talking to myself

"That's the problem with me: I assume you'll understand things better the way I put them, but maybe I'm only making sense to myself."
~Teresa of Avila, Interior Castle, trans. Mirabai Starr

Here, on these pages, I don't set out to be understood. In fact, most of the time when I put my fingers to the keys of my laptop, it's because there is something I truly don't understand and words on a page are all that I can hope will bring clarity. I have a devotional book that I use often (not as often as I used to. I'm in a hard place right now) and when I have something to say to the Lord, I write in it. At one time, I used the margins, but these days I use the reading for the day as my canvas. Occasionally Guy will see me writing and ask if I can still read what was originally on the page. I smile and assure him I can (because I can), but that really I don't need to read what was there because tomorrow it won't matter (because I don't think it will). 

Teresa of Avila was "ordered" to write Interior Castle. According to this translator, the order was more suggestion than anything else, but since it came from her spiritual director, a man, and it was the time of great inquisitions and persecutions of anyone with extraordinary ideas, she "obeyed." The book is lovely, and fun to read -- Teresa offers many asides and tangents along the way, making it seem as though she's sitting with an old friend, the reader. 

Sometimes when I sit to write, I am intentionally unclear. One reason is related to privacy. (Truly a funny concept in a blogged journal!) I don't want anyone to know the details of what I'm thinking, feeling, working through, but I do want to, need to, share the associated feelings. Other times I'm experimenting with metaphor or some such nonsense. Still other times I just wonder if anyone is reading, hoping, perhaps, that there will be some question or comment that can offer me some hope that clarity is out there. I've been accused of being obtuse at times. I prefer to think I'm being recondite. Either way, it's usually a call to action, a request for company, a need for fellowship that I can't pinpoint or specifically ask for. 

I'm in an odd place: my life is happy -- my job, my family, my home -- frustrating at times, but happy. My soul is sad. I have lost something, and I don't know what it is, or where to look for it. So I wait, and hope that someone understands enough to help guide me, to nurture me, to simply sit with me. 

Maybe I'm only making sense to myself.

getting there

As people ask me about visiting the Holy Land, I am still unable to truly express what struck me most. There is a good reason for that -- being there itself was, indeed, the miracle. When I say it aloud in answer to the question, though, it sounds like I don't want to answer.

There is no way I could have gone on that trip on my own. I'd heard about the trip while I was working full-time, but I had spent my vacation time for the year, so I figured dreaming was all I would get to do. I dreamt. And I loved the dreaming. Occasionally I would tell my workmate and friend that I would so love to go. Every time she would respond, "You're meant to go."

When I left that job to take a part-time position at church, I knew, without a doubt, that I had no chance of going. This time it was about the pricetag rather than the time factor. I planned to attend the information night anyway. I missed the meeting, but as it ended, a dear friend came out, telling me she had no intention of going, but wanted to know about the particulars. I told her about my dream, and my empty pockets.

"If you want to go, ask God if He could make it possible. If you're meant to go, He will make it possible if you are open to His help."

My prayer: "If you think I should, Lord."

The first time I got mail informing me of a dollar amount due me in the exact amount of the trip, I chuckled and shook my head. "Thanks, God." I stuck the letter to the bulletin board to deal with before the deadline for claiming it. The second time, from another source (same amount), I showed my husband and told him about the prayers, the dreams. He said to go. I wasn't keen on going by myself, so I shelved that one, too.

The third piece of mail listed exactly double the amount of the trip. The next day I processed the paperwork and within a week I'd made my deposit, all the while thanking God for His generosity.

So you see, being there was the true gift. Our trip included a good bit of history, Mass every day, fellowship. I spent a bit of each day simply thanking God for the amazing gift of being. Soaking in the sites, the sounds, the very air blessed me in a way I cannot describe. The woman who follows me at Adoration each week tells me she can still see the Holy Land on my face, in my being. There is so much I will continue to learn about myself and about my faith because of that trip.

