an old man

I have a night off. I usually work Monday nights, but here in the middle between Christmas and New Year's, there are no classes. So here I sit with a glass of wine, some candles burning, two books to choose from, and three or four notebooks (and a variety of pens!) within arm's reach. I even have a blanket and two dogs.
It's been an interesting week. I have an appointment with my therapist tomorrow, so I am doing my bi-weekly barometer check to determine if there is anything particularly pressing to talk about. And to review how much of his advice I've followed, considered, or ignored.
And what I keep coming back to is Simeon. Somehow growing up I completely missed anything about him - and Anna - in Bible stories and in church. Somewhere along the line, I had the impression of him as kind of a weird old guy hanging around the temple. I imagined Mary and Joseph being really uncomfortable when approached by Simeon and Anna. I imagined them being rather possessive of their newborn, and having to be polite while these people took their son, passed him around, and said rather scary things.
Simeon had faith. Deep faith in a promise he knew came to him from God himself. For most of my life, I have feared anyone with faith that deep. Heck - people with faith half or a quarter as deep! All those times I missed his story, i really was avoiding him. Sidestepping him like I would anyone who might try to tell me something about any faith or religion. I don't know all the reasons for that fear, that discomfort. I'm very conscious of the fact that I may resemble one of those people I would avoid, and I sometimes check my words, my actions, even my thoughts, accordingly.
And I feel lousy about it.
At one time, not terribly long ago, I saw Simeon as this guy who hung around the temple wanting to just die already. In my mind, shaped as it was (we're working on it), so much had been categorized as "good" or "bad." "Dead" fell in the "bad" category, as did fear, anger, even frustration. And doubt. Praying for courage helped me find Simeon in another place in my soul.
When the boys were small, just about the only thing I ever prayed for was patience. It took a real long while of coming just short of screaming at God that if he didn't hurry up with the patience I was going to go through the roof for me to realize that I was being given opportunities to practice patience, to hone the skill. I quit asking when I drew the conclusion that asking for patience meant that I'd have more in my life to make me impatient. And yet, when I was told "Pray for courage," I dove right in without considering where that might take me. It took a while before I recognized that I was remembering things I'd been afraid of, seeing them from different directions, opening doors into dark spaces in my heart. Last week, it occurred to me that the fear was what I was looking for - not the things that made me afraid. The fear itself was the gift. And I was less afraid. The fear is not "bad," it just is.
Simeon became a man with a dream, a goal, and a purpose. I have a unique purpose, just like Simeon. After Simeon held that newborn child, he knew his life was complete, that there was nothing else that could ever top that moment. He felt. And that's what had always made me uncomfortable - feeling; deeply and profoundly feeling anything - the "good" and the "bad." For me feeling always connected to judgement.
We're working on it.

rest my bones

I'm tired. I slept less than I should have last night, and should really just crawl into bed now (or, really, about a half hour ago) and go to sleep. I'm fighting it. Why? I'd welcome guesses. Mostly because I don't want to admit to myself that I might have some ideas.

First of all, I have a small project I could be working on. It's a draft of a letter that I won't even be sending, but that we decided I should help with. I sent one draft already -- not a great one, but I knew that if I didn't start it yesterday when I had a few minutes, I would put it off until Sunday sometime, and I really didn't like that idea. Or how that would make me feel like I looked. (And that's a funny thing, actually, because I'm far less concerned with how the first version makes me look than how a little procrastination might look. I judge myself kinda harshly. We're working on that...)

Next, husband and most of the kids are not home. Three of those four that are not home are more than capable of getting themselves back home, into bed, and off to dreamland with no intervention from me whatsoever. I know that full well. I miss them all, though, even though they've only been gone a few hours. I'm a bit of a sap when it comes to the Team. (We're not working on that. No problem there.) I'll never make it until all of them are home, but a girl can dream while she's awake.

