you may not know

I finally managed to come up with 10.....

1. I really miss wearing contacts.

2. My glasses are always filthy -- from tears on the inside of them, and from who knows what on the outside.

3. I've never needed a passport. And that makes me a little bit sad.

4. When Dad died, I was in the middle of choreographing a dance for my grandmother. I promised at his funeral to make one for him, but never did. All of it was in me, and I still watch it in my head, sometimes.

5. I used to want a tattoo. The argument with myself over visible vs hidden got to be unwinable, so it'll likely never happen.

6. I'm still trying to figure out what else I want to be when I grow up--I'm closer, but still not there.

7. In high school, I wanted to major in International Law and Languages, and work at the UN. My guidance counselor talked me out of that, and every one of my dream jobs. My favorite class at college was Hospitality Law. Go figure!

8. Zip lines are my favorite way to fly.

9. Favorite place I have ever been is Hawaii. Arizona is a close second. St George Island, Florida, is third.

10. My only real phobia is auditioning, which is related to being talked out of dream jobs when I was 17.

to let go

Yesterday I came to realize that there is quite a difference between a scar and a scab. A subject came up that I never thought I would be able to talk about matter-of-factly, and there was no pain, no discomfort, no anger or frustration. What I felt was compassion, understanding. And when I realized that, it occurred to me that healing had created a scar, a slub in the fabric of my life and who I am. It will always be there, which I knew, sometimes more visible than other times, but I suddenly understood that scars can indeed make us stronger.

Shortly afterwards, I cried at another conversation, as I realized that what I was feeling was a scab being picked at and pulled on. The tears were not because of what was said (or read--it was a text conversation). Rather, they came when I admitted that I was the one picking at it, and not allowing it to heal. For so long, I have told myself that others were pushing, poking, scraping off those painful places in my heart, on my very soul. I cried because I realized that's not true. All those people I've pointed at have likely been put in my life to help me heal, not to make things worse. I've resisted. (A theme, it seems.)

Over the past few days, I've been having an interesting long-distance conversation about faith, Love, and self, and the intertwining of them in honestly living life. A couple of the questions have resonated especially with me. One was an inquiry about the past events that haunt me. I wish I knew what the events are; what it is that made me resistant and willing to hold myself back. What I do know are the effects. I was once accused of using the effects to live in the past; to pull them out as a trump card to get my way. Sadly, because of who said it, I felt compelled to believe it, despite what people who knew me more deeply told me.

So after that series of emails, a conversation over dinner, and a few text messages (all with strong, faith-filled men that I admire), I sat down and had a conversation with Jesus. Actually, I wrote Him a letter. And in writing longhand in my notebook, in the silence and through tears (my M.O.!), I found the scabs I had been picking at. They are superficial, which I guess makes them easily accessible, more rippable--harder to heal. Can I put them into words that are coherent? Not entirely. I know that when I can, I will be able to let go of them, or face them--an even better choice, in all likelihood. I have an inkling, though; I can see them, taste them in some of my tears.

"Lord, please heal me of my brokenness. From it comes fear, and I don't want to be afraid....I am afraid that I am disappointing You." In my prayer last night, I was in turn afraid, angry, embarrassed and ashamed, and in the end, what mattered most, was that I felt relieved. Because I broke the silence. Because I asked for help that I know I need. Because I realized I am not permanently broken.

I woke this morning not only willing, but excited to be me--no one but me. That was my goal today: to be completely me. It was surprisingly easy! Clearly, I am not alone in my effort. I still (will always) have questions, arguments, concerns. And I'm looking forward to it all. I have a lot to let go of, and someplace to put it. With patience, these scabs can finally heal and become scars, leaving me with compassion and understanding I've been needing to share.

heart and mind

Almost two weeks ago, I finished a book of reflection. It was a daily devotional that touched my heart deeply. On the last day, as I began the last paragraphs, I sobbed uncontrollably.  Having to wait to read until my tears subsided was both painful and relief. I was about to say I had never felt such emotion, but then I remembered that I most certainlu have--in prayer.

That bliss - that indescribably intense emotional response - is sometimes frightening. And yet the 'realness' of it is at the same time reassuring, comforting, peaceful. In those moments, time is irrelevant and space is immaterial. I'm not alone and no one is with me. I find myself deep within my own heart and nowhere at once. Every time, there have been tears, and often laughter or an uncontrollably broad smile.

