apart or a part

Everywhere I turn lately there seem to be reminders of who I am, or where I've been. I like where I am now, even when the road is more like a rocky cliff-face than a broad highway. I've also frequently been reminded of how I've gotten here. One such reminder came in my response to a post. The post read, in part:

[Spiritual life] is not something we can tackle alone. No, the wisdom of Jesus is that He founded a Church and did not merely convey a philosophy of life. In his homily yesterday, Deacon David Hall recalled the popular notion that spirituality can be disconnected from religiosity: "I don’t need a church; I have Jesus."  However, among the very first things that Jesus did when starting His public ministry was to surround Himself with others. Every gospel writer considered that fact so important that the call of the apostles is described near the beginning of all four gospels. 
Yesterday the Church celebrated the Feast of the Holy Trinity. This mystery itself is a compelling reminder that God Himself, in whose image we are created, is not an isolated singularity but a community of persons in relationship. The normal Christian life is also lived in relationship, not isolated, not alone.

There was a time when I really did feel that having faith was enough. Saying that it was there in my heart, and believing that being "near" to God was all I really needed. That going to church was nice, but not necessary to being faithful or a good person. But I also knew something was missing, and for a long time, I found that something to be related to religion itself. I thought that religion and faith left me with more questions than answers. Oh, I asked the questions, but--whether purposely or not--I asked them of people who had no basis upon which to answer. I would, actually, wait until someone had voiced a question similar to one of my own. Something along the lines of, "Yeah, what about that?" would flow from my lips, while simultaneously darkening my heart. My faith was hollow, as it was not filled with trust. I was separating myself from what I did know about faith, while telling myself that I was at least following what I understood.

Since that day when I felt I had nothing more to lose, and I said, with all my heart (because it had worked before), "Guide me. Wherever you need me to go, I will go," my journey has changed. That night, I turned to someone I never thought I would, and was met with a message of hope, trust and, most of all, love. Not exactly: I was met with a message of Hope, Trust and Love--all with capital letters. There were a number of "faith moments" shared over the course of that long weekend, and each of them made a huge impact on my heart. The darkness, the hardness dissipated, and in its place, I felt lightness and peace. Joy. Most of all, togetherness.

Afterwards, I looked at the moments in church differently. I began to see more similarities than differences in the people gathered. I began to want to find real answers to some of my questions. I've learned that the answers don't always come in order--because the order is not for me to determine. There are still things that frustrate me, confuse and confound me; there are still times when I find myself pulling back into myself, because I have made a habit of using my nature as an excuse to isolate. What I've learned about myself far outweighs anything I ever thought I could learn; it's sometimes painful, but mostly marvelous. I've begun to reach beyond myself; I've found that I can.

I will always be more introverted than extroverted, but I've learned that there is a difference between embracing the facets of myself, and using them as a shield to keep myself isolated, alone. Apart. My response to the post above:

The times when I've felt alone on my journey have all been times when I told myself I didn't need to go to a building or a service to believe. Now, I'd much rather be a part than apart!

I still find faith outside and away, but I no longer feel like an outsider. I am a part of the whole because I do not place myself apart from the whole.

face, embrace, release

I stained a door today. More precisely, I stained half a door today. We bought the door (a bi-fold) a few months ago (before Easter) to replace the closet door in our bathroom. Since we brought it home, it has stood in our dining room, where I (we, and anyone else who came in the house!) could see it. I knew that if we put it out of sight, it would never get stained. Never get installed. Then swim team practice started up again, and I had nearly given up hope of ever getting it done.

Weeks ago, I had gone to get the stain and other materials needed, intending to--or rather, determined to--get the staining portion done while my husband was out of town college visiting with our son. Something got in the way--likely weather, possibly time, probably something else entirely--and here the door stood, waiting. Last week, texting with a dear friend, I finally came to the bottom of my hesitation. Her husband is the ultimate Mr. Fixit-DoItHimselfer. She told me that every family needs someone like him, and I told her, "That was my dad."

That's what it came down to: Dad would have had it done in no time, and I would have been amazed and impressed. After seeing how quickly I finished what I did today, even with the drying time between coats, I can see why he was always so modest about that kind of stuff. After I finished the second coat on the first side of the door, I found myself thinking, "Well, that was easy enough!"

