Repeat Performance

Early morning hours
filled my head with dreams...
This time
I recognized many of
"impressors" that had occurred
through the week...
little moments
where clues
to who I really am
surface
and say
"Here I am!"

The fat man with the goatee
mocked me...
and flattered me.
He was the proprietor
of the beautiful place
I had come to live.
(that place I visited
in my dreams
only a few nights before
Bob died)
This time
I came with a woman
who would be my roommate
(because this place was
SO expensive!)
I showed her the beauty of the place,
the rooms
filled with windows
looking out into a a lush green landscape...
she seems pleased
and there
in an unfinished room
was a music box.

It stood on long legs,
like a piano,
but only contained
one octave of keys...
"What good it this?"
I thought.
What good is only one octave?"
But the fat man with the goatee
came in the room.
The music box was kind of ugly
compared to the beauty of
everything else.
One of us wanted to throw it away,
but I don't remember who...
But I looked at the old box,
wanting to save its life
and I began to play
a melody...
with just that one octave...
and I surprised myself,
for the song was
beautiful.

My woman friend
seemed pleased
and the fat man
suddenly recognized
the value of
the music box...
and I was pleased,
and raised my hand
dramatically
from the keys...

And the music box
seemed to fly apart
break into the pieces
from which it was made
and flew off into the beautiful
green landscape that was
just outside
the window...

The fat man looked in horror at me
For something that was
not valuable
had become valuable
by my playing it...
and my playing it...
caused it to be destroyed...

"I will find it,"
I told the fat man.
"I will find it and fix it.
I promise." 
But he was still angry.
I thought hard,
for I had fallen in love
with the music box, too.
"I will pay for it
to be fixed...if I can't fix it."

And then I woke
to the memory
of that strange
wooden box
that looked like
nothing special...
and I played it
and it became special...
at last
at least
to me.

Love,
Cindy

Arms Open Wide

Bike riding at dawn
I put on my "comfortable" clothes
and lift the garage door
It creaks like my back
And from the dark confined space
And the creaking of back and of door
I let the light in...
And prepare my heart for the ride

Water bottle...check
Phone...check
Tires properly inflated...check
Did I close the door to the house?...check

I roll my bike out
reach up
and pull the garage door down
(so much easier to close than to open!)
I survey the driveway
Listen for cars
Flip my leg over the bar and down I go...
down
down
down...

to the park below.
I pass a car or two...
on their way to work
perhaps
I taking a child
to a swimming lesson...
but I am on my bike
and though my hair is a bit gray
and I am rounder than I might like to be
On my bike
I don't care

On my bike,
it is if time is just a construct
for everyone else
but not me
because on my bike
time means nothing
the past doesn't exist
and the future doesn't matter
yet

Every time I ride my bike
I am a little girl
escaping exhausting parents
or chores
or people who want to beat me up

I am riding my Luck Dragon
And it's just me
and the wheels and the wind...
and the earth...at dawn.

I pass other dawn people
We know that real living begins
In a prayer to God
Creator of the earth
and all its contents...
We get up
and step out and say
Thank you
for this day
Thank you
that I am still here
and that I can go outside
and hear the first birds
and the wind
and see the clouds
before coffee
before eggs
before someone has the chance
to tell me what to do
I go out on the trail
On by bicycle

And I see the people
old and young
alone or together
with dogs
(but never cats)
The robins and the rabbits
The sunflowers waking up,
faces toward the sun
the dandelions
the primrose
the weeds
the birdhouse on my left
the creek below me
and the trees that bring welcomed shade
even at dawn...

I look at the hill ahead
And I climb it
counting each rounding of the wheel
telling myself I can do ten more
and then ten more after that...

and going home
I feel more alive
than I have in ten years...
I get the speed up

I've done it before
I can do it now
Right?
Of course I can!

And I let go of the handle bars
and fling my arms open wide
staying the course...
and remembering...

I arise today

Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,

Through a belief in the Threeness,

Through confession of the Oneness

Of the Creator of creation.

Love,
Cindy

The Snake

My mother always made fun of my optimism. I suppose in my writings, it might be difficult to believe that I am an optimist, for here, I tend to explain things ad nauseum.  I grew that little habit from living with people who seemed to never understand anything about me. I can't remember any of the conversations, I simply remember that they were long, and I always walked away sad.
I was made fun of for hoping for the best. 
Silly me.
The world sucks.
I forgot.