And that's likely the real reason I don't want to face or think about. A few weeks ago, a friend and I were talking, and working out a problem in dreams came up. I mentioned that I hadn't dreamed in months, which is unusual because I normally remember that I've had dreams, even when I can't remember any of the content. There was an aspect of prayer as an element in that conversation, and a suggestion that praying for guidance in my dreams might be helpful. Since that day, I've had a couple of dreams -- but here's the thing: usually when I realize I haven't dreamed in a while, or when I've had a particularly strange dream, I work at avoiding them. How do I do that? I stay awake and make myself overtired in an effort to eventually fall too deeply asleep to dream. I've made a few daylight connections in the past couple of days, and might be avoiding any other connections getting worked out in my sleep. (This is a weird area, because on one side of my life, I have someone who is fascinated by dreams and what they reveal, and on the other, I have an opposing view: dreams are just dreams. They are a playground for daytime thoughts. It doesn't seem we're working on that....)

As a result of just these three things, I found myself nearly dozing while listening to the end of tonight's lesson on my computer, my eyes are really heavy, and I'm wanting a snack. I think it's time to dish up a scoop or two of ice cream, and get ready to turn in. But before I turn off the light, as I say my evening prayers, I will try to remember to apologize for avoiding sleep, and ask for the grace to accept rest when I need it. I push myself too hard, which, when combined with my tendency to judge myself harshly, can become a rather ugly combination.

Good night, all.

ghosts of the past

Christmas is such a beautiful holiday, full of meaning and tradition. At least, that's how I picture it. Tonight at dinner, I was asked what traditions I grew up with. Interestingly, I had been thinking about that very question this morning. I answered as truthfully as I could: I don't know that I remember real traditions from my childhood. Instead I told about some of the things we did when the boys were small, but even then I wondered if they really count as traditions.
As a kid, I do remember watching Dad and my brothers putting lights on the pine tree in front of the house - or rather, I remember the year they tried, but it had gotten too tall for the ladder and amount of lights. I remember going with Dad to pick out a tree to cut down, and the time the tree had to wait in the garage for a few days because the stand needed to be rebuilt. And the year we had a Christmas Bush -  a cube of evergreen that overtook the room because it hadn't looked quite so big growing in the back yard.
Every year we had opłatki before dinner, but I didn't know where it came from. I think Grammy brought it. Gramma Katie always supplied a summer sausage. Dad always left a candle burning in the front window to welcome weary or wayward travelers. (If any had ever come to our door, I don't know what we would have done with them!)
What I remember most, though, and was never able to talk about (because who would believe me?) was my feeling that something was missing; that I was missing something. Who would ever believe that in our Christmas celebration, with boxes and paper and bows, something else could ever be needed? I realized this week that what I most wanted - what I still most crave - is time, along with a little knowledge of who I am. As a result, many of my memories of Christmases past are tinged with sadness, or tension. Sort of like a pebble in my soul's shoe. It has slowly and steadily chipped away at my Christmas spirit, until a few days ago when I thought perhaps it was gone form me completely.
Last night before Mass, I asked for the grace to be guided, to start fresh, as a baby myself. I thought of it as the beginning, my beginning. After Mass we ate, laughed, and visited with friends - family, really. Most of today we spent together with some good old-fashioned family time, and tonight we sat in on traditions of more friends who feel like family. The best part about this Christmas? It did not feel like anything at all was missing. There are people we missed, for sure, but the day felt complete.
Beautifully so.
Merry Christmas. Joy to the World! 

