I'm warning you, things are going on that I do not yet understand. Began the Office, as my computer booted up, already journaling in my hand-written journal...and knew I had to come here. "Christ is born for us, let us adore him" and my screen saver comes up with a photo taken of a graveyard in Austin, a photo I snapped when I was stuck in traffic on the I-35 overpass. It fades and a photo of my granddaughter lights up, smiling, surrounded with heart lights, holding a little piece of paper on which is written "you are loved."
No doubt, it will be an interesting St. Stephen's Day.
I began to write, to pray, about my family troubles. I just have to keep handing over my daughter, and my son, to God. They are just beginning to understand grief in new ways. They have to learn the things you can teach, you just have to live...those things without words, but packed with feelings...and the only way to escape the hell of them, is to feel them, and then to let them go, when you are ready to move past the pain of being human. And you move in to that other realm of being alive, the spiritual life, the soulful life, that stops expecting others to behave the way you think they ought to behave.
It's always a surprise, well at least to me, when I realize that even in my best mode, I still make assumptions about others...that are wrong. I mean, I am constantly in a learning mode, watching the signs and wonders, thinking I know "how" to do things in the best way I can. Then something surprises me completely...and only then do I realize that I've been assuming I understand something that I do not understand. Bottom line: I've been playing God again: I think I know.
I hated those passages in Frances de Sales' writings and in Thomas A Kempis' Imitation of Christ, when it spoke of not trusting our feelings...which I had somehow connected to the idea of "not trusting my gut" which is really a completely different thing. Our feelings change...constantly because they are based on the illusions of things we think we know. Our gut really knows the different between right and wrong, fact and opinion, good and evil. Our gut, an ugly-sounding word in the English language, knows the truth, but our feelings are always trying to influence or contradict it. Is it the soul? Maybe, but I think the soul is still a bit malleable. The soul can choose. Truth cannot choose, it is the only real thing there is. The soul can be influenced, but is kind of a permanent record of our choices. I don't think the soul is good or bad, but it can be made into something good or bad...or worse: indifferent. Hell lives in indifference. Or indifference lives in Hell.
The most evil words ever uttered by any human being: I don't care. (in the real form, not as some manipulative ploy to get others to play your game)
Think about it. To hate, one has to love. To love, one is able to hate. To not care is not a redeemable quality. It is a hard place to get to, but once there...I don't think there is an escape...and maybe no one is really there, in that place where you do not care.
All those feelings I was trying to write out in my hand journal, how to face the next thing, that I am completing four years now in my promise to God...and I still do not see how I can live an ordinary life...and part of me is sad about it and another part is so excited to live this life (those damn feelings confusing me again)...and all I could think about was my granddaughters...and our conversations of this week:
I sat with my two oldest granddaughters and we watched my epic film: Star Wars IV: A New Hope. They loved it (although they loved "Princess Bride" more) and I thought about, when I married Bob, a thing I thought I would never do...and we were married and it was like, "well, what do we do now?" and so we took 26 people to the movie theater to see Star Wars. I remember sitting between my husband (a physicist/astronomer) and father-in-law (a true F-4 fighter pilot, shot down, POW Hanoi Hilton survivor, at that time base commander in Miami) and marveling at "the greatest movie ever made." Now I sat with my granddaughters, sharing with them one of my happiest moments...
Again, it seemed "The Princess Bride" was more to their liking. I sent them off to bed with a couple of Star Wars books to read, actually telling them to be careful with the books...because they mattered...
I went off to bed to read/pray my breviary...and I heard a scream from the room next to mine..."What?! What?! No! No!" and my oldest granddaughter comes in to my room, outraged. Looks me in the eye and says,
"Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker's father? Are you kidding me?!"
And I am actually stunned. Surprised. I feel like I've entered a "That 70s Show" episode. And I am impressed. She's connected enough in a single watching of the movie to be outraged by this plot twist. The younger one comes in the room and we discuss it. The younger one wants better answers. She wants to understand. And there we are, in a God moment...and my wheels begin to spin.
Darth Vader wasn't always evil. He was once a good person. Evil doesn't really happen quickly. It comes slowly, I tell her. We make small moves. How we deal with pain and suffering, with disappointment. We know what is right, but we make bad choices, little choices, that don't seem to matter too much...but they do matter...and one day we wake up and realize we are in a truly bad place...and we think we have to stay there.
I'm sure I said something more profound, because I remember their eyes...and I was thinking, how God is so perfect: these little girls are on their way to growing into women, and I can't stop that from happening, but they need to know, and someday remember, the choices they make need to be based on what their gut tells them, not what their feelings tell them. Did they hear that part? I don't know. I just have to pray that they did.
And Luke has to deal with the choices his father made. Face the curse/blessing of having great power and learning what to do and how to do it...not just for the good of one, but the good of many. The girls will continue to learn about how others learn, through the story and use the story to form their own lives.
You don't have to choose God. You don't have to buy into a story about a little baby, born in a cave, resting in a manger, born of a woman...that will change the world. The whole world. Not just a town...the whole world. A child who put the pieces together for us, so we might choose life over death and joy over sadness and recognize that our lives do not end when we die. We matter. What we do matters. Bending down before a child.
The new Pope carried the baby and placed him in a manger. He behaved like Mary. Is anyone getting the fact that he gets it? He will lead this church less by his words, which can be twisted by people wanting to use him for their own gain...he will lead by example. He is leading by example...and that's going to annoy the powerful ones...who suddenly realize that they have very little power...because the only real power it love. And you can't buy that, or bottle it, or lock it in a trunk. You can't kill it, wash it off, forget that it exists. I know. I've tried.
Love never ends.
That's the real story about the baby. Birth to death and beyond death.
Love never ends.
O Come Let Us Adore Him...if you dare...
You will not leave Him in the same way that you entered.
That's a fact. Not a feeling. Not an opinion.
Fact.
Just ask Stephen.
Love, Cindy
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Stranger things have happened...
6 a.m. came way too early for me this morning, perhaps because it was well after 1 a.m. when I fell asleep. Would have been earlier if I had not said my prayers, but I needed to say my prayers. All of them. Scale tipped horribly high this morning, but that's expected. Too many tastes to savor in this season. We don't really celebrate out of abundance so much as extravagance these days, though I suppose both are true. Perhaps a hundred years ago, being fat was a sign of great success. You had not only enough to eat, but so much that you could eat too much if you wanted to. People who survived the wars in Europe still have a bit of greater respect for fat people...they know more about starving than most of here on the other side of the pond. Me, I put on my stretchy clothes and make promises to change my ways. But now, a hundred years later, skinny is a sign of wealth. Skinny is a sign you have money for your hobby to exercise, you have a personal trainer, and a dietitian who plans your meals for you, and it's all grown organically...I wonder what we will be like a hundred years from now.
Mostly over my head were thoughts of my son, looking at him and wondering if he was missing his father. Of course he is, but those conversations are for his wife, not his mother. Still, I wonder. Little grandson crawled into my lap while I was trying to eat a little bit of chocolate pie. A lady at the end of the table was complimenting my diamond ring. She noticed the different one I wore on Thanksgiving. I was kind of surprised that she noticed them, because I have worn them for years. Little grandson crawled into my lap, "Did Grandpa Bob give you that ring, Nana?" "No, my uncle gave it to my aunt and my aunt gave it to me." He is the one who is always asking about my connection with his grandfather. He is always reinforcing for me, which is in many ways comforting, that we were connected. Still, I look across the table at my son and want to know if he is okay...and I want the chance to miss his father, but those things just aren't allowed. I am required to "move on." Society dictates how we are allowed to grieve, and if we are allowed to grieve. Once, it was okay to talk about it...a hundred years ago, we handled it differently.
