
“Sirs, what must I do to be saved?”
Last night, I was sick...been sick since Sunday. Daughter's birthday left me in an emotional mess. If I could just find a way to "do right" by her, I might sleep better at night, but it seems that it is just one of those things that can never be reconciled...and I am wasting too much energy trying to think up some algorithm that might fix things. Whatever happens, it's not going to happen by my willing it or desiring it.
Some part of me connects it to that moment, when I was seven days old, and my mother left me for good...that is, she thought it was the best thing to do for me. I was pissed when I realized she was not there. Everyone else was "not the Momma" and I wanted nothing to do with these surrogates!
I watch my little adopted granddaughter sleep...or rather, I noticed her. The other kids, they sleep like logs, never moving until it's time to get up. My adopted granddaughter sleeps restlessly. Every time I look in on her, she is in a different position.
I remember the mother who raised me telling me that she observed that about me, too.
I remember the mother who raised me telling me that she observed that about me, too.
"Our hearts are restless until we rest in Thee." St Augusting writes. We looks endlessly for that primal connection, to the one who created us, who carried us, who we knew before we were born. And when we don't find that in this world, we are pissed.
People who have known unconditional love can't possibly understand this problem. People who have known their real mothers can't know what it is like to not know it. For one who is wired like me, the sense of loyalty and righteousness might be expressed to an extreme. Forgiveness is the greatest and hardest thing to do...as I have been wrestling with since the end of 2012, I find myself exhausted and physically sick. I have to get to know that really angry little girl who was searching for her mother...and I have to calm her down...and love her. And each time I get close, and truly feel the wasteland that she knew...it makes me sick. No child should ever have to know this place.
And yet, I am fully aware that many children have known it, can name it, and are still affected by it...as I am. So I suppose I am here, to help the ones in this desert wasteland...but too often, when it is time to look at my own wasteland, I struggle to find any meaning at all in this kind of suffering.
Then, yesterday morning, the priest pointed out an insight in the Book of Acts, as presented in the passage above: the Roman soldier, knowing that he had failed at his task (the gates being thrown open and the possibility of the prisoners escaping) was ready to throw himself on his sword.
There is a sense of honor and righteousness inside me that is harmful: if I fail at the one task that I am given, it is not unlikely that I will consider throwing myself on my sword, because I have dishonored myself and my children by not doing the one thing that I was asked to do. I have decided that others may think this way on some level, so I have chosen to write about it here.
I have failed. I am dishonored. Death is required. Suddenly I recall many images in Japanese movies: failure means death. Dramatic, organized, ritual deaths...often romanticized in Japanese films. And we cry..and are somewhat in awe, of the hero who dies for his shame.
I have failed. I am dishonored. Death is required. Suddenly I recall many images in Japanese movies: failure means death. Dramatic, organized, ritual deaths...often romanticized in Japanese films. And we cry..and are somewhat in awe, of the hero who dies for his shame.
In this story in Acts, the Roman soldier believes he has failed. Death is required. And Paul shouts out, "Do no harm to yourself. We are all here." And the Roman soldier, given an option to live, asks of Paul: "What must I do to be saved?"
And in these words, and little story...we find the beginning...and the end...and the "all we need" of this strange religion. If we are good people, we have an "instinct" to be honorable, righteous. Ever since the Garden of Eden, we have known a little of good and evil...and that good is better. But when we have failed...to achieve the good, the honorable...and we think death is the only option...there is another option.
The option to forgive. And it is harder to grasp than death. And easier.
You say you want me
But I don't know
I see myself
and wonder
Why would you want
this broken person
this half-life breed
failing at everything
Given work to do
Trying
and failing
the wound stays open
it will not heal
until I can say
"I'm sorry"
for letting you down
for letting me down
for moving to quickly
or too slowly
for not seeing
or seeing too much
"I'm sorry"
is hard.
Harder yet, is giving it away.
Saying
"You carry it.
I'm not strong enough."
When I know
When I know
in my heart
I'm supposed to be strong,
I'm supposed to be the hero.
This is my task
To become honorable
by letting it go.
Tired now.
Love, Cindy
Monday, May 6, 2013
Birth
I think I wrote this one more than a month ago. Couldn't decide if I should post or not. Got a call from the hospital about the job. Not an option anymore. I have my own thoughts about why, and a really, really, really hope that I'm wrong. It would imply so many unforunate things, but given the events of the last few weeks, I am thinking God made a great decision on this one.
