homelessness
wandering
self-absorbed
not going to sit still
glad to have the chance to drive seventy miles an hour during the early stages of inclement weather, a place to go, a reason to do something
because doing nothing just hurts...
I was given a little miracle yesterday, behaving less than exemplary...and crying out, like the persistent woman with the judge.
"Give me something. I need something."
But what, I had no clue.
And the patient one, the calm one...
Found an answer of sorts
Because
My heart stopped hurting
for just a moment.
Like striking a match, but not as bright
Like a shine of light so small as a grain of sand
was just enough
to ease the pain
of emptiness
"Get used to emptiness"
"But I don't want to,
I want to be full"
And then
Without know
Or thinking
There it was
An answered prayer
"Give me emptiness"
and there it was
No one told me it was going to hurt
No one warned me
about the cost
of emptiness.
Never knew how full I was
of myself
until it wasn't there.
Not really humility yet
Just...nothing.
I recall an old Star Trek episode from the 60s:
McCoy: "It's hard to believe that a man could die of loneliness."
Back then, maybe, they didn't know that was true.
Even a tormentor is better than emptiness
And emptiness, true emptiness is the only real hell.
Ice. So cold that nothing happens. Ever.
That is emptiness.
Dante understood.
So bench-warming was not an appealing thought.
My name is Cynthia Mary. I am a great warrior. I do not sit. Ever.
"Be still and know that I am God."
I know You are God.
Now let me be.
Busy.
"Be still and know that I am God."
Do you want to argue with me?
Still implies nothing. Nothing implies death.
Uncreating would even be something compared to nothing.
In the Swamps of Sadness,
The great turtle, Moira,
had been alone so long
That Nothing seemed like a good idea.
(cf. The Never-Ending Story)
I don't want Nothing.
I don't want to sit
And I don't want to wait.
The priest bossed me around this morning.
Told me which cup to use, speaking in a bossy voice
"No one talks to me like that." I retorted.
"But you. I'll let you (and what I don't say is, "you belong to God")
And I will bend to the one who has given up everything
to do the best thing.
That one, I will trust, even in small things.
So, if that is true...
I have to listen to the one who said, "Sit."
And I realize how afraid I am of Nothing.
How hell, for me, is not doing.
To sit, and let someone wash my feet...
is one level of hell.
To just sit, without even waiting...
is fine, if I choose to do it.
Because I also choose when to stop.
And then, it dawns on me---oh, stupid, dense, slow me...
That my prayer life has only just begun.
To submit to love, to let it happen to me...
is terrifying.
To think I matter, simply because I exist
I matter, even if I don't do anything...
this is beyond impossible to grasp.
Now...look at the day...and there it is staring at me. While I write, I have unconsciously turned on Turner Classic Movies...and the movie is "Wait Until Dark"...a play I worked on in high school.
Audrey Hepburn plays a blind woman being led down a particular path by evil men...and she has just realized she has been tricked...so she begins to shatter any available light to save her from the "bad people." In the dark, she knows how to survive. Those who do not know how to survive in the dark will be beaten by it.
Those who do not know how to be still will be beaten by stillness.
So now I have to sit. So I can learn how to sit.
"When will I be a real girl?" I ask God.
"Soon," God says. "Soon."
"Be still and know that I am God."
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Seeing your Shadow
I haven't posted in a long time. I've written, but I've not been able to post. For some reason, I need to write this one. Then I may move on to something else.
The priest said to me on Friday, "You're free." and I suppose he believes it. The trick for me is to believe it, and accept it, too.
I have prayed over and over to God to heal me, to make me a healer, to help me become the very best I can be...and all of that seems revolve around my idea that I need to be a priest...or that I want to be a priest. Wants and needs can be the same things, but not always. But I recall the pure hatred from the nuns who didn't care or understand me on any level. I asked the wrong questions, I asked too many questions...and I was always, always, always bored. The priests always took an interest in me, made me feel valued, like I really existed. If I truly loved God, then I must be a good person: a priest...and never ever a nun.
