no more onions

I have nothing against onions. In fact, I love onions. They are a key ingredient in so many of my favorite dishes. Well made, batter dipped onion rings, Vidalias in a salad with tomatoes and cucumbers, grilled on a burger, raw on a dog -- what's not to love about onions?!

I, however, am not an onion. Like so many things, this has been tumbling around in my mind for a while now. The first time I heard that something, or someone, was "like an onion: you have to go layer by layer," I thought it a clever analogy. Perhaps I've heard it one too many times. Here's the thing, when my therapist and I are working on developing a strategy for dealing with a patterned behavioral response, I get that the situation is, indeed, like an onion. We do peel back layer after layer of the problem: the trigger, the emotional response, the physical response (if there is one), the different perspectives of a memory or a recent event. In the end, though the response may be modified, the situation is still what it is. It is still an onion.

No matter how many layers one peels off an onion, at the center, one will find nothing but an onion.

One day at work, an office mate mentioned how much she hates going to conferences and having a facilitator ask, "Please introduce yourself with your name, your favorite flower, and how it describes you." We agreed it's the on the spot thinking about how a flower describes a person that annoyed us. [I knew then that I loved this woman especially because of her dislike of stupid ice breakers.] A few days later, I was thinking about that discussion while I spent ten hours in the car travelling to Georgia. I wondered what flower I would say was my favorite. I know full well what flower is my favorite. but what would I say when put on the spot? Lilacs are my favorite, simply because I like the way they smell, but that certainly has nothing to do with me as a person! I don't always like the way I smell, know what I mean?

As I drove, I thought that I would likely say something like "Azalea -- or better, rhododendron -- (because it was the first one I thought of) because  I'm not sure how to spell it," and then feel like an idiot for the rest of the conference, missing much of the content of what I went there to hear or learn.* Then I wondered why. Why would I feel like an idiot? Why does the reason have to make sense if the question doesn't in the first place? What would have happened had I answered honestly all those times in school, instead of giving the response I thought I was supposed to? Who would I be today?

Somewhere along the line, it occurred to me that an artichoke is a flower. Most people think of it as a vegetable, but it's really a flower. And not an onion. Being prepared to answer a question that makes no sense in the first place is a really important skill, right? If nothing else, it gave me something to think about on my drive.

I am not an onion, I am an artichoke. When you take the time to patiently and painstakingly peel off the layers of spiny bracts of the artichoke, you come to something else: the heart. If you take the time to peel back the layers of me, the prickly, stiff, protective layers of me, you will find a soft and very sensitive heart. But even the heart of the artichoke has some bristles on the top when you first get there - the choke. My heart is the same -- unless you work for it, you may never get past that one last protective layer on my heart, my choke. I am not an onion. Past all those layers, you will not find a smaller version of what you started with. Instead, you will find compassion, generosity, unbridled joy, and a fierce loyalty - the real me. If you find that, and then behave badly, though, I will bloom into the thistle of which the artichoke is a bud.

My name is Stephanie, and I would say I'm an artichoke because I have many layers. I am not an onion, although I love them.




http://www.gardenbetty.com/2013/06/anatomy-of-an-artichoke/


*It occurs to me just now that perhaps such distraction is the reason for this kind of question in the first place. Maybe everyone spends the rest of the time second-guessing their choice and reason, so the content needn't be quite up to snuff. hmmmmm.....

sheep stuff

The other day, while going through a box of "mystery stuff" by my desk, I came across a meditation on the lost sheep. It began by describing a hole in the fence that the one sheep wandered through, curious and a bit oblivious of the dangers. Presently, the shepherd went through the same hole in the fence, leaving 99 sheep inside, and also leaving the hole in the fence. After some time of searching, the shepherd finds the one sheep, and they return to the sheepfold, but the shepherd does not mend the fence.

The first questions on the meditation were the usual type, about the one who wandered off. But then there were questions about the 99. How did they feel about being left on their own? Why didn't they just follow the shepherd through the hole? How did they feel about the one returning to them?

Time and again I've heard the parable of the lost sheep, and time and again I've heard that each of us is the lost sheep. This meditation, however, puts us also in the position of the 'unlost,' of those who haven't strayed, who have been trusted to stay home without supervision. Sometimes a shifted focus, a different angle, makes a huge difference in reception, as well as perception.

That afternoon, putting myself with the 99 for the first time, I wondered about my own recent feelings of being somewhat lost while at the same time being immersed. I've been confused at the juxtaposition. As I sat on the floor with that paper in my hand, I wondered if those 99 sheep felt concern when their shepherd left them - concern that they didn't know what would come next, if he would be back, if they could take care of themselves - or if they confidently continued with their daily sheep business without even noticing he was gone. Or something in between. I pictured 99 sheep on a hillside - a large number of them together in some centralized location, some smaller groups, and the occasional lone sheep, slightly apart from the others, but near enough that inclusion was obvious. Each with their own thoughts, their own level of experience and confidence. Where did I fit?

