a better place

Sometimes I forget where I am in comparison to where I was. I don't think I'm alone in that, but at those times, I do feel quite alone. There's no rhyme or reason to the "what next?" hitting me, nor is there any "usual" response I feel. Roughly two years ago, I made a list - a double list, actually - that serves as reminder of where something resembling rock bottom was, as far as Love (pseudo-love?) is concerned.

Things I'm not Allowed to Do
-post anything that can be perceived as negative on FB (or blog, or email, or talking with someone)
-Ever tell anyone that we've had a fight/argument, etc.
-use the words Always; Never; Everyone; Nobody; Every; or any other absolute
-interrupt
-complain when interrupted
-yell [or even talk loudly]
-point out when someone else is yelling, especially you
-exaggerate in any way
-get close enough to see when I'm not wearing my glasses
-ask what I am allowed to do
-have any complaints or negative feelings. Ever.
-exhibit stress in any way
-have no emotion
-have temper tantrums
-notice [your] temper tantrums
-finish any argument [that would mean admitting we're having one - duh!]
-walk away
-follow
-say that I'm wrong
-change my mind or have different opinions in different circumstances
-Grow

Things that I want to be able to do
-Be myself, even though I might have an "off" day
-Laugh
-Be sarcastic
-Be serious
-Know that someone is listening to me
-Cry
-Feel respected
-Sleep when I'm tired
-Relax - Not the sit-down-with-feet-up-doing-nothing kind - the kind where I can focus on what I'm doing and enjoy it for what it is because there aren't 400 other things that I have to remember to do/tell someone to do
-Be polite
-Feel like home is not a game/battle to be won
-be on a team; someplace where the page is the same for everyone
-Speak frankly without tantrums ensuing - mine or anyone else's 
-Go to the bathroom when I need to go to the bathroom

I keep these lists handy - with the things I wanted to be able to do face up - and although I don't look at it every day, it does manage to catch my eye from time to time and soothes me. Every one of those things I now have. More importantly, I recognize the other list for what it is: a picture of a life I am no longer subjected to, a life no one should be subjected to. And I'm able to see myself as I was, what and how much I didn't know. I had no idea of my worth, my value, even my spirit. I see articles sometimes and hear people say that we allow the bad behavior that affects us, and I no longer get angry about it. Sometimes we allow things because we don't know there is something else, something better. I didn't know, so I allowed that first list to become my life. It's when I began to learn about alternatives, options, reality (actually) that I made the lists. They were an effort to improve the situation. My life has improved exponentially - though not in the way I expected the day I sat down with a piece of notebook paper. I've discovered that sometimes the only way to have a clean slate is to get a new slate. Would I have chosen this path? Not in a million years. Would I trade it? Not for a million dollars. Do I regret that time, that period of my life? Not on your life. It helped to shape me. I am where I need to be. I am doing what I need to do. I have people I need in my life - people I need because they support and challenge me; they Love me, without any trace of pseudo-love. I am becoming who I am supposed to be - and I know, without a doubt, that I will never be completely her; I will continue to grow and change and learn and be reborn. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

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.

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.

today is different

This morning as I left the bathroom to dress for work, I happened to catch myself in the mirror. For the past few years, I have only looked at myself as parts when in front of a mirror -- checking my eyebrows, my teeth, nostrils, arranging or styling my hair, analyzing the effect of an outfit. Today was different.

Having spent a good portion of my life in front of mirrors as a dancer in endless classes (that have, unfortunately, stopped very temporarily), I have rarely been afraid of the reflection, and sometimes been somewhat unaware of the image in front of me. There have been times when I have been startled by my own reflection, like Bambi the first time seeing himself in the pond. And there have been times when I found myself making comparisons in the mirror -- to others beside me, to a former self, to the doctored images in magazines -- and coming away ashamed, embarrassed, uncomfortable. On rare occasions, I have seen myself and made promises to change a routine, a habit; made resolutions to 'work on' my physical appearance.

Today was different.

