"Meet them where they are" is a cardinal rule in ministry of any kind. Truthfully, I believe it is a rule in just about any relationship. For a while, I thought that might mean knowing the other's likes and dislikes, interests, hobbies, taste in music. As I grew in youth ministry, with the help and guidance of some really amazing and down to earth youth ministers, I began to realize there was more to it than that, more to meeting someone than the externals. Knowing where someone IS is only part of the equation.
I'm in the process of extricating myself from a painful and difficult relationship. Generally speaking, I have never been in a better place - for the first time in my life I have confidence in my abilities, my choices, my future. I can make decisions without second guessing every single aspect of the choices, the outcomes, the effects on others, judgement from others. I can laugh. My therapist asked me once when we were talking about holding in some painful emotion, "Would you try to contain joy?" I know him well enough that there is likely a biblical reference there, and yet my honest response to him was, "Yes, I do have to contain my joy at times." I went home sad that day, with the realization that joy and sorrow are equally important to feel, to acknowledge, to express, to share. I've come a long way since then.
There are times, often days in a row, when I am inexplicably irritable. Perfectly normal, I know, and yet in this process I find my analytical mind looking for connections to the 'stuff.' Sometimes there is one, and it's abundantly clear. Other times there probably isn't one, but I find myself determined to find one - not to blame someone else for my mood, but to better define my feelings and, more specifically, my responses to them. Somewhere in my most recent cranky days, I realized how frustrating it is to me, how much it feeds the mood, when the people I turn to offer nothing but advice. It occurred to me that I needed someone - anyone - to meet me where I am; to minister to me.
Over the days prior to "the mood" I had seen a few memes and posts related to compassion. It took longer than I'd like to admit to make the connection. Meeting someone where they are means to have compassion for them. The kind of compassion that is based on knowledge that we all are travelling the same road, each at their own pace, with obstacles and assistance that cannot be equated with another person's experience. I can't measure my suffering, or my joy, against what another person feels or experiences - that's fair to neither of us. Continuous well meaning advice begins to rankle me because it often comes from an angle that I am not yet ready to work with, or from a direction I've already gone, or - especially grating - in the form of platitudes and extensive definitions of faith and love (the two things that in all of this I have had very little trouble embracing).
A few days after a particularly trying exchange with a well meaning person in my life, I received a text apologizing for offering clear shibboleth instead of compassion. In part, she said, "..I know how platitudes and rational explanations of faith are really not helpful or consoling. It only hurts more." It was the first time I was grateful that I had spoken honestly to someone outside of my initial tight circle. For the first time, I could breathe with someone of my own faith background.
If you want to help me, if you want to walk with me, you will need to meet me where I am. You will need to be compassionate to be consoling. You will need to understand that I don't want or need reassurance that my Father loves me, and always has, and always will. I have that reassurance from Him every minute of every day. What I need from you is understanding that I am hurting sometimes, and a majority of the time, I'm not hurting. And that even if I am hurting, there are lots of other causes (which is something I, too, am working on understanding!) related to my job, my house, the state of the world, and maybe even the phases of the moon. Those who have been walking with me all along know that it's been a really long while since I've been in "a mood" - a longer span than ever in my life - so they are rejoicing that I am experiencing a new-to-me emotion. Walk with me instead of deciding what direction I should take. If my direction goes where you don't want to go, move on.
I'm good with that.
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 22, 2016
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
an interesting combination
Over the weekend, I painted my bedroom. It was a long, three day weekend -- three glorious days in a row that I didn't have to work, plus the usual Friday afternoon I have off to almost make up for my usual 6-day workweek. I used every spare moment last week to prep the room, moving furniture away from walls, moving furniture out of the room, taping cracks, filling holes. Friday into the evening I sanded. The ladder and I circled the perimeter, getting intimately close with the walls that hold stories of all kinds. I love prepping a room for painting. I was already sore when the boys and I sat down to relax a bit at dinner time. Reaching and the consistent gentle pressure for sanding affecting my shoulders, my upper back, my hands. And I was delighted.
Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.
While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.
Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.
Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.
My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.
Saturday morning brought wall washing; another aspect to experience rather than simply get through. Changing the water halfway through, I considered the illusion of surfaces. Nothing could have indicated to me how just plain dirty the walls were when I was using nothing but my eyes to judge. There was no mistaking the black water I poured down the drain, the grit that remained in the bottom of the bucket until I rinsed and re-rinsed, filling it with fresh water and detergent. "I am that wall," I thought, happily, joyfully, I might add! Prepping, sanding, washing, painting, it's all like getting to know a friend, acknowledging the rough places, helping to smooth them over, but never meaning to eliminate or completely forget them. Making the cracks and holes bearable is a friend's responsibility, isn't it? Or at least helping them to be.
While I worked, I did talk to some friends; most via text, but one on the phone. As I relayed my plans for the room, beyond painting (I have some projects involving power tools in mind!), I was told, "You have talents. You should use them; show them off. I can see you on your own somewhere beautiful prepping, painting, and building beautiful things for people. It'd be great." It would be great. (My friend also mentioned being near water, which was interesting as there was no reason for this new friend to know this about me; that I am drawn to water, sand, islands.) That call made me smile for a good while. Some of the conversations led to tearful thinking; some to out and out sobbing. All of it was cleansing, refreshing, as much a renewal for my heart as my work was to the room.
Last week, during a break in prepping, I was asked about the color of the trim. "I never worry about that unless I have to," I said, which in reality is not entirely true. My bedroom has 5 doors and 3 windows, meaning there is a ridiculous amount of trim to consider. Truth be told, I had turned a blind eye to the trim, hoping against hope that the world could, too. It only took about three feet of painted wall to show me how imperative the trim work would be. Again I thought of the parallels: what we see and what we wish we see can only run next too each other for so long. Reality bites sometimes, and requires that we do the careful detail work, on our knees, sometimes holding our breath to be sure to get the bead just right. I trekked back to the paint store to get a nice glossy white. The friend who asked about the trim was right, of course, the trim makes the color pop even more, it pulls the room together, finishes the overall effect. Painting the baseboard requires the use of two brushes: both 1" and 1 1/2" sash brushes. My well-being requires the use of two types of prayer: speaking (1") and listening (1 1/2"). When I try to rush through with only one, the results are less than satisfying. There's more area that requires the larger brush. The edge, where the smaller brush is used, is more difficult, more painful and frightening to navigate. The way they work together to unify, though, is more than worth the effort. And in reality, it's not that hard -- and doesn't take that long. I have two walls of baseboard done, so I could move the larger pieces of furniture back in, and will work on the rest of the trim throughout the next week or so. It'll be a longer process than the walls, but that is as it should be.
Next, I will create plans for the bookcases and radiator cover, and figure out the best timing for purchasing and assembling. I have the paint, and I'm ready (and willing) to use it. The most exciting project I have planned is for the door, the details of which I must review a few more times. A sliding barn door made of wood and canvas, painted with some as yet unknown design....part of the reasoning behind this description of me, observed by my friend on the phone: "artsy, funny, pretty, detailed - an interesting combination." I'm looking forward to seeing where this life will take me; where God has me going. I'm finding more of myself, along with even more joy in sharing, although that can be so very painful. Spending time with the walls in my room, I was many times struck by the power of memories, and the force with which they will present themselves when necessary. Many of them, related to the time of year, were unpleasant, ugly, and had been hidden far below my seemingly clean surface. Some surprised me, others made me think "you again," but presented some different side or view to consider. All of them brought intense emotion; some a strong desire to act out. Instead I reached out, again and again. That's something new to me, and I was strangely surprised at how helpful it was. Even when the reaching out was repeated, in the same words, to the same person, more than once. Mercy is a beautiful thing.
My bedroom is painted, and like any good project (including myself), the work has just begun, and will continue for quite a while. I'm excited about the challenges and successes to come -- and even the bumps along the way. I know, without a doubt, that I am not alone, and never will be, even when I work in solitude.
Sunday, February 7, 2016
vision of me
There are times in life when the varied pieces of experience and interest seem to be spread wide and messy, and completely unrelated. Looking at them, one wonders how they could truly be part of one creation, one whole. Without direction or diagram, focusing on only one piece at a time, trying to make sense of it on its own merit becomes habit. However, without the broader, fuller view, justice is not done to the parts cast aside and ignored, even temporarily.
There are many reasons one might sit back, take a deep breath, and shuffle things up to get a new perspective on what's already there, what may need to be added, enhanced, or really doesn't belong. Many of those reasons relate to a life change of some sort; a loss, a gain, a move, death of a loved one. In those cases, the reassessment has the danger of becoming frantic, impulsive, even compulsive.
Other reasons are more continuous; related to a legitimate desire to refine, to learn, to try to see the bigger picture. Occasions of clarity may give quick glimpses of the way A relates to Q, while leaving J, K and L a mysterious pile of unknown.