[I think of the move "Captains Courageous"...1937 movie. Spencer Tracy won his first Oscar when he made this movie. The link I put here earlier was filled with too many errors, so I deleted it. ]
Suddenly, I see Harvey (played by Freddy Bartholomew) kneeling at the communion rail in a Catholic Church, using his money that he earned as part of the crew (after being rescued in the north Atlantic) to light a candle for Manuel (played by Spencer Tracy), his "father/protector", who died in the journey back to the Gloucester.
He lights a candle and prays. I love the movie. A rich little boy with a father too busy to be bothered by childish things finds a father in a poor Portuguese sailor (yes the review claims he is Italian), who speaks about his father, also a fisherman, who died on the sea. Manuel grieves his father by playing a musical instrument (a hurdy gurdy, I think) his father played, making up his own little songs because he has no formal education. Harvey cries, as the priest (a father) allows him space to be sad and his real father (who has distanced himself from his son after his wife died) hides quietly in back of the church and watches and learns what it is to love.
I have tried to get several priests to watch this movie, without success. I wanted for years to give the movie to "Grandpa Bob," hoping it would kind of catalyze him into spending more time with his son...but all those chances are over now...and my getting angry again over all the missed opportunities is just a waste of energy. Yet, it is my grief. And it is very, very real. I am aware that perhaps two men have loved me completely in my life, and I can take that to my grave, grow comfort from it as I let go of this earthly life...and one of the two has gone on to his next thing and I really miss him.
Still, I am so deeply aware of how significant it became for us to not remain together. I look at the little boy on my lap, not able to understand how "some people can love and then leave and go do something else--I have no idea what he thinks and why he keeps asking the questions--perhaps he expects me to have a replacement, I can't be sure. But it is a mystery to be solved. I am taken by his thoughts...and think of who I am now. It all does seem to have greater meaning, when you take the time to reflect. That the passion of one thing evolves into another.
Who I am now, I do like so much better than who I was then. And I see the gifts and blessings brought through that darkness. I always wanted to do "great things" and I am doing them now...in small and often unnoticeable ways...which is better...because I do not like people to expect anything from me. I don't want that kind of pressure. In fact, I simply refuse it.
But I was moved by the story about the child, whose family is fighting to keep on life support. An interesting story because it is very similar to a case in Florida some years back about a husband who wanted to take his wife off the ventilator to let her die, because she was brain dead...and now this child, who has been declared brain dead; a judge has ruled that the hospital can take her off life support...the difference, of course, is about money. The husband's wife still had money to pay for the many years on life support. The child's family obviously does not.
Harvey's father had enough money to buy a fleet of ships, but did not know how to father his own child. The poor man, who had nothing but love, could love the boy, father the boy.The husband in Florida was ready to let his wife go, and get on with his life. Her parents were not. The child here has family not ready to let her go, but no money to pay the bills. And the hospital is losing money every day that child stays on life support.
Who are we...to have the power to choose life or death? Is the bottom line of what we are as human beings totally dependent on money? What do these choices, and stories tell us about who we are?
This new Pope is being criticized by rich people for suggesting that we, as human beings, are responsible for our brothers and sisters. He has chosen to take the opulence of the church down a notch and care for the poor. This has outraged some people who think throwing money at "ungrateful" people is bad business. Not entering into the speculation of whether the little girl is alive or dead, I ask instead, how to we help the living live? Grief is a huge part of our lives. Every time we choose to love, we must accept an eventual goodbye. How do we say good-bye? How do we let go?
The child born in the manger came for one purpose: to set people free to love. That child came so that He could leave...and teach us how to love...and how to leave...and that we had some place to go when our bodies wore out. That our souls are immortal...and they have the potential to know joy. Or hell. It all comes down to that little child, lying in a manger, on what was a dark night, bringing hope to the hungry and the grieving, to the exhausted and the lonely, to the sick and the outcast...reminding every single human being that our lives matter. What we do while we are here matters. And heaven or hell rests completely in the choices we make.
People who have money as their god do not want to be told that money is their god, but if we who know differently do not tell that truth then we are guilty of an even greater evil: pride. It is a fine line, to speak the truth with clarity...and to not let it become a weapon. Only one person did it right...and he did it so well, we cannot stop thinking about him, even if we don't like him.
Love is like that.
It wounds.
It heals.
It redeems.
Think about that child today. Think about the children you know...and the child inside you.
Love them gently. Love them all.
Stranger things have happened...
Mostly over my head were thoughts of my son, looking at him and wondering if he was missing his father. Of course he is, but those conversations are for his wife, not his mother. Still, I wonder. Little grandson crawled into my lap while I was trying to eat a little bit of chocolate pie. A lady at the end of the table was complimenting my diamond ring. She noticed the different one I wore on Thanksgiving. I was kind of surprised that she noticed them, because I have worn them for years. Little grandson crawled into my lap, "Did Grandpa Bob give you that ring, Nana?" "No, my uncle gave it to my aunt and my aunt gave it to me." He is the one who is always asking about my connection with his grandfather. He is always reinforcing for me, which is in many ways comforting, that we were connected. Still, I look across the table at my son and want to know if he is okay...and I want the chance to miss his father, but those things just aren't allowed. I am required to "move on." Society dictates how we are allowed to grieve, and if we are allowed to grieve. Once, it was okay to talk about it...a hundred years ago, we handled it differently.
[I think of the move "Captains Courageous"...1937 movie. Spencer Tracy won his first Oscar when he made this movie. The link I put here earlier was filled with too many errors, so I deleted it. ]
Suddenly, I see Harvey (played by Freddy Bartholomew) kneeling at the communion rail in a Catholic Church, using his money that he earned as part of the crew (after being rescued in the north Atlantic) to light a candle for Manuel (played by Spencer Tracy), his "father/protector", who died in the journey back to the Gloucester.
He lights a candle and prays. I love the movie. A rich little boy with a father too busy to be bothered by childish things finds a father in a poor Portuguese sailor (yes the review claims he is Italian), who speaks about his father, also a fisherman, who died on the sea. Manuel grieves his father by playing a musical instrument (a hurdy gurdy, I think) his father played, making up his own little songs because he has no formal education. Harvey cries, as the priest (a father) allows him space to be sad and his real father (who has distanced himself from his son after his wife died) hides quietly in back of the church and watches and learns what it is to love.
I have tried to get several priests to watch this movie, without success. I wanted for years to give the movie to "Grandpa Bob," hoping it would kind of catalyze him into spending more time with his son...but all those chances are over now...and my getting angry again over all the missed opportunities is just a waste of energy. Yet, it is my grief. And it is very, very real. I am aware that perhaps two men have loved me completely in my life, and I can take that to my grave, grow comfort from it as I let go of this earthly life...and one of the two has gone on to his next thing and I really miss him.
