cut it out

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

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

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

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

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

And very grateful.

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.  

dream state

Last night, I dreamt of finding a room in my house. Although it was a house I knew well, it was a house I've never seen in my waking life. And it was also distinctly "mine," as opposed to "our" house.

This was one of those dreams that is simultaneously real and an active exercise of imagination. I knew I was in a dream, and actively participated.

We had discovered some ants on a shelf. It seems every year (much like my real life house), we'd been dealing with the ants, and we had been waiting for the to show up. This time, our goal was to find where they were going, since stopping them from coming in had never done much good. So we followed their progress and discovered tjat the back of the shelf was actually a stone. Removing it, we discovered a fireplace, and beyond that, a beautiful--if dusty and empty--room with wood floors.

Funny that the rest of the room mattered little. All I could take in was the wide open space, the wide plank wood floors, and the dust. And I was as perplexed as I was contended at finally finding another secret room.

When I was a kid, and even into my 20's, I had a recurrent dream about a secret room in Grammy and Grampy's house. At the top of the stairs was a ledge that we would sometimes sit on when we were feeling brave and sure we would not get caught. I was terrified to stand or walk on it, figuring the wall behind me could never offer me enough support or balance.

In my dream, I would walk confidently to the end of the ledge and open the door that was only there in my dreams. On the other side was a beautifully appointed bedroom, fit for a queen. Too nice for me to touch much of anything, but a great place to sit by the window and read.

When we first moved to Pennsylvania, I dreamt of the house I thought we should buy and live in. To this day I can remember how excited I was when I first discovered the secret room in that house! It was almost another house, with a garden patio and French doors.

While in my dream last night, I wondered what I should be learning. I took in what came to me as important: wood floors, space, light, a fireplace, dust. And then I noticed that I was looking down into this room, and realized that had been true of the last secret room, although the room of my childhood was on my own level.

I awoke, as I always have after such dreams, happy and curious. Poised and at peace, but ready to get busy. Thoroughly confused, yet quite comforted. I hope it comes again.

learn, grow, pray

There are times when clarity comes in crumbs, not in big signs. There are times when the clarity comes from saying or doing. And some times when keeping quiet (and wondering why the mouth just won't open) speaks volumes.

Forgiveness was the topic tonight, and the related difficulties: letting go, identifying, drawing that fine line between an important lesson learned and something else. Something like fear, hatred, resentment, bitterness. I've been in a position to feel any and all of those things, yet I found that when I chose to forgive -- honestly forgive -- I found strength. And comfort.

Somehow, we get the feeling that forgiving is giving up, and in some ways I guess it is, if you mean giving up the stuff that eats you up inside. But forgiving is not the same as admitting defeat or defect, it's not weakness. And it doesn't mean that forgetting is necessary, although constant, painful reminders are certainly not beneficial.

For me, the work of healing began with the decision to forgive, followed by a decision to pray for all those involved. (Something I continue to do, though not as often now.) I was (and still am!) amazed at how quickly the memory faded, like an old photograph; a sepia-toned image of another time and place. The scariest part was making that decision to forgive; admitting that I wanted to. Why? I may never know for sure, but I suspect a devilish influence on my emotions. I was tempted to react harshly; to judge without having all the facts.

My point is, as much as it surprises me to say, I'm grateful. Grateful for the experience, the knowledge, the grace, the growth. Without this exercise in forgiveness, there are so many things about myself I wouldn't know. Actually, I'm pretty sure I still don't know the depth of what I've learned, and may not ever. I'd rather not be tested again, but that's not for me to decide. I'll just keep learning, growing, praying.