There comes a time when the romanticism of piecing things together fades away. The unfinished picture, the jumble of disjointed parts, begin to resemble nothing more than an abandoned canvas, a pile of glass shards; a half-hearted attempt at fine art. With the blessing of the right support, the relentless love of heart family, that pained vision's falsehood is revealed. Seeing truth is not necessarily less painful, but every burden shared is divided, lightened, and ultimately strengthens.
The truth of the pieces left over, scattered around, is difficult, if not impossible , to see alone, And while the help of dear friends, even professionals, is helpful, without God, what is revealed is incomplete. His vision of me is what matters most.
There are many reasons one might sit back, take a deep breath, and shuffle things up to get a new perspective on what's already there, what may need to be added, enhanced, or really doesn't belong. Many of those reasons relate to a life change of some sort; a loss, a gain, a move, death of a loved one. In those cases, the reassessment has the danger of becoming frantic, impulsive, even compulsive.
Other reasons are more continuous; related to a legitimate desire to refine, to learn, to try to see the bigger picture. Occasions of clarity may give quick glimpses of the way A relates to Q, while leaving J, K and L a mysterious pile of unknown.
There comes a time when the romanticism of piecing things together fades away. The unfinished picture, the jumble of disjointed parts, begin to resemble nothing more than an abandoned canvas, a pile of glass shards; a half-hearted attempt at fine art. With the blessing of the right support, the relentless love of heart family, that pained vision's falsehood is revealed. Seeing truth is not necessarily less painful, but every burden shared is divided, lightened, and ultimately strengthens.
The truth of the pieces left over, scattered around, is difficult, if not impossible , to see alone, And while the help of dear friends, even professionals, is helpful, without God, what is revealed is incomplete. His vision of me is what matters most.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
my favorite pants
Yesterday I sat down for lunch, crossed my ankle over my knee, and discovered that the lower edge of my pants was frayed. Not just frayed, but threads hanging frayed. My favorite pants. My. Favorite, Pants. I'd known they were not long for the Okay to Wear To Work category, as they were fading some, but with all the snow we'd had, and an appointment and a meeting after work, I needed something that would float between work and not work. Seeing the frayed edge made me a little sad, but I still had most of my day in them to go. I reminded myself they were my favorite pants, and pressed on.
Arriving home, I decided to peruse Amazon for the style and brand, hoping against hope that I could find them based on the mysterious numerical codes on the tag, since the original tag with the familiar name was long gone. Finding the tag, I noticed that the waistband was also a bit worn. In fact, all the seams were less than new looking. They looked like broken in, well-worn, very loved favorite pants. That I could wear on a weekend when I was feeling particularly casual.
And I realized I was looking at a metaphor.
Until I took a close look at them, my favorite pants looked fine. Not great, because they were clearly beginning to fade, but they looked fine. Fine enough to wear to work once a week (usually on Friday, my own personal business casual twist). But once I'd seen the truth - the frayed edge of the back of the left hem - I began to see the signs of something more going on. Each telltale spot of wear tugged at my heart in a very different way than some other areas of my life I've been seeing with new eyes. In the biblical context my therapist sometimes like to use, once the scales began to fall away, I've been seeing more than the simple cracks and bumps in my life. I've begun to see the true wear and tear, the dangerously close to breaking parts, the more than a little frayed. My favorite pants fit me. They function. The zipper and the button and hooks are all solidly in place and functional.
But I have to be honest and admit they do not work as dress clothes any longer.
I bought a new pair of pants today. They are similar, but not the same. (They do happen to be the same color, but that was a function of supply, not a matter of true choice.) They may or may not become my next favorite pair of pants. Slowly I will begin to disentangle myself from my attachment to these old pants, until eventually they sit in the bottom of my drawer, even more threadbare than I can imagine at the moment. And I will gratefully say goodbye. Until I looked at - really looked at - the seams and edges yesterday, I had no idea that I could have a 'relationship' with a pair of pants. In reality, that's not what this is; rather serving as a metaphor for a good and true relationship's life cycle. There are neat memories associated with these pants, from work things to personal things, from family events to meeting new friends. I felt good wearing them in part because nearly every time I wore them someone told me I looked nice - someone different just about every time; strangers sometimes. Saying goodbye to a friend is hard. Ending a relationship is painful. These are pants; it'll be much easier. But knowing that all of that wear was happening without my notice for the simple reason that I wasn't even considering looking is a reality check. I find myself in a bit of a life predicament, wondering why no one told me they were getting a bit tired. I've asked enough people that I trust to explain that to me as a life lesson. The response varies, but what it really comes down to is that with scales on my eyes, I couldn't have seen anyway; would not have accepted the idea.
I'm learning to trust more - to trust my instincts, to trust those who love me day after day. to trust the people to whom I choose to open my heart. I'm more selective than I've ever been before, and also more open. More me. My relationships and friendships are now what I want to see in my future, who I want to see there. More honest - like the new relationship I will have with my favorite pants, except the people I'm talking about may spend more time with m public than these old pants.
I just realized the metaphor in having a shopping buddy, like I did tonight. I have a group of friends that have informed me that they are the interview panel for certain levels of friendship. And they are a tough crew - individually and as a group. For that I am so very grateful. When taken at its very basic level, it's kind of like shopping for new pants. At one point, trying on the pants I ultimately bought, my shopping buddy simply said, "Let me see the waistband at the front?" At that moment, I realized that the hard question, the scrutiny that made me feel the most vulnerable, really was the key factor. I needed a shopping buddy to help with the decision I may not have even considered facing. I need my heart family to do the same.
Arriving home, I decided to peruse Amazon for the style and brand, hoping against hope that I could find them based on the mysterious numerical codes on the tag, since the original tag with the familiar name was long gone. Finding the tag, I noticed that the waistband was also a bit worn. In fact, all the seams were less than new looking. They looked like broken in, well-worn, very loved favorite pants. That I could wear on a weekend when I was feeling particularly casual.
And I realized I was looking at a metaphor.
Until I took a close look at them, my favorite pants looked fine. Not great, because they were clearly beginning to fade, but they looked fine. Fine enough to wear to work once a week (usually on Friday, my own personal business casual twist). But once I'd seen the truth - the frayed edge of the back of the left hem - I began to see the signs of something more going on. Each telltale spot of wear tugged at my heart in a very different way than some other areas of my life I've been seeing with new eyes. In the biblical context my therapist sometimes like to use, once the scales began to fall away, I've been seeing more than the simple cracks and bumps in my life. I've begun to see the true wear and tear, the dangerously close to breaking parts, the more than a little frayed. My favorite pants fit me. They function. The zipper and the button and hooks are all solidly in place and functional.
But I have to be honest and admit they do not work as dress clothes any longer.
I bought a new pair of pants today. They are similar, but not the same. (They do happen to be the same color, but that was a function of supply, not a matter of true choice.) They may or may not become my next favorite pair of pants. Slowly I will begin to disentangle myself from my attachment to these old pants, until eventually they sit in the bottom of my drawer, even more threadbare than I can imagine at the moment. And I will gratefully say goodbye. Until I looked at - really looked at - the seams and edges yesterday, I had no idea that I could have a 'relationship' with a pair of pants. In reality, that's not what this is; rather serving as a metaphor for a good and true relationship's life cycle. There are neat memories associated with these pants, from work things to personal things, from family events to meeting new friends. I felt good wearing them in part because nearly every time I wore them someone told me I looked nice - someone different just about every time; strangers sometimes. Saying goodbye to a friend is hard. Ending a relationship is painful. These are pants; it'll be much easier. But knowing that all of that wear was happening without my notice for the simple reason that I wasn't even considering looking is a reality check. I find myself in a bit of a life predicament, wondering why no one told me they were getting a bit tired. I've asked enough people that I trust to explain that to me as a life lesson. The response varies, but what it really comes down to is that with scales on my eyes, I couldn't have seen anyway; would not have accepted the idea.
I'm learning to trust more - to trust my instincts, to trust those who love me day after day. to trust the people to whom I choose to open my heart. I'm more selective than I've ever been before, and also more open. More me. My relationships and friendships are now what I want to see in my future, who I want to see there. More honest - like the new relationship I will have with my favorite pants, except the people I'm talking about may spend more time with m public than these old pants.
I just realized the metaphor in having a shopping buddy, like I did tonight. I have a group of friends that have informed me that they are the interview panel for certain levels of friendship. And they are a tough crew - individually and as a group. For that I am so very grateful. When taken at its very basic level, it's kind of like shopping for new pants. At one point, trying on the pants I ultimately bought, my shopping buddy simply said, "Let me see the waistband at the front?" At that moment, I realized that the hard question, the scrutiny that made me feel the most vulnerable, really was the key factor. I needed a shopping buddy to help with the decision I may not have even considered facing. I need my heart family to do the same.
