The night and half-light of dreams

See what sepia can do for you...

2012-01-25T22:29:00.005Z

Colour...

...and you're cute.

Sepia...

...and you're the Lord of Hellfire.

Day 30: GC, Relationship

2011-11-30T19:05:00.007Z

I was going to title this friendship, but looking back across my entries, it seems obvious that the thread running through them is a broader than that, it is about relationship: with ourselves, with God, with others, with the world around us.

For the chance to BE in relationship, I am grateful. I may refuse it; I may not be fully engaged sometimes; I may stumble my way through it. But when I'm there, being in relationship is the most amazing thing: whether it is with the moment, the ocean, a child, a friend - even someone whom I find difficult.

My feeling has always been that we cannot learn in a vacuum - we only ever learn in relationship: we have to engage with the material, engage with the teacher, engage with those around us. We learn most about ourselves when we are most vulnerable in the intimacy of relationship: deeply in tune with or deeply challenged by: others, ourselves, organisations, long-standing beliefs, our environment.

We can only ever learn if we are intimate, allowing people and things to touch us, to help shape us - smoothing out edges, knocking off corners, breaking through shells, allowing the real us to emerge. This cannot happen if we shut ourselves off from relationship.

Relationship and intimacy can be frightening: one has to be vulnerable and there is no controlling the Other. It's unpredictable, unexpected, can be incredibly painful, always transformational, and if we allow it, often magical.

But although it is deep, intimacy need not always be serious: it encompasses all emotions, and think of how one often knows a couple is close: shared smiles; shared laughter; a gentle tease.

In fact, humour is one of the best ways to connect - to enter intimacy and confirm closeness.

This morning, just such an occasion happened with one of my closest friends, when she mentioned she was off to make tea. I announced that I was considering marrying the plush ferret she gave me for my birthday, Ramachni (named after a beloved mage in Robert Redick's Chathrand Voyage). She completely approved, noting that she would marry her plush black panther, Magick.

I, however, had a problem in that I had fallen in love with this lot, who tap right into my weakness for the emotionally wounded, so I suggested that I would have to be plushly polyandrous, which led to the following discussion at her blog, where she'd posted our discussion:

Me:
Of course, what midnightsidhe neglects to mention is that she is the one who set me up with Ramachni! Another reason we are best friends.

*Returns to viewing 'plush animal grooms' website*

xx

midnight_sidhe:
Well, I do try to remain modest about my match-making abilities, you see.

Also, you know what this means, don't you? If we're going to be Gonzo's sister-wives and the other primaries in this arrangement are Ramachni and Magick, not to mention all the other plush grooms you may acquire? WE ARE TOTALLY GOING TO TAKE OVER THE WORLD.

xxx

Me:
Well indeed. Best not to be known as a shadchan; before you know it, you'll be inundated by humans and plushies looking for black market marriages.

Indeed, which means I will have to select my harem carefully. Dr Wood from the Clinic is a must, as is Dolly - that shapeshifting ability could come in handy for our plans of world domination...

xx

midnight_sidhe wrote:
Yes, exactly. It's not a vocation of mine, after all; I am merely a talented amateur.

She'enedra! *gasp* I do hope you weren't intending to select your harem irresponsibly before you realised the full implications of our impending domestic arrangement! One must take care not to be indiscriminate in these matters! Especially with your weakness; you could get sadly taken advantage of. Not all wolves-in-sheep's-clothing are like Dolly.

xxx

Me:
*Gasps in horror at the near disaster*

Oh, she'enedra! What was I thinking; I was going to marry for plushness and affection, even plushy need, NOT for the world domination plans. Ramachni has set me right on that. I was even considering a plush Tyrannosaurus Rex until Ramachni gently pointed out that short T-Rex arms combined with a massive head were completely useless when it came to world domination. I was crestfallen, but had to acknowledge his point.