So the journey was sometimes terrifying and tragic...and it was fairly clear from the beginning, I had no one on my side. It is difficult to write about because...I am beginning to assimilate that, after 50 years, I think I have real people there with me...and like Pinocchio, I am at long last a "real boy"...or in my case a "real girl"...although that still sounds so strange, because I still have in my head very unkind images of "real girls." Only a few have offered kindness to me...most were hateful and catty and jealous, concerned with shampoos and boys...I thought of them as hens clucking in the distance, dismissing them of having no value to me. But then...I didn't realize what had happened to me...and now, after 50 years, I know.
It's not pretty. Not the kind of thing one writes about even...and I am not yet clever enough to weave the truth into some cautionary tale of fiction...though I wish that I could.
I recall, somewhere around the age of 13 or 14, after reading the book, "Go Ask Alice" that I had kind of a choice finally, I actually thought about, wrote about, becoming crazy...because reality back then was just so horrible. I thought about it. I had within me, the power to abandon the world through my mind, if I chose to do so...and knowing I could do it scared me to death.
Perhaps that was the point when I went to God in prayer and kind of gave up: I told God the world was evil and there was no escape, so I said, "use me as you wish, I will go into hell for you, because I love you that much." (Over the years, I have known others, usually women, who have made that prayer, too...let me correct that: in my readings, I have read of women who have offered themselves in this way. These women were deeply wounded by the world. I wonder if the brain finds that idea as yet one more survival technique: I cannot escape hell, so I am going to try to make hell disappear by crusading against it) Not an unusual prayer.
Factor in my Clearwater blue eyes and pleasant face, blessed with a voice that can calm even a firestorm, and that makes me a reasonable candidate for becoming a healer. That is, once I rid myself...or should I say, with God's help, survived and forgave all the evil that came my way...and that I offered out of hurt to too many gentle souls. I had been born with the power to create and destroy, to build up and to tear down...which is true of every one of us. But we cannot build up without the story...nor do we tear down without it.
In fact, I have come to understand that the story of who we are is what separates us from the animals. The story of us is the soul of us, the spirit of us is what we send out and gather in. Good and bad. Building up and tearing down. None of it means anything unless we tell the story.
I've searched in many places for help in telling my story. Many places. I recall the moments I reached out. Sometimes I was seen, sometimes I was seen and ignored, and sometimes I was completely invisible. (Now think about this for a minute: we do this everyday, all day long. We see what we choose to see, and we ignore the rest. It is a terrible reality of our humanity, which is why we must always adopt a state of forgiveness in our hearts, not just for those who wound us, but for ourselves, because we wound others when we choose to not see...some part of you knows that is true. It has to be forgiven, not ignored or dismissed...or it will haunt you later. The devil will bring it up to you in those last days, and you must be prepared)
I am seeing it all so much more clearly now. I have a calmness I did not know before. Perhaps the priest is right, I am free.
I saw my shadow...and it doesn't frighten me anymore.
As a scientist, I can never actually say to another scientist: God exists. It would waste his time and mine. But there are greater things in this universe, in this "being alive" that we have not yet even begun to understand. All of truth is accessible though, if you are willing to step out of thinking about it. Like Peter walking on the water. Yes, he began to sink the moment he began to think about it...those of us who are contemplatives, if we dare to analyze our consolations, they become something less...because we try to put them in the box of the human mind. We pay a price to tell our stories, but it is still a necessary way to help others along the path...if they want to follow the path.
In this last month, I finally faced my shadow. I went into the cave, like Luke Skywalker, carrying only what I had with me, and the only battle I had was with myself. Yoda said Luke failed in the cave. He killed his shadow. But the shadow was part of him, so he killed part of himself.
It's not that we have to kill off part of who we are to have that "happy life"...it is that we have to see it, to know what it is, and to manage it. That was the lesson that took me forever to learn. And I hated looking at my shadow, because I realize that my shadow was the one who was raising my daughter most of the time...and separating me from her, telling me I had no right to be her mother. I have recently stood as an observer and recognized it for what it was. And I have had to forgive myself for what I was not; and recognize that, for her to heal, she will have to choose to do the work herself. I really can't help. I can see it, because I recall when my son was born, I began to tell my shadow to go to hell. Because I made a little progress, I thought I was "all better." Alas, I had barely begun.