Still, I am so deeply aware of how significant it became for us to not remain together. I look at the little boy on my lap, not able to understand how "some people can love and then leave and go do something else--I have no idea what he thinks and why he keeps asking the questions--perhaps he expects me to have a replacement, I can't be sure. But it is a mystery to be solved. I am taken by his thoughts...and think of who I am now. It all does seem to have greater meaning, when you take the time to reflect. That the passion of one thing evolves into another.
Who I am now, I do like so much better than who I was then. And I see the gifts and blessings brought through that darkness. I always wanted to do "great things" and I am doing them now...in small and often unnoticeable ways...which is better...because I do not like people to expect anything from me. I don't want that kind of pressure. In fact, I simply refuse it.
But I was moved by the story about the child, whose family is fighting to keep on life support. An interesting story because it is very similar to a case in Florida some years back about a husband who wanted to take his wife off the ventilator to let her die, because she was brain dead...and now this child, who has been declared brain dead; a judge has ruled that the hospital can take her off life support...the difference, of course, is about money. The husband's wife still had money to pay for the many years on life support. The child's family obviously does not.
Harvey's father had enough money to buy a fleet of ships, but did not know how to father his own child. The poor man, who had nothing but love, could love the boy, father the boy.The husband in Florida was ready to let his wife go, and get on with his life. Her parents were not. The child here has family not ready to let her go, but no money to pay the bills. And the hospital is losing money every day that child stays on life support.
Who are we...to have the power to choose life or death? Is the bottom line of what we are as human beings totally dependent on money? What do these choices, and stories tell us about who we are?
This new Pope is being criticized by rich people for suggesting that we, as human beings, are responsible for our brothers and sisters. He has chosen to take the opulence of the church down a notch and care for the poor. This has outraged some people who think throwing money at "ungrateful" people is bad business. Not entering into the speculation of whether the little girl is alive or dead, I ask instead, how to we help the living live? Grief is a huge part of our lives. Every time we choose to love, we must accept an eventual goodbye. How do we say good-bye? How do we let go?
The child born in the manger came for one purpose: to set people free to love. That child came so that He could leave...and teach us how to love...and how to leave...and that we had some place to go when our bodies wore out. That our souls are immortal...and they have the potential to know joy. Or hell. It all comes down to that little child, lying in a manger, on what was a dark night, bringing hope to the hungry and the grieving, to the exhausted and the lonely, to the sick and the outcast...reminding every single human being that our lives matter. What we do while we are here matters. And heaven or hell rests completely in the choices we make.
People who have money as their god do not want to be told that money is their god, but if we who know differently do not tell that truth then we are guilty of an even greater evil: pride. It is a fine line, to speak the truth with clarity...and to not let it become a weapon. Only one person did it right...and he did it so well, we cannot stop thinking about him, even if we don't like him.
Love is like that.
It wounds.
It heals.
It redeems.
Think about that child today. Think about the children you know...and the child inside you.
Love them gently. Love them all.
Stranger things have happened...
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Advent 2013
Spiritually speaking, I feel like I'm riding a roller-coaster, speeding up hills and clinging for dear life and screaming the whole way down. There is a kind of war between the practical and the impractical forever going on. And long lists of questions:
Should I actively try to date again? Would this choice improve my life/outlook...and improve the life of another? Should I set my sights on a real job, or continue to work as I am, without any kind of real accountability or pay? Should I just let God take care of me? Is this selfish or a true living in Christ? Should I move south, abandon all the crap (mostly books)...and just live to hear the sound of the Guadalupe flow into the Gulf of Mexico? And a thousand other meaningless thoughts...
I played the piano at St Monica's after our long meeting for ACTS. Women I have just met come up to me and say thank you, and offer affirmations and hugs. I am smart enough to understand that I am only a little involved, a means to an end...and I am gladdened that they have found a bit of themselves. I am aware of my gift, but because, in the world at this time, I know I will never be a priest (according to the rules of the Catholic Church)...and so I can never become proud, or too happy, with anything I might do. I do what I can. Under other circumstances, I might have been able to do more. But I'll never know, and this work is good enough, perhaps, to please God.
So the only time I get to be "really real" is when I am alone. One could argue that's just a fool talking, the only reality is the one where other people tell you who you are, what you can be. What you must be for them, how the pieces fit together. But there is a truth in our uniqueness that only God knows. Only God understands....and when the world gets too heavy, I go off with God to become light again.
That's what I did at St Monica's late Sunday night. I prayed, in my own way, by making music. Again, yesterday, at the Families of Nazareth retreat, someone came up and said..."Your music...is just..." and I nodded. "It is a gift from God." It has a way of breaking through all of my barriers...the walls I create to protect me from the meanness of the world...and it is without question my beauty that God gave me to change me and others into love. I don't know how to explain it properly. If you are open to it, it happens. But you have to want it.
So I just didn't know what to do with all my questions, questions I know I don't need to ask. They just fill space to protect me from growing too close to God. I think I somehow decided that I should not grow too close, because I don't really have a "grounder" or a "watcher"...a trustworthy witness. And I know that thinking is crap, too. I simply don't want to go alone. And God is making it clearer and clearer that I do not get the gift of a companion...well, I have one or two trusted friends...but I don't feel completely safe to take them with me. I kind of made a promise in the presence of one awhile back...and that covenant seems to hold its ground despite my efforts to recreate it. So I try to work within the parameters that God has set...and every now and then, I can leave the foolish questions behind.
I played. I do not like the remodeled church, that is, it has changed the sound of my prayers. The literal sound. I miss the old wood box the piano hid in. I do not like the tile floors and the annoying bright light, which shines even in the night. So I continued to redirect myself to something more pleasant...and there she was, off in the distance: Mary. Just looking at me. Making eye contact with me, with her hands open, standing on the world...and telling me, like she did her Son:
Look at me.
Don't be so distracted by all these new things
Yes, I know how you loved what was
But it is gone
Receive what is
Now you can see me more clearly
I know this is hard for you
Just don't take your eyes off me
I will see you through it
Just like I did my sweet boy
And his was...perhaps harder...
But I know this is hard for you,
this letting go all over again.
You have work to do
and it is best that you do it
with a smile in your heart
Don't worry,
I know it is not what you wanted
what you dreamed about
But it is a good thing
And worthy of your very best effort
Look and me
and play...
Baby mine, don't you cry
Baby mine, dry your eyes
Rest your head
Close to my heart
Never to part
Baby of mine...
Love, Cindy
Should I actively try to date again? Would this choice improve my life/outlook...and improve the life of another? Should I set my sights on a real job, or continue to work as I am, without any kind of real accountability or pay? Should I just let God take care of me? Is this selfish or a true living in Christ? Should I move south, abandon all the crap (mostly books)...and just live to hear the sound of the Guadalupe flow into the Gulf of Mexico? And a thousand other meaningless thoughts...
I played the piano at St Monica's after our long meeting for ACTS. Women I have just met come up to me and say thank you, and offer affirmations and hugs. I am smart enough to understand that I am only a little involved, a means to an end...and I am gladdened that they have found a bit of themselves. I am aware of my gift, but because, in the world at this time, I know I will never be a priest (according to the rules of the Catholic Church)...and so I can never become proud, or too happy, with anything I might do. I do what I can. Under other circumstances, I might have been able to do more. But I'll never know, and this work is good enough, perhaps, to please God.