Thursday, November 26, 2015
grace and gratitude
There are scones in the oven, a pie waiting to be baked, dishes in the sink, but there is coffee in my mug, and I'm going to savor it. One of the lovely 'perks' of using a French press is that there is no thermal carafe, so I am gently encouraged to slow down a little and appreciate some little things. Like hot coffee, and the memories and dreams that swirl therein.
On this Thanksgiving morning, in these early moments before any of the boys wake, I sit in my newly painted kitchen, delighted that my dearest friends are with their families, as am I. Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday. In my mind, it's about simplicity -- favorite foods, favorite people, wine, coffee, conversation, and pie. There is introspection, which (in moderation, I'm finding!), is beneficial to dreaming, planning, goal-setting. [As a matter of fact, Thursday is my favorite day. This past week, for the first time, I put the two together and wondered if there is a relationship between these favorites. I may begin a new experiment and make every Thursday a thanksgiving day....]
Over the past week, I've had a few people make a point of telling me "There is still so much to be thankful for." I agreed with each of them. They are all well meaning and dear, but the truth is, I never needed that reminder. I am thankful. I am even grateful. Nothing in life can take that away from me; certainly not court dates and postponed grocery shopping. On the contrary, these are precisely some of the things that remind me how wonderful my life really is. I am reminded more often how thoughtful my sons are, how understanding; how deep the true friendships are, and how shallow some have shown to be; the bright future (that I admit needing reminders about from time to time) ahead of me, and that the future begins in each moment. I am truly grateful and thankful for each of these things, these people.
In the past few months, I have begun to learn to receive. Interestingly, I had no idea that I hadn't quite grasped that concept. God has prepared me to receive in ways I never would have imagined, and not having asked for this lesson makes it difficult to understand, to process, to accept; and yet, I knew about a year ago how important it is as I argued the difference between accepting a gift and receiving one in a meeting. So much in my life I accepted without truly receiving -- good and bad -- and as a result I didn't share what I could have. "If you don't give away the gifts you have, there is no space to receive." That from a priest in confession last summer, as he showed me where in my life I was clenching my fists; accepting, but not receiving.I am thankful for the lesson, even as it continues, even as painful as it can be at times. I am grateful.
On this Thanksgiving morning, as my mug is drained, the scones are done, the faucet drips in the silence broken only by the keyboard keys, I am more grateful than I have ever been. I am thankful for the family I have discovered in my dearest friends who manage to take turns every single day telling me they love me (and meaning it more than anyone ever has). For some unexpected friends who pop into my day from time to time offering just the right words (thank you for listening to the Voice that nudges you gently to ask, to speak, to text). For the staff I work with, which includes two amazing Core Teams I coordinate, not all of whom know much about me at all, but who lift me up in prayer, in laughter, in concern for jobs well done, and sometimes in tears and frustration; their position in my heart is unexpectedly beautiful. In the church community, who we tell the teens are a family -- I have found more genuine joy in simple handshakes, smiles, and hugs than I can adequately express. Their intuition as a whole is incredible and humbling. For the absolutely amazing network of youth ministers that has accepted me as a member of their crew, imperfections and all. Never have I felt a greater sense of belonging in a group than I have with these people. There is so much I learn from them every day, so much strength to continue I garner from them, personally and professionally, knowing that truly everything that I receive from them comes from God. For my children, from whom I learn constantly. Their grace humbles and encourages me. Their love floors me. The fact that God entrusted them to this imperfection......a thought that leaves me speechless every time.
I am blessed beyond measure, and never have I been more aware of the blessings. Bottom line, I am beginning to believe my favorite verse "Are not five sparrows sold for two small coins? Yet not one of them has escaped the notice of God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows" (Luke 12:6-7). I am a child of God. No one can take that away from me, and no one can Love me as much as He. Happy Thanksgiving!
On this Thanksgiving morning, in these early moments before any of the boys wake, I sit in my newly painted kitchen, delighted that my dearest friends are with their families, as am I. Thanksgiving has long been my favorite holiday. In my mind, it's about simplicity -- favorite foods, favorite people, wine, coffee, conversation, and pie. There is introspection, which (in moderation, I'm finding!), is beneficial to dreaming, planning, goal-setting. [As a matter of fact, Thursday is my favorite day. This past week, for the first time, I put the two together and wondered if there is a relationship between these favorites. I may begin a new experiment and make every Thursday a thanksgiving day....]
Over the past week, I've had a few people make a point of telling me "There is still so much to be thankful for." I agreed with each of them. They are all well meaning and dear, but the truth is, I never needed that reminder. I am thankful. I am even grateful. Nothing in life can take that away from me; certainly not court dates and postponed grocery shopping. On the contrary, these are precisely some of the things that remind me how wonderful my life really is. I am reminded more often how thoughtful my sons are, how understanding; how deep the true friendships are, and how shallow some have shown to be; the bright future (that I admit needing reminders about from time to time) ahead of me, and that the future begins in each moment. I am truly grateful and thankful for each of these things, these people.
In the past few months, I have begun to learn to receive. Interestingly, I had no idea that I hadn't quite grasped that concept. God has prepared me to receive in ways I never would have imagined, and not having asked for this lesson makes it difficult to understand, to process, to accept; and yet, I knew about a year ago how important it is as I argued the difference between accepting a gift and receiving one in a meeting. So much in my life I accepted without truly receiving -- good and bad -- and as a result I didn't share what I could have. "If you don't give away the gifts you have, there is no space to receive." That from a priest in confession last summer, as he showed me where in my life I was clenching my fists; accepting, but not receiving.I am thankful for the lesson, even as it continues, even as painful as it can be at times. I am grateful.
On this Thanksgiving morning, as my mug is drained, the scones are done, the faucet drips in the silence broken only by the keyboard keys, I am more grateful than I have ever been. I am thankful for the family I have discovered in my dearest friends who manage to take turns every single day telling me they love me (and meaning it more than anyone ever has). For some unexpected friends who pop into my day from time to time offering just the right words (thank you for listening to the Voice that nudges you gently to ask, to speak, to text). For the staff I work with, which includes two amazing Core Teams I coordinate, not all of whom know much about me at all, but who lift me up in prayer, in laughter, in concern for jobs well done, and sometimes in tears and frustration; their position in my heart is unexpectedly beautiful. In the church community, who we tell the teens are a family -- I have found more genuine joy in simple handshakes, smiles, and hugs than I can adequately express. Their intuition as a whole is incredible and humbling. For the absolutely amazing network of youth ministers that has accepted me as a member of their crew, imperfections and all. Never have I felt a greater sense of belonging in a group than I have with these people. There is so much I learn from them every day, so much strength to continue I garner from them, personally and professionally, knowing that truly everything that I receive from them comes from God. For my children, from whom I learn constantly. Their grace humbles and encourages me. Their love floors me. The fact that God entrusted them to this imperfection......a thought that leaves me speechless every time.
I am blessed beyond measure, and never have I been more aware of the blessings. Bottom line, I am beginning to believe my favorite verse "Are not five sparrows sold for two small coins? Yet not one of them has escaped the notice of God. Even the hairs of your head have all been counted. Do not be afraid. You are worth more than many sparrows" (Luke 12:6-7). I am a child of God. No one can take that away from me, and no one can Love me as much as He. Happy Thanksgiving!
Friday, October 30, 2015
open your hands
At times, the feeling is so strong, I can feel my nails digging into my palms. But when I look down at them, they are open; not clenched. My own eyes deceive me, because my mind's eye still sees that there is something I'm holding.
"What I see is that you are holding tight to something," the priest said to me. He was a stranger; a confessor at a conference that I would never see again. Yet he understood my heart in a way that was eerie, comforting, and challenging. "In order to receive, you must let go. I get the impression what you are holding is your gift; something meant to be shared that you are afraid to show. You must open your hands to let it flow out of you. Otherwise, you will be unable to receive more to give." Like the servant with the single talent, I hold tight to what is most me out of fear of losing myself.
On those few occasions when I have managed to open a finger or two to the view of a trusted few, what shines forth between us is indescribably beautiful. In those precious moments, I feel invested, encouraged. Safe.
But they are few and far between.
I feel the pressure of whatever it is that I am gripping. I look down at my hands on my lap, on the table, or hanging by my sides, and there is nothing there, but I know that is a lie. I'm holding, tightly, to something that is not mine. Not something worldly, but something that's been entrusted to me to give to the world. I feel unable, unworthy, and I hold on. Waiting until I know I am in the right place -- and knowing also that there is no knowing. There is trust.
Lord, if I let go...
"When you let go."
Lord, when I let go, what will happen?
"You will be held."
Lord, when I let go, if you hold me -- when you hold me -- I will be helpless. I will feel helpless.
"You will be helped. You will be held."
To what am I holding so tightly? It's something in my heart, and the thought of letting it go -- it isn't that it scares me; it eludes me. I look at my hands and it isn't there, but I can feel its weight, its gravity. The need to loosen its grip on me, and mine upon it, is visible, tangible, obvious.