I'm coming up on the first anniversary of my husband's death. (It has just started to rain on the skylight now). We were divorced almost 18 years when he died, but when he died, I felt a pain I have never felt before. I loved him deeply, he was the most perfect person for me...and I was the most perfect person for him...but we both lived too much in our shadows and the love that united us was not strong enough to keep us together. I wanted that to heal...and now it never will. So with the great vigor of someone with nothing to lose, nothing to wait for, I began in earnest to undo the knots in my heart. If I must stay, then let it be an adventure and not a prison!
A long year it has been. I often remember standing on that little hill, near Cochita Lake, where Bob died...looking out into the clear cold sky...finally asking, why did you leave me? I waited and now you are gone forever and I'm stuck here, you son of a bitch...and the thousand thoughts that followed. The perfect family never happened. I always believed in the perfect family...the one I didn't have but was going to make.
So, looking back at the year...my daughter, who does not speak to me unless required to, looks more beautiful than ever. She is healthier than ever. She has a long way to go, but I suspect she will always find what she seeks. I don't get to choose what she looks for, but I pray that when her life winds down, she will be content in her heart. My son is well on his way to good things, with his own list of challenges, making sense of his life. They both have their stories to tell...to write.
For me, it was a big deal, too see my shadow and tell it to "go to hell." That really didn't work, because it is part of me. What I had to do was tell it to "shut up." It was so skilled in knowing how to own me and try to destroy any good in my life. I did not realize how much it had taken control of my life until this last month. Oh, how surprised I was...and what amused me perhaps more, was the surprise on "woman walking with me"s face. I don't know if that was for my benefit, or if I had just done a great job conning her along the way.
Many people have tried to help. I never stopped asking. Each had their own theories...but I could not let go until I understood some part of it, enough of it to finally say "enough!"
Now...for a quarter at the St Vincent de Paul thrift shop, I find for a quarter "The Dolores Passion of Jesus Christ" on CD by Catherine Emmerich...and I began to listen to it...carefully. Slowly. This was no accident. In the Garden of Gethsemane, how the devil attacks Jesus...not the confusing beautiful images of the Mel Gipson movie, but the words, all of them...and I think about it.
What I have always understood was that our salvation is contingent on what we choose to believe, accept as real. On my storyboard, Jesus stands at the "gates" asking, "well, are you coming in?" and we have, even in those last moments, the opportunity to choose...and I always understood that was a big deal. When I meet with people close to death, I often hear, "What if Jesus doesn't want me?" and I have always had a comforting response...knowing the struggle inside...and suddenly, I have come to understand that we each have our Garden of Gethsemane, where we will sweat drops of blood when we look back at who we were, the story we told, what we embraced and what we didn't...and that voice of Satan, that shadow, make his final play for our souls...reminding us of every little thing we left undone, did poorly, ignored, abandoned, hurt...
The devil shows us our shadow and tells us that's all we are: shadows. But we are not shadows. We are lights. We have the ability to shine even in the darkness...even when the winds blow. We are lights...and lights always have shadows. But the shadow is not the light.
John of the Cross, was said to have told his brothers to stop telling him about all the good he had done in his life, that only God's grace would bring him into heaven. And that is the truth. It is not giving you permission to stop doing all the good you can in this world, but the truth is, no matter how much good you do, it will never be enough. There will always be more to do. So relying on your own work will only take you to the gate.
Knowing who you really are, and who you really belong to, what you were created for...these are the things that matter...and you can only face your shadow when you have the light with you, and inside you.
There is no need to be afraid any longer.
Winter is over...you are free.
Love, Cindy
The priest said to me on Friday, "You're free." and I suppose he believes it. The trick for me is to believe it, and accept it, too.
I have prayed over and over to God to heal me, to make me a healer, to help me become the very best I can be...and all of that seems revolve around my idea that I need to be a priest...or that I want to be a priest. Wants and needs can be the same things, but not always. But I recall the pure hatred from the nuns who didn't care or understand me on any level. I asked the wrong questions, I asked too many questions...and I was always, always, always bored. The priests always took an interest in me, made me feel valued, like I really existed. If I truly loved God, then I must be a good person: a priest...and never ever a nun.