So the only time I get to be "really real" is when I am alone. One could argue that's just a fool talking, the only reality is the one where other people tell you who you are, what you can be. What you must be for them, how the pieces fit together. But there is a truth in our uniqueness that only God knows. Only God understands....and when the world gets too heavy, I go off with God to become light again.
That's what I did at St Monica's late Sunday night. I prayed, in my own way, by making music. Again, yesterday, at the Families of Nazareth retreat, someone came up and said..."Your music...is just..." and I nodded. "It is a gift from God." It has a way of breaking through all of my barriers...the walls I create to protect me from the meanness of the world...and it is without question my beauty that God gave me to change me and others into love. I don't know how to explain it properly. If you are open to it, it happens. But you have to want it.
So I just didn't know what to do with all my questions, questions I know I don't need to ask. They just fill space to protect me from growing too close to God. I think I somehow decided that I should not grow too close, because I don't really have a "grounder" or a "watcher"...a trustworthy witness. And I know that thinking is crap, too. I simply don't want to go alone. And God is making it clearer and clearer that I do not get the gift of a companion...well, I have one or two trusted friends...but I don't feel completely safe to take them with me. I kind of made a promise in the presence of one awhile back...and that covenant seems to hold its ground despite my efforts to recreate it. So I try to work within the parameters that God has set...and every now and then, I can leave the foolish questions behind.
I played. I do not like the remodeled church, that is, it has changed the sound of my prayers. The literal sound. I miss the old wood box the piano hid in. I do not like the tile floors and the annoying bright light, which shines even in the night. So I continued to redirect myself to something more pleasant...and there she was, off in the distance: Mary. Just looking at me. Making eye contact with me, with her hands open, standing on the world...and telling me, like she did her Son:
Look at me.
Don't be so distracted by all these new things
Yes, I know how you loved what was
But it is gone
Receive what is
Now you can see me more clearly
I know this is hard for you
Just don't take your eyes off me
I will see you through it
Just like I did my sweet boy
And his was...perhaps harder...
But I know this is hard for you,
this letting go all over again.
You have work to do
and it is best that you do it
with a smile in your heart
Don't worry,
I know it is not what you wanted
what you dreamed about
But it is a good thing
And worthy of your very best effort
Look and me
and play...
Baby mine, don't you cry
Baby mine, dry your eyes
Rest your head
Close to my heart
Never to part
Baby of mine...
Love, Cindy
Friday, November 15, 2013
The Seven Deadlies
I can't seem to stop dreaming. Not that I would ever want to, but I am remembering them more and more as I wake. Last night, I dreamed of someone who hurt me terribly when I was a child. In my dream, I was not a child and I went to war with him. And he did not win. I have no doubt the dream was prompted by the events of yesterday, a discussion of the seven deadly sins and the seven lively virtues...and the stories that followed. My own energies were stirred up, and they had no safe place to go but into my dreams. I am grateful to have the ability to remember them. It also seems like years since I have had these "good" dreams, these "working it all out" dreams. Finally.
So it was a bit more than creepy, when I picked up a book this morning...one that I got for 50 cents at Goodwill...thinking it was a book about a show I listened to on public radio, but it was much different...kind of like porn, but not. I planned to throw it away, but thumbed through the pages and came up with something...about sin. Sub specie aeternitatas: meaning, "under the aspect of the eternal" Spinoza: "There is no reason to believe that anything matters." Frankl: "It is a peculiarity of man that he can only live by looking to the future"
I could not find the Catholic reference to the quote, although I am not giving up. The quote in the book concerns the nature of man...and claims witchcraft to be the reason for man to choose to sin sexually. It was a disturbing quote that made a lot of sense. I wrote it out in my private journal. (Yes, I have things I don't put here) It perhaps makes more sense to men, because it was written by men about men...but for me, stuck in this woman's body, it provides more insight into how men think, how they view their existence. And how they view their "rights" as male human creatures. It was no accident that I came upon this book, just after some challenging conversations and a wonderfully straightforward lecture on the seven deadly sins.
Like it or not, everything is gender biased. I watched a video this morning on FB about a seal, a female seal, who decided to bond with a woman sitting on the beach. What prompts the seal to become so enamored with the woman, female, but of a different species? It was beautiful, almost courting in its nature. And maybe it was. A gay seal? Visions of "Dumbo" come to my head, the story of a misunderstood mother and her very unique child. No one really understands another person, they can only assume some things based on what they observe and what they already know. A gay seal? Definitely a lonely seal...I'm thinking she was attracted to the red jacket the woman wore. It looked like blood. Women know about blood, in a very different way than men. Blood is life. Blood creates life, nurtures it, sustains it. But I perhaps digress too much.
There is an eternal something that I am always looking for and towards.
According to the quote in the book, men are doomed (by witchcraft) to seek out and use women...and that "bottom line" is the ultimate inescapable reality of being a man. (Sounds rather Calvinistic to me). So without reading the book, I am assuming that the author is using the statement of the Church to justify his actions: I can't help myself. I was born that way. The Devil made me do it...or in this case, "The witch has made me into a demon."
I am not responsible for my actions. Forgive me.
This coming after a lesson in sin, conversations about people being invisible, my dream of an adult who used me for his own pleasure...this is not an accident.
I prefer to think that God did not create human beings as corrupt as we have become. I don't believe we have been bewitched by some evil (suggestively female) force, that we might be able to blame and then perhaps appear less "bad" in the eyes of God: I was a victim, Lord. Take pity on me...is not a confession, and is not contrition. I suppose we are all victims of history...such is that mortal coil...that brotherhood and sisterhood we cannot escape...nor should we want to escape. It is all part of our gift.
Being held accountable. Being responsible. All those seven lively virtues: humility, admiration, generosity, forgiveness, self-control, chastity, zeal. These are CHOICES that can be made instead of living up to what some people call the darkness of men. These are the gifts of light. Or we are just animals...
But then, there's that seal again...who understands love on some level. And seeks it outside the box.
There's more to the story. I simply don't know it. Yet.
So it was a bit more than creepy, when I picked up a book this morning...one that I got for 50 cents at Goodwill...thinking it was a book about a show I listened to on public radio, but it was much different...kind of like porn, but not. I planned to throw it away, but thumbed through the pages and came up with something...about sin. Sub specie aeternitatas: meaning, "under the aspect of the eternal" Spinoza: "There is no reason to believe that anything matters." Frankl: "It is a peculiarity of man that he can only live by looking to the future"
I could not find the Catholic reference to the quote, although I am not giving up. The quote in the book concerns the nature of man...and claims witchcraft to be the reason for man to choose to sin sexually. It was a disturbing quote that made a lot of sense. I wrote it out in my private journal. (Yes, I have things I don't put here) It perhaps makes more sense to men, because it was written by men about men...but for me, stuck in this woman's body, it provides more insight into how men think, how they view their existence. And how they view their "rights" as male human creatures. It was no accident that I came upon this book, just after some challenging conversations and a wonderfully straightforward lecture on the seven deadly sins.