I freely admit that I am fearful about taking and making a very big change in my life. Back in 1997, everything seemed so simple...and I wonder if I have forgotten why I took this path in the first place. I keep thinking about what someone said, on that Tuesday of last week...I recall his movement, and it felt definitely of God. So just maybe...it is time.
I chose my word for this retreat, that will begin on Thursday: Birth. Birth does not come without great pain...not because what it happening is bad, but because change hurts. Turning toward another direction changes the wind, the water, the fire and the earth. Birth requires a stretching of a path, to make is straight and ready for life to walk through it. It may cause sickness and sadness. What was so comfortable has now become uncomfortable, because I have outgrown the space that once held me so nicely. Now it is time to move out into the cold, into the unknown, into the light...where the protection I had grown so fond of cannot serve me anymore.
Moving through the birth canal is the most dangerous part of being born...a baby can die there. I remember how, once I knew my child was moving out of the womb, even though I was exhausted, this was the most important work I had, to get them through this place and into the world...I pressed as hard as I could, not really knowing if I was making a difference, if I was helping...
My daughter came out without any trouble...two ounces less than 10 pounds...and no drugs. She was beautiful. On the second child, I opted for some painkillers, which made the pushing difficult. The doctor got impatient and pulled my son out with forceps...the most horrible feeling in the world, to have my son removed from me so harshly...but alive. I will never forgive myself for choosing the drugs. They might have cost him his life.
The lesson, for me, here is that, when it is time to move on...one should move on. Scary as it is, it is best to do it awake, alert, attentive to the experience. I fear I have grown almost too big to move out of this womb. I look for an easy way, a life line, a distraction...something or someone to ease the pain.
So I go into this retreat knowing that I will soon become a traveler again...wandering down a path to places I've never seen...wondering even if I will still be a Catholic when it is done...and knowing that it doesn't matter, as long as I am following God as best I can. This birth will signal the end of one thing and the beginning of another.
*********************************************
More test results back, no real bad news. Good news is that my blood is starting to look like real blood again. Energy levels comtinue to increase. So, if my sentence is to live...what shall I do with my life now?
Beautiful conversations were had this last week. I am getting close to understanding something new. With every death comes new life.(That's not the new thing) I looked at a recent photo of my son. The child seems to have disappeared...and the man has taken over completely. And the man looks like a good one. I guess I want to say, when his father died, I can see that part of the father's soul has been left behind in his son. I always heard that a man truly becomes fully a man when his father dies. Before that, he is still waiting for something.
There are so many births and deaths in one lifetime. Only one of them takes the body away. I just don't know how to explain it very well. I look into my son's eyes in that photo, the one that his wife captured so beautifully...and I see wisdom and calmness, understanding and acceptance, sadness and hope. I see someone perfectly beautiful...husband, father, carpenter, provider, theologian, shepherd...and I feel a great peace...that I have given something back to this world that will bring goodness and promise...
Last night, there was a little discussion about the Sacraments: should I speak about them, or should we get a deacon or priest to do the work. I explained that it didn't matter to me, but that, if I was asked, I needed to prepare...and that they should know, I would not speak to or of the Sacraments as technical things listed and carefully defined in the Catechism, I would speak of them as a story...about how one lives out a life in Christ.
We have:
Baptism
Reconciliation
Communion
Confirmation
Marriage/Holy Orders
Sickness/Death
The Church calls them The Seven Sacraments. I see the Sacrament of Marriage and the Sacrament of Holy Orders as co-equals in that we choose how we shall live out our faith in relationship with one, or with many. But this great and holy work that I am allowed to participate in now is much like these Sacraments. Oddly, or not so oddly, I titled my Credo for my Systematics class "Life as Sacrament." At a Protestant Divinity School, no less. For me, life is a sacrament. The world is a sacrament. Everything in this world is some reflection of God.
I feel better now.
That dead stuff
That was stuck in my throat
Is emptied
And the passageway to breathe
Is finally cleared
A bit.
Enough anyway to let
Just a hint of the idea
That I might be lovable
Into my heart.