So the journey was sometimes terrifying and tragic...and it was fairly clear from the beginning, I had no one on my side. It is difficult to write about because...I am beginning to assimilate that, after 50 years, I think I have real people there with me...and like Pinocchio, I am at long last a "real boy"...or in my case a "real girl"...although that still sounds so strange, because I still have in my head very unkind images of "real girls." Only a few have offered kindness to me...most were hateful and catty and jealous, concerned with shampoos and boys...I thought of them as hens clucking in the distance, dismissing them of having no value to me. But then...I didn't realize what had happened to me...and now, after 50 years, I know.
It's not pretty. Not the kind of thing one writes about even...and I am not yet clever enough to weave the truth into some cautionary tale of fiction...though I wish that I could.
I recall, somewhere around the age of 13 or 14, after reading the book, "Go Ask Alice" that I had kind of a choice finally, I actually thought about, wrote about, becoming crazy...because reality back then was just so horrible. I thought about it. I had within me, the power to abandon the world through my mind, if I chose to do so...and knowing I could do it scared me to death.
Perhaps that was the point when I went to God in prayer and kind of gave up: I told God the world was evil and there was no escape, so I said, "use me as you wish, I will go into hell for you, because I love you that much." (Over the years, I have known others, usually women, who have made that prayer, too...let me correct that: in my readings, I have read of women who have offered themselves in this way. These women were deeply wounded by the world. I wonder if the brain finds that idea as yet one more survival technique: I cannot escape hell, so I am going to try to make hell disappear by crusading against it) Not an unusual prayer.
Factor in my Clearwater blue eyes and pleasant face, blessed with a voice that can calm even a firestorm, and that makes me a reasonable candidate for becoming a healer. That is, once I rid myself...or should I say, with God's help, survived and forgave all the evil that came my way...and that I offered out of hurt to too many gentle souls. I had been born with the power to create and destroy, to build up and to tear down...which is true of every one of us. But we cannot build up without the story...nor do we tear down without it.
In fact, I have come to understand that the story of who we are is what separates us from the animals. The story of us is the soul of us, the spirit of us is what we send out and gather in. Good and bad. Building up and tearing down. None of it means anything unless we tell the story.
I've searched in many places for help in telling my story. Many places. I recall the moments I reached out. Sometimes I was seen, sometimes I was seen and ignored, and sometimes I was completely invisible. (Now think about this for a minute: we do this everyday, all day long. We see what we choose to see, and we ignore the rest. It is a terrible reality of our humanity, which is why we must always adopt a state of forgiveness in our hearts, not just for those who wound us, but for ourselves, because we wound others when we choose to not see...some part of you knows that is true. It has to be forgiven, not ignored or dismissed...or it will haunt you later. The devil will bring it up to you in those last days, and you must be prepared)
I am seeing it all so much more clearly now. I have a calmness I did not know before. Perhaps the priest is right, I am free.
I saw my shadow...and it doesn't frighten me anymore.
As a scientist, I can never actually say to another scientist: God exists. It would waste his time and mine. But there are greater things in this universe, in this "being alive" that we have not yet even begun to understand. All of truth is accessible though, if you are willing to step out of thinking about it. Like Peter walking on the water. Yes, he began to sink the moment he began to think about it...those of us who are contemplatives, if we dare to analyze our consolations, they become something less...because we try to put them in the box of the human mind. We pay a price to tell our stories, but it is still a necessary way to help others along the path...if they want to follow the path.
In this last month, I finally faced my shadow. I went into the cave, like Luke Skywalker, carrying only what I had with me, and the only battle I had was with myself. Yoda said Luke failed in the cave. He killed his shadow. But the shadow was part of him, so he killed part of himself.
It's not that we have to kill off part of who we are to have that "happy life"...it is that we have to see it, to know what it is, and to manage it. That was the lesson that took me forever to learn. And I hated looking at my shadow, because I realize that my shadow was the one who was raising my daughter most of the time...and separating me from her, telling me I had no right to be her mother. I have recently stood as an observer and recognized it for what it was. And I have had to forgive myself for what I was not; and recognize that, for her to heal, she will have to choose to do the work herself. I really can't help. I can see it, because I recall when my son was born, I began to tell my shadow to go to hell. Because I made a little progress, I thought I was "all better." Alas, I had barely begun.