Truth be told, I was hoping I wouldn't be the one staining the door. I took Mom this morning to meet up with my sister, who then took Mom up to her house for the weekend. Guy had swim team and lessons. Both of us were scheduled to be back home at nearly the same time this afternoon. The deal was, whoever got home first would work on the door. It wasn't until I pulled in the driveway that I realized that taking my lunch to go at Subway was my mistake! I had no choice but to get changed, and get started. Why it all seemed so daunting is difficult to explain; mostly because the reasons are not what most people see in me. I had read the directions again and again--at least four times in the store alone! And this was not even the first time I'd stained something. Grammy and Grampy's kitchen table and chairs had come out pretty well, but that had been about fifteen years ago. And somewhere in the intervening years, I had been reintroduced to some serious feelings of inadequacy and sadness. That's what I realized in the conversation with my friend: I needed to face those feelings once and for all.

Last summer, on a particularly bad day, I asked another friend a question about dealing with a problem. He told me to Face it, Embrace it, and Let It Go. I will never forget that. It was a real turning point for me, and has become quite a motto in almost everything I do. It'll take more than just a door to expel the demons from my past, but one small step is all it takes to begin a journey--or to continue on. In the Faith Matters group at church, we've been working through a personal retreat on Consoling the Heart of Jesus, and talking quite a bit about Mercy, and Love. I've learned that loving others is not enough; I need to face and embrace everything about myself, too; the good, the bad, and everything in between. The stuff from my adult life, I've been able to look at (fairly) clearly. It's the stuff from long ago that sometimes bubbles up, and then gets pressed back down by the parts of me that have not been ready to face them. Nothing is major, really, in the grand scheme of things, but I'm positive that at least some of it would help the boys tremendously if I could reveal it to myself enough to share with them.

Tomorrow I will finish staining the door, and hopefully by Monday night, we'll have a beautiful new door for the bathroom closet. And I will have vanquished at least one of the dark shadows in my mind.

learn, grow, pray

There are times when clarity comes in crumbs, not in big signs. There are times when the clarity comes from saying or doing. And some times when keeping quiet (and wondering why the mouth just won't open) speaks volumes.

Forgiveness was the topic tonight, and the related difficulties: letting go, identifying, drawing that fine line between an important lesson learned and something else. Something like fear, hatred, resentment, bitterness. I've been in a position to feel any and all of those things, yet I found that when I chose to forgive -- honestly forgive -- I found strength. And comfort.

Somehow, we get the feeling that forgiving is giving up, and in some ways I guess it is, if you mean giving up the stuff that eats you up inside. But forgiving is not the same as admitting defeat or defect, it's not weakness. And it doesn't mean that forgetting is necessary, although constant, painful reminders are certainly not beneficial.

For me, the work of healing began with the decision to forgive, followed by a decision to pray for all those involved. (Something I continue to do, though not as often now.) I was (and still am!) amazed at how quickly the memory faded, like an old photograph; a sepia-toned image of another time and place. The scariest part was making that decision to forgive; admitting that I wanted to. Why? I may never know for sure, but I suspect a devilish influence on my emotions. I was tempted to react harshly; to judge without having all the facts.

My point is, as much as it surprises me to say, I'm grateful. Grateful for the experience, the knowledge, the grace, the growth. Without this exercise in forgiveness, there are so many things about myself I wouldn't know. Actually, I'm pretty sure I still don't know the depth of what I've learned, and may not ever. I'd rather not be tested again, but that's not for me to decide. I'll just keep learning, growing, praying.   

building blocks

Over the past couple of days, in my little bits of alone time, something has been coming together. This morning, I ran with the dogs (our usual fourth running mate is out of town), and realized that what I am in the midst of is more than just a change of habits, or way of thinking. What I'm working on is tearing down a basic aspect of who I have always been, and rebuilding it to be stronger and more stable. Although that may sound drastic when put that way, I'm sure you know plenty of people who have done just this, by going to a therapist, following a 12-step program, that sort of thing. My experience is in another area of my life, and so the methods and goals are different.

For reasons I don't yet understand, I have always felt a need to keep separate my 'faith life' and my 'real life.' When I can see why, I might be able to explain why I found them incompatible, these 'sides' of me. Long ago, I would "turn up" my faith when I did things at church--teaching Confirmation classes, singing in the choir, going to daily Mass (and coffee afterwards in the rectory), but at the time, I told myself it was because we lived in New England, far from places where religion was acceptable dinner conversation in mixed company. Interestingly, we lived in an area where there was literally a church on each of four corners of an intersection, and seemingly a church within a mile of wherever you stood. And in between, you were likely to find a synagogue. Looking back, I really missed an opportunity for growth.

But only because I wasn't ready.