What would I do without the two of you - my Gonzo sister-wife and my plush First Mate to keep me focused on the larger goal?

xx

midnight_sidhe wrote:
You would end up with forty-two plush husbands, all of whom were so severely wounded that they would be completely useless in our world domination plans. And you'd spend so much time helping them that you would be too, and this would be a problem, because Gonzo and I are too chaotic neutral to be left in charge and Magick is too prone to getting into complicated affairs with the wives of the wrong cats, and you wouldn't want your poor First Mate left trying to keep the rest of us in line, now would you?

While I agree with Ramachni that T-Rex is not really well-suited to inclusion in your plush-husband stable, may I suggest that there are other respects in which he might be useful? Suppose we need a diversion, say, or just to terrify a group of people. I should think T-Rex would be most useful under such circumstances.

But, you know, I don't think it would be a disaster if some of your mates were chosen for affection and plushy need. No reason to make dynastic sacrifices here; political unions can be problematic.

xxx

When someone gets you well enough to have the above conversation, you don't need serious to know it doesn't get much closer - and it has been one of the deepest friendships I've had - one that has pushed me the hardest, held the space in the darkest of times, kept me real and moved me light-years towards becoming my true self.

And that hard, deep work is only possible because we get each other well enough to discuss human-plush polyandry.

She'enedra - thank you is criminally insufficient, but I think you know the rest without my saying it, which speaks to the essence of this essay more eloquently than anything else I can say.

This one's for you.

GC, Day 29 - Men who adore children

2011-11-29T20:44:00.004Z

I believe I've spoken before of how fathers who are good with their children make me melt faster than butter in the South Asian summer sun. We idealise the Madonna and child, make place mothers up on a pedestal unless their children aren't what we think they should be, then we demonise them. It is always 'mother' as parent, the father is seen as disposable; fatherhood as an extra. We tend to see men as unnecessary to the raising of a child - whether as a father, uncle, or simply a close family friend, an adult male role model. We're more likely to be suspicious of them, to expect them to harm our children rather than parent them.

How very wrong we are.

I suppose I'm not deeply moved by mothers who are good with their children because we expect that, and because I'm deeply maternal - for me, that's to be expected, so I don't find it remarkable.

But men who adore kids? For whom children are as much of a vocation as they are for me? That makes it really hard to breathe and not cry in public.

It isn't simply because of cultural expectations here - it's because I am very aware that if I had had the chance, I would very much have been a daddy's girl. That has been painfully clear in the way I've worked through issues in my life: I've almost never been without a surrogate father, all of whom have been the most amazing men and instrumental in my healing.

So when I see a dad holding his daughter's giant stuffed duck and walking down the pavement at her 3-year-old pace, holding a serious conversation with her? I slow down and blink away tears, silently blessing him for being the man he is. When I see this father davening with his little girl in his arms (at 3:33)? I'm usually alone, so I do cry. And put the video on repeat a few times. When I hear dads taking their children's claims that the teacher thought they were a superhero/muppet/monster seriously? I could kiss them.

Fathers who are dads, who love their children fiercely and will allow them to unfold into themselves, not who they want their child to be, are absolutely incredible. Those of you who take lone wolflings like me under your paws and raise me through your classes and through your love and friendship, you save lives - and I don't even know how to begin to thank you.

But the men who aren't dads and love children deeply and fiercely; who would fall at the first ditch for a child; for whom there is, as of yet, no 'my children' and 'their children' - but only 'my children'? And for whom you suspect that even when they have children of their own, all children will still be 'my children', because children are their vocation, in the true sense of the word?

There just aren't words.

One of my good friends is just such a man. I remember when I first saw him with a friend's daughter - who clearly adored him - and felt myself choke up. I expected him to be good with children. What I hadn't quite expected was for him to become incandescent and truly step into himself, or that I would see a profound paternal instinct.

Even now, when it is completely expected, it is a joy to see him with children: the mutual adoration, the naturalness, the playfulness always make me smile. I've seen his mask drop as he lifted a little one above his head and watched him drop an adult conversation in a heartbeat to kneel on the pavement to speak to a little one in distress, his attention wholly on her. Every child knows they are utterly safe with him and seeing that, I know the child in me is safe with him as well.

