on my way

Last week in small group, we started talking about those things we always wanted to do, to learn, to try, and whether 'now' is a time to consider them again. Our small group leader talked about getting his motorcycle license a few years ago, after many, many years of thinking about it. Since I've always wanted one, too, we talked a little about the process here. Someone else in the group pointed out that I'd been painting - choosing colors, prepping, enjoying the entire process. And it gave me the courage to think about old dreams; dreams I'd thought were lost, or at the very least, relegated to the darkest corners of my memory, only to be brought out in that 'someday' time when my grandchildren are thinking about what to do with their lives, and I am there to offer the advice that would make my own children crazy.

Growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom; that's no secret. No one, and I mean no one, considered it a career option I should dedicate myself to. After a while, I tried keeping it to myself so I could explore options, at least on paper, and I found myself truly interested in a variety of fields. I wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to study international law. I wanted to continue with my French and Spanish studies, and work at the UN as a translator. I wanted a job that had me traveling the world, but also gave me the opportunity to be available, always, to my children. I wanted an office with my name on the door and an assistant who would show people in, because I wanted to be able to say, "No, I don't know that person. Send him away." I wanted to be a photographer. I wanted to live out of a suitcase because the world was my home. I wanted to make things, paint things, envision things and see them come to life. I wanted to work for an organization like Make-A-Wish, Habitat for Humanity, Ronald McDonald House. I remember once, to my mother's horror, saying that my dream job would have me wearing a cap and carrying a clipboard. [at the time I was watching one of the first FedEx commercials] I wanted to be a helicopter pilot. I wanted to ride horses, to live near the water. I wanted to study psychology, and be a social worker.

Sitting in that small group, all of my dreams washed over me, gently, soothingly, and I admitted what was most on my heart. I was discouraged from all of my biggest dreams; not always directly, and not always logically, but I was a kid. And a kid bent on pleasing somebody - anybody. Unfortunately, no one had ever encouraged me to be me, to understand that I have worth, that my dreams matter. No one told me that I matter. I don't even know if anyone 'in authority' knew that I was terrified of auditioning - so much so that when I came to the realization about a year ago that an audition is very similar to a job interview, I nearly fainted. Instead, I was reminded that I "hated school" (a half-truth; I hated not being myself, and being a teenager, it was safe to blame school); UN appointments were relatively short-term; work travel and family don't mix; I wasn't taking a science; non-profits don't have paid employees; "none of these options are appropriate for an intelligent and attractive young woman like you." None of my dreams were appropriate for me.

Being a mom has been the most rewarding and challenging career choice. It's not been without its sacrifices, and I would not change any of the choices I've made. Are there things I wish had turned out differently? Some. However, the truth is, They are fine young men, amazing to watch in everything they do, and I'm honored to know them. They've taught me more than they will ever realize, and because of them, I will be able to finally, somehow, follow some of my dreams. Because of them, when I look at all the dreams I had (when I was right where they are now), I realize that my real ideal - what I shared with my small group - is somewhere in the family of project management for an organization like Habitat. I was afraid to share the realization with them, but suddenly the air was alive with ideas, suggestions, affirmations. I was surprised, and taken aback. I don't recall ever having been in so supportive a spot. These new people in my life, with whom I share rather tenuous connection, told me where where they saw the connections in my life to this newborn dream. And they made me feel loved. In the space of minutes, they had me working internationally, on a schedule that fit my entire family, as well as all the fun things I like to do: dance, sew, write, paint. In those moments, they gave me a clipboard, a cap, a passport full of stamps, and a couple of new languages. A sense of being, and gave my wildest dreams life. More than even encouraging me, they supported me. My heart and I are on our way.

sheep stuff

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

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

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

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

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

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

dig it up

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

dig in

So, here's the thing -- I've been needing depth. Depth in conversation, depth in faith, depth in learning. I feel stuck. Questions come to mind about all kinds of things, and I want to dig in. Trouble is, I don't know where to go, I can't afford to go back to school at the moment, and I can't do it alone. I need some fellow diggers. People with questions of their own. People who want to talk about their questions; not just to find the answers, but the explore the possibilities. To laugh at the ridiculous, while also realizing there's no such thing if the heart is pure. This need for depth, this need for exploration and inquisition, has me off-kilter. When I'm off-kilter, I fixate on things, and lately that fixation is the questions.

