time and time

The strangest and most wonderful thing that happened in Israel -- and the most puzzling -- may not even be believable. If you can open your heart, and open your mind, read on. Otherwise, skip ahead to whatever I post next time.

As we toured sites I'd heard and read about, and others I hadn't, there came times when we stood on ground I recognized. My heart leaped or sank, without necessarily corresponding to the details of the location. I remembered people there, what they wore, how they looked, expressions on faces. And each time, I felt at home. It's difficult to explain, and when I look at the pictures now, I can't tell you which places held me so. All I know is that I know. And never once did it seem out of the ordinary. Not a feeling of deja-vu, or vague memories of movie scenes or well-written descriptions. Rather, what I felt was sure, complete, and vivid. I knew at the time I should have written down where they happened, and what was going on, but I didn't, choosing instead to allow the feeling to wash over me, envelope me, and be in each of those moments.

Usually, it was the women. I was among them, watching, serving, often silent, but smiling, and more than just occasionally laughing. Most of all, though, what I can still feel is the warmth of being with others who knew me, and allowed me to know them -- men and women alike. Interestingly, it's the same feeling I have when I try to imagine myself in the boat with the disciples and Jesus when the storm came up on the Sea of Galilee -- every time, I feel like I am exactly where I belong, with the knowledge that all is well (not 'will be well,' is well). Sometimes I was working alongside someone. Sometimes I was alone with someone. Other times I was sitting with so many others, feeling peaceful and joyful.

All of this only makes sense, I think, in the context of the communion of saints. There are many ways to describe or explain it, but my favorite includes the idea that time, to God, doesn't exist as we know it. Rather, it folds in upon itself in every one of our moments, and because it does, we can be in a moment that happened so very long ago. Once I looked at a friend across the church during Mass and realized we'd been together at the foot of the Cross. We really had. There have been times at Adoration, when I am the only one there, that I've been sitting with Mary while Martha prepared dinner -- sitting there not even noticing that anyone else was around, other than Jesus, feeling his robes against my elbow or my shoulder. But the moments in Israel were longer. And I can only say that I could feel them more than see or hear; the same way I still see, hear and feel Dad and his hugs. The same way I know that many times when I pray, I sit on a rock with Jesus, and toss sticks and pebbles into the water flowing gently by us.

There is a temptation to try to recreate the feeling, to hunt for it in my memory and my heart until I find it and feel it again, exactly the way I did on the trip. I know that I can't force it that way. The best I can do is remember that it happened, and be grateful for the experience, the peace, the joy. And continue to pray, learn, lean, and celebrate the love that allowed me into those moments. Along the way, I think I need to get to know some of the women I 'met' while walking the sands of time in the Holy Land. Who are they? I'm not exactly sure, but I feel certain we will recognize each other when the time is again right.

obstacle or bridge

The image memory is kinetic. I can feel each muscle as I strain against the arm around my waist, screaming and shaking my head so hard I can feel my brain. Punching my fists at someone, and feeling the soft tissue give under the blows. I try to kick, but need my feet under me for balance, for stability.
It's been a long time since I've seen this scene play out in my mind's eye. In fact, every time a teacher in oh, probably junior high, said the words "mind's eye," this is what I saw first. It's pretty dark, and the space is smallish, but I want OUT!
It used to be, when I felt this memory - and I only call it that because it's always been so vivid - or dream, I forced it away, fearful that it was how I would behave if I wasn't careful. That it was some primal, perhaps evil, instinct that could derail all of my dreams, my life. I'd see this on days when I was at the end of my rope: tired, stressed, lonely, isolated. Essentially, when I let my guard down.
Today, after enough time that I had forgotten, but not enough time to not remember, I again felt the intense feeling that I actually was there, in the vision. And I was struck by my reaction. First, I wondered if it was just me - the real, true me - wanting to come out; to break the mold of my false self (the one that's trying to please and impress). I wondered why I wouldn't let myself out. Second, I wondered if it was not a dreamed or imagined image, but an actual memory of an actual event. Only then did I remember the other feelings that had always been part of the package.
Tonight, I'd let my guard down. I was at the Adoration chapel, trying to be patient, to wait, to feel and hear. I wrote for a while, words that flowed freely to God today, but had been getting stuck lately, leaving me frustrated, and my soul tense. I went back and read some journal entries from a few months ago, and found some of myself I'd been ignoring again. I sat and waited. "Father, love me." Each time I say it, my heart opens just a little more, my eyes get more and more wet.
It's an interesting thing that happens when I allow my heart to open. I actually feel like the spaces between my ribs are widening. Usually at the point that I feel that, I get scared. I stop allowing for the presence I'm hoping for. Not tonight. And what I saw was not what I expected. Another turn in the path. An obstacle to overcome, or a bridge to cross?

1. one sense

A feathery snowflake brushed against my cheek. Then another. And another. With each came a brushstroke of chill; a momentary burn of cold. As the flakes came faster, the light, airy quality began to be replaced by a sharp, stinging sensation, accompanied by an almost imperceptible numbness in my fingertips, my toes, and the very end of my nose. With each passing moment, I became more aware of the brittleness of any small motion; the very topography of the skin on my face. There was no need to fight to hold back tears: each pore was already acutely aware of the certainty of each tear freezing. The burning warmth of tears would have to wait.

Closer together we huddled, breath and body heat creating a short-term barrier to the unending storm. The crack of the guns mixed with the peal of churchbells were palpable currents in the air around us. The last words were spoken just as turning to stone began to sound appealing, satisfying, safe. Breaking apart from each other, slowly moving toward the cars, my heart began to beat in normal rhythm, leaving behind the only warmth adrenaline had brought to my core. Part of me looked forward to defrosting.

Part of me wanted nothing more than to remain cold, stiff, and frozen.