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

Groupings

Lately, I've been texting my granddaughter with math problems. Most of them are built on the problem before, only I've changed the order (transitive) or broken them apart (associative). As she continues to learn, I will push onward to introduce forms of inductions, offer insights to axioms...because, I think, I am forever a teacher. Screw the administrative system, if they did not exist to "measure and monitor" my performance, I would probably still be a teacher. As it is, I send text messages...and just wait for the light bulb to go off. And I get a kick out of watching my children...and grandchildren discover something they did not previously know.

I'm working on another retreat, of course. This one is not fun. I wonder sometimes, if I should have chosen to do the other one...or none of them...not because I don't love the work, but because I am always feeling tied up or restrained...or just an employee.  I do not like how I feel. And I do not like how I feel enough now to write about it, hoping that writing will make me change how I feel.

I've gained a lot of insight, as always...but the price often feels too high.  The last retreat I was on was so wonderful...that I suppose it would have been impossible for this one to compare to it. This feels like work. This feels like I ought to be getting paid to do it because there is no connection within me, no feeling of love. There is just work, and work needs to be done.

I do not like work. I like vocation. I like play. I like riding the waves with God, not climbing some damn hill because someone else told me to do it. I am not interested in linear thinking (to the extent that it brings some kind of physical reward).  I want to mentally jump off of some cliff...and see where God takes me.

I do not do well with authority...or administration.  And for now, that is where God has placed me. My response: yuck!

I have been perhaps passive aggressively butting heads with the reality I am in, but my playful side (and that's a pretty big side) recognizes what I am learning here. These things are good to know because it will help with my discernment in the future.  It will color how I decide to work later. I mean, if I don't have to be in a prison, then why would I put myself there? Right? 

I already have another retreat looming in the distance, I could focus my eyes on that. But I owe love and respect and care to what is in front of me right now...and I'd better make it into some kind of game...or I'll stop playing. 

When trapped in a classroom by the nuns who would not let me learn at my own pace...trying to destroy my enthusiasm with 500 lines of "I will not talk in class/the lavatory(we were not allowed to call it a bathroom...too sexual, I guess)/in line...whatever"  I would forever be imagining games in my head.  Flights of fancy into outer space, or more conveniently...out the window, sitting on the back of the riding mower that was teaching me about the Doppler effect as it traced its path up and down the hill near my classroom.  I will not be chained...even when the nuns would try to humiliate me with taping my mouth shut or tying me with ropes to my desk. 

Go ahead and try to kill my spirit. I will only come back stronger.

Definitely not a nun.

Perhaps not even a priest.

But I have faced so many different kinds of persecutions, I realized early on...you can play by their rules and kill your spirit...or you can make your own path...

Having made such a bold statement, it is obvious I have chosen "the hard way" to live. You learn rules by testing them, to see if they are valid, fair, appropriate...not simply convenient. If you choose to follow a rule, it is important to know why you follow it.
Psalm 32: if you force someone to believe, it's as if they did not believe at all. If they don't get it, then they won't get it. 
That's the hard way.  As soon as we became "smart" beings, we became responsible for the choices we make.  You can follow a rule, live well enough and be satisfied. But if your eye wanders off the rule...then you need to start to understand why you have chosen the rule. Otherwise you become like the parable of the prodigal son who stayed home: miserable because the "bad boy" is once again, getting all the attention.  The one who wandered understands now...and returns.  The one who stayed home is just bitter.  He doesn't know why he stayed home...or perhaps he does know why...and he is sad...but he doesn't understand anything.

So it's about grouping.  I have to always be aware of where I am in my journey...and I have to work hard to understand where the others are in their journey.  Then I have to make peace with the possibility that, even if I offer my work, nothing might be resolved. Some people are just not ready to drink the water. And I have to be "not angry" about that....

Most obviously because, I have one who is gracious enough to walk with me, who has travelled farther than me, who was willing to slow down so that we could share a journey for a time. I recognize that at least. At the very least, I must offer to others what is being offered to me. And that's kind of hard to do. 

Because I want to go faster, I want to know more before I die, to understand more, to live more.  And going slow makes me crazy inside.

But if maybe, I could just treat everyone like I treat my granddaughter...I throw out an idea...and wait for her to see what's there.  I don't mind waiting for her, because I love her so much.

I need to love others as much as I love my grandchildren.

Ah...at last...the lesson has been revealed.

okay. I'm done.

What do you see?

I feel like the most insecure person on the planet.  Yet I have no doubt, that most people feel the same way...it's that we all just get better as disguising it...accepting it, befriending it, letting go of letting it bother us. 
As I was working my way through a meditation yesterday, reflecting on it now, I realize again how complex we are, how simple we are...and how deeply connected we are. I realized again the 'idea' of God...and how important it is to us human beings that we have an idea of God. 