How do I let go? How do I open up to receive?
"Just do."
"Let go. Receive."
Perhaps I need to rethink letting go; what it means. As long as letting go means giving up in terms of sacrifice, I may not see progress. I may not be willing to take the chance. I will be held. I will be caught if I fall; swept up into arms of Love. Embraced and soothed for as long as is necessary. Forever. How do I let go? How do I open my fists to set free my being? What is this last thing I cannot release?
"What I see is that you are holding tight to something," the priest said to me. He was a stranger; a confessor at a conference that I would never see again. Yet he understood my heart in a way that was eerie, comforting, and challenging. "In order to receive, you must let go. I get the impression what you are holding is your gift; something meant to be shared that you are afraid to show. You must open your hands to let it flow out of you. Otherwise, you will be unable to receive more to give." Like the servant with the single talent, I hold tight to what is most me out of fear of losing myself.
On those few occasions when I have managed to open a finger or two to the view of a trusted few, what shines forth between us is indescribably beautiful. In those precious moments, I feel invested, encouraged. Safe.
But they are few and far between.
I feel the pressure of whatever it is that I am gripping. I look down at my hands on my lap, on the table, or hanging by my sides, and there is nothing there, but I know that is a lie. I'm holding, tightly, to something that is not mine. Not something worldly, but something that's been entrusted to me to give to the world. I feel unable, unworthy, and I hold on. Waiting until I know I am in the right place -- and knowing also that there is no knowing. There is trust.
Lord, if I let go...
"When you let go."
Lord, when I let go, what will happen?
"You will be held."
Lord, when I let go, if you hold me -- when you hold me -- I will be helpless. I will feel helpless.
"You will be helped. You will be held."
To what am I holding so tightly? It's something in my heart, and the thought of letting it go -- it isn't that it scares me; it eludes me. I look at my hands and it isn't there, but I can feel its weight, its gravity. The need to loosen its grip on me, and mine upon it, is visible, tangible, obvious.
How do I let go? How do I open up to receive?
"Just do."
"Let go. Receive."
Perhaps I need to rethink letting go; what it means. As long as letting go means giving up in terms of sacrifice, I may not see progress. I may not be willing to take the chance. I will be held. I will be caught if I fall; swept up into arms of Love. Embraced and soothed for as long as is necessary. Forever. How do I let go? How do I open my fists to set free my being? What is this last thing I cannot release?
Sunday, July 19, 2015
dreambank
I had a dream I keep thinking about, wondering about. I keep wanting to ask, but I don't know who to ask. It's a very strong desire to understand -- much more so than the usual when I dream, so I wonder if the desire to understand is related to the meaning of the dream itself.
I was at an event. Something with many people, some of whom I knew casually, and some of whom I did not know at all. But there were also some people I knew very well -- a handful -- and each of them had asked specifically if I would be there, saying they wanted to talk with me, either to catch up after an absence, or to cover specific information. I was happy to be there (if you know me well, you know that alone is a tad odd), and looking forward to socializing, catching up, and discussing with my friends -- those who had asked for my presence. Consistently and repeatedly, these people were avoiding conversation with me in various ways. Sometimes they would approach me, stand with me, even hug me in greeting, but as soon as I spoke, they would walk away. Sometimes there was a direct, "Not now," spoken in lieu of greeting. I found myself confused, bewildered, hurt.
I awoke profoundly affected, with a feeling of strong reality. I spent the day yesterday trying to convince myself that a dream is simply an unconscious way to let go of daytime woes, rather than a method of explaining problems that need to be addressed. Half the difficulty for me is the specific people involved. Most of the time when these people -- or any people -- appear in my dreams, I may see faces, but really they don't look into my eyes to speak to me. This time each one did just before they walked away from me, pointedly turning away from me to walk away.
There are some strong frustrations in my waking life at the moment. Working my way through them is not going as smoothly as I'd like, and in fact, I am actively avoiding speaking about some of them, because I don't know where to turn. Or maybe I don't want to. Maybe these people are the ones I need to address. Or perhaps they are the ones I'm trying to engage, but I shouldn't be. That last possibility is what has me most perplexed -- it keeps coming back to me, almost as if it's written on paper in front of me. (The blank paper from so long ago? I've been waiting for something to be written upon it...) Perplexing and a bit painful. These are people I've counted on, shared with, cried for.
Can a season end for an entire group at one time? Where else do I turn?
I was at an event. Something with many people, some of whom I knew casually, and some of whom I did not know at all. But there were also some people I knew very well -- a handful -- and each of them had asked specifically if I would be there, saying they wanted to talk with me, either to catch up after an absence, or to cover specific information. I was happy to be there (if you know me well, you know that alone is a tad odd), and looking forward to socializing, catching up, and discussing with my friends -- those who had asked for my presence. Consistently and repeatedly, these people were avoiding conversation with me in various ways. Sometimes they would approach me, stand with me, even hug me in greeting, but as soon as I spoke, they would walk away. Sometimes there was a direct, "Not now," spoken in lieu of greeting. I found myself confused, bewildered, hurt.
I awoke profoundly affected, with a feeling of strong reality. I spent the day yesterday trying to convince myself that a dream is simply an unconscious way to let go of daytime woes, rather than a method of explaining problems that need to be addressed. Half the difficulty for me is the specific people involved. Most of the time when these people -- or any people -- appear in my dreams, I may see faces, but really they don't look into my eyes to speak to me. This time each one did just before they walked away from me, pointedly turning away from me to walk away.
There are some strong frustrations in my waking life at the moment. Working my way through them is not going as smoothly as I'd like, and in fact, I am actively avoiding speaking about some of them, because I don't know where to turn. Or maybe I don't want to. Maybe these people are the ones I need to address. Or perhaps they are the ones I'm trying to engage, but I shouldn't be. That last possibility is what has me most perplexed -- it keeps coming back to me, almost as if it's written on paper in front of me. (The blank paper from so long ago? I've been waiting for something to be written upon it...) Perplexing and a bit painful. These are people I've counted on, shared with, cried for.
Can a season end for an entire group at one time? Where else do I turn?
Saturday, June 13, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
a side note
Weirdly enough, after asking about my favorite thing in Israel, and then about the food, the next question is inevitably about my hair. How it figures into the story, I'm not quite sure, but I happily answer.
Yes, I am letting the natural color grow out. Yes, that white is my natural color. And really you want to know how long I've had grey hair? Well, the first streak was discovered on my first visit to a hairdresser (a friend of my Mom's) when I was in fourth grade. I could even show you about where it was, but I know no one is really that curious! Occasionally, there is a follow-up question of "why?" That answer is a little more complicated.
I started having my hair colored not long after becoming a mom. I always looked tired. Heck, I always was tired! A friend suggested that the few stray grey hairs may be exaggerating the overall effect of tired mom-ness. And, actually, she was right. I did feel better about myself when I could look in the mirror and see freshness. After a while, it just got to be fun to change my color with the seasons, with the cut, with fashion and for pure experimentation. I remember one day at the theater, sitting on the stage with the staff at lunchtime, and the statement made to me: "Admit it. When you change the color of your hair, you change -- your mood, your character, who you present to the world." It was true.
The hard fact is, though, it was easy to do because I really didn't know myself. Getting to know me was frightening, and letting anyone else know me even more so. As I've journeyed toward me, toward my place in my own life, I've come to appreciate me more. The me that's real and whole and genuine. I still liked getting my hair colored -- a little redder in the winter, a little blonder for the summer. But something began to change. Little by little people would mention my mood or my health at odd times, telling me I looked ill or angry when I felt distinctly the opposite. One day it occurred to me that for some, my roots showing indicated something unsaid. I would mention it from time to time "No, it's just my roots showing." I began to see who knew me and who didn't, because my friends could see the erroneous correlation; those who knew me less well insisted it couldn't possibly be true, because "I didn't know you even colored your hair!" (Seriously?? How could anyone miss it if they saw me more than a couple times a year?)
Slowly I realized that I was fighting with my roots more than was reasonable, and something that started out as a fun thing to make me feel more confident and healthy, more like myself, was doing just the opposite. I was heading toward being obsessive. Years earlier I had read an article by a woman who had decided to go natural. She said the process took quite a while. About a year, actually. I was intrigued, but knew my natural color was still not anywhere near even. It took me nearly two years to work up the courage to ask my husband and my hairdresser what they thought. I also sent an informal text poll to some friends. Overwhelmingly, the men I asked gave positive responses. Many of the women were leery of the idea. Some asked if the question was financially motivated. (At first, on the surface, yes; but on the most basic level, no.) Nevertheless, I decided I was going to go for it, but the question was, How?
So we made a plan, my hairdresser and I, and now people ask about my hair. Especially when we're talking about Israel. People are funny. And, in all honesty, I have never felt more free. A couple of people have mentioned that the color is flattering to my skin tone and my eyes. My response: "I figure since God put me together in the first place, the combination must be reasonably good." It's so much more than that. So much more.