This is ministry. This is sacrament. This is baptism and forgiveness and communion and affirmation and union and sickness and death...all done in the same moments...
we enter into family
through water and blood
we share food
and shelter
we define who we are
and who we will be
we promise
to protect
to serve
to heal
to bring together the good
to relieve the burdens
of our sisters and brothers
to protect the innocent
to cure the sick
release the captives
to reconcile
and to bury
while lifting up
into new life.....
all the while listening
and telling
our stories.
Love, Cindy
I freely admit that I am fearful about taking and making a very big change in my life. Back in 1997, everything seemed so simple...and I wonder if I have forgotten why I took this path in the first place. I keep thinking about what someone said, on that Tuesday of last week...I recall his movement, and it felt definitely of God. So just maybe...it is time.
I chose my word for this retreat, that will begin on Thursday: Birth. Birth does not come without great pain...not because what it happening is bad, but because change hurts. Turning toward another direction changes the wind, the water, the fire and the earth. Birth requires a stretching of a path, to make is straight and ready for life to walk through it. It may cause sickness and sadness. What was so comfortable has now become uncomfortable, because I have outgrown the space that once held me so nicely. Now it is time to move out into the cold, into the unknown, into the light...where the protection I had grown so fond of cannot serve me anymore.
Moving through the birth canal is the most dangerous part of being born...a baby can die there. I remember how, once I knew my child was moving out of the womb, even though I was exhausted, this was the most important work I had, to get them through this place and into the world...I pressed as hard as I could, not really knowing if I was making a difference, if I was helping...
My daughter came out without any trouble...two ounces less than 10 pounds...and no drugs. She was beautiful. On the second child, I opted for some painkillers, which made the pushing difficult. The doctor got impatient and pulled my son out with forceps...the most horrible feeling in the world, to have my son removed from me so harshly...but alive. I will never forgive myself for choosing the drugs. They might have cost him his life.
The lesson, for me, here is that, when it is time to move on...one should move on. Scary as it is, it is best to do it awake, alert, attentive to the experience. I fear I have grown almost too big to move out of this womb. I look for an easy way, a life line, a distraction...something or someone to ease the pain.
So I go into this retreat knowing that I will soon become a traveler again...wandering down a path to places I've never seen...wondering even if I will still be a Catholic when it is done...and knowing that it doesn't matter, as long as I am following God as best I can. This birth will signal the end of one thing and the beginning of another.
*********************************************
More test results back, no real bad news. Good news is that my blood is starting to look like real blood again. Energy levels comtinue to increase. So, if my sentence is to live...what shall I do with my life now?
Beautiful conversations were had this last week. I am getting close to understanding something new. With every death comes new life.(That's not the new thing) I looked at a recent photo of my son. The child seems to have disappeared...and the man has taken over completely. And the man looks like a good one. I guess I want to say, when his father died, I can see that part of the father's soul has been left behind in his son. I always heard that a man truly becomes fully a man when his father dies. Before that, he is still waiting for something.
There are so many births and deaths in one lifetime. Only one of them takes the body away. I just don't know how to explain it very well. I look into my son's eyes in that photo, the one that his wife captured so beautifully...and I see wisdom and calmness, understanding and acceptance, sadness and hope. I see someone perfectly beautiful...husband, father, carpenter, provider, theologian, shepherd...and I feel a great peace...that I have given something back to this world that will bring goodness and promise...
Last night, there was a little discussion about the Sacraments: should I speak about them, or should we get a deacon or priest to do the work. I explained that it didn't matter to me, but that, if I was asked, I needed to prepare...and that they should know, I would not speak to or of the Sacraments as technical things listed and carefully defined in the Catechism, I would speak of them as a story...about how one lives out a life in Christ.
We have:
Baptism
Reconciliation
Communion
Confirmation
Marriage/Holy Orders
Sickness/Death
The Church calls them The Seven Sacraments. I see the Sacrament of Marriage and the Sacrament of Holy Orders as co-equals in that we choose how we shall live out our faith in relationship with one, or with many. But this great and holy work that I am allowed to participate in now is much like these Sacraments. Oddly, or not so oddly, I titled my Credo for my Systematics class "Life as Sacrament." At a Protestant Divinity School, no less. For me, life is a sacrament. The world is a sacrament. Everything in this world is some reflection of God.