Who's in?

reaching out

We all need reminders from time to time. Lists for the grocery store, courtesy calls from the doctor's office, alarms set on our phones or email. Sometimes they come in comments made by our children about our own expectations, making us remember what it was like to be their age, needing attention, love, correction, love, guidance, or love. Other times the reminders come in scents or sounds, the feeling of the wind or the sun on your shoulders, or a song. Some reminders are expected, and some come as a surprise. And some come as answers to prayers unsaid.

I've had a particularly stressful time lately. Activities that have brought me peace, have brought frustration. Relationships that should be comforting have been painful. There has been a battle raging in my heart and in my mind, and around me, over my head, invisible to me, but quite nearby.

Last night, I didn't want anything to do with any of it. I didn't want to pray or talk or be anywhere. I wanted to cry, to scream, to play loud music and drive, drive, drive. But I was already tired from a week of late nights, a slight frustration on my own part escalated unnecessarily to anger, hurt and general angst deep in my heart. I sat outside, alone, in the dark, and realized I wanted nothing more than to turn into myself; to tighten my protective shields and hide from the world, my painful memories, and everything I know. So I reached.

Almost immediately, I felt more peace. It was only a text I sent, but in sending it, I admitted to myself that I do need others. I need community--especially when I'm hurting. I told God I did not want to talk to Him; that I did not want to listen. That I just wanted to be. Shortly thereafter, a dear friend showed up in my driveway. We talked and cried some; we hugged a lot. Another dear friend prayed from half a country away. Once again, I was humbled by the comfort of being among others.

This morning, I found flowers in my driveway: a comfort and a reminder. Later, something wonderful happened. God winked at me. A friend I haven't seen in a while, who I had been trying to connect with over the winter, with so many obstacles getting in the way, pulled me aside in a crowded room. Our little talk was made up of very few words, but enough for God to remind me that He is always with me. That each of the people in my life is there for a reason. A reminder that I am--always--His daughter. Even when I want to be alone inside myself.

Thank you all for being in my life, in small ways and in big ways. I am blessed to have this particular community as my help, my net, my family of the heart.

Book Talk

Happy are you poor, by Thomas Dubay

Book Club discussion on May 13

What struck me most was the consistent theme that a person in love can think of nothing else; the world fades away and nothing matters. There is great truth in that sentiment! Each day I find myself falling more and more deeply in love with God, with Jesus, with my faith, our faith. And in that love, I find I can more easily accept even that which I do not understand.

 

The next thing that made me think hard about where I am is giving from my need, rather than just from my excess. The author was right in pointing out that giving is easy when it's what I can afford, or am willing to part with. Since coming across this point, I've been more inclined to simply give. And I've been prepared to hand things over, just for the asking. I've also offered food and shelter to strangers. Knowing that it's outside my comfort a bit (personally and monetarily) has been far outweighed by the knowledge that it's the right thing to do. God will provide, in whatever way He sees the need.

 

That brings me to another point I've been pondering. What I perceive to be my needs are not necessarily what I truly need. My faith has deepened with the idea that there is so very little that I need, as opposed to what I have to give. I've taken a huge leap of faith (2 actually) and the fruits are already ripening. Opening my heart to trust in the gifts I've been given, and to use and act upon them came as much from learning about being poor in spirit as from any other book we've read.

 

I also saw many parallels with St. Therese, Thomas Merton, Bonhoeffer, St. Paul, and even Andrew Comiskey's works. Each opening of the heart leading to another. Living faith out loud, rather than quietly and alone. Giving from an emotional and spiritual standpoint, as much as from a monetary (physical) one. I feel more prepared to live as an example to our children, too, although I know there are still some things I am not yet ready to give up or let go of. I'm willing to admit and "own" them, though, and that is progress toward eventually giving all.

 

In the giving, I've also started to ask. There are things that money cannot buy, but that we shouldn't do without--a shoulder to lean on, a heart to connect with, advice. These are things I've always had a hard time asking for in my moments of need, though I give them freely. I love that the concepts in this book, and our last, have given me permission to need those things, and also to say so.

 

wondering why

On Thursday, my husband wore a pink polo to work. Pink looks good on him--he has the right skin tone for it--and this particular polo is cut well, and flatters him. (I am not a fan of polo shirts in general , but that is another topic for another time, perhaps. This one looks good on him, and that's what matters to this story.) Whenever he wears this shirt, his eyes and smile have an extra light.