There have been far too few times that I have looked objectively at the image staring back at me. Instead, I allow the image to control my reactions. The interesting thing is that the image is not even what others see. As a reverse, my reflection highlights flaws through no fault of its own. That's just how it is. I cannot see what others see, especially if that's what I'm looking for. The closer I look at my image, the more I scrutinize it, the less reality I see. Self awareness needs to come from the inside. The true me is someone I can only see from my perspective inside of me -- and only I can truly see her. All of her. I've forgotten to look at her. In the neglect I've felt and experienced, I have developed a habit of practicing the same. The key to my future is locked within my own hands, and is related to allowing me to come out of myself, to step into the light of my own eyes, to be seen not as a mirror image, but as a daughter of God.

Today was different.

As I left the bathroom to dress for work, out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of a woman I hadn't even realized was smiling. The image I saw was filled with joy, anticipation (and not trepidation - the curious and interested kind), and happiness. The face looking over me filled me with hope. She's not the entirety of me, but a glimmer of what is to come. And she changed my outlook. Time and again, I ask God to show me where I'm headed, who He sees in me, what I am to do next in the grand scheme. He answers my plea on occasion in my interactions with people I know, and strangers I meet. Today was different. That quick glance, that solid image from the corner of my eye, though not a perfect replica of me, did show where my inner self is heading.

I have hope. I have faith. I have Love. I have a future - a future that embraces my past and my present as honest and important truths of who I am, who I will be, who I am becoming. I am on my way.

Today is different.

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.

water, water, water

Question: ... one highlight of our pilgrimage to the Holy Land? .... The question is, "What influenced you most and how does it help your spiritual life?" or something like that....

Answer (in 126 words): What influenced me most? Perhaps the water. I now realize, scrolling through my pictures, that the water had me completely transfixed. The Dead Sea: captivatingly beautiful, and yet unable to sustain any life. Juxtaposed with the Sea of Galilee, which supplies fresh water to the country of Israel: equally beautiful, yet life-giving. This is quite a metaphor for faith! It’s not what anyone, including me, sees that is evidence of my faith – it’s what is in my heart and what is life-giving in my actions, my prayer, and my words. Susan, my Jewish seatmate on the way to Tel Aviv, asked me “What have Catholics to do with the Dead Sea?” Along with matters of history, I now have an answer of faith to offer her. 

first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea

I have always felt most at home by the water. Silly, actually, as I grew up inland, and didn't spend any time that I can recall near water until high school. At my first glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea, I was overcome with emotion. Dusk was falling, we'd just spent 10 hours on a plane, and we were now on a bus halfway around the world, so the 'overcome' was over the top, even for me. Still, it is an ocean I'd never seen before -- and never thought I would! After dinner, we walked across the street (no easy feat!) to the beach, and right down to the water of the Sea that also touches Greece, Italy, Turkey, Egypt, Tunisia, France and Spain. Simply amazing. Calmly, the water lapped at our feet. I stood gazing at what we could see of the horizon, soothed by the sound, the breeze, the sand. 

fishermen at sunset
on the Sea of Galilee

So much happened on the Sea of Galilee. Miracles happened when this body of water was involved. Jesus calmed a storm on the Sea of Galilee. It's where he walked on the water, beckoning Peter to join him. And that's just the highlights. We took a boat ride on Saturday afternoon, and as I sat watching the water, listening to the water and some music played for our enjoyment, I thought of Dad. Water, Dad, and the Father often go together for me, and this particular water pulled these two fathers of mine tightly in my heart. Standing at the back of the boat, watching the wake, and marveling at how small this lake really is, I felt Dad's left arm around my shoulders, and God's right hand on the small of my back. I knew I was right where I should be, physically, mentally, spiritually. Tears streamed down my face as all the sounds of the rest of the group faded behind me. For a time, I was alone on the Sea of Galilee with those who love me in ways no one else ever can: as fathers. I could have stayed on that boat for days. Thankfully, we spent many days travelling around this beautiful lake, seeing it from different angles and perspectives, touching the water, walking on the pebbly beaches, feeling the powerful pull of life -- of water. 