Since our return I've had some challenges to my foundation. Serious ones, leading me to search earnestly for some guidance. But one morning I prayed once again, "Lord, it's not mine. I give it to you." Then I added, very sincerely, "If all of this is because of visiting the Holy Land, if I am going through this valley in proportion to or related to being where you lived, walked, preached, I don't mind. I would live it all again if I had to. I thank you, Lord, for every moment, from that first time I heard about the trip until today, tomorrow, and every day beyond." I would go again in a heartbeat, knowing full well it would be a very different experience.  

meant to be

“Because sometimes you have to step outside of the person you’ve been, and remember the person you were meant to be, the person you wanted to be, the person you are.”
H.G. Wells

A friend posted this quote this morning, and I haven't been able to get it out of my head. Funny thing is, for a good part of the day yesterday the thought ran through my mind again and again, although not in quite the same words. Friday at work I had a glimpse of some mission statements, and something about them bothered me. I hadn't slept well the night before and figured whatever it was would either come to me, or wasn't all that important. As I woke yesterday, there was still a niggling something, so I focused on it, trying to puzzle it out. 

It occurred to me that I don't want to, never intended to, live in anticipation of life. So much time was spent in wondering and talking about what I "wanted to be" when I grew up (I still don't know) as opposed to "who I am" right now. Would I be further along in my quest for finding me if I looked more deliberately at who I am now? At what talents I possess now? Often I stumble upon my "potential" and end up disappointed in myself. When I bring it up with my therapist, he tends to ask what I've accomplished. We sometimes talk about how I could have handled something differently, but bottom line is, i did. I do. I have. I am. When we talk about the future, he recommends dreaming big, and then analyzing the feasibility, rather than looking at what my resources are first. Sort of a "God will provide" attitude, I suppose, as long as the aspiration is in line with my real future -- the future God has intended for me. 

Maybe. 

My big dreams surprise even me. As a result, I have yet to share them, or even write them down. Someone recommended asking God to show me how He sees me, where He sees me. What I see when I ask is always the same, always fills me with peace, and always surprises me. It's not what -- or where -- I'd expect. Again, it's not something I've really shared. I don't quite know how. Or with whom. In some ways I'm isolating myself again, but in a different way, and for different reasons. Yet it feels so much the same. 

After lunch yesterday, I felt an urge to purge, to make a pile of things to get rid of. I've come to realize that the need to actually see a pile of stuff to drop off for a yard sale or consignment is related to another very real need. A need to clean out a closet in my mind or heart. To clean up something in my life that I have more control over than I realize. To take a hard look at myself, where I am, what I'm doing. To step outside myself and see if I am headed toward the person I'm meant to be. There's a pile of old cookbooks by the door now, and a pile of clothes that will get bagged up. Before long, I'll need to open the door on a closet I haven't paid enough attention to, and see what's been gathering dust in my soul.

even for me

On our last day with Iyad, we traveled the Via Dolorosa -- the Way of the Cross. We followed each of the traditional fourteen stations on a road that was nothing like what I had ever pictured. In our Faith Matters class, we had seen the Via Dolorosa in video, in modern times. I had gone to see the IMAX film, Jerusalem 3D, and still, I was not prepared. The streets were narrower than I expected, and although they were not as crowded the day we were there as in the videos I'd seen, it amazed me just how close the quarters were. I found myself wondering from time to time how the crowds I'd seen on the screen could even fit in the space, and where those who live there go at those times. It's difficult for me to explain how that walk felt to me. I took very few pictures -- partly because I wanted to immerse myself in the walking, in being a part of His carrying the Cross, and partly because (well, mostly because) I did not want this day to be a tourist day. I wanted to observe through the eyes of my heart, not through a camera lens.

And yet, at the end of the day, when asked about my impressions, I realized that it was not my day to be moved. That sounds horrible, I suppose, but what I mean is, that day was about the part of Jesus' life that I'd known all my life; the story I'd heard again and again. The spots that moved me were the stations with the women -- Mary, Veronica, the women and children of Jerusalem. Three of the fourteen. Despite my best intentions, I did feel like a tourist most of the rest of the time. Throughout, I prayed, asking God what I was missing, and being continually reassured that I was where I needed to be. I was, indeed, moved by the tomb in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre: the silence inside was overwhelming, especially after the hubbub of the building itself.

But this piece of artwork stopped me in my tracks.

Just to the side of the tomb was the chapel where we had Mass that day. Another island of silence in an otherwise crazy atmosphere. This ironwork depiction of the stations of the cross hung directly across from the door. I gazed at it, transfixed, unable to cross the threshold. The simplicity, the stark contrast in color to the stone walls, the small scale of the figures relative to the room, the fact that it was painstakingly wrought from the same type of material that fastened Jesus to the cross.....but what strikes me most, even now, is the single line connecting each station. An underline for emphasis. A single line from the ancient to now; from the past to the present. From me to Jesus himself. And a line that underscores the fifteenth station added here -- the Resurrection. As I stood in the doorway, I could, for maybe the first time ever, see that all of it was for me. Me as one, individual child of God.