Yes, I am letting the natural color grow out. Yes, that white is my natural color. And really you want to know how long I've had grey hair? Well, the first streak was discovered on my first visit to a hairdresser (a friend of my Mom's) when I was in fourth grade. I could even show you about where it was, but I know no one is really that curious! Occasionally, there is a follow-up question of "why?" That answer is a little more complicated.
I started having my hair colored not long after becoming a mom. I always looked tired. Heck, I always was tired! A friend suggested that the few stray grey hairs may be exaggerating the overall effect of tired mom-ness. And, actually, she was right. I did feel better about myself when I could look in the mirror and see freshness. After a while, it just got to be fun to change my color with the seasons, with the cut, with fashion and for pure experimentation. I remember one day at the theater, sitting on the stage with the staff at lunchtime, and the statement made to me: "Admit it. When you change the color of your hair, you change -- your mood, your character, who you present to the world." It was true.
The hard fact is, though, it was easy to do because I really didn't know myself. Getting to know me was frightening, and letting anyone else know me even more so. As I've journeyed toward me, toward my place in my own life, I've come to appreciate me more. The me that's real and whole and genuine. I still liked getting my hair colored -- a little redder in the winter, a little blonder for the summer. But something began to change. Little by little people would mention my mood or my health at odd times, telling me I looked ill or angry when I felt distinctly the opposite. One day it occurred to me that for some, my roots showing indicated something unsaid. I would mention it from time to time "No, it's just my roots showing." I began to see who knew me and who didn't, because my friends could see the erroneous correlation; those who knew me less well insisted it couldn't possibly be true, because "I didn't know you even colored your hair!" (Seriously?? How could anyone miss it if they saw me more than a couple times a year?)
Slowly I realized that I was fighting with my roots more than was reasonable, and something that started out as a fun thing to make me feel more confident and healthy, more like myself, was doing just the opposite. I was heading toward being obsessive. Years earlier I had read an article by a woman who had decided to go natural. She said the process took quite a while. About a year, actually. I was intrigued, but knew my natural color was still not anywhere near even. It took me nearly two years to work up the courage to ask my husband and my hairdresser what they thought. I also sent an informal text poll to some friends. Overwhelmingly, the men I asked gave positive responses. Many of the women were leery of the idea. Some asked if the question was financially motivated. (At first, on the surface, yes; but on the most basic level, no.) Nevertheless, I decided I was going to go for it, but the question was, How?
So we made a plan, my hairdresser and I, and now people ask about my hair. Especially when we're talking about Israel. People are funny. And, in all honesty, I have never felt more free. A couple of people have mentioned that the color is flattering to my skin tone and my eyes. My response: "I figure since God put me together in the first place, the combination must be reasonably good." It's so much more than that. So much more.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
not the same
Tonight's homily contained a thought that really stuck with me, as a good homily should. (Actually, there were a number of good points to ponder, but then there was this one....) It went something like this, "Not one of us is the same person we were last New Year's Eve."
How very true.
If asked to specify changes, I'd be hard pressed, but all I need is a quick look inward to see a difference. Although there are individuals who would question or disagree, I can say with certainty that I wouldn't go back. I have a long way to go, but I have traveled far on this journey.
At the moment, I'm in a rough spot, kind of between, and difficult to define, but I'm learning the vocabulary to speak and live it. Augustine said something along the lines of his search for God leading to a search for himself. That when he finally found his own heart, his true self, he found where God had been all along. I feel a certain affinity for Augustine. I've been looking at various areas of my life - past and present - and trying to find God in them. Some are easier than others, but what I'm slowly realizing is that I think the places I'm finding it hard are the times I was least myself; when I was working to please, impress, or blend in. The question may need to change from "where were You?" to "where was I?"
In the past year, I've begun to learn to stand firmly for myself. And to be consistent and firm in that, while also being calm and willing to receive what comes of it. I've made mistakes, but that's how we learn, we humans. I told my therapist yesterday that I have always hated 'practicing.' "As a dancer?" he laughed, "And yet you found a way." As we talked about that, he said that practice is an inefficient word for what we were really talking about. A better word?
Living.
And I realized he is right (as he often is) and that living is what I've had a hard time doing consistently. I do - have done - an awful lot of waiting. I'm moving forward. One step at a time, complete with stumbles, trips, scrapes and bruises. But I am not - am never - alone. God is with me, whether I recognize Him or not. I am not the person I was a year ago. And I am grateful to all who have helped me along.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
backleading....again
Today, while working on learning and getting comfortable with a tricky Foxtrot combination (though not beyond our skill level, we were repeatedly assured!), there were times when the steps, the motion, the fluidity just wasn't there. "I think that was me," I told my husband. "I'm not sure what I'm doing, but I think I'm off." Our instructor took my hand to lead me down the floor, and almost immediately told me (and everyone) that I was backleading; depending more on myself to get down the floor than on my partner. It's not a new problem or habit for me. In fact, it's rather familiar. Letting go a little made the combination flow better -- more fun and fluid for both of us.
I got back to the corner where we were starting our passes down the floor, and a classmate said, "It's all rather biblical." I agreed (it really, truly is) and took a quick stock of where I am, and why lately I've been feeling so 'independent' when we dance.
The truth is, how well I follow at dance class very closely corresponds to where I am in my heart and in my mind. And lately I've been working hard at mending, healing, becoming. And the road has not been smooth or easy. There's lots of skidding and jack-rabbit starts, lots of riding the brake, and wishing I could coast. I'm resisting, and although it seems to me that I'm the only one who could notice, it's glaringly obvious when I have a dance partner. This internal struggle, the fears related to it, and even the progress that I do see all combine to bind up some of the creativity that we are trying to unveil. Independence and resistance are more comfortable to me that I would like.
A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with an idea that is still radical to me: "You don't have to do this alone. You can, but it will take longer and will be harder. It's up to you." This was my therapist, encouraging me to seek out and trust further the people in my life that can help me to apply what I'm learning. Not only the skills, but the truth of who I am, in the eyes of others, and in the eyes of God. Almost immediately I shared the idea with a friend, and mulled it over. I don't have to do it alone. I can, but I don't have to. Realizing he was also talking about allowing God to work in my life didn't take long. Within hours of asking Him in, asking for continued guidance, support, help, little things began to happen that showed me who I could begin to lean on, to share with, the become with. Unexpected visits, encounters, messages each showed me the generous nature of God's love in my healing.
And yet I still resist some. A fearful, tearful meltdown on my kitchen floor. An emotional morning at work. A question of where I am on my journey. All related to resistance. "Just trust Him," I was told one night this week. I want to. I don't like to backlead. It takes the fun out of it, really, and removes a bit of the beauty and quite a bit of the magic. This week, when I did let go and trust, relaxing into the love of my Father, I was so truly blessed beyond my hopes and prayers. One would think that would be incentive enough to make leaning into that Love a habit, but fear and nerves prevail. Again. And I find myself dependent on me more than I intend.
The good thing is, I can feel that the dependence is ever so slightly less. I'm beginning, slowly, to see and feel a difference. In the meantime, I seem to wear my level of surrender in my dancing shoes, giving a barometer of my progress to my partner. Fortunately, he, too, is patient and kind.
I got back to the corner where we were starting our passes down the floor, and a classmate said, "It's all rather biblical." I agreed (it really, truly is) and took a quick stock of where I am, and why lately I've been feeling so 'independent' when we dance.
The truth is, how well I follow at dance class very closely corresponds to where I am in my heart and in my mind. And lately I've been working hard at mending, healing, becoming. And the road has not been smooth or easy. There's lots of skidding and jack-rabbit starts, lots of riding the brake, and wishing I could coast. I'm resisting, and although it seems to me that I'm the only one who could notice, it's glaringly obvious when I have a dance partner. This internal struggle, the fears related to it, and even the progress that I do see all combine to bind up some of the creativity that we are trying to unveil. Independence and resistance are more comfortable to me that I would like.
A couple of weeks ago, I was presented with an idea that is still radical to me: "You don't have to do this alone. You can, but it will take longer and will be harder. It's up to you." This was my therapist, encouraging me to seek out and trust further the people in my life that can help me to apply what I'm learning. Not only the skills, but the truth of who I am, in the eyes of others, and in the eyes of God. Almost immediately I shared the idea with a friend, and mulled it over. I don't have to do it alone. I can, but I don't have to. Realizing he was also talking about allowing God to work in my life didn't take long. Within hours of asking Him in, asking for continued guidance, support, help, little things began to happen that showed me who I could begin to lean on, to share with, the become with. Unexpected visits, encounters, messages each showed me the generous nature of God's love in my healing.