There's the crux of it - with men who adore children, who can truly be with children, that vulnerable part of us is safe too. When we think of holding that vulnerable part in others as 'woman's work' - in the same way we think of parenting or nurturing - we rob men of this vital part of themselves, this ability to love and be loved unconditionally, and force them into hard exoskeletons that limit their growth into the narrow role that society prescribes them. Then we complain that they can't express their emotions/deal with their anger constructively/be responsible/parent children. All this after we start them off with 'boys don't cry' and telling a 5 year old to 'man up' when he's afraid or when he's fallen and hurt himself.

Is it any wonder so many of our young men are in such trouble?

So I give thanks for these men who aren't afraid to love and nurture openly - because we ALL need them to: as our fathers, brothers, friends, mentors, lovers, co-workers, leaders...fellow human beings.

GC, Day 28 - Ocean

2011-11-28T20:44:00.003Z

We are tied to the ocean. And when we go back to the sea, whether it is to sail or to watch - we are going back from whence we came. --John F. Kennedy

As those of you who have kept up with my gratitude challenge know, there have been some pretty intense blog entries recently - so today, I thought I'd keep it simple - ish.

For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to the sea - I loved our trips to Virginia Beach when I was young and have sought it ever since - though I have ended up as far as it is possible to be from the water on this island.

By the sea - and I am particularly fond of the ocean in winter - I find myself. I find peace, perspective and re-find my rhythm. I feel wrapped in its vastness, renewed in its depth, and a part returning to its whole.

And I am reminded that I am not one to walk cautiously along the shore, travelling by landmark:

I would not creep along the coast but steer out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars. --George Eliot

GC, Day 27 - for having been suicidal

2011-11-27T20:54:00.009Z

Yes, you read that right. I am, years later, grateful for having been so deeply in the darkness that I put my leg over the railing of my 8th floor balcony one cold December night. More than once.

As I stood there, sobbing, lost in the icy hell of isolation, fragmentation and pain born of a difficult year that I thought I would never see the end of, a thought - one that felt like another's voice - went through my head: "What right do you have to take yourself out of anyone else's life? How do you know where you will be in 10 years?" A bit hard, perhaps, but exactly what was needed to end the crisis.

This entry, like several others, was shifted by current events: today, the apparent suicide of Gary Speed. My heart broke as I read the news stories, having a sense of where he must have been to take such a decision and thinking of those left behind in a shock and grief that will have its own unique shards of glass working their way through one's heart at unexpected times for the longest time.

What struck me was the pictures. So many photographers had caught the pain on his face, the sense of being lost, but no one had seen it - and why would one? He was young, talented, successful, respected, famous - he had seemed happy only the afternoon before. And we hide it so very well. No one had the remotest idea how bad I was then, or the odd time since.

So why am I grateful for having been in this place of unremitting darkness, as hostile as the Antarctic winter, with ferocious winds and no shelter in sight?

Because it changed me profoundly. Once one has been to that place, one is never the same again: either one chooses to exit the world above and enter Hades' kingdom, or one turns back from the gates and returns, blinking in the light, transformed - and like Talamir after the loss of his first Companion, Taver, never quite belonging to the world above ever again.

Some of the gifts emerge from that no longer quite belonging above - the ability to see past what is expected: I can look at pictures of supposedly happy events, pictures on which others type 'Great photo! You must be so happy!', and, if it is present, see the sadness, the pain, the anger, the sense of being trapped. It is easier to see what is real, because one knows what so often lies beneath...

...and what lies ahead: death - my own - is no longer frightening, though I'm still terrified of those I love dying. That it will come, I know, and that is absolutely fine. I don't need to resist the knowledge or the process, and that allows me to live a fuller life.

Part of living that life to the full, and one of the greatest gifts, is being able to keep company with others through their Antarctic storms - to trudge with them, to sit through the blizzard, to hold them through it - without fear, because it is a familiar landscape, a home away from home. Someone who has been there can be trusted with that, can hold the space, can be believed when they say that the storm will end, even at the time of its greatest fury.