I suppose I am very naïve. I want to think that I am not a suspicious person...at least I know that I am not overtly suspicious, which might be a mark in my favor...
But yesterday, I encountered someone I had not seen in ten years. This person has caused me great harm over the last 15 years, but she is very clever and good at what she does. (No, I am not writing about my ex-husband's widow...although there may be similarities, I do not know her well enough to understand her intent in her behaviors...and I have deliberately decided to not get to know her. It will serve no good for anyone, at least for now). But this person is/was instrumental in why I left the Methodist Church.  She is not a bad person, let me be clear. She is simply a negative person. To me, she always seems to focus on the idea that the world is not a good place, that people are wanting to take her share of the pie, and to keep herself above water, she takes great pains to put other people down.  In other words, she is exactly like the mother that raised me.
So were my buttons pushed yesterday? Yes...but not during the encounter. Only in reflection. I am kind of a fool that way. I meet the moment as it arrives. I could write about the irony of the details that surrounded the encounter, but I am not yet ready...other than, someone asked me why I chose to not do a certain kind of ministry, I explained why I would not do it...and lo, there was sitting next to me, her back to me, the one who created the situation to make me never want to work in a church again.
It was only later, because that table was so loud, that we moved away to be able to hear each other...and she saw me first, and drew me in...all smiles and kindness flowing...but as I observed later, her cadre of friends offered glances to me that told me she was still angry about the choice I made to quit...and I was sad.
And very glad. Because I was no longer under that sad power that would have required me to live in fear of what she might do next, to continue to "get even."  At least, I must confess, that is my perspective. My instincts tell me she is not a happy person, even with all her smiles. I could be completely wrong. But...in my chaplain training, I know she reminds me of my mother...and that brings still too much emotion. I am glad to be out of her circle, which really wasn't a circle at all.

Lesson to be learned: I have still not forgiven my mother. Damn. So much for independence. I am more free than I once was. I cannot fix everything. In fact, I can probably not fix anything. But God can fix all things. Make rocky paths smooth. Make crooked roads straight. 
But only I can forgive my mother.

Do you follow?  God forgives. True. But listen to the prayer:
Forgive us our trespasses AS WE FORGIVE those who trespass against us. 
We are not forgiven unless we forgive FIRST.
That's how is works.

The woman I encountered is really irrelevant. She is a symbol for...what I have not forgiven. Maybe she is the metaphor for the snake...prompting me into unforgiveness...altho the Jews see Satan as something not really evil, but rather an adversary. The snake is an adversary...designed to remind me that I always have free will to choose what I want to do.  Is the snake bad because he reminds me that the world is not a warm friendly place?  Or that people, when given the chance, will use and abuse me for their own benefit? Or that I will be exploited if I allow it?  Or that fear can have as much power as love? 
No. The snake is always there to remind me of what can happen if I lose my focus. The snake is a part of creation, living its life as it understands life...but I don't have to buy into its soteriology...or its dogmas.  I can choose love.
In fact, I have to choose love
every moment of every day.

Does that make me a fool? Perhaps.

But as I thought about this woman, who tried to keep me under her thumb, using fear as her weapon...I recalled the voice mail I got yesterday, from the daughter of a woman who died...
"I can't put into words what you mean to me, what you meant to my mother..." and then silence...and then a disconnect...
Yeah...I screw up a lot.  But I do good things too. Sometimes I am ugly, but sometimes I am beautiful.
God loves all of me. Not just the pretty parts...

That's the message.
Damn...I misses Mass again...