And yet I still resist some. A fearful, tearful meltdown on my kitchen floor. An emotional morning at work. A question of where I am on my journey. All related to resistance. "Just trust Him," I was told one night this week. I want to. I don't like to backlead. It takes the fun out of it, really, and removes a bit of the beauty and quite a bit of the magic. This week, when I did let go and trust, relaxing into the love of my Father, I was so truly blessed beyond my hopes and prayers. One would think that would be incentive enough to make leaning into that Love a habit, but fear and nerves prevail. Again. And I find myself dependent on me more than I intend.
The good thing is, I can feel that the dependence is ever so slightly less. I'm beginning, slowly, to see and feel a difference. In the meantime, I seem to wear my level of surrender in my dancing shoes, giving a barometer of my progress to my partner. Fortunately, he, too, is patient and kind.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
dig and scrape
I've been scrabbling lately. Not the kind with words and letter tiles and laughter with friends and family, either. The kind with tears and ragged fingernails and wishes for a solid reason to call in quite sick. For a year or so.
What's wrong, you ask? That's hard to say. A lifetime of wishing, hoping and dreaming in a head on collision with reality, I suppose. Add in a healthy amount of fear in letting it all go - or play out - and, well, you get something close to what's swirling around inside. There's also a fair amount of inner healing that's been going on (which means digging deep and learning to recognize the me that's really me behind the me I think I want everyone else to see, but not really know because it's all way too complicated). Top it off with my go to person being unavailable, or mostly so, and the mess is a little closer to what we're talking about.
So tonight a friend took matters into her own hands. Quite literally, as she dragged me (admittedly fairly willingly) over to see a visiting priest. In a five minute conversation, my perspective was changed. Energy cannot be created, only changed; redirected. "The same is true of spiritual energy," he said. How to change the negative (which can only recharge negative) to a more positive question? The question to pray is still "Why is this so?" But the 'this' is changed, transformed to an energy I want and need in my life - one that is more Christ-like. From frustration to patience. From anger to compassion.
Interestingly, the subtle change in direction has the effect of clarifying ever so slightly some other concepts I've been working on in therapy. And the key falls somewhere in my perceived feeling of judgement, of expectations and of preconceptions. For the first time, I can see the possibility of achieving the endgame. I still have fear and apprehension, but I also have great hope and faith.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
a daughter
A few weeks ago, I read a quote from Friedrich Nietzsche that I disagreed with:
"All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking."
The moment I read it, I wondered if the man had ever showered. That's where I do some of my best and clearest thinking. I was reminded of this mental transaction as I thought, and cried, in the shower today.
Lately I've been experiencing some deep inner conflict. In some ways it is very familiar, and in others, just plain strange. I don't know how best to deal with it, except by experiencing it--none of the methods I had used for much of my life have managed to eliminate these particular pangs, so I'm trying a different tactic: letting go. This means something different to me now. I grew up being told that 'letting go' means forgetting and never thinking about that thing, that feeling, that hurt ever again. The reason that has never worked for me is that it's incomplete.
My tearful thoughts this morning had to do with steps forward; with positive changes in my life. This deep inner conflict has coincided with the confirmation of a new job, a new direction, a dream coming true, to a certain extent. As a kid (and by that I mean at any point in my life before having to start helping my own kids with conflict, I think), I began to see good change as something to be wary of. With good change came discord, conflict, internal or physical pain unrelated to anything really happening to me. Sometimes it was small, and sometimes it was big, but in the end, what I learned was that good stuff comes at a price, and it was up to me to determine whether the unknown price was going to be worth it. It was like agreeing to sign a contract without first knowing the terms.
This morning I recognized what I had thought of as some kind of balance to be, in actuality, something trying to keep me from finding comfort. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis says, "In religion, as in war and everything else, comfort is the one thing you cannot get by looking for it. If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end: if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth--only soft soap and wishful thinking to being with and, in the end, despair." (HarperOne, p.41) Turns out, this explains more of my inner turmoil than the turmoil ever can itself. I was looking for comfort (goodness, happiness, joy) in what I was doing, rather than in the doing itself. As a result, I was putting my trust in the wrong place.
A few weeks ago, I also had a conversation with my son about plans. We had stopped at Habitat for Humanity's local ReStore, and on the way home, I told him when I was his age, I had wanted to work for Habitat, or MakeAWish, or the Peace Corps. Unfortunately, I didn't know who to talk to to find out about these options as career choices. I only knew them as places to volunteer temporarily, whether regularly or intermittently. Years later, taking my management courses, I told my brother and my husband that I really felt like non-profit work was a far better fit for me than anything else. And now, as I look forward to beginning a job at our church, I find myself facing the same inner demons I tried to fight off at those times.
Eerily the same.
When I realized it this morning, I also realized the difference now in my life. Until recently, I have worked hard at living my life for me. Growing up, I was told I could grow up to be whatever I wanted to be; I could do whatever I set out to do. That I had potential in any direction I chose. But then I found roadblocks to every dream I ever wanted to make come true. I was being selfish, making my destiny, my purpose, my own instead of part of something bigger. That's why I lost the fight. Every time. I was trying to do it all myself, the way I had been taught.
This time, I'm reacting to a question that came from outside of me. I said yes to a question, a request, a call, that I didn't hear as much as I felt. I was drawn to the place I'm going, without knowing the whys and hows of my reason for being there. I'm going to a job for which I was chosen, rather than one that I would have chosen myself. About the new chapter I am curious and excited and joyful. And yet I have this pain that keeps pushing out in weird directions, making me question even my sanity at times. The difference? I'm not going to fight this demon alone. I've identified the need for others to be there, in my heart. I've started the process (difficult, uncomfortable and unfamiliar though it is) of letting them in, of cracking open the shell I've created around my heart.
I was never meant to be whatever I wanted to be when I grew up. I was meant to be what God wanted me to be. And that's what I'm working on.
"All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking."
The moment I read it, I wondered if the man had ever showered. That's where I do some of my best and clearest thinking. I was reminded of this mental transaction as I thought, and cried, in the shower today.
Lately I've been experiencing some deep inner conflict. In some ways it is very familiar, and in others, just plain strange. I don't know how best to deal with it, except by experiencing it--none of the methods I had used for much of my life have managed to eliminate these particular pangs, so I'm trying a different tactic: letting go. This means something different to me now. I grew up being told that 'letting go' means forgetting and never thinking about that thing, that feeling, that hurt ever again. The reason that has never worked for me is that it's incomplete.
My tearful thoughts this morning had to do with steps forward; with positive changes in my life. This deep inner conflict has coincided with the confirmation of a new job, a new direction, a dream coming true, to a certain extent. As a kid (and by that I mean at any point in my life before having to start helping my own kids with conflict, I think), I began to see good change as something to be wary of. With good change came discord, conflict, internal or physical pain unrelated to anything really happening to me. Sometimes it was small, and sometimes it was big, but in the end, what I learned was that good stuff comes at a price, and it was up to me to determine whether the unknown price was going to be worth it. It was like agreeing to sign a contract without first knowing the terms.
This morning I recognized what I had thought of as some kind of balance to be, in actuality, something trying to keep me from finding comfort. In Mere Christianity, C.S. Lewis says, "In religion, as in war and everything else, comfort is the one thing you cannot get by looking for it. If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end: if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth--only soft soap and wishful thinking to being with and, in the end, despair." (HarperOne, p.41) Turns out, this explains more of my inner turmoil than the turmoil ever can itself. I was looking for comfort (goodness, happiness, joy) in what I was doing, rather than in the doing itself. As a result, I was putting my trust in the wrong place.
A few weeks ago, I also had a conversation with my son about plans. We had stopped at Habitat for Humanity's local ReStore, and on the way home, I told him when I was his age, I had wanted to work for Habitat, or MakeAWish, or the Peace Corps. Unfortunately, I didn't know who to talk to to find out about these options as career choices. I only knew them as places to volunteer temporarily, whether regularly or intermittently. Years later, taking my management courses, I told my brother and my husband that I really felt like non-profit work was a far better fit for me than anything else. And now, as I look forward to beginning a job at our church, I find myself facing the same inner demons I tried to fight off at those times.
Eerily the same.
When I realized it this morning, I also realized the difference now in my life. Until recently, I have worked hard at living my life for me. Growing up, I was told I could grow up to be whatever I wanted to be; I could do whatever I set out to do. That I had potential in any direction I chose. But then I found roadblocks to every dream I ever wanted to make come true. I was being selfish, making my destiny, my purpose, my own instead of part of something bigger. That's why I lost the fight. Every time. I was trying to do it all myself, the way I had been taught.
This time, I'm reacting to a question that came from outside of me. I said yes to a question, a request, a call, that I didn't hear as much as I felt. I was drawn to the place I'm going, without knowing the whys and hows of my reason for being there. I'm going to a job for which I was chosen, rather than one that I would have chosen myself. About the new chapter I am curious and excited and joyful. And yet I have this pain that keeps pushing out in weird directions, making me question even my sanity at times. The difference? I'm not going to fight this demon alone. I've identified the need for others to be there, in my heart. I've started the process (difficult, uncomfortable and unfamiliar though it is) of letting them in, of cracking open the shell I've created around my heart.