Why mention it? Because at the end of the day, he mentioned that when he wears that shirt, he gets many comments. All of them questioning his motivation. "Why are you wearing pink today?" "Feeling exceptionally secure in your masculinity today?" "Did your wife buy that for you?" And the ever popular, "Why would you want to wear that?" For the sake of clarification, and because now you may also be wondering, I rarely buy clothing for my husband. Heck, I rarely buy clothing for myself! I do not like shopping for clothes, and both of us are particularly hard to fit. I was, however, with him when he bought this particular shirt, and I believe all I had to say about the purchase was a reminder about my aforementioned dislike of polos in general. Also, if you take a look at my husband, and have a conversation with him, you will discover that not much affects his masculinity. (His name, Guy, fits him like no one else I've ever met!)

Why did he wear the pink shirt? He likes it, plain and simple. It's also comfortable, well made, and fits and suits him. It does happen to have a breast cancer ribbon embroidered on it, but that isn't even why he bought it. It was on the sale rack, and fit the criteria in the last sentence. (That was one of the comments he heard, "Well, it is for breast cancer, so I guess it's okay.") My question is, why do people feel the compulsion to comment on it in so personal a way? He's a New England sports fan in Central PA--Steelers country--and will get questions and good-natured jabs when he wears shirts and caps representing "his" teams, but none are personal, questioning his very being. Those questions are general and global, with the most personal being along the lines of "How come you like New England/Boston?" (His accent is now mostly imperceptible to most of his friends and co-workers.)

Telling me about his day, he said that it seemed that everyone had an opinion on his shirt, and the opinions were quite polarized. Everyone either loved it or hated it; no comments in between. I found myself wondering--are there any colors that a woman might wear that would cause that kind of response? Is there any other color that would elicit that kind of strong response? And why would the fact that "I would never wear that color" make it okay to judge someone else wearing it?

I have, for myself, a rule about wearing colors that are close to my skin tone. I avoid it when going out in public. No nude to tan shirts for me, or certain shades of yellow, cream, grey, and even pink, but I would never consider saying "Why on earth are you wearing that shirt that blend in with your skin and makes you look like you're not wearing anything? You must be feeling very secure in your skin tone." Nor would I say, "Why are you wearing a polo? You look like everyone else." Mostly because I recognize these aversions as my own personal quirks, not anything I feel compelled, or even able to express vocally. That said, I have offered fashion advice to our sons to avoid colors that blend into their skin, particularly on bathing suits. And I have been known to mention to my family, out of earshot of the wearer, and when the wearer is someone I do not know, that I could not wear that [shirt or dress] that blends into my skin. I don't mention anything at all about polos. They all seem to like them.

Why is pink -- or rose, salmon, shrimp, coral, or any other variation -- on a man so controversial that people, both male and female, find it necessary to point it out? "You're wearing a pink shirt." I just don't get it.

ups and downs

I find myself less solitary lately. Instead of feeling anxious about going to new places, I’m willing. Not necessarily excited, but willing. The interesting thing about this is that I feel more myself; an odd development, as for so long being around people meant trying to be someone other than myself. There were precious few people who could ever see the real me. This had as much to do with them as with me—I was traveling in circles that were not my own; where I did not feel welcome for reasons beyond the people and personalities. In all honesty, “myself” was someone with whom I was not well acquainted. At least in certain situations. And, of course, there were also those times when I had let my true self shine through, and had been burned in the effort. I recoiled, and allowed myself to curl in, tighter and tighter.

I’ve found that the more myself I am, the more myself I can be. True hearts will accept and appreciate my many facets and faces, my faults and frailties, my strengths and dreams. True hearts connect on a heartfelt level—not on the superficial level I had been avoiding for so long. Spirit is the connection, rather than simply enthusiasm. The people I share my life with—my heart, my mind, my laughter and tears—are concerned more with others than with themselves. I fit better with that mindset. It’s far more uplifting than worrisome. The amount of energy is similar, but far more energizing and rejuvenating. Whereas in groups I had felt isolated and alone, I now feel together with, even when I am by myself.

Still, in the past week or so, I realize I have been turning inward a bit. I’m not quite feeling lost, but I am starting to think the directions may have changed. Construction is underway, it seems, and I’m in the middle of it. There is noise, and a mess all around me. The temptation to blame my stress on the interior noise has been great. Then I read this line tonight, “At moments of great stress, we reach for what comforts and sustains us.” (Sweeney, The Pope who Quit, p.202) It made me curious about chicken and egg thoughts, cause and effect relationships, comfort and discord. In the instance Sweeney was referring to, Peter Morrone was returning to a life of prayer as a hermit. My personal stressors are nothing like those he experienced as Pope, but then again, my stressors are my own, and cannot fairly be measured against his, or anyone else’s. Nonetheless, giving up everything I have and do to head for the hills is not an option for me. I may be feeling the need for some hermit time, but really, what I'm looking for is the root of my angst. It's there, hiding. Knowing that, realizing it, is what makes it possible to fight that demon.