the River Jordan

I had heard that the Jordan River was not what we normally think of as a river. Iyad, our guide, told us that it would remind us more of what we would call a creek. Still, I was surprised to see how narrow the Jordan could be. We stopped at a site where people often go to be immersed in its waters. It was the widest part of the river we saw, and really was smaller than the creeks we have kayaked. When asked how near we were to where John would have baptized Jesus, Iyad looked at us and simply said, "Not very." The river runs through the Sea of Galilee, a channel of water of a different density cutting through the lowest freshwater lake on earth. The area around the Yardinet was beautifully developed. In another spot, closer to where John and Jesus did their thing, it was even narrower, overgrown, and mud-colored. The miracles and diversity of life.

the shoreline of the Dead Sea 

 But the body of water that made the biggest impression on me, based partly by the number of pictures I took, was the Dead Sea. The very name scared me when I was a kid -- so much I didn't want to hear any stories about it, or ask any questions about it for fear that I would die if I heard too much. Growing up, I pictured black or purple water, or water-like stuff, looking more like goo than anything else. What I first saw through a bus window amazed and transfixed me. It was truly magnificent! None of the pictures could do it justice. Likely more because of the difference between what it truly was and decades of misconception! The water was as blue as any I've ever seen. The shoreline was once underwater; the water level has been dropping steadily due to damming of the Jordan. By 2050 there will be no Dead Sea if nothing changes. The lack of life around the sea is disconcerting. All that surrounds it are the muddy flats of soil rich in minerals and salts, but in too dense a quantity for anything to grow -- too much of a good thing! And, oh, that mud! Thick and black, mushy, but almost dry to the touch. Someone in our group described it as being the consistency of Crisco, and I can't think of a better analogy. After floating in the water, and smearing the mud on my face, legs and arms, my skin did feel new; although I wrote that day that "after showering twice, I still feel like a roasted, salted pistachio shell tastes." Before I went, I was told there were no words that could prepare me for the Dead Sea. I would agree. 

not just a field

Since returning from Israel, people often ask about my favorite thing, or what made the biggest impression. The most honest answer is "all of it," which very few find satisfying. The next best thing I can come up with is that it depends on the current moment. The fact is, I don't categorize things that way -- I don't have favorites in much of anything. For a really long time I thought that made me fickle at best, and abnormal at worst. In reality, it's just the way I'm wired. I loved the whole place! I can tell you about the one meal and "tour" I didn't like, or the one shopkeeper who made me really uncomfortable, or even about the only church that wasn't to my taste, but none of those things matter much. I was there and got to experience each of those things!

There is a setting on my phone that I haven't found yet. It's the one that makes my phone connect to my computer so I can download my pictures. Before I left, I shut it off, just in case, and have no idea where it is. It'll turn up. But the place I keep coming back to in my heart since we've been back I didn't even take a picture of. I was so overcome by a multitude of feelings, questions, memories and amazement that I forgot to get a picture.

Shepherd's Field in Bethlehem was nothing like I could ever have imagined. As a girl, we lived quite near a farm with cows. (I've always assumed a dairy farm, but I never asked!) They had a field, a pasture, where the cows spent the day. It was open, green, and fairly flat -- a vast expanse, considering the neighborhoods and developments nearby. I knew the shepherds probably didn't have something like that, so instead I envisioned something like Scotland: rolling hills of grass and herb-ey flowers, dotted with rocks here and there. (Mind you, I've never been to Scotland, and even this vision is mostly self-constructed.) What I saw when we arrived at Shepherd's Field took my breath away.

There was very little green; tufts of grass and grass-like vegetation sprouted up among jagged rocks and boulders. Lots of rocks and boulders. And there was absolutely nothing flat about it. The 'field' with all its rocks and bits of green lay at something near a forty-five degree angle. It was steep, stark, rugged, and dangerous. I imagined it dotted also with sheep, maybe a donkey, or even a dog. I pictured how difficult it must have been to see wolves and other predators among the shadows that were everywhere. And I thought about a man leading a donkey with a laboring woman up that craggy slope, looking for shelter. The road we walked in on was paved, wide and smooth, leading us to a pretty park and fountain overlooking the field. Beyond were chapels built into the cave Joseph and Mary were given for birthing a beautiful baby boy.