Recently a friend of mine said she found herself with so much more to give with regard to her faith. I told her that I feel as though I have nothing left to lose. Today, I'm pretty sure that I was wrong. I have not yet lost myself to my faith; I have not yet broken through to be my faith. I set a better example to myself, I think, but I know that that old nagging feeling is still there. Weaker, but still present. What I know is that I can't just push it down, or turn my back on it. I need to think it through, determine the elements, and change them around. Writing moves me forward.

Last week, I was concerned that when I write, I might force answers, make them up myself, convince myself of something I want to believe. I even determined not to write, just in case. Then a few things happened: some words wouldn't seep through the cracks of my mind; asked politely to be let out. I wrote, and in so doing, remembered my purpose for having this blog. Clarity and Vision. This is my diary of sorts. Not as historically important as Ann Frank's, nor as grand as Faustina's, but it serves the same purpose: to capture some time in a bottle so it can be shaken up and poured back out, refreshing and cool.

"There are no coincidences," I hear often. These thoughts, this question and task crystallized just hours before I read my Minute Meditation this morning:

Observe everything they tell you. But do not follow their example. (Mt 23:3) ... It is not enough to teach the truth and fight for it; it is also necessary to live according to it. Doctrine and life must go together.... [emphasis added] (Naegele, 1982, Minute meditations for each day. p.77)

Confirmation that I am on the right track. Forward on my journey. One step, one day, one piece at a time.

still no pen

Last night I dreamt I was writing. I would be told a topic, and I would turn and go to a room and write. The feeling the writing gave me was neither positive nor negative; it's just what I had to do. Yet I was delighted. I knew writing was what I needed to do.

The funny thing is, I had a keen awareness that I was not writing on my piece of blank paper. I knew that my paper was still somewhere. And that was, interestingly, a comforting, rather than a nagging, feeling. Over the course of the past week, including some short exchanges, some reading, some pondering, and even some ignoring, I've come to see, and begin to appreciate, the subtle tweak in attitude. My blank paper is blank because it's meant to be--for the moment.

Anyway, I know that most dreams are forgotten rather quickly after waking. The fact that this one is staying with me until almost bedtime again was not my first clue that there was something there for me to know. No, the first clue was when I woke, and saw paper, and knew instinctively that answers come in small pieces, like Gramma Katie's winter jigsaws. Funny how over twenty years later, I'm learning so many lessons from her! Each winter, Gramma Katie set up a card table in her front parlor, and dumped a puzzle out onto its surface. I always wondered how she managed to find such hard puzzles, because they took all winter to put together. (At home, I would put puzzles together to have another something in common with her, and they never took nearly as long to finish.) I remember asking her about this, but I don't remember any answer past the smile she always had (open mouthed,and with laughing eyes) and shared generously.

Now when I think about my special situation, I see her putting her puzzles together, piece by piece; savoring each 'fit.' This is what the joy in life is: seeing each small piece for what it is--which is not always something more than a small part of the whole, but is oftentimes more important in the long run than we'd imagined. In my pondering, I'm coming across memories I'd nearly let slip off the edge that seem to be turning out to be those all important frame pieces. Or the hard to place, but equally important filler pieces.
Like the answer to a discussion question in on of my classes: a non-profit or not-for-profit. At the time, as with a few other things I've blurted out lately, I thought, "Where did that come from?" And yet (which I find myself saying often these days!) I knew exactly where in my heart; I just didn't know that I knew. I remember that was the strangest part. At some point, another question will move to the forefront of my thinking, and that may or may not coincide with having an answer to the current one. But contemplating has become an inspiring pastime, and has changed my outlook. (Okay, to be perfectly honest, change is slow in coming, but I can see the edges of it, and, since I like what I see, I'm inviting it, embracing it.)

Still no pen.

learning, searching, finding

This is, esentially, part two. My name does not define who I am, nor has my name been related to anyone's expectation of me, except for my own. I was named for my father who named himself for a martyr for Christ. The name (and expectation) I chose for myself was Anne, Mother of Mary. I chose the name for the vocation of motherhood that I was called to even by the age of knowing, by 8th grade. Why did I choose Anne instead of Mary? The idea of raising Mary seemed far less daunting to me than the idea of raising Jesus, is the simple answer. The more complex has to do with calling. Now, all these years later, I wonder if it had to do with being a smaller soul.

Although I will always be a mother, and my boys will always need me to some extent, as I still need my own mother, and the reverse will always be true, too, I have found myself in a transition lately that has caused an examination of self. I've found myself, this past week, realizing that I have forgotten or lost parts of who I am in my efforts to be the best I can be. Finding balance between work, faith and motherhood has caused me to attempt to put these things where they belong. A few things happened this week to remind me that I had the whole thing backwards. For a while now, I've been asking God to be more obvious in his answers to me; to hit me over the head, please. Last week I realized I don't learn that way, so it's not likely that God will do that--He made me to learn the way I learn, and I need to be more patient with myself. Answers come in His time, not mine. I stopped asking that, and kept the question, but tucked it away.