I'd thought that deep state of prayerful being was only possible once in a while, but I'm thinking now there might be more to the story. I tried starting the book over. Not in an effort to recreate, but because I had learned so much through the first reading, and I know there is always more. But the pages may well have been blank: I saw nothing but black marks on a page. I gave up after three days. I miss it.

My heart of hearts knows that prayer is within me. Every day. My mind is suddenly interfering. Love will win out; Love never fails.

to flag or not

The life I lead (and love!):

"Do I know how to play flag football?"

"It's the same as regular football, but..."

"I don't know how to play regular football. You know that."

"Then, no, you do not know how to play flag football. Why? Do you want to play?"

"I keep getting invited to play. And I'm wondering if it would be a good skill to have for Life Teen."

"No, you don't really have to."

"Is it better to look like an idiot when and if the time comes?"

"I think so."

"Okay. Thanks. I love you."

"No problem. I love you, too." 

who and where

Much of this morning has been passed looking through some old papers I'd written in school, and old emails between my husband and myself. Although I was on a quest for particular information, I've come away with a better understanding of myself. And a realization that I've lost some of myself along the way. Some of the very qualities and traits that I needed and relied on to get my current job have been slowly stamped out by it. Even my reasons for interviewing for it have been obscured and lost in my mind. It's no wonder I've been conflicted recently.

A few weeks ago, I asked for some help with finding balance. I needed the help, the advice and the guidance. Asking was difficult; revealing even harder. But hardest of all has been the homework. Eventually, I went back through my blog posts, looking for that place in my heart that had the balance I was missing. In all honesty, it took me a long time to do the reading. I don't often read my own work. I write, I proof, I submit. Every reading plucks a heartstring, and I get uncomfortable in my own tears.

A dear friend asked me why my spirituality is not represented on my resume. I don't know. I'm still trying to determine how it fits into my life. My research this morning delved into myself, and I see that the problem I have is one of being turned inside out. As my spirituality has grown and developed, I have gotten more and more willing to admit that I have always kept my faith separate from the rest of my life, and I've looked for ways to fit my faith into my life, with varying degrees of success.

I've got it all wrong.

What I really need to work on is fitting the rest of my life into my faith. That's where my disconnect and my discontent stem from. My primary vocation is as a child of God. As that child, I have been called to be a mother. As a mother in today's society, I need to work. While I must give to my work what is expected of me, I must have a position that allows me to fulfill and live the obligations of my motherhood. I was an organizer, an overseer, a thank you note writer and card sender. Now I live for the weekend; the days off, away from work. When did I become someone who doesn't live life every day? Someone who can't even identify beautiful moments throughout the day, unless there is no office in sight? When did I begin to find learning on my own, at home, to be a burden, a chore, something to squeeze in around everything else?

I have a habit of forgetting that God loves me; or, rather, forgetting to see, observe, and revel in that Love in my daily life. Last week I mentioned it at a retreat, and also that when I'm caught off guard by a sunrise, a sunset, Venus shining in the evening sky, I remember, and am filled with a special kind of joy. Throughout this week, despite the fact that I've been avoiding speaking to Jesus as a friend, I have been presented with these moments that I haven't seen myself. Twice this week, people have told me that they thought of me when the saw the sunrise. Last night, just as I was going to tell Guy about them, we turned a corner, and before me was a sunset I was not expecting to see--it seemed too early, and the sky was still pretty bright. It was amazingly beautiful, and brought me to tears. Where have I gone?

prayer, peace, purgatory

My favorite passage in Purgatorio so far is the beginning of Canto IV, because it so vividly placed me in the center of my most intense Communion of Saints moment (that lasted an hour--it felt like only a moment, though). In San Antonio at a LifeTeen training conference, during XLT--an especially moving Adoration and exultation experience--I found myself quietly alone with the Lord in the middle of a room crowded with people and music. Sitting on the floor, I was (for once) Mary not Martha; carefree in the presence of a Man with stories to tell. We laughed together as I cried tears of joy. Over the last month, in the moments when I feel rushed, stressed, pushed, overwhelmed, I stop and feel that moment.

When any of our senses is aroused,
to intensity of pleasure or of pain,
the soul gives itself up to that one sense,

oblivious to all its other powers.
This fact serves to refute the false belief
that in our bodies more than one soul burns.