Perhaps part of my reaction was related to the juxtaposition of the modern road, the traditional, and the very real and unchangeable landscape. The road and park against the backdrop of the field jolted me most especially when a newborn baby was added to the mix. Inside the chapel cave was a baby Jesus statue, about the size of my own boys when they were born. That's when I felt the bewildering sense of where we were. There was nothing safe about that night when He was born, and yet, the cave was cozy, the family together, the promise ahead.

Sitting alone, looking out over the field, I was struck by the danger a shepherd faced out there with his sheep. I thought of the parable of the Good Shepherd, when he goes and looks for the one sheep that wandered off and got lost. In so doing, the shepherd took his own life in his hands to search among rocks -- boulders, really, caves and the associated wildlife. Knowing this, and hearing this, are one thing, but seeing what it looked like was something else entirely.

One of the sites that changed my sight.

page eighty-six

For over a year, I've been working on this book. While it came highly recommended, and I really do want to finish it, I honestly don't devote a whole heck of a lot of time to it. I'd like to, but it's the kind of book that takes digesting and pondering. On an average day in the past year, I can't quite devote enough focus to it. Frankly, for me discussion is likely necessary, too. Why else would 140 pages (including the index) take over a year to chew through? It's highlighted and underlined and bracketed, and I'm already looking forward to starting it again once I finish.
When I realized that my usual reading times were not going to work with this book, I began taking it with me to adoration. In that hour of time alone, with no distractions, I manage about 20-30 minutes lost in its pages. Once, I fell asleep reading it (yes, at adoration), and when I awoke with a start a few minutes later, the words had changed. I flipped the page forward and back thinking perhaps I'd lost my place, but I think the explanation is that I needed to hear something different from the words, and was put to sleep. (A story for another time, maybe.)
The title is The Divine Milieu, and the author a priest - a Jesuit - who died in 1955, by the name of Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. Two-thirds of the way through the book he says that we have finally gotten enough background to get to the point. I like to think Dad and I would have discussed him. And occasionally I think perhaps Dad tried to discuss Teilhard's work with me, but I was not where I needed to be.
At any rate, on Friday afternoon, with impeccable timing to fit my life, as God's timing always is, I read:

However vast the divine milieu may be, it is in reality a centre. It therefore has the properties of a centre...the absolute and final power to unite...all beings within its breast. In the divine milieu all the elements of the universe touch each other by that which is most inward and ultimate in them. There they concentrate...all that is purest and most attractive in them without loss and without danger of subsequent corruption....Let those seek refuge there who are saddened by the separations, the meannesses and the wastefulnesses of the world. In the external spheres of the world, man is always torn by the separations which set distance between bodies, which set the impossibility of mutual understanding between souls, which set death between lives....All that desolation is only on the surface. (p. 86)

Spoken directly to my heart that day. A series of frustrations had me feeling alone and lonely. I was already grateful for the scheduled visit to the chapel, but these words more than doubled that gratitude. Looking up, through tears, I asked what I should do next, how to get through the next few days. Clearly my heart heard, "Trust the Lord with all your heart." I smiled and said that I already do. [I often get to speak aloud, as most days no one else is there with us] Again, the same words, clear and direct. And then, "There are those who love you."
"All that desolation is only on the surface." As such, its not nearly as important as we make it out to be. Not nearly as impactful as we determine to allow it to be. The surface, you see, is nothing but a shell, a skin, maybe even a barrier to the real, the beautiful, the true. If you're looking for me, I'll be seeking refuge in the centre.

