dig in

So, here's the thing -- I've been needing depth. Depth in conversation, depth in faith, depth in learning. I feel stuck. Questions come to mind about all kinds of things, and I want to dig in. Trouble is, I don't know where to go, I can't afford to go back to school at the moment, and I can't do it alone. I need some fellow diggers. People with questions of their own. People who want to talk about their questions; not just to find the answers, but the explore the possibilities. To laugh at the ridiculous, while also realizing there's no such thing if the heart is pure. This need for depth, this need for exploration and inquisition, has me off-kilter. When I'm off-kilter, I fixate on things, and lately that fixation is the questions.

Who's in?

castles and moats

There is a project I have due tomorrow, and I have been passively avoiding it. By that I mean I am allowing myself to get caught up in other 'business' like sewing, cleaning, Pinterest, counting pennies....just about anything that will seem productive when I look back at the day. [Yes, Pinterest. I made a board of projects I want to get done by fall. It had to be done sometime!] Today I grabbed hold of a piece of advice from my therapist and gave myself the command: "Do nothing but this project for the next hour and a half." It almost worked. I mean, I know where the project is going now (I think), but in the process, I sent a rather lengthy email (related, but likely not necessary) and also took a phone call. In so doing, I was trying to practice avoidance, but they managed to clarify and give direction and shape to the project, so I can maybe mark the 'done' box. Make that the 'started' box.

What came out of the morning was an admission. Not a new one, but a repeat that has never gotten me anywhere before. Here's the thing: the project has to do with opening my heart, baring my soul, and revealing old scars and wounds that may never heal fully, and letting Christ walk with me in the pain, toward healing. Trouble is, when I feel pain, I turn away from everyone, myself included, and isolate. Not to lick my wounds, but to ignore them. My heart, I'm afraid, is a mass of grisly, ugly scars that have tried to heal over despite getting infected from lack of attention. In my brokenness, I believe that pain is meant to be hidden away, ignored, unnamed. Eventually it will go away. And then we can forget about it. My therapist and I are working on that -- albeit slowly because I can't bring myself to look as deep as I need to, even in the safety of his office. On my walk of faith, my heartpain has been touched upon, but I kid myself into thinking that God will make his own way there without my assistance. I mean, he's God, right? Can't he do anything he wants?

Today I admitted that my turning inward is an addiction to me. I try (unsuccessfully) to convince myself that it doesn't affect anyone but me, since I'm alone. I know it's not in my best interest to keep it all to myself, yet I not only avoid sharing, I actively decide not to. To borrow a phrase from therapy, it's comfortable because it's familiar, not because it fits. And when I think something might begin to hurt, I've begun looking for the solitude, except that instead of being a refreshing break from contact with whatever or whomever is causing my distress, it's become extreme, to the point of desolation.

I read this today:

We need to withdraw from time to time
from all unnecessary cares and business.

Sound advice, yes? It's St. Teresa of Avila, and when similar advice was issued a few months ago, I got frustrated (angry?) because I knew this withdrawing I do is not healthy, that it hurts my soul more than it helps. Today, as I read those words, I realized they have the opposite meaning. The key word is 'unnecessary.' For my situation, withdrawing from unnecessary cares points toward contact with others. I need to withdraw from the unnecessary -- dwelling on the hurts and pains. I need to back away from my walled castle and cross the moat to meet those who can offer themselves to me. I need to begin the work of allowing myself to be heard, showing my pain, and ultimately asking for help in nursing my wounds. When others share their pain with me, I can feel it, and I welcome their sharing. Lightening their load is something I don't need to think twice about. But I claim my load to be mine and mine alone. I cannot carry it by myself. I don't know how to share it, how to give it over. Not even to God. I ask him to take it, but I pick and choose which bits he can carry. And that's not fair to either one of us.

Now to figure out how to lower this drawbridge...

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.