my next life

"In my next life...." So goes the beginning of an ongoing joke with a friend. My line, which comes next, begins with "You would hate that because...." I think sometimes about what things I could have done with this life (lawyer, interpreter, world traveller) and can even pinpoint the moment each of those dreams was defeated. And a couple of second chances that were offered and why they were ignored. Or denied.

Today I found myself thinking, "In my next life...," but there was no one there to counter. And what I was thinking of would make me miserable in short order! I thought I'd like to be one of those call center people - the outsourced ones. Even one of the scam computer ones that call all the time lately. I had to tell myself I would hate it. (I was not hard to convince. Then again, neither is my friend.)

I began to wonder what brought this on today. Probably a combination of a training I attended this morning (mandated reporter), lunch conversation afterward, and some medical ethics in a class I'm taking. I hunger for the mental exercise involved in understanding and interpreting 'legalese' (or is that interpreting and understanding?) and social science language. I thirst for the discussion, debate and digging with others that follows. I would love to do that all day.

Or in my next life have no thinking to do at all.

Lately I seem to be in the middle. Too much to think about, too many questions unanswered, and nowhere to go with it. And that's just the more concrete work related stuff. Beyond that is the deeper, more life related things that come to mind when I slow down and pray. I need some depth. Those I once counted on for real conversation are too busy, or have moved on. My season seems to be changing; I'm waiting to be plucked off a branch. I'm not alone, but I am lonely.

You might say my next life thoughts are really a reflection of my regrets, but I think they are really places that would make where I am now look more appealing. You might also say that I'm not enjoying or living the life I do have. In that assumption you would be wrong. I love what I'm doing, and I love my life. I have reasonable frustrations; human feelings. And I express them at times. Another human thing. My need for depth stems from my inability or fear of finding it, if I am completely honest. I need to dive below the superficial as much as I need others around me to do so.

It's hard to be that vulnerable.

Really hard.

But it's what I need to do; to find. Otherwise I may end up where my wishes take me rather than where I belong.

ears of my heart

For the second time this week, I've been racked with silent sobs at daily Mass. Mind you, it's Tuesday.

Neither time has it been about the Message in the Book as much as it has been a message to my heart. One that is less in words as it is in feeling. Less decipherable than knowable.

And yet I have very little idea what it could be.
Unable even to recite the words of the Lord's Prayer for the emotion, and instead being enveloped in the words as they are spoken around me, feeling simultaneously confused and grateful, I know something is there, is coming, is so very near. I know Someone is standing beside me.

And the thought of it is overwhelming.

And the silent sobs come. I let them.

Mind you, it's Tuesday.

three quiet visits

Three times today I sat and visited with Jesus, in three different places; two chapels and a church. And I learned for myself something that we tell the kids all the time: His presence is the same everywhere.

Not long ago, I had a really hard time praying. I couldn't figure out if it was Him or if it was me. If I was trying too hard, or not hard enough. If I needed to go, or if I needed to stay. I tried changing things up by picking different prayers, and even changing some spaces. Nothing seemed to help, but I kept trying, asking, searching.

Today's visits were kind of the opposite. The grand total of about 45 minutes felt very much like a continued conversation - the kind you have with any friend you might see here and there throughout the day. All of them were unplanned, for the most part, which made the encounters that much sweeter.

I'm still smiling.

joy and sorrow

 Then a woman said, "Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow."       And he answered:       Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.       And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.       And how else can it be?       The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.       Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?       And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?      When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.       When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.       Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."       But I say unto you, they are inseparable.       Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.       Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.      Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.       When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall. ~Khalil Gibran, The Prophet

This is reflective of a conversation today. Joy and sorrow are so tightly intermingled, so woven together. Sometimes that idea is soothing, but other times painful, uncomfortable, or downright frightening. There is so much about the connection between joy and sorrow that has been on my mind most of my life, it seems. 

Yet the sorrow we talked about today isn't anything I can fathom. At one point, I said that I know what I would think, where I could have identified some of my pain, if it were me. But at the same time, we both knew, very well, that it wasn't. Harder still, though we both wanted to talk about it with each other, there was something very specific that got in the way -- in both directions. Oddly, ironically, what got in the way is the same thing that led me to the passage above: faith. More specifically, my faith. 