To be there, to be trusted to sit with another in the time of their greatest darkness, is a privilege beyond words.

To be unafraid to enter the deepest pain fully and freely, without getting lost, knowing that one can make the trek and return, both for oneself and as a witness for others, is the most precious of gifts:

And a woman spoke, saying, "Tell us of Pain."
And he said:
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

Being able to enter pain fully brings gifts we cannot even begin to imagine - and so that first Antarctic storm that brought such gifts in its wake keeps bringing more through its first gift.

To Gary Speed, Lou de Misa, and so many others who chose to open those gates and walk through them, requiescite in pace and blessed be, and these words of Kahlil Gibran are ours to you:

Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of the tides,
How often have you sailed in my dreams. And now you come in my awakening, which is my deeper dream.
Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with sails full set awaits the wind.
Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,
Then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.

To those who also turned away from the gates - and we always know eachother, don't we, by the look - welcome back, blessed be, and there is much work to be done, and so many to be with. Let us begin.

To those now in their Antarctic storm, feeling alone, unable to see, with the ferocious wind in your face - know that we are here. Even across the world, we reach for you, we sit with you, even if you do not know us or cannot see us. Whatever choice you make, we will witness for you and bless you on your way, walking with you as far as we can.

If you choose to turn your back at the gates and come back, I can tell you this:

We will be here, and the day will dawn - at first the faintest blush on the horizon, and it will emerge differently for each one of you, but the light will come.

That's a promise.

GC, Day 26 - Stuffed animals at my volunteer placement

2011-11-26T23:14:00.005Z

One of the more unusual things I am grateful for is the plethora of stuffed animals at the place where I do my volunteer counselling. I'm not easily given to playful, silly behaviour - so anything that gives me a push in that direction is a fabulous thing - especially as I DO have a well-developed imagination. Here is what happened at times I didn't have clients - your captions in comments...

A good friend of mine saw this last one and asked why the MC was in bondage gear, assuming it was a mutual acquaintance. I gave a snappy answer, but didn't have the heart - well, maybe it was the guts, knowing what might follow - to tell him *I* was the one doing the MCing in this tableau.

I'd love to know what someone psychoanalysing me would think...

GC, Day 25 - Those who know

2011-11-25T19:36:00.004Z

Very rarely, you find a friend who knows what you need before you do. You know, the friend who gives you a present or a chocolate bar at work that's exactly what you need.

Today, I received this gorgeous gift from one of those friends who knows. I'd been toying with buying a journal, so any journal would have been wonderful.

But this - this journal was perfect, though it wasn't one I would have chosen for myself. The friend who gave this to me saw me clearly enough to see what I rarely express: a deeply sensual side; the ornate; a rich explosion of colour; lush tropical flowers. Sheer indulgence. I can completely see myself as the woman with her peacock (which is what we decided it was) losing herself in the sensual joy of the moment.

This is one journal I will be writing in - because it is totally, utterly me...

...though I didn't know that until I saw it.

For those who see the gifts in us that we cannot - or dare not - see in ourselves, and place them in our hands - we give thanks.

GC, Day 24 - Anne McCaffrey

2011-11-24T23:01:00.005Z

Again, my planned entry has been put on hold due to a current event - which seems to be the way of things at the moment.

Just in the last few minutes, I have heard of the death of one of the first (still a favourite) fantasy authors I ever read: Anne McCaffrey. And a part of my childhood - well, adolescence - died with her.

I remember the first time I picked up one of her books - The White Dragon, third in her Dragonriders of Pern series. I was in the Middle School library on a Friday, and my eye was caught by a...white dragon. I checked it out and took it home, planning to start it as soon as I'd done my homework.

One of the things that you need to know is that I wasn't allowed to read for pleasure: I was only allowed to read textbooks and books on our summer reading lists. The rationale was that reading for pleasure would 'distract' me from 'real' work, and thus lower my grades. To a child who had loved to read for as long as she can remember, this was torture...