Last week, I attended a training for work. Although I knew the material would be dry, I was looking forward to the class: I love to learn. I found myself zoning out, all but sleeping, far more than I ever have in a class. The class was long, and all I wanted to do was move: stand up, walk, sit on the floor. It didn't take me long to remember I was not made for sitting still, nor was I made for extended focus on only one thing. My mind is its own wanderer, and clarity comes from twisting, turning and backtracking. I felt like my brain was tied to a chair. A friend said, "The active spiritual warrior prays with action." A clue. That night, I told a wise night owl (wiseguy! he'd likely say) that I was working on quieting my mind. The next morning, pouring coffee, I heard my mind say, "Well, I've been told I'm a good listener. But I know I'm not when I'm on the phone; then my mind wanders." Weirdly, this was a major lightbulb moment.

Then the diagnosis of mono and strep throat for one of the boys, some back and forth about how to get work home from school, and a conversation about examples of faith. And two comments that struck a chord that resonated for hours. At the Spiritual Book Club I host at church, a member of the group said that on the drive over, he was praying and thanked God for such a wonderful opportunity to read and discuss. Then later, when I expressed amazement at the questions my children ask me about faith (things I never would have considered at their age), another member of the group said I should see that as proof of my example.

That's when I realized the answer is coming, bit by bit, for me to understand in the way I do best. The first step is for me to find myself again. Not the myself that's easy to find: the worker who will do anything, and has many aptitudes and abilities. I need to get back to the parts of me that I have allowed to become small; the creative part, the jump in part, the mom part, the example part. In my attempts to be a better person, I have forgotten who I am. I've been trying to force stillness on myself in order to make time for my faith, instead of embedding my faith in what I do. In my effort to break down the (self-imposed) barrier between my spiritual life and my secular life, I have been creating new ones. My mindset needs to change slightly to accommodate my growth and my journey--I need to transition from my "life" to my "self" in order to live my faith. I think I once was there, at a time when I didn't feel so pressured to set an example (again, self-imposed). Before our kids were born, I think I lived my faith more. After they were born, I worried that wouldn't be enough. I hope they haven't seen my example as forced, or fake, because it's been real. There's a fullness now that I don't remember feeling before.

The question is not yet answered, and I'm okay with that. The answer, or answers, will come in due time. And until then, I have waiting and praying to do, journeying and guiding, learning, searching and finding. Ecce, here I am.

tongues of fire

Pentecost was one of Dad's favorite days of the Liturgical year. Normally, he would be the last one ready to leave. I can still smell the scent of his shaving cream mingled with the steam of his shower in the downstairs bathroom while I sat, or more likely stood, in the kitchen, dressed and ready to go. But on Pentecost Sunday, he would glide down the stairs smoothing his hair one last time, wearing something red, and he would be humming. Try as I might now, I can't catch the tune, but I'm sure it was a hymn about the Holy Spirit.

I asked him once why he loved Pentecost so much. He told me then about his own Confirmation, and that Pentecost was a day to remember Confirmation and Baptismal promises; to renew and refresh faith. He told me vividly about the tongues of flame on the heads of the apostles, and their vocation to preach publicly. He told me about choosing his Confirmation name, and then using it daily for the rest of his life, and he told me about the saint he had chosen to name himself for.

All my life, I'd known I was named after Dad. His name was John. It was the running joke: She's named after her father, followed by a quizzical and confused look. Dad chose Stephen as his saint: the first martyr, stoned for following and preaching about Christ, with a feast day right after Christmas (Dad said that was because he was the first martyr). Baptised without a middle name, Dad included the initial S in his signature for the rest of his life. I've always worn my name proudly for the two men after whom I was named.

Living the expectation that goes with the name has been more of a challenge. Dad was one of the best Christian examples I'd known, yet I didn't realize that while he was here. Recently, in conversation, I've seen how deep his example sent my roots in faith, regardless of where my branches were blowing. I've come back to my roots, and pruned some dragging branches. Now my challenge is remembering who I am.

pen and paper

Often, lately, I find myself faced with a blank sheet of paper. I know what question has led me to it, but I keep wondering what answer it holds. I found myself actively seeking the answer, pushing myself to understand its meaning, questioning my ability to understand or even recognize the answer when it comes. When I realized what I was doing, I made the decision to stop trying so hard, and to just look at the paper when it appeared in my mind's eye. Passive thinking--Pondering (which I have found to be a far more effective tool of faith for me!)--led me to the conclusion that the paper was waiting for dictation. [Which made perfect sense, as that was a reminder of the question in the first place! Why am I surprised by that? Why am I surprised by anything?]

