my next life

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's hard to be that vulnerable.

Really hard.

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

a shared space

The purpose of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land is not to visit a place; it is to find a God: the God made visible in His Son Jesus, who walked these lands; and with each step made not only this place, but the whole world holy.
~Fr. Chet Snyder, A Sabbath Shared

Perhaps this is why I still have a hard time knowing what to say when people ask about my trip. There was a priest I spoke with on the roof of Notre Dame, overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, who told me that he preferred Jerusalem to Rome, not because of the sites and location, but because of the people who visit. He told me the disposition of the heart seemed different: those visiting Rome tended to be visiting the place, while those visiting Israel were looking to know a Man.

Not long ago, my pastor asked where I would go back to, which site, which spot would I choose to go to and stay for a few hours. Without hesitation I replied, "The hotel lobby in Jerusalem." I knew it seemed an odd answer to him, but I had been considering the question since our return (without thinking I'd ever be asked), so I had a ready explanation. Jerusalem was our last hotel, and we stayed there three nights. Each day when we returned to the hotel, I'd go up to the room and drop off packages, freshen up, and go to the lobby. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always with a glass of wine or a cup of espresso. And I would unpack the day, the sites, the sounds, the very air. Whether I was engaged in conversation or sitting alone, I truly pondered how everything was fitting together. In that lobby is where we saw the group come in wearing their Purim costumes, heading to a party, so we Googled Purim and wondered at the marvelous timing of our trip. We watched and heard interactions in a language and custom we didn't know or understand. That lobby is where I began to really know some others on the trip; where we shared feelings, doubts, questions, personal histories. But all the while, I was very aware that Christ was in our midst, sitting with us, listening, laughing, sharing.



Reading Fr Snyder's words this morning, I was again sitting in the lobby, only my physical self was in Pennsylvania at our dining room table. Lately, when I think of God, of praying, of finding comfort, I am sitting in an armchair in the Leonardo in Jerusalem. Actually, that was the point of the question from my friend. We were talking about prayer. His advice was to ask Jesus to join me in the lobby for a glass of wine or a cup of espresso, and spend time together unpacking the day: the good and the bad, the challenges for the next day, and the celebrations in my heart. And I do. Not every day, as I probably should, but certainly more often than I had been reviewing, preparing, praying with Him as a Friend. My laptop won't recognize my phone since my return, so the nine hundred or so photos I've taken are in limbo. As I think of sharing them, I email them to myself, or pull from Facebook something I've posted there. I've wondered why this inconvenience doesn't bother me terribly. And I've wondered, too, why I'm not more frustrated by the technology. The thing is, what's most important about going to Israel, being there, is in my heart, not on my phone in digital photographs. Eventually I will manage to get them to my computer and print a few. In the meantime, I have the clearest pictures in my mind, because I'm still there most days, for at least a little while.

you may not know

I finally managed to come up with 10.....

1. I really miss wearing contacts.

2. My glasses are always filthy -- from tears on the inside of them, and from who knows what on the outside.

3. I've never needed a passport. And that makes me a little bit sad.

4. When Dad died, I was in the middle of choreographing a dance for my grandmother. I promised at his funeral to make one for him, but never did. All of it was in me, and I still watch it in my head, sometimes.

5. I used to want a tattoo. The argument with myself over visible vs hidden got to be unwinable, so it'll likely never happen.

6. I'm still trying to figure out what else I want to be when I grow up--I'm closer, but still not there.

7. In high school, I wanted to major in International Law and Languages, and work at the UN. My guidance counselor talked me out of that, and every one of my dream jobs. My favorite class at college was Hospitality Law. Go figure!

8. Zip lines are my favorite way to fly.

9. Favorite place I have ever been is Hawaii. Arizona is a close second. St George Island, Florida, is third.

10. My only real phobia is auditioning, which is related to being talked out of dream jobs when I was 17.

head shots

Last weekend, at the Grace Uncorked event at church, our table was discussing various things we had just heard from the presenter, as well as some recent--and not-so-recent--things we had learned about ourselves. Along with my husband and myself, there were two other people at the table, neither of whom I'd talked to before that night. At one point, after referencing my parents in some way three or four times in about fifteen minutes' time, one of the women remarked that I clearly had a deep foundation in my faith, regardless of where I felt I am on my faith journey. Taken aback, I commented that I felt as though my faith, for most of my adult life at any rate, was pretty shallow. I tucked this away as something to ponder.

Things happened, conversations occurred, days rolled on as they always do, and all the while, without my even purposely thinking about it, something was developing. At Mass on Ascension Thursday, I found myself slightly distracted; something I noticed because lately I've managed to stay fairly focused at church. The distractions started early, primarily because I got frustrated with the boys' inability or refusal to choose a pew to sit in, even though they were in the front of our familial procession, so as I chose, I sent Mom in first, thereby putting all of us on her blind side, which made me feel as though I had isolated her from the rest of us. [Normally, she sits smack dab in the middle of our crew.] Preoccupied, I found myself thinking about the people I had seen so many times before, but now know the names that go with the faces; people who have become much more than fellow parishioners or acquaintances, people who have become friends.