Love, Cindy

Independence Day

Just finished reading book 2 of Hunger Games.  Opted for finishing that instead of Mass. I am concerned a bit, that my prayer life is changing again.  I am still praying rigorously, on many levels, but that "die-hard" Catholicism than once held me is not so strong anymore.
I suppose there is a certain reality to the connection between the student and the teacher. I have no teacher anymore. Perhaps I have learned what I was supposed to learn, or God would have provided one, and instilled in me a desire to seek that one out...but now, there is a kind of nothingness that is only mildly sad.
I had hoped that the Catholic Church might provide for me some existential answers to my existence, my survival...but that hope is gone. That trust, that innocence...will never return. Perhaps it was just a shadow anyway.  I tried to submit, or bend, myself to the will of an outsider; but again, God shows me that what God and I have...is not defined by any church, no matter how beautiful it may be. The institution of the Church is still a finite, man-made, man-run kind of thing. Beautiful, yes. Practical, yes. But God is so much more than that.
I write that because, in my current state of affairs, I now recognize the patterns of the classic interpretations of "Church."  I understand the functions better. Last Sunday, I observed a charismatic young priest say his goodbyes to a congregation that obviously loved him.  He's being sent off to hell now...the perimeters of a military base where the challenges will be less romantic or sentimental. He will now be confronted with life and death issues that are far more in need of a holy man than us lucky ones who live in pleasant, although challenging surroundings. It is one thing to deal with cancer or the death of a loved one. It is another thing to deal with people who have been told to kill for their country, to leave their families behind, to deal with the unceasing stress of the great contradictions between God and Country. I shall pray without ceasing for him.
But I finally realize that the priest, in all his pretty clothes, cannot provide for me the great consolation I seek.  These are a different kind of warrior, perhaps given a bit too much power...but desperately needed in the dark times our world is facing.
I looked to them for inspiration, for the courage to continue...but I find little inspiration there now, finally realizing that, although I tried to believe it, not one of them has my back. I suppose God knew I had learned what I needed for now...and most importantly, I needed to know what I read in the psalms each month: trust no man. 
But that does not mean that we are not part of some team, some confederation, assembled together to fight for the good, to protect the weak, to ensure the respect for human, creature and planet.   Given to our own ways, we are quite selfish creatures. We often desire for ourselves and others only what we think is true and good and correct... but we are blinded by our own humanity, and quest for power. And that includes the so-called timid woman, who will do anything to keep her man happy...this is just a backdoor approach to power.  It is who we are as human beings.  OK, it is who I am.  I strive to be Mother Teresa in my actions, but my humanness makes that hard to do.
So I didn't go to Mass today. Deliberately. On July 4th. Feels a bit like a sin.  But I know the drive is long and the homily will be uninspiring...at least, that is how it feels right now. I suppose I am grieving in a way.  This country is disappointing. Not just by the selfish hungers of our congress, or the power-seekers in Austin...but the everyday machinations that I encounter on FB and in my little community.  It is so easy to give up and let evil win. 
I'm pissed because I don't have a "fearless leader" to reach out to...I want my fairy tale to continue, I want my happy ending.
Then it dawns on me. If you want good, do good. If you want peace, be peace. If you want forgiveness, forgive.  If you are hungry, feed others. If you are lonely, be a friend. If you are poor, then open your damn arms and let them take the rest of you. If you want a leader, then be one.

And then...when you've given what you think is all you have away...
you will understand
that independence
is not about
telling the world to go to hell
or letting the world go to hell
but independence
sort of means
in dependence...
in dependence of God, of neighbor, of self.
In dependence of God, because it is through God that we have life at all
In dependence of neighbor, because I cannot be free unless my brother/sister is free
In dependence of self, by acknowledging that who I am and what I do matters...

Love, Cindy

Limestone and dirt

Super-moon has come and gone
I wonder if I'll stop writing.
My prayer life is only a shadow of what it once was.
Riding my bike almost daily, I am reconnecting to memories
and feelings I had forgotten.
The smell of wet limestone and fresh cut grass
and the air-conditioning inside a strange church
The smell of sterling silver jewelry
or was it the cleaner?
Has my prayer life stopped, or is is simply reforming itself
to the reclamation of old ways.
The body
50 years old
isn't always pleased with the way I'm treating it now
But it was not happy with the way I was treated it before
either.
Joints hurt, fingers stick,
even alone, I do not want to appear physically weak
And I have this strong desire to push myself
Beyond my limits
Beyond what I think I can handle.
Life is just too short
To do what other people
Think you should do.
I've lived in a bohemian manner
off and on...always rebelling
against...
what was it?
I always called it illogical, but really
it was more of a violation
of my spirit...
Saw a photo of a man
I once knew...and remembered
what I had done
all because I felt I was not treated fairly
with something he was only remotely connected to
How does one actually atone for sins
so outrageous?  When you didn't even know
you were doing wrong, you were just so angry...
I look at that angry child that lived inside me
The one who took it all, because she didn't know how
to not take it all...until she became as dark as the people who
hurt her.
These sins, these are the reason we hold fast to the story
of a man, who was more than man
better than man...
who dared to say,
even to me,
"I love you anyway."

So today...this present time...I ride my bike.
And remember so clearly
not all that lives is dark
A bit more
each day
I forgive
myself.

I ride my bike
Remembering that
often blessings are mixed
into the light and the dark
of who we are
Digging in the dirt with the priest
who gently said,
"No, you're doing it wrong"
as I was pulling vegetables.
He showed  me how to
harvest the best parts
of the plants.
Even then,
they were covered with mud...
and they took
a long time
of washing
to finally be clean enough to eat.