Then I realized there is no pen.

This caused a fleeting panic, but fortunately I caught it before it ran away with my mind and heart. Then I laughed! There is no pen! Why? Because I don't need it yet. Things need to happen first, events need to unfold, hearts need to listen, and souls to speak.

None of these realizations came quickly, and yet they did. There was a late night "conversation" or two that reminded me of the importance of waiting. Not just patience, but waiting. Waiting and the relative passage of time. God's time is transcendent, while ours is relative. In my prayer life, I have been experiencing the joys of that transcendence, but--yet again!--have been having a difficult time translating it to my secular life. In actuality, I should be working on not separating the two; conditioning that will take [relative] time, patience and practice, the likes of which I have not yet seen, I'd bet! I keep telling myself that I believe that I am prepared, but I also know (now) that telling myself amounts to stalling [I'm getting to know myself, day by day] and that I should admit that I either need to jump forward, or get pushed.

With regard to the missing pen: I find peace in my mind when I write. At times, words bump and rush through my head, and I find myself frustrated that I have no time to write them down, or that I don't have access to my keyboard to let them flow out. However, at times when I have questions, I recognize the danger that I might try to make answers as I write, rather than allow them to come in their own time (in God's time, in this case). I'm guessing that has something to do with the missing pen. So many words have bustled around my brain, but instead of trying to get them onto 'paper,' I have let them run freely. Some have continued to spin and swirl, but others have made themselves known, then run through the rocks that filter my skull. What has remained is a calming beauty; an atmosphere more conducive to further pondering.

And a feeling of being beside, neither in front nor behind. I've run from myself for a long time. It's only recently that I have had faith enough in myself to lose myself in my Faith. I have work to do, and steps to take, and things come to terms with, and so very much to learn. But the learning!! There is such beauty in the learning! When I look behind me, I see such a long road I have traveled, and when I look before me, I see even more. And although I keep trying to run that road, I must remind myself that I am, in fact, taking baby steps: wonderfully slow and steady baby steps, and I have never been alone.

over the river

Once upon a time, my husband asked what I wanted for Mother's Day. As long as I could remember, the only thing I ever wanted to be (after a brief time when I wanted to be a nurse) was a momma, but my response was swift: A weekend home alone. Being at home with babies and a dog, in a place where I knew few people, and even fewer places to go could make for some rough days. I loved being the mom, and I even enjoyed the chores around the house that go along with being a stay at home mom. The idea of being the only one in the house, with no schedule whatsoever, for two days sounded so luxurious! For years, that was my one and only present from Guy and the boys. On Friday after work, they would head off to my parents' house to celebrate Mother's Day with my mom. (A wonderful byproduct of these excursions: Guy and Dad became the best of friends, sharing time, house and yard work, and heart to heart conversations that I never even knew about until recently. They shared a deep and special connection.) Back home, I would eat what I liked, when I liked; stay up late reading, sew or putter all day (no chores!!); soak in the tub....anything at all. I didn't even need to walk the dog, because he would go with the menfolk.

Mother's Day was two days ago. We took Mom to breakfast, and then took the scenic route to Church (not the cynic route--that's another story!), where we mothers were encouraged to "demand respect" for the rest of the day. I'd already decided that what I really wanted to do was finish my reading for Faith Matters, do some research for book club, and do some writing, but every time I sat down to read, someone needed some important answer. At first, I patiently closed my book, and tried to offer my attention to whichever mancub needed me. Before long, I gave up on trying to feign patience, packed up my stuff, and moved upstairs to our bedroom. Next thing I knew, I was annoyed that I frequently feel as though I'm driven away from the common areas of our home. I found myself praying for some peace in my swirling mind.

Suddenly, I realized what was happening. Clearly I was not meant to be reading at that moment, not meant to be by myself, or in my own world. I'd missed the chance to play a game with our youngest, but there was still time to make it to a movie. So my Mother's Day this year was not what I had planned, but in the end, I did get my reading done, we enjoyed a film together, and our oldest told us how proud he is of us. And two of their friends surprised me and touched my heart with an unexpected text, and even more unexpected flowers.