And so it is that when we see or hear
something which wholly captivates the soul,
we easily can lose all sense of time.

living and dead

A couple of months ago, as our book club discussion started, I was asked why we had to read that particular book anyway. That's pretty much how the question went. Only somewhat apologetically I explained that the title and the cover had caught my eye, the topic was interesting, and, quite frankly, it had been on sale, so I picked it up and added it to the list. Unsatisfied, my fellow bibliophile asked, "But why? What did he want us to get out of it?" Laughing, I replied that he had nothing to do with the book selections; "he" being our pastor. It turns out, though, He may have had His reasons.

That book was The Pope Who Quit (Sweeney), about Peter Morrone, who became Pope Celestine V, and then retired shortly thereafter, and I picked it up on the heels of Pope Emeritus Benedict's resignation. The author made quite a point of mentioning that Celestine V figured in Dante's Inferno, another book I picked up on that sale-rack day, and had already planned on putting on the reading list--eventually. When I saw the connection between the books, I put Inferno on the calendar for the next meeting. The feedback from everyone in the first week or so of reading Inferno was so overwhelmingly positive, despite the difficulty with some translations, that we all agreed that we would continue with Purgatorio and Paradiso before moving on from the Middle Ages.

Next week, right smack dab in the middle of November, we will meet to discus our impressions of Purgatory. The profundity of reading this book over the feasts of All Saints and All Souls is not lost on me--although I did need a tap on the shoulder. Upon his entrance to Purgatory, an angel carves seven P's on Dante's forehead, representing the sins atoned for on each of the seven terraces. I heard a similar (though quite unrelated) reference in one of the readings over the last week or so, and that's when the connection really hit me. Ever since, I have been even more deeply moved by the poetry, the imagery, and the story.

As in the Inferno, where the punishments fit the crimes so precisely, those in Purgatory are circling the mountain making up for their mistakes and missteps. As I read about the weight of each of the penitents' sins, and their requests for prayers from the living to shorten their time, I keep thinking about those I know that have died. We cannot know what others are suffering, or what is in their hearts, what things might keep them from real rest. On Saturday morning, we heard a bit about lamentation, and the beauty of allowing ourselves to feel, express, and even embrace the sorrow and pain that can come with memories of our loved ones who have died--even years after they are gone.

The result is that as I read, in this month of remembering and honoring the dead, I find myself occasionally flooded with memories of people I love, but cannot see or call. And I let the memories come, noting how the memory might relate to the Canto I am reading, while coming to the understanding and acceptance that passage through each of the terraces is probably a given. The book is fascinating, and the fact that God put a half price book in my sights to get me to read Purgatory in November is the most amazing and unexpected blessing.

When reading Inferno, I struggled through Longfellow's translation--the most widely recognized and used in scholarly environs. I understood about half of what I read, but enjoyed the imagery nonetheless, even when I had no idea what it meant. I was also in a rather deserted place in my soul at the time, so I may not have absorbed much anyway. For the next two books in the Commedia, I am using the Penguin Classic: The Portable Dante, edited by Mark Musa. I highly recommend it!

turn, turn, turn

This afternoon, I closed up the porches for the season (though not the patio--I'm seeing at least one more fireside before it gets way too cold!). The furniture was put away, and the table folded up, the floors swept, and the rug rolled. Many other years, this process has frustrated and depressed me. Getting someone to help me out with carrying and moving, or simply not grumble while doing so has stressed me and irritated me far more than even I thought necessary.

Today, though, was different. The boys went out to rake, and when I joined them, they reminded me that there weren't enough rakes for me to help them. They got the leaves moved (and worked well together, to boot! Bonus!), and I told them I would take care of the furniture. As I worked, I thought about how much had happened on those porches this summer: the laughter, the tears, the growth, the pain. I thought about the prayer, the reading, the learning, the friendships that formed and developed, the wine that was poured, and the food that was shared. I reflected on the moments, the memories, the Love. Instead of sorrow, I felt joy at having spent the time well, and at the prospect of opening up again in the spring. For the first time, the seasonality of outdoor living areas became revitalizing in the hibernation phase.