Like it or not, everything is gender biased. I watched a video this morning on FB about a seal, a female seal, who decided to bond with a woman sitting on the beach. What prompts the seal to become so enamored with the woman, female, but of a different species? It was beautiful, almost courting in its nature. And maybe it was. A gay seal? Visions of "Dumbo" come to my head, the story of a misunderstood mother and her very unique child. No one really understands another person, they can only assume some things based on what they observe and what they already know. A gay seal? Definitely a lonely seal...I'm thinking she was attracted to the red jacket the woman wore. It looked like blood. Women know about blood, in a very different way than men. Blood is life. Blood creates life, nurtures it, sustains it. But I perhaps digress too much.
There is an eternal something that I am always looking for and towards.
According to the quote in the book, men are doomed (by witchcraft) to seek out and use women...and that "bottom line" is the ultimate inescapable reality of being a man. (Sounds rather Calvinistic to me). So without reading the book, I am assuming that the author is using the statement of the Church to justify his actions: I can't help myself. I was born that way. The Devil made me do it...or in this case, "The witch has made me into a demon."
I am not responsible for my actions. Forgive me.
This coming after a lesson in sin, conversations about people being invisible, my dream of an adult who used me for his own pleasure...this is not an accident.
I prefer to think that God did not create human beings as corrupt as we have become. I don't believe we have been bewitched by some evil (suggestively female) force, that we might be able to blame and then perhaps appear less "bad" in the eyes of God: I was a victim, Lord. Take pity on me...is not a confession, and is not contrition. I suppose we are all victims of history...such is that mortal coil...that brotherhood and sisterhood we cannot escape...nor should we want to escape. It is all part of our gift.
Being held accountable. Being responsible. All those seven lively virtues: humility, admiration, generosity, forgiveness, self-control, chastity, zeal. These are CHOICES that can be made instead of living up to what some people call the darkness of men. These are the gifts of light. Or we are just animals...
But then, there's that seal again...who understands love on some level. And seeks it outside the box.
There's more to the story. I simply don't know it. Yet.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Invisible
The past seven days have been surreal. Must be a dream, must be imagined, must be...not real. The Velveteen Bunny. King Arthur and Lancelot. Sherlock. Characters, not people.
Headline when I turned on my computer this morning: Dead Baby Found in NY Recycling Plant.
As a poet, as a writer, as a lover of God, just try to get your head around that one. Macabre. No other word fits. It's like, well...we are all recycled, aren't we? Eventually. Matter is neither created nor destroyed. Kind of contradicts the belief in God. That is, if you think God uses physics to create the universe. Get it, God follows our rules...it's a joke.
Like a dead baby found in a recycling plant. It has to be a joke. But it isn't a joke. Soylent Green. For real. No. But a horrible, terrible story accompanies the fact that the child was found. That way. In a bag. In a recycling plant.
The story reveals that the child was not born alive. That gives me some comfort...sort of. The crime is not one of murder, but of gross ignorance, or neglect. It is tragic more than terrible. The characters in the story need to be pitied, for the end result meant some woman was perhaps alone, or being abused, or a child, not knowing what to do, or someone filled with hate or anger...so many things to imagine.
I identify with the things I know. If you are reading, you take the story into things you know.
"You don't matter."
I've read it in books, many plots, stories of success and failure, surround those words: "You don't matter." That statement is the true opposite of "I love you." Even hate implies love once existed. That is the whole purpose of shunning. The pain of not mattering.
I kind of think that is the whole purpose of the Bible, to remind us that everything matters, everyone matters. To live a complete, full life, we must recognize that truth: it all matters.
That's much too big a thought, though. Like trying to imagine the whole universe at once...just too much there for a human brain to think.
Because the only way to live in this universe, knowing that everything matters...is to live detached from it, because it is so big. To look well at one thing means you cannot look well upon something else. Because we are human, and we do not have a row of eyes peering into every direction all the time. And to see it all...really see...what could we do about it, beyond seeing it? It would make us crazy, to think that we had to engage it all, address it all, make it all "better."
So, being human, being finite, we live part in, part out, of reality. And we have to work at not letting the "truth" of what we see make us crazy. The "dumpster baby" stories have been trumped for me with the "baby found in a recycling plant." Why does this story matter to me and other stories, such as the devastation in the Philippines, affect me so differently?
Because the latter story is, in most part, an event of nature. Yes, man is involved...but not to the extent that a person, or persons were involved in the deliberate choice of discarding a child's body in this particular fashion. It affects me differently, because of my own life story.
Not in a recycling plant, I have to admit, I felt discarded as a child. The body lived in the house where I grew up, but it was obvious I didn't matter. It was obvious to me anyway. So I did things to be noticed, even being noticed in a bad way was better than not existing.
I write that because I want to encourage you to really look at the "Lazarus-es" in your life. They matter to God...and thus, they should matter to you, because you will hear about it later, if you believe in God and hope to meet Him someday. I don't think God will chastise you for the choice you made to ignore someone, but I think He will bring it up...because, before you get into Heaven, you have to know what you did...and didn't do. I think it kind of works like that. I could be wrong.
There was also a story about a murder trial here in Texas. The murderer argued that he killed the girl, a young girl, because she had "ruined his life" by accusing him of child molestation. So he killed her. Texas, of course, is seeking the death penalty. It is far easier to just destroy rather than rebuild, or heal...they can recycle him and maybe get a better human being later...right? There are so many ways to observe this one: how self-centered we can be, how we think the whole world revolves around us, how everything was made for us alone, and how we can create laws in our heads that justify every one of our actions. And we can be accusers, and simply eliminate those life forms that violate our comfortable lives. I am talking about both the murderer and the "jury," that is, the State of Texas.
The only thing I know as true here is that: people were not loved and people were not observed. And evil entered...and won the battle...but perhaps not the war.
We can go on forever, in discussion and in disagreement, about how to solve the problem of being living, breathing, finite creatures. We can acquired many things in our lifetime, we can be both the "haves" and the "have nots"...but
if we do not love, we are only stardust...love is the only answer...or we are nothing. It is the only real thing we can leave behind, it is the only thing that can make us truly immortal. Love.
And I kind of think it takes an entire lifetime to figure out what that means. But it includes a whole bunch of forgivenesses, of self and others. Of the world...of being completely and totally engaged while not being attached. Of risking all that you are to become fully human. Of forgiving impossible things and loving especially the ones who vex your soul. Of self-giving and dying to idea that you are not a god.
And making sure, to the best of your ability, that no one feels invisible. That everyone knows: they matter.
Love, Cindy
Headline when I turned on my computer this morning: Dead Baby Found in NY Recycling Plant.
As a poet, as a writer, as a lover of God, just try to get your head around that one. Macabre. No other word fits. It's like, well...we are all recycled, aren't we? Eventually. Matter is neither created nor destroyed. Kind of contradicts the belief in God. That is, if you think God uses physics to create the universe. Get it, God follows our rules...it's a joke.
Like a dead baby found in a recycling plant. It has to be a joke. But it isn't a joke. Soylent Green. For real. No. But a horrible, terrible story accompanies the fact that the child was found. That way. In a bag. In a recycling plant.
The story reveals that the child was not born alive. That gives me some comfort...sort of. The crime is not one of murder, but of gross ignorance, or neglect. It is tragic more than terrible. The characters in the story need to be pitied, for the end result meant some woman was perhaps alone, or being abused, or a child, not knowing what to do, or someone filled with hate or anger...so many things to imagine.