*******************************************************
I told my friend, that if I had a nickle for every swear word I said in conversation to a priest this week, I would be a rich woman today. He made me really angry...and it was so very spiritually healing. I know I had a conversation like this with a Methodist minister about 15 years ago, and I'm pretty sure I scared the hell out of him...but this was the right priest at the right time...and it was a different form of anger. It was a kind of sacrament, in my mind, I was given the freedom to speak about my feelings of loss and rejection and loneliness and grief and sadness and hatred...to be heard in a gentle way, all my noise rattling around in my head, to kind of vomit it out...and having done so, to proclaim in surprise, "I feel better now." And to have the priest honor my anger, not by judging it, but by really hearing it. And me, knowing that I needed that little tantrum to get unstuck, to move closer to understanding what love really looks like. I feel better now.
That dead stuff
That was stuck in my throat
Is emptied
And the passageway to breathe
Is finally cleared
A bit.
Enough anyway to let
Just a hint of the idea
That I might be lovable
Into my heart.
This is ministry. This is sacrament. This is baptism and forgiveness and communion and affirmation and union and sickness and death...all done in the same moments...
we enter into family
through water and blood
we share food
and shelter
we define who we are
and who we will be
we promise
to protect
to serve
to heal
to bring together the good
to relieve the burdens
of our sisters and brothers
to protect the innocent
to cure the sick
release the captives
to reconcile
and to bury
while lifting up
into new life.....
all the while listening
and telling
our stories.
Love, Cindy
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Information, Please
Going through my emails concerning next week's retreat, I clicked on one not part of that group. It was one of those forwards that people who don't use Facebook like to send...often I delete them without reading them, often nightmare new age "chain letters" designed to guilt someone into saying "Yes, you're my friend" ten times a day. Yet, I realize, too, that many people don't know how to communicate any other way. Some people send cards in the mail, and just sign their names. Me...I always have to write something that let's you know you are special. As a result, I have about three drawers in my desk in the den stuffed with letters and cards, begun but never sent...and some of the people I've tried to write died six years ago...yet, if I send a card, and just sign my name...my friend is often miffed...because they know I write volumes, and they feel cheated. There is no win here. The truth of my "broken" ways of communicating leave me exhausted and pained, because often people never know how much I love them, pray for them, am thinking about them.
Today is my daughter's birthday. I will not be seeing her, though she lives about three miles from me. We don't communicate well. I trip all over myself in her presence. I say the wrong thing. All the time. The only peace I have is knowing it's a generational thing. The mother that raised me, I felt she never heard me...and I finally stopped talking to her, too, until I had a Methodist minister teach me that the world is not here to serve me, I am here to serve the world. Life get better when we stop expecting the world to be nice to us. I never taught that to my daughter. I didn't learn it until she was all grown up.
Got a message from my mother's brother this morning...the mother that gave me life, the mother whose blood runs in my veins...he saw the picture of my daughter getting her first bath...in the kitchen sink (we were too poor to have a baby bath tub)...and he wrote me: I'm going up the hill to talk to her now...
He was going to the place where my mother is buried.
If you could see me now
You'd see that
It is still hard
To accept that you are not here
Another May
When I might have had the chance
To hold your hand
And
Even though
We still were broken
We had each other
If you could see me now
You'd probably not care too much
About all the mistakes that were made
In the name of love
You'd just be glad
To look into my eyes
And I could look into yours
And we could tell each other
"It's gonna be alright."
Nearly 30 years ago
And I can still cry
Still wanting to hear your voice
Hear your stories
Drink coffee with you
And maybe take a walk
On this fine spring day.
I would have liked to introduce you
To your granddaughter
And let you hold her
And let her look
Into your green eyes
And you look into her blue ones
And maybe together
You could have shared a lifetime in that moment
So the now
The being alone
Might feel different
If you could see me now
I'd tell you that I'm glad I'm here
Even though it is hard
It is still beautiful
"I had you
All to myself for one week"
Those are my favorite words
on the cassette you left for me
on the coffee table
the day you died.
And I had you
for five glorious hours
in the airport coffee shop
though neither of us thought
to bring a camera
we were so nervous
Both wondering
"Will she like me?"
If you could see me now
I'd say
"Thank you for my life."
Broken pieces
Trauma too much
Sins forgiven and unforgiven
I got to float down a river
And climb a tree
And kiss an astronaut
and give birth
to two beautiful, healthy babies
and go camping
and walking under starry skies
and hold my grandchildren while
they read or sing to me
If you could only see me now
You'd know how much I love you.