Hearing part of this passage this evening, I immediately thought of my friend. Of her pain, her sorrow, her sharing today. And I also thought of the immense joy that is a huge part of who she is as a woman, as a friend, as a sister. I learned so much from her today as we talked. I could relate to so much of what hurts, but not exactly, and that is okay. There are no platitudes that can help ease her suffering. I can't make any of it better, and we both know that. But I can continue to do what I've been doing for her: I can pray. Where she is afraid, I can pray. When she is angry, I can pray. In her sorrow and in her joy, I can offer prayer for her, because I know she can't right now. I know because she told me. I know because I've been there.

I firmly believe we are all here as people of faith to carry each other through from time to time. Praying and praising is sometimes easy, understandable and free. Other times, it feels pointless, useless, exhausting. When our self-sufficiency melts away into nothingness, and we feel empty inside, sometimes we can pray on our own.....but mostly, for me, the best thing I can find to be a blessing is the knowledge that someone else is doing my praying for me; bending God's ear on my behalf. He's always there, even when we can't feel His presence -- or when we don't really want to admit that we don't want to feel it. He's there. He asks for us, calls us, opens His arms to hold us. 

I wish the wishes could come true. That the facts, the time, the events could be changed or modified, improved. But that's my broken, confused, human self wanting what I think would be best. It will all be as it should be, but for now, we pray and embrace through the now. 

cut it out

Three weeks ago, I had oral surgery to remove wisdom teeth, an osteoma in my gum, and tori. I'm glad I was anesthetized. I am also incredibly grateful to my family and friends who have been so supportive and loving as I recover. Their prayers, laughter (especially at my expense from time to time!), quest for soft foods that taste good, and other acts of love, big and small, have touched me deeply. The occasional slurred speech and lisp, the continued numbness, the never-ending smoothies, the stitches still flopping around all get frustrating at times. I just want to eat something! And yet, I find myself grateful, too, for the entire experience.

This was my first surgery, ever; although it was my third experience with anesthesia. It was my second experience with strong pain meds, and the first time I prayed in thanksgiving consistently with each wave of pain. Seriously.

For reasons I can't get into right now because of the firestorm that would result, I had walled myself up and stopped feeling for a while. The pain in my mouth and jaw mirrored the feeling I have begun to allow my heart and soul lately. Sometimes a dull ache, and other times out and out pain; the burning of a nerve irritated by a clot and swelling, the mushy feeling of a lip, all are reminders that I am, indeed, alive and well, through and through. There are plenty of times I don't like it -- feeling, I mean. It's far easier to feel nothing, to ignore pain, anger, frustration. But to feel nothing is to not live fully. Without feeling there is also no room for love, forgiveness, joy, compassion. The numbness in my lip and chin makes for some crazy images in my own mind of how I must look: misshapen, unattractive, unlovable. Similar are the aural images I perceive. And yet, I look in the mirror, and listen again, or talk with those who have been with me over the past three weeks, and we agree: If you didn't know, you wouldn't know. It's my own perception, and what I allow myself to believe, to see, to hear.

Each day I thank God for the newness of the day, be it one more millimeter of feeling returned to my skin, gums, tongue, or the fact that everything feels just a little worse. I'm feeling. Whether I like it or not is not the point at all -- I asked to be able to feel again, in my heart and soul, but He knows I like metaphors. I picture Him smiling as He sits beside me, listening to my slurred and lispy prayer, trying not to touch the nerve that screams (softer now than a week ago, but still) at the slightest provocation. He smiles not because He's happy that it hurts, but because I am sitting with Him. I am asking Him to be with me, to feel with me, to be in my heart and in my jaw.

The irritation of the nerve is temporary, as is the soft diet: nine and about two months, respectively. Before the surgery, the doctor warned me about the nerve thing, saying that if it happened, it could be anywhere from a few weeks to permanent. There are times when I think that permanent is an easier thing to deal with, because then it is what it is, rather than frequent assessment (still there? Yep. gah.) Other times I can only think about the here and now -- namely the stitches that are loosening up and taking their own sweet time to fall out. Either way I am living and praying the moment.

And very grateful.