I identify with the things I know. If you are reading, you take the story into things you know.
"You don't matter."
I've read it in books, many plots, stories of success and failure, surround those words: "You don't matter." That statement is the true opposite of "I love you." Even hate implies love once existed. That is the whole purpose of shunning. The pain of not mattering.
I kind of think that is the whole purpose of the Bible, to remind us that everything matters, everyone matters. To live a complete, full life, we must recognize that truth: it all matters.
That's much too big a thought, though. Like trying to imagine the whole universe at once...just too much there for a human brain to think.
Because the only way to live in this universe, knowing that everything matters...is to live detached from it, because it is so big. To look well at one thing means you cannot look well upon something else. Because we are human, and we do not have a row of eyes peering into every direction all the time. And to see it all...really see...what could we do about it, beyond seeing it? It would make us crazy, to think that we had to engage it all, address it all, make it all "better."
So, being human, being finite, we live part in, part out, of reality. And we have to work at not letting the "truth" of what we see make us crazy. The "dumpster baby" stories have been trumped for me with the "baby found in a recycling plant." Why does this story matter to me and other stories, such as the devastation in the Philippines, affect me so differently?
Because the latter story is, in most part, an event of nature. Yes, man is involved...but not to the extent that a person, or persons were involved in the deliberate choice of discarding a child's body in this particular fashion. It affects me differently, because of my own life story.
Not in a recycling plant, I have to admit, I felt discarded as a child. The body lived in the house where I grew up, but it was obvious I didn't matter. It was obvious to me anyway. So I did things to be noticed, even being noticed in a bad way was better than not existing.
I write that because I want to encourage you to really look at the "Lazarus-es" in your life. They matter to God...and thus, they should matter to you, because you will hear about it later, if you believe in God and hope to meet Him someday. I don't think God will chastise you for the choice you made to ignore someone, but I think He will bring it up...because, before you get into Heaven, you have to know what you did...and didn't do. I think it kind of works like that. I could be wrong.
There was also a story about a murder trial here in Texas. The murderer argued that he killed the girl, a young girl, because she had "ruined his life" by accusing him of child molestation. So he killed her. Texas, of course, is seeking the death penalty. It is far easier to just destroy rather than rebuild, or heal...they can recycle him and maybe get a better human being later...right? There are so many ways to observe this one: how self-centered we can be, how we think the whole world revolves around us, how everything was made for us alone, and how we can create laws in our heads that justify every one of our actions. And we can be accusers, and simply eliminate those life forms that violate our comfortable lives. I am talking about both the murderer and the "jury," that is, the State of Texas.
The only thing I know as true here is that: people were not loved and people were not observed. And evil entered...and won the battle...but perhaps not the war.
We can go on forever, in discussion and in disagreement, about how to solve the problem of being living, breathing, finite creatures. We can acquired many things in our lifetime, we can be both the "haves" and the "have nots"...but
if we do not love, we are only stardust...love is the only answer...or we are nothing. It is the only real thing we can leave behind, it is the only thing that can make us truly immortal. Love.
And I kind of think it takes an entire lifetime to figure out what that means. But it includes a whole bunch of forgivenesses, of self and others. Of the world...of being completely and totally engaged while not being attached. Of risking all that you are to become fully human. Of forgiving impossible things and loving especially the ones who vex your soul. Of self-giving and dying to idea that you are not a god.
And making sure, to the best of your ability, that no one feels invisible. That everyone knows: they matter.
Love, Cindy
Rain and other things
I wrote this entry at least a week ago. I didn't want to post it, but it's part of the story that I am still trying to figure out. My thought it, only people who need it will read it. Life is still very much of a great puzzle for me. Like the one at the beach, hard to see how it goes together unless you look at it in a very specific way.
The problem is, the closer I get to understanding it, to putting it all together, the scarier it gets. It might be better to never know. Maybe.
The past week has been filled with vivid dreams. I can hardly remember them, but they were all active and exciting...and way better than life in so many ways. In my dreams, I can solve problems. I am forever young and healthy. I have the relationships I long for. I can fly high in the sky. I can walk in the Garden of Eden. I can actually live as one with God.
Life is a bit more complicated. Driving in the rain, past Highway 21, I was flooded with memories of how drastically life had changed for me in college. I remembered my fears of being forced to grow up, how much I hated Houston...and rich people...who thought they had the right to do anything to anybody. I did not want to grow up. I did not want to be like them. I don't remember being happy very much. While childhood was a kind of war zone, my observations seemed to indicate that life would only get worse as I grew older. And I wanted no part of it.
The only time I was truly happy was with God...whatever that was. This week, I was flooded with memories good, bad, beautiful and ugly. I recalled what I learned, what I did. And in the midst of the all the goods and the bads, I finally accepted that those things are just being alive. You judge, you make choices as best you can...and then you live. Anyway. The best thing to do is to not beat yourself up over the realization that you could have done things better...or worse.
It is what it is, in this human body. We can only pull off so much. But we can often get away with too much.
In the midst of knowing that we are finite, I discover that I am a person of ritual, of ceremony, of blessing. It was difficult for me to let someone else pay for my very expensive meal. Mostly because I consider myself a bit of a 'tag along'. I feel much like that one whom no one knows exactly what to do with, but kind of needs to be there. So I created a purpose for myself. I am the herald, the recorder of events, the one who surprises, the entertainer. These comments remind me that I still consider myself of no particular worth. They remind me that I still do not see clearly.
My grandchildren somehow find my worth...and not just in what I can do or be for them. I had to have them enter in to my life for me to understand that concept. Worth without doing anything. That is a hard one.
And while I could just whine and be sad over that understanding of myself, as I walk with people as they near death, I discover that the most delightful people suffer the same thoughts. Successful, beautiful, loving people...wonder in those last moments, remember all the good they might have done and didn't...
And in those moments, I get to do my job as one who knows, who has been there.
Of course, God loves you
You did good. (I do not say, "You did the best you could" unless they are unable to receive the first. Saying the latter implies a guilt might remain)
Yes...all those things are there...but God loves you. Really.
It's time to let it go.
Everyone will be fine.
You will understand soon.
They will understand one day.
It is the ritual of death. The words of the Church are good and helpful, but there is more to do. It you want to say only the priest can forgive the sin (actually only God forgives sin), that is fine. But the greatest work, the hardest work, the last work...is to forgive yourself.
"Indiana, let it go."
I always think about that line from "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade." The driving force of the story was to achieve the Holy Grail. Everyone wanted it. This "cup of eternal life." The "cup of Christ" but really, the adventure was the real story. It was not the end, it was the journey. Elsa and the other character (can't think of his name)...wanted "eternal life". They thought life was a thing. It's not. Elsa grabbed for the thing...and died. Literally fell into the bottomless pit of despair. (Ah, yes, I even dreamed about teaching last night!) And Indiana, whose father was holding tight onto his hand, whose father had ignored him all of his life to find that "holy grail," help tight to the child, called him by name and said, "Let it go." The father made a choice: the son. The son made a choice: the father. Yes, all the mistakes that were made did not go away. When they leave the cave/church, they will make more mistakes again. But they made a choice. They chose wisely: the life. The adventure.