Love, Cindy
Today is my daughter's birthday. I will not be seeing her, though she lives about three miles from me. We don't communicate well. I trip all over myself in her presence. I say the wrong thing. All the time. The only peace I have is knowing it's a generational thing. The mother that raised me, I felt she never heard me...and I finally stopped talking to her, too, until I had a Methodist minister teach me that the world is not here to serve me, I am here to serve the world. Life get better when we stop expecting the world to be nice to us. I never taught that to my daughter. I didn't learn it until she was all grown up.
Got a message from my mother's brother this morning...the mother that gave me life, the mother whose blood runs in my veins...he saw the picture of my daughter getting her first bath...in the kitchen sink (we were too poor to have a baby bath tub)...and he wrote me: I'm going up the hill to talk to her now...
He was going to the place where my mother is buried.
If you could see me now
You'd see that
It is still hard
To accept that you are not here
Another May
When I might have had the chance
To hold your hand
And
Even though
We still were broken
We had each other
If you could see me now
You'd probably not care too much
About all the mistakes that were made
In the name of love
You'd just be glad
To look into my eyes
And I could look into yours
And we could tell each other
"It's gonna be alright."
Nearly 30 years ago
And I can still cry
Still wanting to hear your voice
Hear your stories
Drink coffee with you
And maybe take a walk
On this fine spring day.
I would have liked to introduce you
To your granddaughter
And let you hold her
And let her look
Into your green eyes
And you look into her blue ones
And maybe together
You could have shared a lifetime in that moment
So the now
The being alone
Might feel different
If you could see me now
I'd tell you that I'm glad I'm here
Even though it is hard
It is still beautiful
"I had you
All to myself for one week"
Those are my favorite words
on the cassette you left for me
on the coffee table
the day you died.
And I had you
for five glorious hours
in the airport coffee shop
though neither of us thought
to bring a camera
we were so nervous
Both wondering
"Will she like me?"
If you could see me now
I'd say
"Thank you for my life."
Broken pieces
Trauma too much
Sins forgiven and unforgiven
I got to float down a river
And climb a tree
And kiss an astronaut
and give birth
to two beautiful, healthy babies
and go camping
and walking under starry skies
and hold my grandchildren while
they read or sing to me
If you could only see me now
You'd know how much I love you.
Love, Cindy
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Images
I played a little piano today
I fell from grace...
And remembered...a lot of things
I thought were behind me.
I tried to talk with a priest about it
And he was totally dismissive.
It was fair enough, for I had little respect for him, too
He was simply the one that was THERE...
We didn't agree on much.
That's happened before with a priest or two
But things always seemed to work themselves out between us.
We would learn to appreciate each other.
There are just a couple
I simply don't want to understand
Or like
But my relationship with God
Demands that I listen
Even when I don't want to listen
So
When the priest gave me a task
While he stared at the door
And gave me the generic solution
to a challenge he obviously doesn't want to listen to
I still know there is something there
Something I need to do
And
On my own terms
I did it
And that led me down a path
Of encounters unexpected
And without knowing it
I did get my answer
To my question
From a place
I never thought I'd go.
Maybe that's why
We have to love our enemies
Those who disapprove
Look down on us
Judge us
Without knowing anything about us
Because God loves all of us
And
I think
If we discern carefully
Prayerfully
We will find
Our truest self
When we trust God
first.
The path to the answer
might require
letting in the
disagreeable
the annoying
Because
maybe
we need to remember
taking
a bit of... manure
will make the flowers
bloom.
Love, Cindy
May Day 2013
I fell from grace...
And remembered...a lot of things
I thought were behind me.
I tried to talk with a priest about it
And he was totally dismissive.
It was fair enough, for I had little respect for him, too
He was simply the one that was THERE...
We didn't agree on much.
That's happened before with a priest or two
But things always seemed to work themselves out between us.
We would learn to appreciate each other.
There are just a couple
I simply don't want to understand
Or like
But my relationship with God
Demands that I listen
Even when I don't want to listen
So
When the priest gave me a task
While he stared at the door
And gave me the generic solution
to a challenge he obviously doesn't want to listen to
I still know there is something there
Something I need to do
And
On my own terms
I did it
And that led me down a path
Of encounters unexpected
And without knowing it
I did get my answer
To my question
From a place
I never thought I'd go.