Oddly, the best way is often to spend some time with a friend or two.

tintinnabulation

The church bells are missing. Every evening for the past 18 years that we have lived here, I've heard them, with varying degrees of awareness. Often as background to cleaning up from dinner, sometimes as accompaniment with dinner or the visits that go along with mealtime. Frequently the songs are ones I know, and I sing along in my heart. Occasionally, an unknown song plays, and I wonder what it's about. The week of July 4th, patriotic songs were in the mix, making me think of Dad and his funeral (the not-so-painful parts).

There was a time, quite a while ago, when I wondered if being agnostic would be better than the limbo I felt I was in. The church bells were part of the reason I stuck with my faith, lukewarm as it was. They were too beautifully reminding me of songs and messages I had always loved. [I realize now that I was likely suffering from mild depression, rather than a lack of faith, per se. But I imagine the feeling is similar.]

Lately, the bells have served their traditionally intended purpose: a call to prayer. At 6:00 each evening, I have been beautifully and gently reminded that if I haven't yet said my prayers, I should make the time before the evening gets away from me. I often sit on our balcony and pray the rosary or another devotion, or do some spiritual reading, with the sound of bells in the air.

Monday night, I had somewhere to be from 6-7, and as I got in the car, I realized the new weekly appointment would mean that I wouldn't hear the bells. But I reassured myself that it was for a very good reason, so it was okay. Tuesday night, I wondered around 6:30 just what I had been so busy doing that I didn't even hear them. I'm pretty sure whatever I'd been doing, I should have been able to hear them, but perhaps I was just preoccupied or distracted. Wednesday was one of those days when I just felt like my life was crumbling; like I'd made the wrong decisions, and there was no way to reset. A dear friend and I "chatted" for a while in between weeding, and something he said resonated with me: "Your faith exploration has been wonderful and it seems to have been feeding you." He had been asking about coping mechanisms, and how most of my usual ones were on summer hiatus. [and it's been far too hot, although that hasn't stopped me from doing more yard work than is usual for me! And I've been enjoying it, too!] This morning another friend said, after I told her that I find myself wondering where I'd gone wrong, that she figures that God must find himself asking the same question about His children.

Tonight, when I made myself very aware of the 6:00 hour approaching, and no music started, I realized that I may have come to depend on the bells in a way. I sat on the the balcony and missed the church bells. There was thunder, so I was well aware of not being alone in any way. But the bells are missing. I'm not one of those who is against change, or new things, but I do miss things. I hope the bells are on vacation. I'm off Tuesday, so if they haven't been found by then, I think I will walk over and enquire. They truly are one of the perks of living here.

a hug

Yesterday began with a hug from a near stranger. Not often does something so unexpected seem so comfortable and familiar. Hours later, another hug from someone else, along with the words, "You give great hugs." Just a simple statement of fact, and I realized one more of the pieces of "me" I have let go somewhere along the way. As I heard the words spoken close to my ear, almost feeling as though they were inside my head rather than outside, I heard echos of the same from loved ones now flung far and wide, physically and spiritually.

Dad used to comment on my hugs; usually with a simple word of thanks. Mostly our hugs were unconventional--a squeeze of the hand, or his left arm around my shoulders and my head on his, my right cheek on his chest. Recently, I recalled in that moment, someone else had told me about missing my hugs, but I can't for the life of me remember who. And that's when I realized and remembered how much I miss the genuine, spontaneous, joy-filled hugs that used to explode out of me everywhere.

I've been watching for the me things, the gifts I've been given, entrusted with, and that I should be honing, sharing, returning. A number of years ago, I lamented to a friend that I was missing the hugs I used to share with classmates, co-workers, and oftentimes, people I'd just met. He immediately hugged me, and offered to receive any hugs I might have pent up. He is still a very dear friend (who also is an amazing hugger!), but I don't see him often at all. Luckily, I have a family--both of heart and of blood) who hug hello and goodbye.

Somewhere in there, in what I can only describe as an effort to fit in, I have turned myself into a square peg trying to fit into the round hole that is reality; that is my space in this world.