So it will be for all of us. We can wait until that very last moment...and choose good. We can keep striving for all sorts of things, thinking they will make us feel worthy. Or we can choose people and adventures now.
Heaven can begin here, if you are willing to just let it go.
The problem is, the closer I get to understanding it, to putting it all together, the scarier it gets. It might be better to never know. Maybe.
The past week has been filled with vivid dreams. I can hardly remember them, but they were all active and exciting...and way better than life in so many ways. In my dreams, I can solve problems. I am forever young and healthy. I have the relationships I long for. I can fly high in the sky. I can walk in the Garden of Eden. I can actually live as one with God.
Life is a bit more complicated. Driving in the rain, past Highway 21, I was flooded with memories of how drastically life had changed for me in college. I remembered my fears of being forced to grow up, how much I hated Houston...and rich people...who thought they had the right to do anything to anybody. I did not want to grow up. I did not want to be like them. I don't remember being happy very much. While childhood was a kind of war zone, my observations seemed to indicate that life would only get worse as I grew older. And I wanted no part of it.
The only time I was truly happy was with God...whatever that was. This week, I was flooded with memories good, bad, beautiful and ugly. I recalled what I learned, what I did. And in the midst of the all the goods and the bads, I finally accepted that those things are just being alive. You judge, you make choices as best you can...and then you live. Anyway. The best thing to do is to not beat yourself up over the realization that you could have done things better...or worse.
It is what it is, in this human body. We can only pull off so much. But we can often get away with too much.
In the midst of knowing that we are finite, I discover that I am a person of ritual, of ceremony, of blessing. It was difficult for me to let someone else pay for my very expensive meal. Mostly because I consider myself a bit of a 'tag along'. I feel much like that one whom no one knows exactly what to do with, but kind of needs to be there. So I created a purpose for myself. I am the herald, the recorder of events, the one who surprises, the entertainer. These comments remind me that I still consider myself of no particular worth. They remind me that I still do not see clearly.
My grandchildren somehow find my worth...and not just in what I can do or be for them. I had to have them enter in to my life for me to understand that concept. Worth without doing anything. That is a hard one.
And while I could just whine and be sad over that understanding of myself, as I walk with people as they near death, I discover that the most delightful people suffer the same thoughts. Successful, beautiful, loving people...wonder in those last moments, remember all the good they might have done and didn't...
And in those moments, I get to do my job as one who knows, who has been there.
Of course, God loves you
You did good. (I do not say, "You did the best you could" unless they are unable to receive the first. Saying the latter implies a guilt might remain)
Yes...all those things are there...but God loves you. Really.
It's time to let it go.
Everyone will be fine.
You will understand soon.
They will understand one day.
It is the ritual of death. The words of the Church are good and helpful, but there is more to do. It you want to say only the priest can forgive the sin (actually only God forgives sin), that is fine. But the greatest work, the hardest work, the last work...is to forgive yourself.
"Indiana, let it go."
I always think about that line from "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade." The driving force of the story was to achieve the Holy Grail. Everyone wanted it. This "cup of eternal life." The "cup of Christ" but really, the adventure was the real story. It was not the end, it was the journey. Elsa and the other character (can't think of his name)...wanted "eternal life". They thought life was a thing. It's not. Elsa grabbed for the thing...and died. Literally fell into the bottomless pit of despair. (Ah, yes, I even dreamed about teaching last night!) And Indiana, whose father was holding tight onto his hand, whose father had ignored him all of his life to find that "holy grail," help tight to the child, called him by name and said, "Let it go." The father made a choice: the son. The son made a choice: the father. Yes, all the mistakes that were made did not go away. When they leave the cave/church, they will make more mistakes again. But they made a choice. They chose wisely: the life. The adventure.
So it will be for all of us. We can wait until that very last moment...and choose good. We can keep striving for all sorts of things, thinking they will make us feel worthy. Or we can choose people and adventures now.
Heaven can begin here, if you are willing to just let it go.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Confessions of a Retreat Junkie
Without knowing what to resort to, or even how...I wondered if I had lost my "mojo" as I arrived at Saturday night without the enthusiasm I had been accustomed to in the past. I wondered if I had done perhaps one retreat too many.
But I had the words of...which mentor?...in the back of my head: trust the process. Words I had been proclaiming too often this weekend to others, who were "disappointed" by how this particular retreat was unfolding. We get so full of ourselves and our ideas sometimes, that we slip over into the belief that we have some control of the Holy Spirit, or worse, that we might know God's mind...and think we need to have to urge Him to some proper conclusion.
This retreat has left me wounded, confused and perhaps about a lifetime more spiritually mature than any other retreat I have done. At long last, I am finding myself...and finding myself in God...and this woman is way more fun...and calmer than any woman I have been before.
I wondered why I could not "feel the bliss" on Saturday night, but I knew why...I was immersed again in the great sufferings that surrounded me, in both the retreatants and the team members...and I knew that a lot of work and time would have to pass before any deep spiritual healing would occur. It was only a beginning...and so many of the women I visited with were not yet ready to release their demons, they still liked them...or were comfortable with them.
I spoke more boldly, sometimes I thought perhaps harshly...or I said nothing at all. I suppose I was becoming more confident in trusting what God wanted and less influenced by what I wanted. When I made the mistake of being lost in me, a kind of buzzer went off inside, recognizing this was not the path to walk...and I was miffed that I was still not finished with, or had forgiven those aspects of my life. Then I thanked God for exposing them to me...praying to not be tricked by them in the future.
There were so many humorous moments. As I reflected with a dear friend, I thought about the images of certain parts of the weekend...and all the miracles...and there were many miracles...in this intense weekend of love and hate...laughter and tears.
We had four priests for reconciliation going into the weekend. By Thursday afternoon, there were three. Friday morning, we were down to two, and at 5:04pm, we were down to one. The retreat director gave me a phone number and told me to try to fix it. I made 14 calls to priests, pagers, churches, monasteries...and whatever other leads I could get from the priests I were able to speak with, who could not help me. My efforts, which were so adventurous, and many prayers, when the time arrived, we had not four, but five! And not just a miracle of priests, but there were miracles within the miracle. A series of phone calls led me to one woman with a priest she had not seen in 25 years...graces poured out from everywhere...and what began as a terribly stressful evening for too many people...my telling of the tale of the priests had the whole room laughing after midnight...exhausted as we were...realizing in all the madness and our unceasing desire to be in control...God had things safely in His Hands.
Now one priest I had to locate, I walked to the retirement community where he had moved in, only a week ago. Parts of my talking him in to helping will have to wait for my book, but for now...I wish to write about the part I most need to understand.
After securing the priest from this location, I decided to take the back door to return to the retreat house, to save a lot of walking time, because I was needed for other duties there immediately. I texted people to let them know, but no one was responding. I walked out of the retirement house to the back gate. The gate was locked. I tried to return into the house. Couldn't get in. Banged on every door I could. No one answered. No nuns to be found. I walked around to the front area. The driveway was also gated and locked. I did not have too much time to waste. It was a poor Hispanic community. I noticed some young men listening to music in a front yard across the street. I grabbed the bars and called out, "Help!" There was a pause, but no one moved. I had to yell "Help!" twice more. On the third time, four younger boys, about 12 or 13, turned to look at me. "Please help me. I am locked in. I can't get out. Go to the front door and tell them I'm out here and to let me in through the back door." They began to walk across the street, the older boys in the yard just turned their backs...I told the younger ones, "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" and I was released from my prison. The retreat team had quite a laugh as I retold the story, and of the collecting of the priests. I did not see the event as a bad thing, but as a great adventure.