Reading Marin Buber this morning, I found myself in a passage reflecting on the Hasadim....which I wonder if Jesus had access to...because I kept finding myself thinking, if Jesus was reading these things, absorbing them...it is easier to see how He came up with the "I am" sayings in the Gospel of John. I could just feel Him taking these stories...and taking them deeper...so that we might identify more clearly with the Divine and thus, perhaps, behave in a like manner. 

Buber tells a story about prayer, in which the word "Father" is used instead of the word God.  When praying before we go to sleep, how do we address the divine? 
"Protect us, Lord, as we stay awake. Watch over us as we sleep. That awake, we may keep watch with Christ, and asleep, rest in His peace."  I love those last words before "shutting down."  Yet I look at those words again:

Protect us, Father, as we stay awake. Watch over us as we sleep. That awake, we may keep watch with our (brother, sister, wife, child) and asleep rest in [their] peace. 

Not going to argue here about the political correctness of the above statement, but it suggests to me, an examination of what we ask for, and what we believe. 

My question during the meditation was always, "What do you see?" For me, the word "see" was colloquial...encompassing all the senses.  And then I said it, "In Catholicism, we are asked to use ALL our senses in our prayer life."  And by saying that to the woman, I was consecrated to those words: using all of my senses in my prayer life.

And without completely understanding it, all the personal internal bitching I had done because I felt so uncomfortable with certain aspects of my own work...I was called again into a real communion with God, which includes all of my sisters and brothers...and all of our quirks and confusions and our gifts and graces.

Nothing ever really runs smoothly, or linearly. I had someone tell me, that, in our sitting together, she had her "answer" in the first 15 minutes. I speak of that because, it was certainly not me that was particularly wise or insightful...but the activity of being in communion with another released an unknown [terror] in us both...[and not the same terror, of course!]

We do what we do, but we do not know what we do.  This works for good and for bad, depending always on what we see.

The little parable about the new town: if you see goodness, you will find goodness there.  If you see terror, you will find terror there. It's still the same town. How you live there depends on what you see.  To hell with facts and science, they don't matter if you cannot see...

Poor blind Bartimaeus! Yet his faith saved him.

You assume I love you because it is what you want to see. That can be a good thing and that can be a bad thing, depending on what you see.  I cannot change your perception and you must respond faithfully to what you see. I am simply here, offering a form of love...the love that was given to me by God. How you choose to receive that love...is entirely your story. 
I can cloud a gift from you by my unforgiveness. I can look for treachery and manipulation and find it. I can search for a motive and offer a biological interpretation to keep my from engaging a potential good gift from God, but I cannot make you do anything you do not want to do.  

So I ask you again: What do you see? 

And that...is your life.

Love, Cindy

We hardly knew you...

Will you remember me
When I have crossed over
To the land
Of milk and honey?

Will you come and sit
At my grave
And remind me again
Of how much you
Loved me?

As the years pass,
Will you turn me
Into a saint,
Or a villain,
Blaming me or
Thanking me
For being
Part of your life?

When I am gone
I have no chance left
to tell you
that I loved you
but that
you never
really knew
who I was
or what mattered to me.

When I am gone
no matter
what I write
or how
Still...
the only one who knows me
is
God.

And that is of little comfort
as I am stuck here
right now
Trying to
manifest my love for God
without
pissing you off.

The world is so wounded
in need of love
Yet seems to kill it
at every turn...
because it's never
the love
that matters...
it is the
"how we love"
that we
judge
condemn
mollify
worship...

And if my idea of love
Doesn't fit
into your box...
you throw it away
like yesterday's trash...

How did we become so cruel
as to vilify
a love
that we don't understand?

Even now
we nail love to a cross
place it on display
so others can mock it
deconstruct it
reconstruct it
into our own image...
claiming
this is what she meant. 

And love,
which is pure God
pure creation
knows what is real
and what is not
yet cries
because we
have tried
to kill it
to kill Him
all over again...
with our rules
and our prejudices
and our wounds
we don't want healed.
We want to be right.

Yet love survives
in spite of our foolishness
Love wins
even when
we choose death
Love always wins.

Love, Cindy
copyright 2013
(I don't know how to make the c in a circle)

Lux Aeterna

I really don't know what that means, but I am listening to it on Pandora...and it is just so...incredibly pleasant and calming. While making coffee and cleaning the kitchen, I listened to NPR, which only affirmed in my head we are all so selfish and uncaring...and greedy...as a group. All of that "deregulation" that began in the 80s with Reagan (forgive me if I have got that wrong, that was when I began aware of the hungry dogs ready to take advantage of the poor. I was told of such things before then, but I refused to believe that people would be so mean, to step on others in order to get ahead...) Whatever the sources, all I hear and see now is such an abuse of power. And the chilling truth is, I am part of the problem.
I want to water my grass. I want my air-conditioning. I want clean water to drink. The scary story in the Dallas area right now is the large pipe that broke in the mid-cities. A pipe that was designed to last 50 years broke down at 30. One could argue someone used cheap materials to build it, but the comment I clung to was "corrosive materials" destroyed the pipe from the inside. That kind of makes me want to ask, "What is in the water we are drinking?" No one really drinks it anymore. No one trusts it. I saw a video on FB of a child getting a drink of water from a hose and everyone was laughing. I looked in horror at what might be going into that child's body.  Another video of a child and a dog playing tug of war with a plastic bag. I shuddered to think that the dog might get a piece of plastic lodged in his throat and die. But everyone was laughing. Another story on NPR about Thomas Edison, who really wasn't such a nice guy. Decided to battle Westinghouse for the A/C vs D/C superiority with a test of electrocuting a "bad" elephant.
And then I could bring up the news I caught last night.