fibers and focus

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

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

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

a question asked

Not long ago, a question was posed to me that caused me to stop and rethink where I was headed.
"If you were to meet [this person] today, say at work or at a social event, would you want him or her to be your friend? Would you spend any more time or energy than you had to in getting to know him or her?"
So many thoughts sped through my mind in a split second, most of which included those people with whom I had forged relationships - sometimes having to work hard at it, and other times with more ease than I understood. The immediate response was a very relieved no. The next series of thoughts had to do with my own use of the same concept in, actually, a similar context. I, however, had placed it in a different direction: "If I didn't have to have a relationship with this person, I might otherwise have never met him or her. I'd have no reason to have them in my circle." This new question took the pressure off.
Bonds of blood are important, but equally important are bonds of love, bonds of the heart. Call it what you will - framily, family of the heart, besties, communion of saints - regardless, though blood may be thicker than water, water is pretty darn essential. My husband and I share no bond of blood, and yet our relationship is more important than any other on earth. And I would still want to get to know him if I met him today for the first time.
There is a mutual aspect. Just because I find someone interesting does not guarantee the same curiosity will be reciprocated, and vice versa. On occasion,  that has been a hard pill to swallow. Tolerating another's attempts can be as uncomfortable as the realization that I am being tolerated.
For now I'll say that the question is open-ended, and at times the answer varies based on numerous factors. There's freedom in the asking. In knowing there is even a question. An option - one among many.

three minutes

Opening my notebook tonight, planning to jot some things down for book club (Mere Christianity, by CS Lewis), I came across some other words I'd worked on a while ago. I remembered at the time being frustrated and disappointed with them, but could not recall whether I had ever shared them. At a meeting, an 'assignment' was given to write up a 3-minute version of our own faith story. I know I never delivered it at the next meeting, but thought I might have posted it. Poking around my blog posts to see, I learned quite a bit about myself. Earlier this evening, I had asked for some clarity in pinpointing a question or two I need to ask. The posts helped a bit.

Anyway, the words. The request was for three minutes on my faith journey, a conversion story. I found a post about my frustration with it (the elusive three). Here is what I finished with. (You could say, where I gave up.) Today, I find it to be spot on in describing where I'd been!

At one time, I thought faith was something we "got," probably at birth. Either we had it or we didn't. And if that was the case, I was very blessed, inheriting faithful attitudes from my parents and grandparents, and attending Catholic school for 8 years.

In reality, I was a faith trust fund brat, never learning about or internalizing what I was exposed to. Never learning how things worked--mostly because I was afraid asking questions would make me sound dumb. I squandered my faith by petitioning all the time, thanking occasionally, and rarely making any real effort.

One day, in the middle of a personal crisis, I realized I was down to my last faith dollar--and I really needed help. I took that last dollar, and told God I was giving it to him. I had nothing to lose. Thy will be done. His will. And I breathed and I laughed, and he told me to keep the dollar and invest it.

I prayed; for the first time I really prayed. I spoke, I listened. I laughed, and I began to ask questions; to look for answers. I started to get personal with God, to think of Jesus as a friend, to remember that the Holy Spirit was in me.

It's not always easy. I'm not always the most attentive friend.* But every day I start fresh, looking toward God, knowing that Jesus is the best kind of friend: the kind that is always looking out for me, always ready to listen, always offering a hand to guide me. Prayer and learning are my best investments in faith. I still have tons of questions, and some of them have answers someone else can give me. Quite a few, the ones that offer the most in return, are the ones that require deeper searching--in my heart, walking with the Lord. And I've never felt so rich.

*I forget. I get stuck. I get scared.

pen and ink

Lately I have been writing quite a bit. On paper. With a pen. There are way more spelling errors that way, but the flow of ink has been especially therapeutic. Trying to think things through, and realizing I probably need some guidance, I have been organizing my thoughts on paper.

It's interesting because I've always thought of my blog as a bit of an online journal; someplace I can record my thoughts and feelings and share them with people who want to know about them. Writing in a notebook is a different experience. Whereas I don't particularly wonder who might read my blog, I do find myself wondering who might open my notebook and start to read. While my blog is left out in the open all the time, my journal is frequently very close to me, or in a dark pocket in my bag, safe.