And that, I think, is why the rest of the day didn't touch me the way I'd anticipated. All my life I'd been taught that Jesus died for us all, for everyone, to save the world. Which is very true. But in those moments in the doorway, for the first time, I realized and understood a subtle difference: Jesus died for each of us. Semantics? Perhaps. But the thing is, for the past few years (most of my life?) I've been struggling with the idea that I matter in the eyes of God. I've been coming to terms with the idea that I am not invisible to Him, that I cannot hide, no matter how much I want to, or try to. I am His, regardless of what I think about that. More and more I have accepted and embraced that truth. This piece of artwork is a spear that drove that truth into my heart.

At Mass, I sat beneath Mary, greeting her Son, knowing she had raised him for this day, this mission. Knowing that she had raised him that I might know him. It was all I could do to pay attention at Mass that day -- the only day I was not completely engrossed in the ritual, the readings, the responses, so moved to gaze at this iron above me, and thinking I needed to resist that urge. Today is Good Friday, and my mind keeps wandering back to the Holy Land, to the sights and sounds, the air and the water, the people, and the way of the cross. All of it.

And I cannot stop the flow of tears.

Nor do I want to.

All I do, Lord, I do for you. Because of what you did for me.

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. 

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.

a side note

Weirdly enough, after asking about my favorite thing in Israel, and then about the food, the next question is inevitably about my hair. How it figures into the story, I'm not quite sure, but I happily answer.

Yes, I am letting the natural color grow out. Yes, that white is my natural color. And really you want to know how long I've had grey hair? Well, the first streak was discovered on my first visit to a hairdresser (a friend of my Mom's) when I was in fourth grade. I could even show you about where it was, but I know no one is really that curious! Occasionally, there is a follow-up question of "why?" That answer is a little more complicated.

I started having my hair colored not long after becoming a mom. I always looked tired. Heck, I always was tired! A friend suggested that the few stray grey hairs may be exaggerating the overall effect of tired mom-ness. And, actually, she was right. I did feel better about myself when I could look in the mirror and see freshness. After a while, it just got to be fun to change my color with the seasons, with the cut, with fashion and for pure experimentation. I remember one day at the theater, sitting on the stage with the staff at lunchtime, and the statement made to me: "Admit it. When you change the color of your hair, you change -- your mood, your character, who you present to the world." It was true.

The hard fact is, though, it was easy to do because I really didn't know myself. Getting to know me was frightening, and letting anyone else know me even more so. As I've journeyed toward me, toward my place in my own life, I've come to appreciate me more. The me that's real and whole and genuine. I still liked getting my hair colored -- a little redder in the winter, a little blonder for the summer. But something began to change. Little by little people would mention my mood or my health at odd times, telling me I looked ill or angry when I felt distinctly the opposite. One day it occurred to me that for some, my roots showing indicated something unsaid. I would mention it from time to time "No, it's just my roots showing." I began to see who knew me and who didn't, because my friends could see the erroneous correlation; those who knew me less well insisted it couldn't possibly be true, because "I didn't know you even colored your hair!" (Seriously?? How could anyone miss it if they saw me more than a couple times a year?)

Slowly I realized that I was fighting with my roots more than was reasonable, and something that started out as a fun thing to make me feel more confident and healthy, more like myself, was doing just the opposite. I was heading toward being obsessive. Years earlier I had read an article by a woman who had decided to go natural. She said the process took quite a while. About a year, actually. I was intrigued, but knew my natural color was still not anywhere near even. It took me nearly two years to work up the courage to ask my husband and my hairdresser what they thought. I also sent an informal text poll to some friends. Overwhelmingly, the men I asked gave positive responses. Many of the women were leery of the idea. Some asked if the question was financially motivated. (At first, on the surface, yes; but on the most basic level, no.) Nevertheless, I decided I was going to go for it, but the question was, How?

So we made a plan, my hairdresser and I, and now people ask about my hair. Especially when we're talking about Israel. People are funny. And, in all honesty, I have never felt more free. A couple of people have mentioned that the color is flattering to my skin tone and my eyes. My response: "I figure since God put me together in the first place, the combination must be reasonably good." It's so much more than that. So much more.