The music on Pandora is infinitely more soul satisfying than listening to what human beings are doing to each other and to this world. I ponder the question: Is it reasonable for me to go to music when the world is being violated on every level by selfish people...including me: with my coffee, my filtered water, my electronic light, cool air and satellite sent preprogrammed music? 
I had a poster once:
Sometimes I sits and thinks.
Sometimes I just sits.

In my garage: a bumper sticker on my freezer reminds me every time I get out of my car:
The secret of life is to live it.

There has not been a moment in history that was not horrific and barbaric in some way. Something is always trying to kill you, steal from you, destroy your bliss, oppress you...some who are aware of this remain bitter...and become mean and greedy...grabbing their piece of the pie and damning anyone who gets too close. But there are others who have learned how to live...outside reality...and into a super-reality.
Yesterday, my day included watching parts of "The Godfather," one of the "date movies" of my youth, Bill Moyers "Genesis" part one, TED Talks on perception and illusion, reading bits about the Peloponnesian War. It began with a trip to the library, and checking out "The Iron Lady" with Meryl Streep.  One priest told me, when he went to see it, that it reminded him of me. I thought of that yesterday, as I wandered through the library I had not visited in a long time.
I went because I needed an egg taco from Aparicio's.  I bought tortillas...oh so fresh!  And then went to the resale shop and bought a granny quilt for 99 cents. I decided to drive through the "old neighborhood, and passed my church, now a school, and remembered the day I sat on my car and had my first vision of Christ dying on the cross.  And I remembered how the minister there gave me a key to the church, so that I could come a pray anytime I wanted to.  I looked at how so much had changed and how much stayed the same. Such a sweet old neighborhood with tiny beautiful houses.  And then the library. I looked around, glad to see people there. Saw two old friends. One was planning to retire after 25 years of library service.  Still as beautiful as ever.  I thought back then, how I wanted a job there and didn't get it. And I was so depressed...I decided to go back to school and get a math degree, and then a master's degree...and all the interesting jobs I had...and I wondered, if I had just gotten that library job, I'd probably be celebrating my 25th anniversary there...and Bob would have been satisfied that I was making money...and maybe we'd still be married.

When I left the library...and looked at the streets ahead of me, I realized I had to go to the place where Bob had grown up...and say good bye there. Remember...and let go. Just as I did last spring when I drove to Navarro Junior College under a different pretense...and looked at the plane...and the planetarium...and the auditorium, where Bob had his first concert...mostly Beethoven.  Young people were on stage singing...and I thought about the father of my children.
I drove through the old neighborhood, where the 4th of July parties were huge and Bob would make omelets for everyone on the block. I looked at the great greenness of the street. I looked at the house that used to have the pyrocanthra bush that pierced Bob's eye.  The ditch where he would take his infrared pictures of the old pipe he fell off of...and had to get stitches. I said thank you and good bye to it all.
Why did I care? And how did I not know how much I had loved him? 
So seeing the movie "The Iron Lady" which seemed all about how, despite all the incredible things this woman had done, her most important relationship was with her husband. The movie was about telling him goodbye. 
God, you are so funny. HA! 
Is it really true God exists? As illogical as it appears, how can God not exist?  He seems to be messing with me every damn day.

I kept going with the input into my brain. Genesis, the politics of the Iron Lady, why people go to war, the great big picture...and the teeny tiny one that is my life.  Then to process,  I cleaned and cooked and gardened. And I thought a lot about the conversation I had with the priest the day before.
Yes. It seems I am motivated to write when I have the conversations I most want to have. I do love my priests. They are the only ones who make me feel...real. Not a freak. God have mercy on them, I know I am a challenge.

The dawn is looking pretty out there, green leaves looking a bit golden as they are greeted by the sun. The choral music resonates in my bones. I cannot make the world be nice...play nice.  I can, however, accept the tasks placed before me. And know that the past...will resolve itself outside of my hands. Even my past.

The priest reminded me to ask the right questions. Some questions go nowhere. Why is not so important as what.  What am I going to do next?

I just googled "lux aeterna"
Eternal light.
oh...

God, you are such a delightful lover.
Surprise me again.

Love, Cindy

I was telling him about my

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