Last night I heard news of a young woman--the age of our eldest--who died suddenly. Guy and I prayed for her, her family, her roommates and classmates, friends and relatives. We don't know her, but that's irrelevant; we are parents. We care. We talked then about hard topics, prayers, God, trust, peace and lamentation. This morning at church, three of the songs we sang were favorites of Dad's--songs he would either sing out especially energetically at church, or that he would sing at home as he wandered around, puttering. At communion, after we sang, and while the piano continued, I was suddenly filled with the joy of knowing that Dad had been one of the souls there to welcome her home. That's what Dad would do, that's who he was. Once again, I found myself smiling and chuckling while tears streamed down my cheeks as I gazed at the statue of the risen Lord over the altar.

Closing up the porches was a welcome today; a welcome home to the heart of our home. Expanding onto the porches for the warmer seasons is the open armed embrace of our family spirit. Filling them with the people we know and love, and even occasionally with strangers, feels like the group hugs I often crave when I'm out and about. Dad was always involved in those, and in them I felt safe, loved, elevated. In the spring, I hope that I remember today, and the marvelous interplay of emotions and the thankfulness in my heart. More than anything else I have in my life, I am thankful for the faith I have, and for the Relationship made possible through it.

unmuddling my mind

A couple of months ago, I stopped with words. A few weeks ago, I had mentioned that I stopped writing, but now I realize that there was more than that. Words didn't come to write, and even reading lost its lifelong appeal. Again, I found myself pondering what had changed. So much, so little; and yet I can pinpoint a series of events or thoughts that precipitated the change--a series that happened mostly at the same time or in rapid succession. At some point I read something about blogging being nothing but narcissistic, regardless of the reasons we think we have. This occurred along with a general feeling that no one really, truly cares what I have to say in the grand scheme of things, nor should they. I didn't want anyone to--I just wanted to journal my journey. But it did make my wonder why I might feel the need to scream it out loud. I purposely walked away from my laptop; would only check websites on my phone (a rather cumbersome way to type when compared to a keyboard), would only write down single sentences (copied from others' works) into my datebook to record my state of mind for the day, would force my way through the reading I had found assigned to me. I thought it must be time for a change or something.

But change in interests is a far different thing from change in lifelong loves. You can take that as literally or as metaphorically as you'd like. The fact is, I don't remember ever not reading and writing. I don't ever remember forcing myself to do either--although I have backed myself up against deadlines quite a number of times! Here I was, dreading the thought of reading words, of having words in front of me. Why?

A little over a month ago, I was encouraged to go back through my old blog posts to find something I was looking for. That evening, I was given quite a bit of advice, and took all of it to heart and followed it, to my best ability. Except for the blog post advice. I intended to. A few times I sat down to. But I just couldn't do it. For a week or two, I made excuses to myself about being busy, having a slow computer, being busy, needing to clean or cook--or sleep--being busy. And about that third time telling myself I was far too busy to read my own work--after all, I had others' works that needed to be read for my personal development--I realized that I was scared.

Scared that I would find what I was looking for.

And when I realized that, some other things started happening in my life. Or in my head. It's sometimes hard to tell which. I remembered a few people telling me how touched or moved they were by my sharing my journey, and the people who had asked me for prayers--not advice, or guidance, or anything else from me; just my prayers. I had two strangers startle me into very present moments, offering me gifts of words, and pieces of paper. And I found a blog by an amazing young woman I once knew who shared her journey of faith throughout her pregnancy. Her baby lived about 8 hours: a miracle in every way. The strength of her faith, her willingness to share both her joys and sorrows was nothing short of inspiring. There was nothing narcissistic about it.

The fact is, my journey got kind of stalled for a while. And I wasn't sure how to share that. Sharing the good stuff is more fulfilling. Sharing the hard parts is when I've found the judgement starts, the comparisons, the "see? I told yous." I was stuck. I worked myself into a frenzy trying to do all the right stuff, the right way, at the right time. Instead of keeping my relationship with God open, I tried to force it to get better, bigger, more. As a result, I felt overwhelmed, overwrought, and ultimately, bored. In the past, when I'd get in a fix, I would write it out, pour out the words that came to mind and not really care how coherent it was. Part of my frenzy was in making sure everything I wrote made sense. I guess you could say that I worried that others were depending on me to get this right, and in that way, I did make myself the focus.

These days, I'm in a better place. I'm not bored, that's for sure. I've found the love of faith that I had been all but ignoring. I'm still not rolling along quite like I was, but I've been realizing that may be, at least in part, because I've not been writing it out. My laptop is still old and slow, but I know that if I do not make the time to attempt to work out my confusions, I will never leave them behind.