I'm coming up on the first anniversary of my husband's death. (It has just started to rain on the skylight now). We were divorced almost 18 years when he died, but when he died, I felt a pain I have never felt before. I loved him deeply, he was the most perfect person for me...and I was the most perfect person for him...but we both lived too much in our shadows and the love that united us was not strong enough to keep us together. I wanted that to heal...and now it never will. So with the great vigor of someone with nothing to lose, nothing to wait for, I began in earnest to undo the knots in my heart. If I must stay, then let it be an adventure and not a prison!
A long year it has been. I often remember standing on that little hill, near Cochita Lake, where Bob died...looking out into the clear cold sky...finally asking, why did you leave me? I waited and now you are gone forever and I'm stuck here, you son of a bitch...and the thousand thoughts that followed. The perfect family never happened. I always believed in the perfect family...the one I didn't have but was going to make.
So, looking back at the year...my daughter, who does not speak to me unless required to, looks more beautiful than ever. She is healthier than ever. She has a long way to go, but I suspect she will always find what she seeks. I don't get to choose what she looks for, but I pray that when her life winds down, she will be content in her heart. My son is well on his way to good things, with his own list of challenges, making sense of his life. They both have their stories to tell...to write.
For me, it was a big deal, too see my shadow and tell it to "go to hell." That really didn't work, because it is part of me. What I had to do was tell it to "shut up." It was so skilled in knowing how to own me and try to destroy any good in my life. I did not realize how much it had taken control of my life until this last month. Oh, how surprised I was...and what amused me perhaps more, was the surprise on "woman walking with me"s face. I don't know if that was for my benefit, or if I had just done a great job conning her along the way.
Many people have tried to help. I never stopped asking. Each had their own theories...but I could not let go until I understood some part of it, enough of it to finally say "enough!"
Now...for a quarter at the St Vincent de Paul thrift shop, I find for a quarter "The Dolores Passion of Jesus Christ" on CD by Catherine Emmerich...and I began to listen to it...carefully. Slowly. This was no accident. In the Garden of Gethsemane, how the devil attacks Jesus...not the confusing beautiful images of the Mel Gipson movie, but the words, all of them...and I think about it.
What I have always understood was that our salvation is contingent on what we choose to believe, accept as real. On my storyboard, Jesus stands at the "gates" asking, "well, are you coming in?" and we have, even in those last moments, the opportunity to choose...and I always understood that was a big deal. When I meet with people close to death, I often hear, "What if Jesus doesn't want me?" and I have always had a comforting response...knowing the struggle inside...and suddenly, I have come to understand that we each have our Garden of Gethsemane, where we will sweat drops of blood when we look back at who we were, the story we told, what we embraced and what we didn't...and that voice of Satan, that shadow, make his final play for our souls...reminding us of every little thing we left undone, did poorly, ignored, abandoned, hurt...
The devil shows us our shadow and tells us that's all we are: shadows. But we are not shadows. We are lights. We have the ability to shine even in the darkness...even when the winds blow. We are lights...and lights always have shadows. But the shadow is not the light.
John of the Cross, was said to have told his brothers to stop telling him about all the good he had done in his life, that only God's grace would bring him into heaven. And that is the truth. It is not giving you permission to stop doing all the good you can in this world, but the truth is, no matter how much good you do, it will never be enough. There will always be more to do. So relying on your own work will only take you to the gate.
Knowing who you really are, and who you really belong to, what you were created for...these are the things that matter...and you can only face your shadow when you have the light with you, and inside you.
There is no need to be afraid any longer.
Winter is over...you are free.
Love, Cindy
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Epiphany
My epiphany for January 2014:
Did you really think I would write it down here?
Let the 2014 Hunger Game Begin...
Did you really think I would write it down here?
Let the 2014 Hunger Game Begin...
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Holy Innocence
That's the title. Am I ready to write down what that actually means? I think...not yet...and probably not here. But such was the way my day began yesterday: with Mass. I was reminded again, in confession, that I should attend because it is part of my spiritual discipline, my spiritual vow to God. Things I do because I desire to do them are points of devotion for me. I do them, I practice them, out of love and possibly desire.
I recognize that truth I learned when I was studying social psychology: change the behavior and the attitude will follow. The adage "You are what you eat" can be also defined by "You are what you do." That's the whole point of religion. With or without faith, if you continually act in love, not so much in reason, you will find yourself believing in something greater than yourself. For those who follow the law only will die by the law...and the law is harsh and cold and unforgiving.