I'd forgotten how particular one can be about a pen. And how attached to specific ink colors and points one can become. A black, fine tip pen (preferably accountant tip) was my prefered tool in high school and college, along with college-ruled paper. Blue ink seemed more dreamy somehow; less serious. Black ink was sure, confident--something I wanted to appear to be. 'Fake it till you make it!' I still like black ink, and I'd love to find an accountant fine pen that won't rip up the recycled paper that often makes up the little notebooks I like. I've added highlighters to my palette along the way, although I use them more often when I read than when I write.

For Christmas, my husband got me a pack of pens, a pack of highlighters, and a notebook. Somehow he was moved to find these gifts for me, even though  at the time I hardly wrote anything. I typed my thoughts. Ever since, I have found reasons to write down my impressions, to make them flow through my hand from my heart and mind.

And I wonder why. Why does it feel good to  shape the words? I use a mix of cursive and printing--often to distinguish specific thoughts or voices. Sometimes I use cursive for the deeper thoughts, the things that feel a little more secretive or private. When I copy down a verse, line, or quote, I print. Why do I do that? Who is it I think will ever want to crack the code? That's the biggest mystery. I am writing for myself. And I know the code.

At least the code for the words on the page.

What I'm looking for is the code behind the thoughts in my head, the movements of my heart. I tell myself I'm looking for patterns, or answers, or bigger questions, but the fact is, I still don't go back and read what I've written. I have a habit of wanting answers now. That probably would be better facilitated if I did go back and read my own words. I think the problem is that I don't value them.

A friend and I were just talking about that. When I have a problem or concern I want to talk about, I hem and haw about speaking up.  Inevitably, just at the point when I am ready to spill it all, someone else drops what seems to me to be a bigger, tougher, or more important problem. Who would want to hear about what's bothering me then? I'm reading a book on brokenness, and this was touched upon. I'll have to see where it leads. And I'll have to figure out how it fits.

avoiding myself

I spent the better part of today working on one project in order to avoid working on a few others. Alongside three of our sons, I cleaned their room, dusting, vacuuming, dragging and disposing. The room looks great, and once I find a home for an old "kid" piece, will be a bit more usable for a while.

Oftentimes when I have a deadline or a due date for something, I find myself cleaning instead of getting to work. When I was taking my college classes and had a big paper due every five weeks, a new room was organized and squeaky clean with each submission. I'd like to say it's because I want to have the order to clear my head and put forth my best work. But I know it's a matter of avoidance. 

Until tonight, I didn't really think about why I was avoiding; why I tend to put myself under pressure to finish. I always put it down to an unavoidable tendency to procrastinate since I am an Aquarius. Tonight, though, as I considered the projects -- for church, for the team, and for professional reasons -- I admitted to myself that I kind of like the feeling of importance running up against a deadline gives me. I'm glad it's not an everyday thing. My sensitive skin couldn't handle that any better than my heart could! But there is a little bit of "needed" attached to deadlines.

And there's another reason that was even harder to admit.  A quieter, older and more uncomfortable reason. If I put off doing or making, and the finished product is a flop, I have an excuse. The hard truth is, I have a difficult time feeling worthy, capable, talented. I know that I am (which may or may not sound arrogant to you. It's not meant to be. I am; therefore I am worthy and have been given talent that I am capable of cultivating) and yet, no matter how many times I think I have, I just can't shake that niggling doubt.

I put things off because I'm afraid to succeed.

If only I knew why. The best I can come up with right now is that I still have some me to learn about. I've come a long way, but I know there are questions I still don't know how to ask. Or have the nerve to ask. There are still things I don't know how to say. I know because I can see them, hear them, feel them inside my head, and in my heart. I know that's progress because I've never had things bounce around my heart before, trying to get out.