Paddling on the water yesterday, I found a piece of me. One that I had forgotten was missing. Our fearless canoe adventure leader told me that she leads this group because on the water is where she found God again, and in sharing the wonder of nature, she is doing what she can to give praise. While she did not emphasize the "again" part, I could completely identify. I found him again on a highway. And ever since, I've been letting him lead me back to me. To him. And what I'm finding is that being myself is enough. The true myself: the one that wants to be comforted like a child; the one that wants to comfort; the hugger, the laughter, the listener; the hermit; the butterfly---the one that is me.

There are days when I am contentedly moving forward at a snail's pace, but what is really awesome is that I am not spinning my wheels, lost and alone. I am right where I am, and right where I am supposed to be.

Armed with a hug.

from one hermit to another

Frequently, my Minute Meditation is just that: minute, and by that I mean that I know I am not associating enough significance to it. I read, I nod, I blink twice, and I move on. More and more often lately, I've been going back to read it again after lunch. The second time through seems to sink in just a bit more. Today I had a different experience. By lunchtime today, I had completely forgotten what the meditation had been. I remembered reading it, but (perhaps because I was a little off-kilter from weird sleep last night) I could not recall anything about it when I returned from lunch.

During my lunch, I was reading a bit of my Thomas Merton book* about signs (or lack thereof), intention, and will. I've been having quite a yo-yo experience in this section on Pure Intention, and have been wondering about direction and discernment. The first part of what I read at noontime was about seeing the signs, recognizing them as signs, and the fact that the sign is not the end; merely an indicator of a direction. A suggestion, in some cases, rather than a conclusion. I had mixed feelings about this, but it was clear to me that this was an essay I could ponder deeply. Merton was speaking directly to me, and clarifying, somewhat, the complicated topic of God's will versus man's will--my will, in particular. What really got me, after being drawn in by analogies I could relate to, were the gems that followed. "He does not need our sacrifices, He asks for our selves." "...what God wants of me is myself." "And that is why the will of God so often manifests itself in demands that I sacrifice myself. Why? Because in order to find my true self in Christ, I must go beyond the limits of my own narrow egoism." and most moving for me:

"God's will for us is not only that we should be the persons He means us to be, but that we should share in His work of creation and help Him to make us into the persons He means us to be. Always, and in all things, God's will for me is that I should shape my own destiny, work out my own salvation, forge my own eternal happiness, in the way He has planned it for me. And since no man is an island, since we all depend on one another, I cannot work out God's will in my own life unless I also consciously help other men to work out His will in theirs." (p. 63-64)

While reading (crying) and contemplating these words, my phone dinged a message. I waited while everything sank in and settled in my mind and heart, then took a look at the message. It was from Daily Catholic Quotes, and read, "God gave Himself to you; give yourself to God" (Blessed Robert Southwell). I couldn't help but connect the quote (and the timing of the pushed email) to Merton's words. Then something made me stop and wonder how many threads were weaving through my day. I went back to my meditation from this morning and re-read this: "...there is only one way to go to the father: the fulfillment of His holy will!"

Merton has cautioned me against putting too much interpretation of signs, but has also taught me to recognize them when they appear. I've stopped asking to be hit over the head with signs and signals, because I have come to realize that doesn't fit me--the me I was made to be. But this seemed pretty clear to me. See, yesterday I spent the afternoon with some fellow parishioners on a pilgrimage to the oldest stone church in North America. I knew or recognized most everyone there, either from Mass or from other social events, though many I had never spoken with. Together we marvelled at the splendor of this beautiful place dedicated to the Sacred Heart, in the middle of farmland. We admired artwork and builders' skill; laughed at some corny jokes; and learned quite a bit about a particular church, the Church, and American history. We took pictures, chatted, become a little more united in our shared faith.

Later, recalling the day, I laughed right out loud. There's a bit of irony that reveals a bit about how far I have come on my journey. Twice at the chapel I used the metaphor of a milkweed pod, growing and about to burst forth. Both times I was referring to the parish family. It wasn't until my laugh out loud moment that I realized I was really talking about myself. Here's the thing: when we joined the parish, I was happy to be smiled and nodded at, but to be a face in the crowd; one of many. When we bought a house outside the parish boundaries, we stayed on as members because we didn't want to belong to a church in the neighborhood, where the kids' classmates would attend, the neighbors; we didn't want to see the same people day in and day out. Almost twenty years later, I can't get enough of the people I've met at our church out of town. Where I once felt that I just needed a building to go to where I could listen and choose my own level of participation, I now find myself participating in ways I never thought I would consider. I am the seed pod. I feel myself ready to split at the seams, waiting for just the right moment, the right conditions, the perfect breeze to carry my joy farther than I can even imagine. I no longer consider myself a face in the crowd; rather, I am one of many making up one body of faith.