I ride my bike
growing stronger each day
Pushing myself just a bit farther
Not thinking so much
about how good
or how bad I was
back then.
In riding, I am learning how
to harvest myself
from the person I was hiding in the ground
taking with me the best parts
and then washing myself
of the dirt that might
still weigh me down.
^^^^^^^^^
Notes from last week:
^^^^^^^^^^^
God says to me, you have not forgiven enough. You have not forgiven yourself.
Seriously, Lord?
Yes, Cindy. Seriously.
My friend told me her story. She said God told her, You have to love them.
Why couldn't God say that to me?
Why couldn't He say, Love them?
Why did He say, Forgive them?

And I knew and didn't know. You can't love without forgiving. And you cannot forgive without loving. 
The priest at a Mass this week said forgiveness is not a feeling. It is an action. An act of free will.  We will all have feelings that we don't know what to do with, and feelings that will change in time; but forgiveness is a choice...and loving is a choice.  I think "in love" is not a choice, it just happened to us...but to love, in spite of, or because of, being "in love"...that is possible.  We really don't have good words for all these things...

So forgiveness is heavy on my heart...in every form: I need to forgive...and I certainly need to be forgiven.  It's all so complicated. I think I'm done with it...and I'm still there...in the grip of the devil of unforgiveness. I am caught not just in what things I have no power over, but also in the things I can choose to do or undo.  I wonder when the story-telling will end. I wonder when the hurt feelings will go away. I wonder when (even if) I can love in that way that so many people take for granted. 

God of mercy
God of love
You are always
What I'm dreaming of
Waiting in the doorway blind
Can't ever leave the past behind
Wonder if you wouldn't mind
Holding my hand again?

Hold my hand.

Love, cindy

Who are you?

Walking along the unbeaten path
kicking stones
and admiring the clouds
I feel your hand in mine
And I look to my left...

and realize suddenly
I'm not holding anyone's hand

It was a dream again

When did you stop holding my hand?
When did you decide that
another place
person
thing
was prettier
or, in your case,
more convenient?

How did I not know
you were gone?

My mother
called me a Pollyanna,
always seeing the good in people
when I should be looking out
for the bad.

In all people,
there is good.
It is the hunger,
sometimes overwhelming
that makes them behave
poorly.

But there are days
when I finally have to realize
that you are more comfortable
in the dark
and I stop trying
and turn my eyes to
the flowers
the rivers
the birds
 and the bees...
and when I have found myself again

I turn and look
and realize
I'm walking alone.
Again.

Pollyanna tells me
Try again.

love, Cindy

Affirmations

Wondering today
What do you think of me now?
I saw that half-a-second look on your face,
Disapproving of my past
Deciding for yourself
What a woman can
And can't do.
Nothing else you did
or said
mattered.
No polite bullshit words
could cover up
the sad reality
that my hard work
amounted to
nothing
in your eyes.

Once, in tears,
I told a friend,
"I thought my mother
would be proud
of what I'd done."
My friend laughed.
"You know her.
You know how she is.
Why do you look to her
for approval?
She will hurt you
every single time."

And my heart hurt just a little less.
"But I want her to be proud of me."

Ain't gonna happen.
Just ain't gonna happen.

Yesterday,
a friend gushed with
beautiful sentiments
about my work,
about how I helped her
to see things
she needed to see.
(I hear that very often lately)

Then
people I had not seen in ages
stood by our table
and remembered aloud
all the things I had done
many, many years ago.
Everyone was smiling and happy
and telling me I was good.

But in my heart, I thought,
my mother never said
"Good job"
even when I brought home trophies
every weekend.
My father liked my music,
but I only knew that
after he was dead.
At the funeral,
I learned
he really liked me.
At my mother's funeral
my mother's friends never spoke to me
I knew she told them
Again and again
how I had disappointed her.

"If you only knew..."
I thought,
"You would understand..."
But, even in death,
I kept the secret.

The blessings
I think I need most
I am convinced
I will never get

And from my work
I know
This is a sad truth
In nearly every heart
That comes to me
Looking to be healed.

Our world is in such deep trouble
Because we choose
to judge
Rather than
to bless
the most important people
In our lives

Our wounds
So deep,
forever present,
cause us to
wound
the ones we love
the most.

The only way out
is to
receive
the blessings
given
by strangers
and friends
and things that go bump in the night.

The heart of stone
can heal
even without the blessing
of the father
or the mother
who wanted to bless
but had none to give

The heart heals
when it chooses to hear
"I love you"
from the one
who comes
in the surprise
of that moment
when you
open your eyes
and suddenly know
you
are
not
alone.

Love, Cindy