I was never meant to be whatever I wanted to be when I grew up. I was meant to be what God wanted me to be. And that's what I'm working on.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
scare the world
Goofing off, avoiding what I really want to do (and need to be doing) now that I feel better after a few days of being sick, I came across this. It struck me, because of how much I still sometimes fear being me. Not because I don't know who I am (which used to be the reason), but because of the reaction that typically follows.
Unfortunately, I think the "scare people" part is spot on. I scare people. I've never intended to. To be honest, I don't think they are actually afraid; I think they think they are because they don't know how else to define it. I make people uncomfortable. I'm an introvert who doesn't like to pretend. I can; I just don't like it, and I'm not very good at it. I don't like to talk about nothing, and I don't like to talk about people, and I don't like to talk about personal things (my own or others') with people I hardly know.
Bottom line: I'm a mom. I always have been, and I always will be. I have a job, but it's just a job to me, it's not a career. I suppose there's a possibility that there is plenty of time for a career for me, but in all honesty, being available for my kids -- and now my mom -- is far more important to me. When all of them got old enough to be alone for extended amounts of time, I was told that I would feel more gratified, more satisfied, happier, even, if I started working full time. Actually, the opposite is true. I feel far less appreciated, needed, capable now than I ever did as a stay at home mom. Both at home and in an office. Don't get me wrong; I like my job as much as anyone else. I just feel less connected to my family, and less able to finish anything that I start.
One day, I will be replaced at my job. It's inevitable, whether it's two months, two years, or two decades in the future. I will be replaced, and that is a good thing. Nothing can ever replace my family. More often than not, that's where I am in my thoughts when you see me; I'm with my family. Always. Or I'm praying -- that they know that I am not trying to find fulfillment somewhere else.
Unfortunately, I think the "scare people" part is spot on. I scare people. I've never intended to. To be honest, I don't think they are actually afraid; I think they think they are because they don't know how else to define it. I make people uncomfortable. I'm an introvert who doesn't like to pretend. I can; I just don't like it, and I'm not very good at it. I don't like to talk about nothing, and I don't like to talk about people, and I don't like to talk about personal things (my own or others') with people I hardly know.
Bottom line: I'm a mom. I always have been, and I always will be. I have a job, but it's just a job to me, it's not a career. I suppose there's a possibility that there is plenty of time for a career for me, but in all honesty, being available for my kids -- and now my mom -- is far more important to me. When all of them got old enough to be alone for extended amounts of time, I was told that I would feel more gratified, more satisfied, happier, even, if I started working full time. Actually, the opposite is true. I feel far less appreciated, needed, capable now than I ever did as a stay at home mom. Both at home and in an office. Don't get me wrong; I like my job as much as anyone else. I just feel less connected to my family, and less able to finish anything that I start.
One day, I will be replaced at my job. It's inevitable, whether it's two months, two years, or two decades in the future. I will be replaced, and that is a good thing. Nothing can ever replace my family. More often than not, that's where I am in my thoughts when you see me; I'm with my family. Always. Or I'm praying -- that they know that I am not trying to find fulfillment somewhere else.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
not just a question
What's changed?
On the surface, if just reading the words, the question is simple. Further contemplation brought me to the simple answer, "Everything, it seems." I started making a list.
1. I haven't done any yoga in what seems like forever. (probably about a month)
2. I've been cranky at work, for a number of reasons (none of which really are my problem, incidentally)
3. Working at soccer games means that I have missed Adoration for a while.
4. I reprimanded myself for asking questions--for being who I am, for reasons I cannot even identify fully. (this was the most disturbing one, in all honesty)
5. I realized I was actively avoiding writing anything down. No blogging, no quotes, no notes. Nothing. (when I hit this one, I stopped. Something clearly was wrong.)
Looking at the list, my first realization was that I had been blaming outside stimuli for all of these things--too busy to exercise, others' issues, scheduling I had little control over, a book I wasn't prepared to read, a sluggish laptop--instead of looking at what in me was leaving me stranded.
So I turned inward.
And I realized I had allowed, for some reason, a kernel of doubt to settle in. Like a popcorn skin stuck between molars, that little kernel of doubt irritated and discomfited, until even the good stuff was not getting past to my heart. The doubt was not in any Big Ideas; it was my old arch nemesis, self-doubt.
I realized that I had been worrying more about stuff I didn't know, and that didn't matter in any Grand Scheme, or even (in all honesty) to me. In lieu of self-examination, I was frantically looking for answers I didn't even need. My fixes were treatment of symptoms, rather than looking for a cure. And my fixes were many. Mostly they involved more and more, until I was working myself into a frantic mess.
Then a question. And I'm finding Trust again. And Hope. And Love.
On the surface, if just reading the words, the question is simple. Further contemplation brought me to the simple answer, "Everything, it seems." I started making a list.
1. I haven't done any yoga in what seems like forever. (probably about a month)
2. I've been cranky at work, for a number of reasons (none of which really are my problem, incidentally)
3. Working at soccer games means that I have missed Adoration for a while.
4. I reprimanded myself for asking questions--for being who I am, for reasons I cannot even identify fully. (this was the most disturbing one, in all honesty)
5. I realized I was actively avoiding writing anything down. No blogging, no quotes, no notes. Nothing. (when I hit this one, I stopped. Something clearly was wrong.)
Looking at the list, my first realization was that I had been blaming outside stimuli for all of these things--too busy to exercise, others' issues, scheduling I had little control over, a book I wasn't prepared to read, a sluggish laptop--instead of looking at what in me was leaving me stranded.
So I turned inward.
And I realized I had allowed, for some reason, a kernel of doubt to settle in. Like a popcorn skin stuck between molars, that little kernel of doubt irritated and discomfited, until even the good stuff was not getting past to my heart. The doubt was not in any Big Ideas; it was my old arch nemesis, self-doubt.
I realized that I had been worrying more about stuff I didn't know, and that didn't matter in any Grand Scheme, or even (in all honesty) to me. In lieu of self-examination, I was frantically looking for answers I didn't even need. My fixes were treatment of symptoms, rather than looking for a cure. And my fixes were many. Mostly they involved more and more, until I was working myself into a frantic mess.
Then a question. And I'm finding Trust again. And Hope. And Love.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
closed doors, open hearts
 |
| The door and Dad's ladder |
I painted it yesterday.
Some days I miss him more than others, and often the timing is inexplicable. This weekend I miss him, and it is completely and totally explicable. I've been having discussions of faith that have caused me to really dig deep into what I know, what I've learned, and what I know I am able to share. There was a time when I would have followed up the discussions with a "debriefing" with Dad. Of course, that time was long, long before the door thing, but the discussions still serve as a reminder that I won't hear his voice at the end of the day. Painting the rafters on the porch--the aim of this weekend's project--also involved using Dad's ladder, which bordered on rickety when he left it here for us, and has certainly not gotten any better! (As far as I can tell, it's no worse than it was, but we should probably get a new one one of these days.) Pulling the ladder out to work on a project always gets me thinking of him, and about the fact that usually I disregard his #1 rule about using a ladder: ALWAYS have one of your kids hold the other side. I never knew if it was for safety or for company, but I loved when I was the kid holding the wrong side of this ladder.
The door is broken. We can't use it to get in the house, although we could use it to escape in an emergency. Dad hoped to fix that, too.
As anyone who has suffered a profound loss knows, there is no recovery. The pain ebbs and flows, and you (hopefully) learn to surround yourself with people who can allow you to ride the tide. Painting the door frame was a big thing. But only to me, I'd wager. I still need to scrape the paint off the transom, which won't take long, but will probably remind me that yesterday I took a 1" sash brush loaded with paint and covered up his penciled note "facing out." The real reason I hadn't painted the trim before. Yesterday, with the first coat of paint, that hurt far less than the second coat today, but I started in that corner today, whereas I had finished there yesterday. The reminder at the beginning today gave me time to remember, to think, to ponder, to pray.
I remembered going with him to help build the playground at church; a parallel to the project Guy was helping with today at church, where I later joined him.
I thought about the limbs we were going to remove at Mom's even later today, and how that was a project Dad would have done. Then I came to the really difficult realization that he would not have done it. I remember him as he was, which is a blessing. Today was the first time I really thought about the fact that he, too, would have aged. Even if he was here today, we still would need to get those limbs, in all likelihood. That's a hard pill to swallow. And that's when I really felt broken. I figure he was holding the other side of the ladder, and that he's the one who knocked the brush bucket off a couple of times, trying to get my attention. It worked. I got the message.
The door is still broken, and probably will be for a while. Dad was our handyman, and our teacher for tinkering. One of these days, we'll have someone fix it up, but in the meantime, it's just a wall anyway, so it's no big deal. The trim on the outside looks good, even if it doesn't fit right. Next, I'll paint the threshold (which could get tricky, and could take another year!), but that has no special significance to me.