I am blessed to be able to live my dream, and that the boys all know what a blessing each of them is to me. And I'm especially blessed to have an angel by my side to balance me. Long before we knew each other, we each chose as Confirmation saints parents: Anne and Joseph. Long before we met each other, we each knew that right here is where we wanted and needed to be. And these boys are the light of our lives.

head shots

Last weekend, at the Grace Uncorked event at church, our table was discussing various things we had just heard from the presenter, as well as some recent--and not-so-recent--things we had learned about ourselves. Along with my husband and myself, there were two other people at the table, neither of whom I'd talked to before that night. At one point, after referencing my parents in some way three or four times in about fifteen minutes' time, one of the women remarked that I clearly had a deep foundation in my faith, regardless of where I felt I am on my faith journey. Taken aback, I commented that I felt as though my faith, for most of my adult life at any rate, was pretty shallow. I tucked this away as something to ponder.

Things happened, conversations occurred, days rolled on as they always do, and all the while, without my even purposely thinking about it, something was developing. At Mass on Ascension Thursday, I found myself slightly distracted; something I noticed because lately I've managed to stay fairly focused at church. The distractions started early, primarily because I got frustrated with the boys' inability or refusal to choose a pew to sit in, even though they were in the front of our familial procession, so as I chose, I sent Mom in first, thereby putting all of us on her blind side, which made me feel as though I had isolated her from the rest of us. [Normally, she sits smack dab in the middle of our crew.] Preoccupied, I found myself thinking about the people I had seen so many times before, but now know the names that go with the faces; people who have become much more than fellow parishioners or acquaintances, people who have become friends.

Many of these new friends happen to be converts from other faiths, and I found myself musing that their desire to learn more about our faith is one of the sparks that keeps me going. Suddenly I realized how much I had taken my faith for granted. And how little I realized the profound effect Mom and Dad had on that faith. They were my first teachers, my first examples of goodness and kindness, forgiveness and mercy, and of imperfection. Dad kept a note I wrote to God in second grade. I had forgotten all about it--and the response that God had written to me. Reading it all these years later, with my life experience and children of my own, I can see the depth of God's love the note meant to convey, and I am amazed, impressed, and truly humbled. We said Grace before dinner together every evening, were expected to behave well at church every week, went to Parochial school, and learned evening prayers. All fairly usual stuff.

But there was more that made an impact on me. Periodically, we would see a candle burning on the kitchen shelf. Mom and Dad would pray for engaged couples attending marriage preparation, and as a reminder to keep them in mind. I did the same thing when each of my parents had chemo treatments, and I've lit candles at home to remind me of other special intentions. Like my parents, I try to mention to the boys why the candle is burning. Dad prayed for each of his children and grandchildren with every rosary, at least every time he mowed the lawn. Part of the reason I say the rosary daily is related to his Marian devotion. Mom and I attend Faith Matters at church every week, and have begun talking like we did when I was a kid--about what we see, what we wonder about, what amazes us, impresses us, and stumps us about our faith. We laugh sometimes about things that seem incongruous with life today, but impress us about life in Bible times.

I thought and thought about how to bring all these thoughts together. I also started coming to the conclusion when I first got to church this morning, that once again, I've been asking for the wrong things. In my prayer, I often ask God to be more direct in answering my questions, to please just hit me over the head. [Yesterday, I read about someone who asked the same, and was literally hit by falling objects three times in one evening before someone pointed out to her she kept getting hit in the head and she realized her prayer was being answered. I'll admit I found myself weirdly jealous.] This morning, I realized, once again, that Someone knows better than I do: I learn better when my realizations are evolutionary, or at least less violent. And in their own way, my revelations are pretty sudden--like these realizations about the foundations of my faith.

So I had come to a synthesis for this blog post: where my faith came from, and where I'm going with it. Then, sudden affirmation: at the end of today's homily, two questions were presented, and I rejoiced with laughter inside. "What influences has the Lord put in your life to make his prayer for you a reality? How are you responding to him so that you can be a godly influence for someone else?" The very questions I had determined I needed to address.

I am truly blessed to have so many influences in my life guiding me toward my True Self--my parents, teachers and others who gave me roots, and friends, family, and even my children, who both fertilize and prune to help me grow. As for the second question, I've opened my heart, my mind, and my being to the possibilities around me. Discerning what I should do, versus what I want to do is still difficult for me, but I'm working on it. And with His help, a cooperative effort, I will learn to be the blessing I am meant to be.

Fully.

mind puttering

For months now I've been working on the art and practice of pondering. It feels different from thinking, or mulling; less deliberate, maybe, though sometimes quite focused. When I'm thinking something through, I make a point of keeping the problem or issue or question in the front of my mind, as though it is in the middle of my desktop, where I will be reminded of it as often as possible. When I mull things over, I tend more toward talking it out, frequently with a four-legged friend. My pondering, though, falls more along the lines of putting a note in my pocket, and becoming surprised each time I put my hand in and find it there. It's more subtle.