Teenagers are the greatest proof of the Law. They reason out the loopholes in it, they play with words...to get what they desire...and to defeat parenting at every turn. Only when they are caught by the law, and are offered mercy and forgiveness, do they begin to realize the beauty of the law.
The story of the Prodigal is always the most perfect way to explain Law and Mercy. The younger son bargains openly for his passions, while the older son bargains subversively...the younger one is redeemed but we never know, from the story, if they older one is redeemed. He seems to not yet be ready. He wants the Law to save him...and the Law will only take him so far...
For me, I have always felt the Law was much of human foolishness's attempt to rule over others for the benefit of a particular select group of individuals. I recognize the power of the Law and how the powerful use the Law to maintain their power. I recognize the need for order in any society, and often, I see the wisdom in why and how a particular country governs itself. I don't always agree with the choices, but I can understand them, have sympathy for them...and still recognize the injustice of them.
So I opt for God. Beginning, end and middle. Only God can rule us all with appropriate compassion and bias for the good of all. Some people place all of that into the hands of the Magisterium. I can do that to a certain level, but I confess, I cannot and will not worship a human invention. I still expect personal revelation to teach me who, what and how to trust.
I have taken the Hard Way to the Truth. It's not so much the Church, (Roman Catholic), but again, it falls back on words and ideas, which are so easily misunderstood. And the administration is by people, who are so very human. Good priests and bad priests. Priests and bishops seduced by power, thinking they are better than others, can choose for another human being. Should choose for another human being. Parenting. But even parenting is not static. It changes as the child grows...or the child never grows. I am both the repentant son and the son who stands at the door...
This new Pope Francis, what a gift he is to us! What an answer to my prayers! The simple mind may think that I am drawn to him because what he might "do for me" and my thought is to want to slap the face that might think that, once again, someone judging me by their own prejudice...still rooted in the idea that women cannot think, or be, or do...anything but be on their knees to or for some man. (Yes, I still have to work on forgiving others who continually treat me like an object...I have never claimed to be without sin)...but so much more that the so silly male/female wars that will never end, this Pope doesn't want to be sucked into time-wasting battles for power...he seems to be truly focused on service/social justice and love. The rest is so incredibly unimportant. I suspect he will never escape the attacks he is facing...on those who like the status quo, or subscribe to "clericalism" (oh, I just learned about that word recently...and it fits) This Pope is a Jesuit.
I have been doing some reading on the evolutionary states of...shall I call it...Christological Anthropology? We have something wonderful: Jesus Christ, with a grand idea and way to live. He returns to heaven...and we start taking his ideas...and stretching them...some good, some bad. People complain, people rebel (consider I Kings and II Kings/ I and II Chronicles: the age of Kings and Judges), create something new...something new is good...until...it becomes not good. Always someone comes along, paying attention to the rules, and thus the loopholes. And there is rebellion, rebirth, conservative and liberal...over and over and over again...
Jesuits were part of that game. Excesses of the Church caused the desire for change. Perhaps education was the solution. I'd consider the Jesuits the fathers of education. But it is in the vows that true holy power is maintained with some sort of balance. It is a combination of discipline and devotion (you thought I forgot, didn't you)...
Poverty
Chastity
Obedience.
Poverty: the ability to trust God for all one's basic needs, to have things but to never be attached to them, to be able to walk away from any possession if you are able to see that someone else needs it more...the charism of Hospitality. This is true social justice. This one allows others to trust you because you will not seek material gain.
Chastity: to give oneself completely, and of free will, to God. To make the most intimate bond to God alone, to God first. To never allow any human being or anything created separate ones'self from God. It is a holy marriage that should be respected by those who believe...and create fear of punishment for those who don't. Perfection of this vow allows a person to not become seduced by power...human power...and no one will suspect you have ulterior motives to take that which belongs to someone else.
Obedience: the hardest of all. To become submissive to God's will. To become submissive to your superior, trusting that the superior is also following and respecting the same vows. This one is so hard for me...I have seen such abuse by others who have been given power...so I have not yet sorted this one out. But in terms of evangelization and ministry, I understand it is necessary that each of us swear an allegiance to a higher power, or we can become despots...or some other horrible evil...we must always bend to God's will and not our own...for we do not see clearly about anything. Ever.