My heart is broken, too. But the thing I've found is that if I let it, the broken part becomes an open part. When I feel that hurt, when I miss him, I've learned--at least on days like today--to allow the goodness of his example to flow into that space and fill it with the joy of his being. This morning we left church with Ode to Joy in our ears. Dad loved that one, and would dance his way out of church after it. Ode to Joy was the recessional at our wedding, and Dad danced his way to the receiving line. That joy, that silly dance that he couldn't NOT do--that's what filled the open part today.
Friday, June 7, 2013
a long way
I read something this evening that made me think hard about the good things in my life. About the pearls of wisdom, the blessings (big and small), the struggles that I have learned to embrace because in the grand scheme of things, they are nothing to anyone but me (and that's a whole level of selfish I don't even want to get into specifically right now!), and most of all, my faith. Lately, I've been thinking, pondering, attempting to discern what lies in my future. Today someone asked me a question that caught me off guard, but I was able to answer honestly--and the answer, with no guilt, was that I didn't know the answer. (Now that I think about it, that was directly related to the portion of Merton that I read at lunch!)
Anyway, what I read tonight was about comfort zones, and it's not the first time this person has brought them up! Over the past week or so, I've felt a little uncomfortable about faith, but for a reason I've never encountered before: I've been a tad uneasy because I've been comfortable. Sounds a little roundabout, but here's what it comes down to....the more I wonder where I'm going, while moving forward step by step, the more I keep coming around to who I am; who I've always known I was called to be. Yet it's evolving......and I'm honestly avoiding what I want to say right now.
Here's the thing: so many of the friends I've made at our church over the years have said, as I have, that our parish feels like home. It feels friendly, warm, inviting. In the time we've been there, we've had two pastors, which could be part of that feeling, but it comes from within the entire community. There is just something there, something special. This morning the Pope tweeted about need and wastefulness. A little later, my minute meditation was about sacrifice. Then a note about a nearby parish that is hoping to engage local youth in wholesome, safe activities to get them off the street. The page I read in Merton was about knowing oneself so as to ignore one's own desires to follow the will of God. Then the note I read tonight about an upcoming challenge.
Back to who I am. I'm a Mom. Even before we had children, I was attracted to the Mom role. So as I'm moving forward, as our kids are growing up and developing into fine young men, I've been wondering what happens next. I will always be their mother, but they won't always need mothering in the same way. I find I miss, truly, the huggy, clingy times; the frantic, too much to do in one day times. Not enough to depress me, but enough to be able to identify some of what is missing, diminishing in my life--the nurturing, the one on one, the deep gratitude for a few minutes alone. We have wonderful discussions, our laughter is on another level. Somehow, I'm feeling a need to share that some more.
I'm getting the idea that all of this will tie together somehow. But it may not. It could just be that a number of pieces kind of look like they belong in this part of the puzzle, but in reality, they don't fit together at all. That's okay. Just looking at them, admiring them, and trying them out in different combinations is fulfilling in and of itself. I've come a long way.
Anyway, what I read tonight was about comfort zones, and it's not the first time this person has brought them up! Over the past week or so, I've felt a little uncomfortable about faith, but for a reason I've never encountered before: I've been a tad uneasy because I've been comfortable. Sounds a little roundabout, but here's what it comes down to....the more I wonder where I'm going, while moving forward step by step, the more I keep coming around to who I am; who I've always known I was called to be. Yet it's evolving......and I'm honestly avoiding what I want to say right now.
Here's the thing: so many of the friends I've made at our church over the years have said, as I have, that our parish feels like home. It feels friendly, warm, inviting. In the time we've been there, we've had two pastors, which could be part of that feeling, but it comes from within the entire community. There is just something there, something special. This morning the Pope tweeted about need and wastefulness. A little later, my minute meditation was about sacrifice. Then a note about a nearby parish that is hoping to engage local youth in wholesome, safe activities to get them off the street. The page I read in Merton was about knowing oneself so as to ignore one's own desires to follow the will of God. Then the note I read tonight about an upcoming challenge.
Back to who I am. I'm a Mom. Even before we had children, I was attracted to the Mom role. So as I'm moving forward, as our kids are growing up and developing into fine young men, I've been wondering what happens next. I will always be their mother, but they won't always need mothering in the same way. I find I miss, truly, the huggy, clingy times; the frantic, too much to do in one day times. Not enough to depress me, but enough to be able to identify some of what is missing, diminishing in my life--the nurturing, the one on one, the deep gratitude for a few minutes alone. We have wonderful discussions, our laughter is on another level. Somehow, I'm feeling a need to share that some more.
I'm getting the idea that all of this will tie together somehow. But it may not. It could just be that a number of pieces kind of look like they belong in this part of the puzzle, but in reality, they don't fit together at all. That's okay. Just looking at them, admiring them, and trying them out in different combinations is fulfilling in and of itself. I've come a long way.
Monday, May 20, 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
no crystal ball
Yesterday, I sat in a room full of professionals wondering just what they all know, and how they got to where they are. I listened to a former co-worker talk about his new position, and still daydreaming about an interview in a faraway place.
It got me thinking about my own future, yet again. For so many years, I have thought about my life in parts and pieces--work, home, faith were all separate parts of my life, so naturally should be developed individually, right? I've been coming to realize that I would really prefer that all the facets of my person need to be cultivated in a common direction as one glorious gem, sparkling in the light. While this has been coming together in my mind, my heart is lagging a wee bit behind...a resistance to a mindset that I have a difficult time admitting to. Sitting in that room, I felt a little of that barrier crumbling (it felt good!), and let my mind wander into wishes and daydreams.
The result was a series of related thoughts about travel, learning, knowledge, trust and risk. I've been yearning for a train trip for the past year or so, and had been intrigued by the work of passenger service. I remembered that I want to look into flight lessons for our son, who recently asked how much they are, and I wondered when that motorcycle safety class is going to be offered next. But mostly I realized that I am ready to tackle something new. The following text exchange between me and my husband:
So, here's what I'm thinking: I wanna find a challenge.
What's that mean?
Not sure, exactly. Pondering.
Twenty minutes later, I got an email from a job posting site that I've subscribed to since 2010 or so:
"Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something - your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life."
~Steve Jobs
I saw this as confirmation. I've been thinking so much lately, and working on coming to grips with what I really do feel is where I should be going. The words I hear in my mind surprise and thrill me, but are such a deviation from what I thought I wanted that I have a hard time qualifying them.
My status update last night:
Had a good day, and somewhere along the way, realized I'm ready for the challenge. I'm just not quite clear what that means yet.... :)
Encouragement and suggestions followed, and I know I always have support. What I know for sure is that I need to open myself a little bit more. In the meantime, I've scheduled my exam for work, which could lead to any manner of changes and challenges, and I will continue to pray and ponder. I'm anxious and antsy, and for the first time in a very long time, that results in excitement about the anticipation. Active involvement in this carving, cutting and shaping is making me feel so alive!
It got me thinking about my own future, yet again. For so many years, I have thought about my life in parts and pieces--work, home, faith were all separate parts of my life, so naturally should be developed individually, right? I've been coming to realize that I would really prefer that all the facets of my person need to be cultivated in a common direction as one glorious gem, sparkling in the light. While this has been coming together in my mind, my heart is lagging a wee bit behind...a resistance to a mindset that I have a difficult time admitting to. Sitting in that room, I felt a little of that barrier crumbling (it felt good!), and let my mind wander into wishes and daydreams.
The result was a series of related thoughts about travel, learning, knowledge, trust and risk. I've been yearning for a train trip for the past year or so, and had been intrigued by the work of passenger service. I remembered that I want to look into flight lessons for our son, who recently asked how much they are, and I wondered when that motorcycle safety class is going to be offered next. But mostly I realized that I am ready to tackle something new. The following text exchange between me and my husband:
So, here's what I'm thinking: I wanna find a challenge.
What's that mean?
Not sure, exactly. Pondering.
Twenty minutes later, I got an email from a job posting site that I've subscribed to since 2010 or so:
"Again, you can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something - your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life."
~Steve Jobs
I saw this as confirmation. I've been thinking so much lately, and working on coming to grips with what I really do feel is where I should be going. The words I hear in my mind surprise and thrill me, but are such a deviation from what I thought I wanted that I have a hard time qualifying them.
My status update last night:
Had a good day, and somewhere along the way, realized I'm ready for the challenge. I'm just not quite clear what that means yet.... :)
Encouragement and suggestions followed, and I know I always have support. What I know for sure is that I need to open myself a little bit more. In the meantime, I've scheduled my exam for work, which could lead to any manner of changes and challenges, and I will continue to pray and ponder. I'm anxious and antsy, and for the first time in a very long time, that results in excitement about the anticipation. Active involvement in this carving, cutting and shaping is making me feel so alive!
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