A picture really can convey 1,000 words. Looking at the hillside of sheep, I realized that even when I feel lost, I'm not necessarily the sheep that found the hole in the fence. I can be any of those 99 and still wonder where I am. It's not about my physical, emotional, or spiritual location. Rather, my focus, my view, my willingness to trust my shepherd - or my confidence in his trust in me! - is what matters. In that picture I saw that sometimes the shepherd needs to trust that the majority of the sheep will simply stay put. The key then is whether they do! And there may be times when staying in one place, continuing to do what has become routine (because I don't know what else to do), even when it feels less than productive, is the only thing to do.

There is joy in being found. And there is joy in the return. There is joy for all.  

dig it up

Have you ever had questions? How about this, did you ever wonder if there are answers to your questions? And how often have you felt like there should be more you could learn - about another, yourself, your faith, your world?
From time to time I get bogged down by my questions. They fill my notebook, and draw my focus. I would say that I've come to realize they distract me, but that wouldn't be entirely true. To be honest, I can't remember not knowing that I fixate on a question, a problem, an idea, when something else in my life is out of whack. A problem with fixating is that it makes interactions difficult for me.
The first step is admitting there's a problem, right? One problem leads to the other, but they each feed the other. One possible solution: finding people with questions - and answers - who want to share. Talking about this with someone the other day, we referred to it as a 'digging club.' Today, sitting in a different office, in the middle of another thought, I realized this group would be new friends; friends on a different level.
As humans, we're designed to "learn on multiple levels," I was told today. That's when it clicked: I need to learn. I want to learn. I love to learn. Is this what's off kilter? Is that how I can readjust? Or is it just a first step?
"Know anyone else with a shovel?" I'm on the lookout. Lately I've heard and read over and over that learning, growing, answering questions, is meant to be done in groups. Self study is okay, but "it'll take much longer."
Time to find some fellow diggers.

a shared space

The purpose of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land is not to visit a place; it is to find a God: the God made visible in His Son Jesus, who walked these lands; and with each step made not only this place, but the whole world holy.
~Fr. Chet Snyder, A Sabbath Shared

Perhaps this is why I still have a hard time knowing what to say when people ask about my trip. There was a priest I spoke with on the roof of Notre Dame, overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, who told me that he preferred Jerusalem to Rome, not because of the sites and location, but because of the people who visit. He told me the disposition of the heart seemed different: those visiting Rome tended to be visiting the place, while those visiting Israel were looking to know a Man.

Not long ago, my pastor asked where I would go back to, which site, which spot would I choose to go to and stay for a few hours. Without hesitation I replied, "The hotel lobby in Jerusalem." I knew it seemed an odd answer to him, but I had been considering the question since our return (without thinking I'd ever be asked), so I had a ready explanation. Jerusalem was our last hotel, and we stayed there three nights. Each day when we returned to the hotel, I'd go up to the room and drop off packages, freshen up, and go to the lobby. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always with a glass of wine or a cup of espresso. And I would unpack the day, the sites, the sounds, the very air. Whether I was engaged in conversation or sitting alone, I truly pondered how everything was fitting together. In that lobby is where we saw the group come in wearing their Purim costumes, heading to a party, so we Googled Purim and wondered at the marvelous timing of our trip. We watched and heard interactions in a language and custom we didn't know or understand. That lobby is where I began to really know some others on the trip; where we shared feelings, doubts, questions, personal histories. But all the while, I was very aware that Christ was in our midst, sitting with us, listening, laughing, sharing.



Reading Fr Snyder's words this morning, I was again sitting in the lobby, only my physical self was in Pennsylvania at our dining room table. Lately, when I think of God, of praying, of finding comfort, I am sitting in an armchair in the Leonardo in Jerusalem. Actually, that was the point of the question from my friend. We were talking about prayer. His advice was to ask Jesus to join me in the lobby for a glass of wine or a cup of espresso, and spend time together unpacking the day: the good and the bad, the challenges for the next day, and the celebrations in my heart. And I do. Not every day, as I probably should, but certainly more often than I had been reviewing, preparing, praying with Him as a Friend. My laptop won't recognize my phone since my return, so the nine hundred or so photos I've taken are in limbo. As I think of sharing them, I email them to myself, or pull from Facebook something I've posted there. I've wondered why this inconvenience doesn't bother me terribly. And I've wondered, too, why I'm not more frustrated by the technology. The thing is, what's most important about going to Israel, being there, is in my heart, not on my phone in digital photographs. Eventually I will manage to get them to my computer and print a few. In the meantime, I have the clearest pictures in my mind, because I'm still there most days, for at least a little while.