Previous Popes have not been required to take such vows...particularly the vow of poverty, which is a challenge for people who are used to being comfortable...expect to be comfortable. This new Jesuit Pope is teaching the world that the Church is not about opulence or pretty accouterments. It is truly about helping others find love and peace in God...I like that just fine.
So about my morning prayers today: All of this seemed to be on my mind, as I was praying, huddling under my covers...beginning with:
Thank you, Jesus....which evolved into Help me, Jesus...which moved into Forgive me, Jesus...and then into Heal me, Jesus...and finally into Love me, Jesus.
And I was a bit surprised by the order of my prayers. I always believed that Thank you was the end of all prayers...but I began to realize that, while it is a kind of summit, it is also the beginning of prayer.
To be grateful is the beginning of prayer.
Wow. You gave me this life, this bed, this warm blanket, this music...a head that can think...and worry too much...you gave it all to me. Without you, I would not be here...thank you, Jesus.
Then, it's like, I'm not living life in freedom, I know I am not free, I need your help to be free. I can't do this along. I'm afraid. Help me, Jesus.
Then I thought, yes, I really have not lived up to the gifts I've been given...I am sad about that, I feel badly about it...so, please forgive me Jesus, Forgive me, Jesus, for not using my gifts...for not working more to bring your kingdom to earth...and then I thought, the only way to do the work, is to be healed of my sins, not just forgiven, but healed of them...so they won't get in the way again...so they won't drag me down...talk me out of trying to do good, to be good...Heal me, Jesus...and then I thought, how to be healed...the only way is through love...oh, Jesus...love me, Jesus...give me the power to surrender, to be obedient to your scary love, to let you love me...
Poverty, chastity, obedience. It's all there, somewhere, in the prayers.
I guess it's not for everyone...
just those that want to go through the door...
and into the party
that celebrates the life
of someone else
who found his way
home.
Holy Innocence returns.
Love, Cindy
I recognize that truth I learned when I was studying social psychology: change the behavior and the attitude will follow. The adage "You are what you eat" can be also defined by "You are what you do." That's the whole point of religion. With or without faith, if you continually act in love, not so much in reason, you will find yourself believing in something greater than yourself. For those who follow the law only will die by the law...and the law is harsh and cold and unforgiving.
Teenagers are the greatest proof of the Law. They reason out the loopholes in it, they play with words...to get what they desire...and to defeat parenting at every turn. Only when they are caught by the law, and are offered mercy and forgiveness, do they begin to realize the beauty of the law.
The story of the Prodigal is always the most perfect way to explain Law and Mercy. The younger son bargains openly for his passions, while the older son bargains subversively...the younger one is redeemed but we never know, from the story, if they older one is redeemed. He seems to not yet be ready. He wants the Law to save him...and the Law will only take him so far...
For me, I have always felt the Law was much of human foolishness's attempt to rule over others for the benefit of a particular select group of individuals. I recognize the power of the Law and how the powerful use the Law to maintain their power. I recognize the need for order in any society, and often, I see the wisdom in why and how a particular country governs itself. I don't always agree with the choices, but I can understand them, have sympathy for them...and still recognize the injustice of them.
So I opt for God. Beginning, end and middle. Only God can rule us all with appropriate compassion and bias for the good of all. Some people place all of that into the hands of the Magisterium. I can do that to a certain level, but I confess, I cannot and will not worship a human invention. I still expect personal revelation to teach me who, what and how to trust.
I have taken the Hard Way to the Truth. It's not so much the Church, (Roman Catholic), but again, it falls back on words and ideas, which are so easily misunderstood. And the administration is by people, who are so very human. Good priests and bad priests. Priests and bishops seduced by power, thinking they are better than others, can choose for another human being. Should choose for another human being. Parenting. But even parenting is not static. It changes as the child grows...or the child never grows. I am both the repentant son and the son who stands at the door...