My list is made, and in the morning I will systematically attack each project. I'm looking forward to it. I know I won't finish them all before the weekend is over, but I'm armed with a bit more knowledge of who I am and how I tick. And that's a good lesson learned. 

prayer, peace, purgatory

My favorite passage in Purgatorio so far is the beginning of Canto IV, because it so vividly placed me in the center of my most intense Communion of Saints moment (that lasted an hour--it felt like only a moment, though). In San Antonio at a LifeTeen training conference, during XLT--an especially moving Adoration and exultation experience--I found myself quietly alone with the Lord in the middle of a room crowded with people and music. Sitting on the floor, I was (for once) Mary not Martha; carefree in the presence of a Man with stories to tell. We laughed together as I cried tears of joy. Over the last month, in the moments when I feel rushed, stressed, pushed, overwhelmed, I stop and feel that moment.

When any of our senses is aroused,
to intensity of pleasure or of pain,
the soul gives itself up to that one sense,

oblivious to all its other powers.
This fact serves to refute the false belief
that in our bodies more than one soul burns.

And so it is that when we see or hear
something which wholly captivates the soul,
we easily can lose all sense of time.

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.

rocks and hard places

Looking out over the vista, grateful for the gifts of memory and review, I found myself excited to move forward, when the time was right. Not long after that post, there was a phone call, some earnest questions, the beginnings of some new life phases, and when I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see a pile of rocks and boulders in front of me. "Yep," I thought, "after that rest, it's time to climb. Thanks for the prep!" and up I scrambled.

First I picked my way around, hopping over the smaller rocks, and looking for footholds and handholds to make my way higher. Then I scrambled up the sloping rocks, and the boulders with flat spots, wondering just how high I would ultimately have to climb. Without warning, I've found myself in a crevice, and (having ignored some sage advice: "And when you want to go explore / The number you should have is 4) without a hand or a rope to pull me out.

It's given me time to think. (No need to panic. I'll find my way out; I'm sure of it.) What I realized is that despite how far I've come, something has not changed. Once again, the first thing I did was decide what I needed to do. In and of itself, this is not entirely bad. However, when courses of action are not even considered--let alone tossed aside as infeasible--things may not turn out as intended. I'm pretty sure, now that I'm heading on toward frustrated, that there were other very reasonable options.

It's entirely possible that I was supposed to choose a rock to carry, or that I was to move some of the rocks out of the way. It's also quite possible that I was looking at a rock waiting to be chiseled and molded into something else, some beautiful figure that only my eyes could have seen under the smooth, round surface. Or that someone else may have been stuck in the rocks, and I should have listened for their cries for help.

It's possible I was being invited to sit and watch more of the view developing.

I need to work on moving past my dependence on myself and myself alone. I thought I had. I forgot that moving forward does not mean forgetting what was behind; leaving missteps off the map. The good is in the journey. I have always believed that, but have often, in my full-steam ahead, missed the forest for the trees.

To dig or to jump or to wait. Something to think about.

standing still

I've found myself at a standstill. Last week, I had this sense of.....what? I could only identify it as darkness, but that didn't seem quite right. Since I really didn't know what it was, I began to push against panic that darkness was going to descend, long before any darktime weather. I almost called a couple of friends to alert them; to have their warm thoughts shore me up. I resisted (and instead overdid social time, to the detriment of my psyche, and my belly). When I stopped to consider why this sense of something, I realized there was no darkness, only calm. The kind of calm and quiet that is palpable and strong enough to keep me in one place.

At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.

This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......

Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.



"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)

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.

for many reasons

This entry begun on January 18, 2013. I don't know why I didn't finish it, but I suspect because the direction was not quite right, although the content is quite precise.


"Why are you here?" was the question, and was meant to be contemplative. The question, while directed at a specific person to help clarify another question, struck me as the one I needed to contemplate and pray on.

Why am I there? At first, my presence was a by-product of my desire to do something for someone else. And I got hooked and found myself learning more about myself and my religion than I thought I wanted to. Before long, I was there for me, and the someone else was a nice addition to the evenings. At some point, my focus shifted, and I felt peace. That was a different gathering, or class, if you will. A study.

This one is different. This one is about history, too, but not in the same way. This one is also about self--self-sacrifice, contemplation.

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!