time and time

Yesterday was a dark, damp, dreary and miserable day. Despite working on a sewing project (which I love to do!) I managed to find myself kinda cranky. Some things in the back of my mind were not moving in any way that I wanted them to, and I felt behind in the world outside my sewing room door. In retrospect, those things meant very little, but at the time, in those chilled toes moments, they loomed large. At one point, with frustration at the time slipping away, I asked for a little relief. "Lord, let me know what I'm supposed to do about this timing. Please!" The next song on the radio made me cry, as it usually does, and immediately after it, I got an email telling me not to worry about the timing. (Seriously!)
That's really the lesson I've been working on. I'm sure of it because it became a theme for the day. The more I try to control or gauge the timing of things I think I have control over, the more they seem to frustrate me. Or worse, go awry. At least in my mind. And I'm finding my mind is a very crowded and confusing place at times.
Much later in the day, talking with my therapist, I mentioned that I admire his confidence in me and my progress, because I have a hard time knowing that I'm getting anywhere. We talked about time then, and the fact that there is no reason for a minute to contain 60 seconds, or even for a second to be the length of a Mississippi (which is pretty ironic, actually). It's all arbitrary and man-made -- because of our human need to to try to exert control. He then reminded me of all the beautiful readings in the last few weeks about time. God's time.
And that God's time is perfect.
And I am (wondrously) not.
When I give things over to God's time, beautiful things happen. I still must do my part -- practice new skills, step out of old habits, stand and speak (perhaps) where I haven't before -- but with God's grace, I am able to grow in His love into the woman I am intended to be. This morning I am more aware that I am not there yet, but with a clearer view of the journey, as well as the destination. Some parts will be difficult, painful or frightening, but only to me. As part of something bigger, I will not only endure them, but 'see' them. They are building blocks.
Two people I go to for guidance, and who sometimes have differing viewpoints on where I'm headed, gave me the same thoughts this week: What is the purpose of this painful/difficult experience/memory? How is it building me? What is it, Lord, that you need me to glean from it?
Time. Patience. Growth. Progress. Love. All words with meaning far more expansive than our definitions can ever be. 

fibers and focus

Today is a stitching day. I'll be spending it at my sewing machine and ironing board, focusing on straight and even lines of thread. This act of focus often allows me to let my mind wander, a form of hypnosis, I suppose. As I link the pieces of fabric together, I also begin to stitch together memories, questions, dreams. Today I have some special prayers to meditate on, and while I sew, I'll offer them up.

With my sewing project, I know the end result, my aim. I don't know entirely what I'm seeking as I pray. Sometimes that's why I sew or knit when I have questions or when I talk to God. It's like those helpful parenting articles I used to read (in my mother's magazines as a teenager myself, actually) that suggested talking to kids about "tough topics" while driving in the car. There is both a level of distraction in not having to be face-to-face, and a level of captivity in sitting in a moving vehicle. When I work a project while I pray, I'm a little trapped by the scope, a little distracted in my focus on something else.

That's not to say I don't pray face-to-face. Or that I don't ever focus exclusively on the One to whom I'm conversing. Just that today, with the needs I have - both in my heart and in Christmas preparation - I am grateful that the Lord and I can work side by side today. That I can have time with Him always. And that we both know that I will, at some point today (when my alarm goes off) I will simply sit at His feet.

lighter, fresh and new

Tonight I went to confession. Our parish had an Advent communal penance service. Not too long ago, I told myself -- convinced myself completely -- that attending and saying the Act of Contrition with everyone else was enough. For years I didn't sit one-on-one with a priest. Many years, indeed.

Some people I've talked to speak of bad confession experiences. Others doubt the need to speak sins aloud. Still others have told me they don't ever do anything that would require confessing. I didn't go because I'm a crier. Lots of things make me cry and I simply didn't know if that was okay.

A couple of years ago, I started thinking about going again. I worried, I fretted, I tried to talk myself out of it, but I went. And as I confessed, I felt lighter. And I felt like there was a possibility that I really was forgiven. Still, it took a bit of encouragement from my pastor before I considered going again.

Now I go frequently (comparatively speaking, anyway), every month or two. I've had some interesting experiences -- Like the time I realized that through my tears the priest had misunderstood me, and was absolving me of some other sin entirely! And the time the priest asked "Is that it?" when I finished. (To be fair, there is a way to finish up that I always forget. Something about "for these and all my other sins...") But all in all, it's always worth the planning, the soul searching, and the standing in line.

Tonight as we read the Act of Contrition together as a parish family, I thought of all those I love who were not there. I thought of some new friends of mine who wonder just what the sacrament is. I thought of those who don't celebrate the sacrament any more for various reasons. I thought of how much of my heart each of them occupies, and about how much more of the Father's heart we occupy, and how, really, everything pales in comparison.

I confessed where I knew I'd fallen short in faith, hope and love. And now I feel lighter. Ready to start again, fresh and new. Wrapped in God's embrace.