Both the pod, and a single seed.


*No Man Is an Island--Book Club at church on June 25!

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.

apart or a part

Everywhere I turn lately there seem to be reminders of who I am, or where I've been. I like where I am now, even when the road is more like a rocky cliff-face than a broad highway. I've also frequently been reminded of how I've gotten here. One such reminder came in my response to a post. The post read, in part:

[Spiritual life] is not something we can tackle alone. No, the wisdom of Jesus is that He founded a Church and did not merely convey a philosophy of life. In his homily yesterday, Deacon David Hall recalled the popular notion that spirituality can be disconnected from religiosity: "I don’t need a church; I have Jesus."  However, among the very first things that Jesus did when starting His public ministry was to surround Himself with others. Every gospel writer considered that fact so important that the call of the apostles is described near the beginning of all four gospels. 
Yesterday the Church celebrated the Feast of the Holy Trinity. This mystery itself is a compelling reminder that God Himself, in whose image we are created, is not an isolated singularity but a community of persons in relationship. The normal Christian life is also lived in relationship, not isolated, not alone.

There was a time when I really did feel that having faith was enough. Saying that it was there in my heart, and believing that being "near" to God was all I really needed. That going to church was nice, but not necessary to being faithful or a good person. But I also knew something was missing, and for a long time, I found that something to be related to religion itself. I thought that religion and faith left me with more questions than answers. Oh, I asked the questions, but--whether purposely or not--I asked them of people who had no basis upon which to answer. I would, actually, wait until someone had voiced a question similar to one of my own. Something along the lines of, "Yeah, what about that?" would flow from my lips, while simultaneously darkening my heart. My faith was hollow, as it was not filled with trust. I was separating myself from what I did know about faith, while telling myself that I was at least following what I understood.

Since that day when I felt I had nothing more to lose, and I said, with all my heart (because it had worked before), "Guide me. Wherever you need me to go, I will go," my journey has changed. That night, I turned to someone I never thought I would, and was met with a message of hope, trust and, most of all, love. Not exactly: I was met with a message of Hope, Trust and Love--all with capital letters. There were a number of "faith moments" shared over the course of that long weekend, and each of them made a huge impact on my heart. The darkness, the hardness dissipated, and in its place, I felt lightness and peace. Joy. Most of all, togetherness.

Afterwards, I looked at the moments in church differently. I began to see more similarities than differences in the people gathered. I began to want to find real answers to some of my questions. I've learned that the answers don't always come in order--because the order is not for me to determine. There are still things that frustrate me, confuse and confound me; there are still times when I find myself pulling back into myself, because I have made a habit of using my nature as an excuse to isolate. What I've learned about myself far outweighs anything I ever thought I could learn; it's sometimes painful, but mostly marvelous. I've begun to reach beyond myself; I've found that I can.

I will always be more introverted than extroverted, but I've learned that there is a difference between embracing the facets of myself, and using them as a shield to keep myself isolated, alone. Apart. My response to the post above:

The times when I've felt alone on my journey have all been times when I told myself I didn't need to go to a building or a service to believe. Now, I'd much rather be a part than apart!

I still find faith outside and away, but I no longer feel like an outsider. I am a part of the whole because I do not place myself apart from the whole.

prompts, prompting

So many thoughts and ideas. So many wonderful and amazing insights. Where to start? With a list.....

-fingerprints (wow--that one is a biggie! "There's a homily there!")

-formulas and differentiation (and how introspection could help)

-introspection!

-the difference between today's "me" (faith, experience, and expertise) & the me of 15-20 years ago

-the wonder and joy of searching

-blessings, like diamonds, belong to everyone :) (that one hit me than so many pearls)

-the affirmation that so many others are "in the same boat" (did I really just say that? Because it's very true!)

-the world is a scary place. We have to do something. My something......

-YES. I can. I would love to--more than I thought I might!

-models--5, and they are all right and good, and work together to raise the roof--provided we recognize and appreciate the gifts of each "We're all in the same pew" (made of wood like a boat. tee hee!)

It was a good night! Grace Uncorked--poured forth into each cup.....

my cup runneth over.....and yet there is room for so much more.

"I thirst"-- for grace, for peace, for love. I can pour......