Many of these new friends happen to be converts from other faiths, and I found myself musing that their desire to learn more about our faith is one of the sparks that keeps me going. Suddenly I realized how much I had taken my faith for granted. And how little I realized the profound effect Mom and Dad had on that faith. They were my first teachers, my first examples of goodness and kindness, forgiveness and mercy, and of imperfection. Dad kept a note I wrote to God in second grade. I had forgotten all about it--and the response that God had written to me. Reading it all these years later, with my life experience and children of my own, I can see the depth of God's love the note meant to convey, and I am amazed, impressed, and truly humbled. We said Grace before dinner together every evening, were expected to behave well at church every week, went to Parochial school, and learned evening prayers. All fairly usual stuff.

But there was more that made an impact on me. Periodically, we would see a candle burning on the kitchen shelf. Mom and Dad would pray for engaged couples attending marriage preparation, and as a reminder to keep them in mind. I did the same thing when each of my parents had chemo treatments, and I've lit candles at home to remind me of other special intentions. Like my parents, I try to mention to the boys why the candle is burning. Dad prayed for each of his children and grandchildren with every rosary, at least every time he mowed the lawn. Part of the reason I say the rosary daily is related to his Marian devotion. Mom and I attend Faith Matters at church every week, and have begun talking like we did when I was a kid--about what we see, what we wonder about, what amazes us, impresses us, and stumps us about our faith. We laugh sometimes about things that seem incongruous with life today, but impress us about life in Bible times.

I thought and thought about how to bring all these thoughts together. I also started coming to the conclusion when I first got to church this morning, that once again, I've been asking for the wrong things. In my prayer, I often ask God to be more direct in answering my questions, to please just hit me over the head. [Yesterday, I read about someone who asked the same, and was literally hit by falling objects three times in one evening before someone pointed out to her she kept getting hit in the head and she realized her prayer was being answered. I'll admit I found myself weirdly jealous.] This morning, I realized, once again, that Someone knows better than I do: I learn better when my realizations are evolutionary, or at least less violent. And in their own way, my revelations are pretty sudden--like these realizations about the foundations of my faith.

So I had come to a synthesis for this blog post: where my faith came from, and where I'm going with it. Then, sudden affirmation: at the end of today's homily, two questions were presented, and I rejoiced with laughter inside. "What influences has the Lord put in your life to make his prayer for you a reality? How are you responding to him so that you can be a godly influence for someone else?" The very questions I had determined I needed to address.

I am truly blessed to have so many influences in my life guiding me toward my True Self--my parents, teachers and others who gave me roots, and friends, family, and even my children, who both fertilize and prune to help me grow. As for the second question, I've opened my heart, my mind, and my being to the possibilities around me. Discerning what I should do, versus what I want to do is still difficult for me, but I'm working on it. And with His help, a cooperative effort, I will learn to be the blessing I am meant to be.

Fully.

fingerprints

What was said: "I look at a thumbprint, and realize that no two are alike. If God can make every single thumbprint different, why would we think that he would ever stop there?"

I was floored! Such a simple idea, and so obvious, and yet so amazingly complex! There is no reason to think that any one of us is exactly like another. We, as humans, classify. Safe/Unsafe. Friendly/Unfriendly. Okay to eat/Poison. Work/Play. Love/Hate. Good/Bad. But aren't there various levels of many of these classifications? Don't we need to differentiate again and again, and determine, according to the occasion, just where something fits in our classification systems?

I remember a month or two before our boy #2 was born. I was pretty sure I had this kid thing figured out. Because the pregnancy itself had felt different, I just knew that the baby would not be the same as his brother. Boy #1 was pretty easy, as far as babies go--not the sleep-all-night-at-birth dream baby, but he did do pretty well as an infant, and as a toddler, he was fairly happy-go-lucky and even helpful. I just knew that boy #2 was going to be the opposite--whatever #1 liked, he would not; whenever #1 liked to sleep, #2 would want to be awake. I'm not even sure what "opposite" would mean, but at the time, I had some really clear ideas, and I was pretty confident about the whole thing. I had even braced myself for the inevitable difficulties of having two kids that just could not get along for long.

I had quite a surprise. In some ways, he was different--as he should be! But in other ways, they were very much alike. What I had not factored in was that they were each individuals who would let me know, in short order, who they are. I was there (am still) to guide them, not to determine them.

A similar thing happened when we decided to get a dog. It had been a few years since our beloved black standard poodle had died. When we saw black standards advertised, I told Guy that I just couldn't handle having a dog that looked so like the last one, but wouldn't have his same personality. Instead we got a poodle that was supposed to turn silver (he was born black), and never has. Yes, he shares some characteristics with his predecessor, but he also has his own personality--and quirks! I sometimes think he was meant to stay black as a lesson to me.

I've wandered far from the amazement I felt at the thumbprint statement, but not so far that I don't remember where I was. Each of us is different. Special. Unique. We should see ourselves that way. We should see others that way--the part that I tend to think is harder to do. I've just started reading Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island for the Spiritual Book Club at church. From the prologue:
"I cannot discover God in myself and myself in Him unless I have the courage to face myself exactly as I am, with all my limitations, and to accept others as they are, with all their limitations."

To face myself, and accept others. How beautiful is that? Each of us has our own whirls and swirls, some of which mean baggage and tough stuff, but most of which means beauty and knowledge; if only we decide to appreciate it. We need to remember that some of the tough stuff has led to strength because it comes from experience. My head is rattling with the memory of the notes I took on palmistry for a paper I wrote in college (my topics were never quite what anyone else would choose....) inferring that the universe of "me" is largely pre-written on my hands, with details added with experience.

I don't know.....perhaps the possibilities were written there, and revealed by my choices. I'm still quite intrigued.....