...but a brilliant way of developing resourcefulness: I hid books in drawers under clothes, under my bed, in my bookbag, under my MATTRESS, behind things on closet shelves, under things in desk drawers, in the basement - I cannot even TELL you how many ways I found to hide books or how many I had hidden at once.

The White Dragon was no exception.

Well, except that I couldn't put it down, and nearly got caught with it in my Geography book (sorry, Mr Caussin!) more than once that weekend. I was immediately drawn to Jaxom, accidentally Impressing a runt albino dragon; trying to come into his own through a rocky adolescence; wanting to fight danger on his own; falling critically ill when he is so close to proving himself.

And Ruth. Well. LOVE!!!! And he couldn't just travel where, he could travel WHEN! (This was novelty, as it was before I met Dr Who.) It was the first time I was introduced to an intense telepathic, unconditionally loving bond between two characters, and the fact that one of them was a dragon (a mythical animal I'd sneakily loved for ages) just rocked my world. I was desperate to Impress one.

I was hooked - fascinated by this world which had moved backwards technologically. I vividly imagined my self in Jaxom's world, with F'lar and Lessa; Piemur struggling after his voice broke; Menolly and Sebell; Robinton and Lytol. I picked up all the books in the series I could find and wrapped myself in this world so different from, yet so like, our own; imagined what it would be like to have a bond like the one Riders shared with their dragons; lived their joys and sorrows.

Pern felt like home in a way the world I lived in never had.

And to this day, Brekke's heart-wrenching, soul-ripping cry to F'nor, 'Don't! DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE!' haunts the occasional dream - and if I'm honest, waking moment.

This world, which led me to others I also love dearly - the Deryni and Valdemar - brought me sanctuary and gave me space to begin to explore who I was through the characters I identified most closely with; those I wanted as friends and family; having imaginary chats about my problems with a dragon; allowing their emotions to channel my own.

Though I left when I grew older, Pern has always been in my blood; Robinton's song in my heart.

I think it may be time to return, even as its creator has left us: Anne McCaffrey, requiescat in pace.

For Pern's creator - and the creator of so many wonderful worlds (I came to the Rowan's world much later) and sanctuary of my adolescence - I give thanks.

GC, Day 23 - Self-help books

2011-11-23T18:55:00.004Z

I have a confession to make. I love self-help books. They've taken a beating over the years, and there are some seriously shite ones out there (though they're often worth a laugh) - but there are some godsends (my favourite being Clarissa Pinkola Estes' Women who run with the wolves). Pema Chodron rocks my world, as does Jack Kornfield - which tells you a great deal about my style. I meld well with books that have a spiritual foundation with exercises that I can try. Most recently, Stephen Cope's A seeker's guide to extraordinary living paired with Pema's The places that scare you has facilitated a profound shift that I'll be feeling the effects of for years.

Some people need classes and a lot of sensory input. I need the big picture, time to think and be alone with it and figure out how it works for me. I need to play before I can bring it to a group and move to the next step.

Self-help books are perfect for my way of learning. The deal is that you take what works for you, leave the rest - it may either settle and work for you later, or just not work at all, and that's fine - and keep a sense of humour and perspective. If you start making it a religion, game - and self-help - over.

Thus, I would like to thank Giovanni della Casa for kicking off the Western self-help book with this bit of wisdom:

It is also an unpleasant habit to lift another person's wine or his food to your nose and smell it.

Indeed.

GC, Day 22 - Letting go

2011-11-22T18:49:00.012Z

A few weeks ago, my second cousin in Pakistan told me that my parents would be visiting him for Eid. I'm not sure what made me ask, but I requested that he take some photographs and send them on. It was curiosity, in part, but I think part of me also wanted confirmation that I had made the right decision.

Pics were taken, C popped online yesterday, promising to email the pics. This morning, my smartphone claimed several emails had arrived. I scrolled through, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw the promised one. What would I feel on seeing the pictures? What did they look like? Did they know the pics were being taken for me?