Lately my pondering has turned toward direction. (That's the other thing about pondering--it's a bit more abstract: concepts and feelings more than specific problems.) Part of this is related to some reorganization underway at work, and another part of it is related to my own personal growth. What I've realized from this pondering is that I've been sitting by the pool. For a very long time. I've gotten up and wandered around a bit, and I've even considered a few different ways to get in the water. But, and this is the important bit, I've been waiting for someone to either tell me it's time to get in, or to go in with me.

It's not fear. It's not exactly lack of motivation, although I have suffered that malady! I didn't exactly realize, I think, that I was waiting for someone else to make a move. At the same time, I was not taking action of my own accord. It's time. I need to "Cut the bullshit" and get in--get myself in. I need to ask the right questions, and I need to get to the right question by asking questions. And the answers need to be for the answers' sake, not for my benefit. And then I need to listen carefully, and act upon the answers.

The question--MY question: What is it you need me to do? I've been hearing, in my pondering: Ask. I've been having interesting dreams and conversations, and all are directing me to the same words. Ask. What is it you need me to do? And for the first time, I think I'm able. I hope so.

fingerprints

What was said: "I look at a thumbprint, and realize that no two are alike. If God can make every single thumbprint different, why would we think that he would ever stop there?"

I was floored! Such a simple idea, and so obvious, and yet so amazingly complex! There is no reason to think that any one of us is exactly like another. We, as humans, classify. Safe/Unsafe. Friendly/Unfriendly. Okay to eat/Poison. Work/Play. Love/Hate. Good/Bad. But aren't there various levels of many of these classifications? Don't we need to differentiate again and again, and determine, according to the occasion, just where something fits in our classification systems?

I remember a month or two before our boy #2 was born. I was pretty sure I had this kid thing figured out. Because the pregnancy itself had felt different, I just knew that the baby would not be the same as his brother. Boy #1 was pretty easy, as far as babies go--not the sleep-all-night-at-birth dream baby, but he did do pretty well as an infant, and as a toddler, he was fairly happy-go-lucky and even helpful. I just knew that boy #2 was going to be the opposite--whatever #1 liked, he would not; whenever #1 liked to sleep, #2 would want to be awake. I'm not even sure what "opposite" would mean, but at the time, I had some really clear ideas, and I was pretty confident about the whole thing. I had even braced myself for the inevitable difficulties of having two kids that just could not get along for long.

I had quite a surprise. In some ways, he was different--as he should be! But in other ways, they were very much alike. What I had not factored in was that they were each individuals who would let me know, in short order, who they are. I was there (am still) to guide them, not to determine them.

A similar thing happened when we decided to get a dog. It had been a few years since our beloved black standard poodle had died. When we saw black standards advertised, I told Guy that I just couldn't handle having a dog that looked so like the last one, but wouldn't have his same personality. Instead we got a poodle that was supposed to turn silver (he was born black), and never has. Yes, he shares some characteristics with his predecessor, but he also has his own personality--and quirks! I sometimes think he was meant to stay black as a lesson to me.

I've wandered far from the amazement I felt at the thumbprint statement, but not so far that I don't remember where I was. Each of us is different. Special. Unique. We should see ourselves that way. We should see others that way--the part that I tend to think is harder to do. I've just started reading Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island for the Spiritual Book Club at church. From the prologue:
"I cannot discover God in myself and myself in Him unless I have the courage to face myself exactly as I am, with all my limitations, and to accept others as they are, with all their limitations."

To face myself, and accept others. How beautiful is that? Each of us has our own whirls and swirls, some of which mean baggage and tough stuff, but most of which means beauty and knowledge; if only we decide to appreciate it. We need to remember that some of the tough stuff has led to strength because it comes from experience. My head is rattling with the memory of the notes I took on palmistry for a paper I wrote in college (my topics were never quite what anyone else would choose....) inferring that the universe of "me" is largely pre-written on my hands, with details added with experience.

I don't know.....perhaps the possibilities were written there, and revealed by my choices. I'm still quite intrigued.....

prompts, prompting

So many thoughts and ideas. So many wonderful and amazing insights. Where to start? With a list.....

-fingerprints (wow--that one is a biggie! "There's a homily there!")

-formulas and differentiation (and how introspection could help)

-introspection!

-the difference between today's "me" (faith, experience, and expertise) & the me of 15-20 years ago

-the wonder and joy of searching

-blessings, like diamonds, belong to everyone :) (that one hit me than so many pearls)

-the affirmation that so many others are "in the same boat" (did I really just say that? Because it's very true!)