This new Pope Francis, what a gift he is to us! What an answer to my prayers! The simple mind may think that I am drawn to him because what he might "do for me" and my thought is to want to slap the face that might think that, once again, someone judging me by their own prejudice...still rooted in the idea that women cannot think, or be, or do...anything but be on their knees to or for some man. (Yes, I still have to work on forgiving others who continually treat me like an object...I have never claimed to be without sin)...but so much more that the so silly male/female wars that will never end, this Pope doesn't want to be sucked into time-wasting battles for power...he seems to be truly focused on service/social justice and love. The rest is so incredibly unimportant. I suspect he will never escape the attacks he is facing...on those who like the status quo, or subscribe to "clericalism" (oh, I just learned about that word recently...and it fits) This Pope is a Jesuit.
I have been doing some reading on the evolutionary states of...shall I call it...Christological Anthropology? We have something wonderful: Jesus Christ, with a grand idea and way to live. He returns to heaven...and we start taking his ideas...and stretching them...some good, some bad. People complain, people rebel (consider I Kings and II Kings/ I and II Chronicles: the age of Kings and Judges), create something new...something new is good...until...it becomes not good. Always someone comes along, paying attention to the rules, and thus the loopholes. And there is rebellion, rebirth, conservative and liberal...over and over and over again...
Jesuits were part of that game. Excesses of the Church caused the desire for change. Perhaps education was the solution. I'd consider the Jesuits the fathers of education. But it is in the vows that true holy power is maintained with some sort of balance. It is a combination of discipline and devotion (you thought I forgot, didn't you)...
Poverty
Chastity
Obedience.
Poverty: the ability to trust God for all one's basic needs, to have things but to never be attached to them, to be able to walk away from any possession if you are able to see that someone else needs it more...the charism of Hospitality. This is true social justice. This one allows others to trust you because you will not seek material gain.
Chastity: to give oneself completely, and of free will, to God. To make the most intimate bond to God alone, to God first. To never allow any human being or anything created separate ones'self from God. It is a holy marriage that should be respected by those who believe...and create fear of punishment for those who don't. Perfection of this vow allows a person to not become seduced by power...human power...and no one will suspect you have ulterior motives to take that which belongs to someone else.
Obedience: the hardest of all. To become submissive to God's will. To become submissive to your superior, trusting that the superior is also following and respecting the same vows. This one is so hard for me...I have seen such abuse by others who have been given power...so I have not yet sorted this one out. But in terms of evangelization and ministry, I understand it is necessary that each of us swear an allegiance to a higher power, or we can become despots...or some other horrible evil...we must always bend to God's will and not our own...for we do not see clearly about anything. Ever.
Previous Popes have not been required to take such vows...particularly the vow of poverty, which is a challenge for people who are used to being comfortable...expect to be comfortable. This new Jesuit Pope is teaching the world that the Church is not about opulence or pretty accouterments. It is truly about helping others find love and peace in God...I like that just fine.
So about my morning prayers today: All of this seemed to be on my mind, as I was praying, huddling under my covers...beginning with:
Thank you, Jesus....which evolved into Help me, Jesus...which moved into Forgive me, Jesus...and then into Heal me, Jesus...and finally into Love me, Jesus.
And I was a bit surprised by the order of my prayers. I always believed that Thank you was the end of all prayers...but I began to realize that, while it is a kind of summit, it is also the beginning of prayer.
To be grateful is the beginning of prayer.
Wow. You gave me this life, this bed, this warm blanket, this music...a head that can think...and worry too much...you gave it all to me. Without you, I would not be here...thank you, Jesus.
Then, it's like, I'm not living life in freedom, I know I am not free, I need your help to be free. I can't do this along. I'm afraid. Help me, Jesus.
Then I thought, yes, I really have not lived up to the gifts I've been given...I am sad about that, I feel badly about it...so, please forgive me Jesus, Forgive me, Jesus, for not using my gifts...for not working more to bring your kingdom to earth...and then I thought, the only way to do the work, is to be healed of my sins, not just forgiven, but healed of them...so they won't get in the way again...so they won't drag me down...talk me out of trying to do good, to be good...Heal me, Jesus...and then I thought, how to be healed...the only way is through love...oh, Jesus...love me, Jesus...give me the power to surrender, to be obedient to your scary love, to let you love me...
Poverty, chastity, obedience. It's all there, somewhere, in the prayers.
I guess it's not for everyone...
just those that want to go through the door...
and into the party
that celebrates the life
of someone else
who found his way
home.
Holy Innocence returns.
Love, Cindy
Thursday, December 26, 2013
O Come Let Us Adore Him
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
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
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
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