I got into work, waited for Outlook to start up my work account, loaded my personal one and clicked on the first picture.

From left to right: Uncle Zafar (mother's brother who, in an irreverent moment, I thought looked like a South Asian Mennonite), my mother, my father. I haven't spoken to them in 7 years; I haven't seen them in over 10.

I have always read pictures - you can give me one picture from a wedding or an ordination, and I can tell you if the couple or ordinand should have gone there; give me a set, and we'll be talking dynamics very quickly. I drink pictures in; they're the next best thing to real people-watching. It is this habit of mine that makes me so cautious in pictures - I know how easy it is to read people in them if you are not invested in things being a certain way: an event being happy; a pillar of society being good.

But what of these pictures, ones in which I have such emotional investment? I am struck by the deep unhappiness in my mother's eyes, but not surprised - I saw that coming when I was young. I find myself wanting to reassure her, but not touch her or get too close to her. I can't quite trust the rage behind the...'checked out' feeling; the sense that she missed out on happiness, on living, despite having had a materially comfortable life. I ache for her, but I don't think I can be in relationship with her, not yet, perhaps not ever. Not unexpected.

What is more unexpected is my father's uncertainty, the sense of being lost which emanates, never apparent behind his perpetual rage - and the frailty of the man who was always bigger than I was, stronger. He is frozen in his prime to me, in his strength, his 30s and 40s, though I am suddenly flooded with memories of moments of weariness when his head was in his hands. I remember being told of his sisters' deaths by another member of his family, and of his closeness to at least one of them - even now, I am only almost certain there were two, and not one, for he would never speak of a sister.

Suddenly, I realise that he has kept losing the women in his life: his sisters, his wife through a loveless marriage and, by not being able to love her, his daughter. It breaks my heart. But what shocks me is the overwhelming desire to hold my father until he finally cries. And I understand why I've chased the men I've chased - those in whom I see the frightened little boy they protect by assuming a persona of anger and rigid control, with the occasional addiction; men I need to save. I understand why I find male grief unbearable, why it overwhelms me. I couldn't save the first man in my life or ease his pain; maybe easing the pain of all the others will make that feeling of helplessness end. Finally, I can stop chasing, stop trying to save those I cannot.

I want to understand my mother too; want to feel for her as I do my father, but the sense of betrayal is deeper and more complex - and that's okay. It is enough (and a huge step) that I want to speak to her, to reassure her. That is what it needs to be.

So I find that the two people I have spent my life trying to get away from are the two people I find myself wanting to heal. I finally understand that though my experience of them was and is very real, I don't need to hold on to the story of them as irredeemable. They can simply be people who were twisted by anger, in whom there was no room for self-awareness and love, who suffered a very human tragedy they were never able to escape. What they gave me was beyond measure: an ability to be in the darkness, to know that I can overcome anything, a drive to grow beyond the trap they lived, a hunger for freedom for myself and others, to make sure no one in my circle ever feels alone and unloved.

And I am free. Free to love deeply and intensely in the way that I know I can, that I know I need to. Free to parent children without the fear of becoming my parents. Free from believing that I am unloved and unlovable - something my friends have proven to be a lie for years, yet something I never felt until now, because I realise that the way I've reacted to the pictures is the way only a person who loves and can be loved reacts.

There is a spaciousness, a place waiting to be filled where the story and its attendant emotions of anger and pain used to reside - but I don't feel the need to fill it. I light a candle to Our Lady in gratitude and know it is time to be still, to be with this in love.

So I breathe, close my eyes, and move easily into Hoʻoponopono, picturing my parents and repeating, 'I'm sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you...'

...and wait for what dreams may come.

GC, Day 21 - Detachment

2011-11-21T22:36:00.004Z

Today, a carefully planned, very important meeting for tomorrow completely fell apart. I was surrounded by frustration, anger, tension.

And I wasn't bothered. I was frustrated about certain things, but I felt like the drama was happening at a distance. My usual wont is to absorb all the feelings and then return them in some fashion, get caught up in it, even get off on the adrenaline.