-the world is a scary place. We have to do something. My something......

-YES. I can. I would love to--more than I thought I might!

-models--5, and they are all right and good, and work together to raise the roof--provided we recognize and appreciate the gifts of each "We're all in the same pew" (made of wood like a boat. tee hee!)

It was a good night! Grace Uncorked--poured forth into each cup.....

my cup runneth over.....and yet there is room for so much more.

"I thirst"-- for grace, for peace, for love. I can pour......

ramble a bit

Last week at a book club (Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn--a book I found fascinating, but not particularly rewarding), a discussion question was presented:

At one point, Amy quotes the advice "Fake it until you make it." Later, Nick writes, "We pretend to be in love, and we do the things we like to do when we're in love, and it feels almost like love sometimes, because we are so perfectly putting ourselves through the paces" (404).

Generally speaking, do you think this is good marriage advice? Do Nick and Amy disprove this advice?

The decision around the table was that this is never good marriage advice. I don't remember anyone even touching on the second part of the question. Although in the case of Nick and Amy, I find it to be appalling advice [*****SPOILER ALERT!!!!!***** She's a murderess and he is her depressed and self-centered husband], in general, I don't think there's anything wrong with going through the motions once in a while.

Before you get annoyed and turn the page, hear me out. Everyone gets bored. Everyone gets cranky. Everyone goes through times when they just don't feel like issuing forth any extra effort whatsoever. How many times have I (you) gone ahead and taken that fitness class, or pulled on a pair of running/walking shoes even though the mood wasn't right? I know for a fact there were many nights (and Saturday mornings!) when I taught dance that I just didn't want to leave my house, fight traffic, and deal with my class, but I did. And each one of those times, I told myself to fake it; to make it look to the people who were paying for me to be there as though I was having the time of my life. And I can say, in all honesty, almost every single time I went there to fake it, I had a better class than usual.

Making a habit of faking, or faking without knowing the reasons behind it, or faking without being unwilling to talk about it at some point is a bad idea. Living a lie is different from faking it until you make it. Nick went through the motions of loving Amy because he was literally afraid for his life. That's just stupid. Amy went through the motions because if she could make Nick love her, she would be amazing. That's just wrong (on a whole LOT of levels!!). That is NOT what I'm talking about here. Nor am I talking about lying, having an unfulfilling sex life, or suffering in silence from any offense, or abusive/toxic relationships.

What I'm talking about are those times when you realize that there's a reason you fell in love, and even though today it doesn't seem like it's there, it is, because it's still in your heart, and in the memory of your soul. Or when you realize that laziness has set in for whatever reason, and the habit is taking control. Those are the times when you have to keep in mind that a relationship is a living, breathing thing, in need of nurturing and even exercise. Those are the times when you have to dig out a smile when you don't feel like it, search the cobwebbed corners of your mind for a favorite shared memory, open yourself to possibility.

I got a CD from church about prayer in marriage. On it, Fulton Sheen talks about the inevitable "dry spells" of anything we, as humans, do for life. Sometimes they cause us to stop what no longer holds our interest, and other times we get frustrated by the seemingly sudden lack of interest. The decision is ours. If we are writers, we might call it 'writer's block,' runners, 'hitting a plateau.' As a dancer, I would take a class in another technique or from another teacher in order to jumpstart my slagging enthusiasm from time to time. In marriage, for a myriad of reasons, many people have the impression that everything should come up roses all the time, and if a dry spell hits, the magic must be gone and the marriage is over. Fulton Sheen said that those are the times when it's up to the spouse who is still flying high to carry the other through prayer and love. It was beautiful! Shortly after listening to the CD (and laughing through tears!) I saw a little ditty that I had seen before, but not paid much attention. Celebrating some huge number of years of marriage, a couple was asked their secret. The response: We never fell out of love at the same time.

We never fell out of love at the same time.

Isn't that beautiful?? Even in those dry spells--those times when he was making her crazy forgetting to _____ (fill in the blank), or when she was constantly ___________ (fill in the blank), the one still managed to love the other. To be in love with the other. It's not always easy. When we mentor engaged couples, we encourage them to keep their workbooks for those days when they need a reminder of the planning the wedding days, the getting read for a long marriage days.

Like any journey, there are times when concessions must be made. My brother says, "Don't say you don't care where we stop if you really don't want Chinese," not because he plans to stop for Chinese, but because sometimes when we think that something doesn't matter to us, we realize pretty quickly that it does, and that can ignite into an argument, or it can become an opportunity to fake it for a bit in order to ensure that love can continue on its course.