What I realized, what God had done...I cannot recall ever calling for help like that. But as I write, I know I called for help once, when I jumped into a river and my legs cramped and I was helpless in the current. This time, I was locked in a yard...and I had to hope for the help of some young strangers to save me. I was completely not in control of the situation. My only option was to rely on others. Only when I called for help did I realize how distant I had kept myself from the world, how I tried to be certain it could not touch me, not wound me, ever again. There was something so delightfully freeing from realizing I could humble myself enough to call for help until help arrived. I just didn't know or realize how much I had hardened myself...and how much better it felt to ask for help.
This was one of many blessings over the weekend. But I think this was the best blessing.
The next morning, after Mass, I remembered I had a dream about being locked out of the garden...and longing to go in. I dreamed that dream about three years ago. I knew that I would not enter heaven in the "normal" way. I knew I was different from the long line of dogs all dressed alike. My path would be different. And my ability to call for help, to not despair, but laugh, is training me for my next task. Somehow, I know it is all connected...as all the events of the weekend are so deeply connected.
Yes, I did not have that "spiritual high" a retreat junkie expects on those retreat weekends. My work is changing again. Yes, I've agreed to another retreat. But I am not the woman I was six months ago...or a year ago. I know my work. I am still not ready to say the words. I am still too afraid that if I speak of it, God will take it away...but my head knows that is a lie. Spoken or not, what I will do will last exactly as long as God chooses it to last. And even a moment in God's graces is better than a lifetime of "nothing special." I'm ready to work the next thing. To take the challenge, to fall, to get up again, to learn, to forgive...to love...and to let love in. Quite honestly, that is the greatest miracle: to let love in.
And oh yeah....I've put the ring back on...where it belongs...
Love, Cindy
But I had the words of...which mentor?...in the back of my head: trust the process. Words I had been proclaiming too often this weekend to others, who were "disappointed" by how this particular retreat was unfolding. We get so full of ourselves and our ideas sometimes, that we slip over into the belief that we have some control of the Holy Spirit, or worse, that we might know God's mind...and think we need to have to urge Him to some proper conclusion.
This retreat has left me wounded, confused and perhaps about a lifetime more spiritually mature than any other retreat I have done. At long last, I am finding myself...and finding myself in God...and this woman is way more fun...and calmer than any woman I have been before.
I wondered why I could not "feel the bliss" on Saturday night, but I knew why...I was immersed again in the great sufferings that surrounded me, in both the retreatants and the team members...and I knew that a lot of work and time would have to pass before any deep spiritual healing would occur. It was only a beginning...and so many of the women I visited with were not yet ready to release their demons, they still liked them...or were comfortable with them.
I spoke more boldly, sometimes I thought perhaps harshly...or I said nothing at all. I suppose I was becoming more confident in trusting what God wanted and less influenced by what I wanted. When I made the mistake of being lost in me, a kind of buzzer went off inside, recognizing this was not the path to walk...and I was miffed that I was still not finished with, or had forgiven those aspects of my life. Then I thanked God for exposing them to me...praying to not be tricked by them in the future.
There were so many humorous moments. As I reflected with a dear friend, I thought about the images of certain parts of the weekend...and all the miracles...and there were many miracles...in this intense weekend of love and hate...laughter and tears.
We had four priests for reconciliation going into the weekend. By Thursday afternoon, there were three. Friday morning, we were down to two, and at 5:04pm, we were down to one. The retreat director gave me a phone number and told me to try to fix it. I made 14 calls to priests, pagers, churches, monasteries...and whatever other leads I could get from the priests I were able to speak with, who could not help me. My efforts, which were so adventurous, and many prayers, when the time arrived, we had not four, but five! And not just a miracle of priests, but there were miracles within the miracle. A series of phone calls led me to one woman with a priest she had not seen in 25 years...graces poured out from everywhere...and what began as a terribly stressful evening for too many people...my telling of the tale of the priests had the whole room laughing after midnight...exhausted as we were...realizing in all the madness and our unceasing desire to be in control...God had things safely in His Hands.
Now one priest I had to locate, I walked to the retirement community where he had moved in, only a week ago. Parts of my talking him in to helping will have to wait for my book, but for now...I wish to write about the part I most need to understand.
After securing the priest from this location, I decided to take the back door to return to the retreat house, to save a lot of walking time, because I was needed for other duties there immediately. I texted people to let them know, but no one was responding. I walked out of the retirement house to the back gate. The gate was locked. I tried to return into the house. Couldn't get in. Banged on every door I could. No one answered. No nuns to be found. I walked around to the front area. The driveway was also gated and locked. I did not have too much time to waste. It was a poor Hispanic community. I noticed some young men listening to music in a front yard across the street. I grabbed the bars and called out, "Help!" There was a pause, but no one moved. I had to yell "Help!" twice more. On the third time, four younger boys, about 12 or 13, turned to look at me. "Please help me. I am locked in. I can't get out. Go to the front door and tell them I'm out here and to let me in through the back door." They began to walk across the street, the older boys in the yard just turned their backs...I told the younger ones, "Oh, thank you! Thank you!" and I was released from my prison. The retreat team had quite a laugh as I retold the story, and of the collecting of the priests. I did not see the event as a bad thing, but as a great adventure.
What I realized, what God had done...I cannot recall ever calling for help like that. But as I write, I know I called for help once, when I jumped into a river and my legs cramped and I was helpless in the current. This time, I was locked in a yard...and I had to hope for the help of some young strangers to save me. I was completely not in control of the situation. My only option was to rely on others. Only when I called for help did I realize how distant I had kept myself from the world, how I tried to be certain it could not touch me, not wound me, ever again. There was something so delightfully freeing from realizing I could humble myself enough to call for help until help arrived. I just didn't know or realize how much I had hardened myself...and how much better it felt to ask for help.
This was one of many blessings over the weekend. But I think this was the best blessing.
The next morning, after Mass, I remembered I had a dream about being locked out of the garden...and longing to go in. I dreamed that dream about three years ago. I knew that I would not enter heaven in the "normal" way. I knew I was different from the long line of dogs all dressed alike. My path would be different. And my ability to call for help, to not despair, but laugh, is training me for my next task. Somehow, I know it is all connected...as all the events of the weekend are so deeply connected.
Yes, I did not have that "spiritual high" a retreat junkie expects on those retreat weekends. My work is changing again. Yes, I've agreed to another retreat. But I am not the woman I was six months ago...or a year ago. I know my work. I am still not ready to say the words. I am still too afraid that if I speak of it, God will take it away...but my head knows that is a lie. Spoken or not, what I will do will last exactly as long as God chooses it to last. And even a moment in God's graces is better than a lifetime of "nothing special." I'm ready to work the next thing. To take the challenge, to fall, to get up again, to learn, to forgive...to love...and to let love in. Quite honestly, that is the greatest miracle: to let love in.
And oh yeah....I've put the ring back on...where it belongs...
Love, Cindy
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