Maybe that's why
We have to love our enemies
Those who disapprove
Look down on us
Judge us
Without knowing anything about us
Because God loves all of us
And
I think
If we discern carefully
Prayerfully
We will find
Our truest self
When we trust God
first.
The path to the answer
might require
letting in the
disagreeable
the annoying
Because
maybe
we need to remember
taking
a bit of... manure
will make the flowers
bloom.
Love, Cindy
May Day 2013
Crush
Cool water
Oh how I miss the cool water
Sun in my face
Blinding me when I look up through the trees
Smelling like beer
My loved ones near
Starting all over again.
I can't even describe the peace I found there
I only know that I can never go back there again.
Margie and me
We'd drink our Spanada
Flying down the road
In that yellow "66 Caprice
I felt the sun burning me through my jeans
We'd seen all the houses we'd want to have
Someday.
Let me cry now.
I'll never know that peace again.
Cool water
I can smell the blues and greens around me
Even now.
I can smell the mud and wet leaves
I still feel the familiar cool breeze on my sunburned face
Let me cry now.
I remember long talks,
long walks with you
Not believing someone
Would ever understand me
Until you did
I remember lots of coffee
And my first omelet
Talking to horses
Learning a different kind of peace
And I cry now.
I remember the day you fell in love.
I saw her
And I knew
If I was a man,
I'd fall in love with her, too.
There were no more talks or walks
It was hard to live near you
And not be near you anymore.
Inside, I was happy for you
You were a good man
And she was good for you
So I was happy, too
But I still cried.
***circa 1977
I recognize a pattern in me. I want friends, not lovers. Lovers come and go. They burn bright and then they burn out. They want so deeply...but only for a moment. Achieving the goal, they move on and set another goal. Friends endure the ups and downs and upside downs. I do not ask God for lovers. I can have as many of those as I want, if I wanted them.
I ask God for friends.
Today...I realized, perhaps for the first time in a long time, how I have been blessed with friends. The man/boy this poem is about came up during a conversation on Friday. Odd that I would find this poem today. I remember someone telling me that he loved me. If he did, I never knew it. We were friends.
On this feast of St Catherine of Siena, I read again that she chose to live in the world, rather than inseclusion. It is easier to hide away.
***********
I was interrupted.
Tried to polish it, but I can't.
So here is it...as is.
Love, Cindy
Oh how I miss the cool water
Sun in my face
Blinding me when I look up through the trees
Smelling like beer
My loved ones near
Starting all over again.
I can't even describe the peace I found there
I only know that I can never go back there again.
Margie and me
We'd drink our Spanada
Flying down the road
In that yellow "66 Caprice
I felt the sun burning me through my jeans
We'd seen all the houses we'd want to have
Someday.
Let me cry now.
I'll never know that peace again.
Cool water
I can smell the blues and greens around me
Even now.
I can smell the mud and wet leaves
I still feel the familiar cool breeze on my sunburned face
Let me cry now.
I remember long talks,
long walks with you
Not believing someone
Would ever understand me
Until you did
I remember lots of coffee
And my first omelet
Talking to horses
Learning a different kind of peace
And I cry now.
I remember the day you fell in love.
I saw her
And I knew
If I was a man,
I'd fall in love with her, too.
There were no more talks or walks
It was hard to live near you
And not be near you anymore.
Inside, I was happy for you
You were a good man
And she was good for you
So I was happy, too
But I still cried.
***circa 1977
I recognize a pattern in me. I want friends, not lovers. Lovers come and go. They burn bright and then they burn out. They want so deeply...but only for a moment. Achieving the goal, they move on and set another goal. Friends endure the ups and downs and upside downs. I do not ask God for lovers. I can have as many of those as I want, if I wanted them.
I ask God for friends.
Today...I realized, perhaps for the first time in a long time, how I have been blessed with friends. The man/boy this poem is about came up during a conversation on Friday. Odd that I would find this poem today. I remember someone telling me that he loved me. If he did, I never knew it. We were friends.
On this feast of St Catherine of Siena, I read again that she chose to live in the world, rather than inseclusion. It is easier to hide away.
***********
I was interrupted.
Tried to polish it, but I can't.
So here is it...as is.
Love, Cindy
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