Today - nothing. I did what needed doing, but felt remarkably calm throughout. I rather thought it might be a blessing in disguise. Something similar happened a few weeks ago when a friend's unexpected reaction knocked me for six, but I managed to pause, breathe and react to the person I know and love, not the words of a moment.

Suddenly, I've turned around to find that I'm beginning to act out of stillness. Oh, sure, I still go off on one. Yes, I still say things to catalyse a situation or to shock. But more and more often, I'm finding that instead of going full-tilt into a charged conversation - very much the way one had to deal with my father - I'm pulling back, slowing it down.

And I'm discovering that - contrary to what I'd been afraid of - it doesn't mean that I'm less passionate or less intense. I'm still loud, expressive, can talk a hind leg off a donkey and gesture a lot - that's not ever going to change. It simply means the energy isn't wasted the way it was when I'd go full tilt - lashing out, into an argument, political discussion, etc. It's channelled. Moving from stillness doesn't mean I'm boring, or lacking vibrancy, colour or passion: it means I'm beginning to use it well.

Apparently, the spiritual practice that I've been doing not-as-well-or-as-regularly-as-I-might has been working more-than-I-deserve.

SCORE!

GC, Day 20 - Baileys

2011-11-20T20:20:00.006Z

Baileys, how do I love thee - let me count the ways:

1. Neat, neat, neat. NO ICE. EVER.
2. On cheap vanilla ice cream.
3. In coffee.
4. In a milkshake.
5. As part of an Orgasm.
6. In cocktails.
7. Did I say neat?

I was raised Muslim, so I never expected to drink. After the rum and Coke made by LLM, it was years before I actually tried another drink - Baileys - on the suggestion of a friend - at the Four Provinces Pub on Connecticut Ave: I was hooked after the first sip. For a while, it was all I would drink, then I tried it in cocktails, tried Midori, and moved into wine, but never quite made it to beer - unless it's strawberry.

But the love of that first sip has never faded, and it's still what I reach for when it's time to celebrate, after a tough week or month, on a night out with friends.

So raise your glass if you see God in hidden places,
He's right in front of you...

So raise your glass if you can see the hidden meaning,
it's right in front of you,
we will never be never be anything but proud to tell the story,
v'nahafoch hu

So pour the Baileys, raise your glass - and let's get out there and turn the world upside down.

GC, Day 19 - IM in all forms

2011-11-19T21:51:00.005Z

Facebook chat, gchat, Skype, AIM, MSN Messenger: for all these, I am grateful, because I can stay connected.

I've cried, laughed, railed, discussed everything from politics and ethics to setting the world to rights, thanks to each one of these IM programmes. And I've gotten to do it in real time with people I might not otherwise get to talk to, except via email.

Yes, email is nice, but correspondence will never evolve the way a real-time talk will. They are truly special. I can even pretend, if I have a glass of wine, that it's an evening out with a friend across the pond that I haven't seen in years.

Do I not get enough sleep? Quite often. But so worth it to keep the connection that is the lifeblood of friendships.

It's good to talk. Now I just need to set up the webcam...

GC, Day 18 - A free lunch

2011-11-18T23:21:00.005Z

This week has been one where I am just beyond tired and cranky with humanity, though I've managed to keep up the gratitude challenge, even if I didn't start writing before 2300.

This weekend isn't much better, as I had a supervision today, a 90 minute Management Committee teleconference for my volunteer organisation, and a training day tomorrow (one I'm looking forward to, but it still means the loss of a lazy Saturday).

And to top it all off, next week is Paz's and Gosia's last week. Serious suckage.

Near the end of what had become a very intense group supervision, I felt my phone vibrate in my jacket pocket. It was only a few minutes before the end, so I waited till I walked out, thinking about what I was going to pick up for lunch.

As soon as I opened the message, I felt myself start to smile, and the spiky cynicism that had been at the surface all week start to ease.

It wasn't a message bringing life-changing happy news, or even a cute animal picture.

It was, quite simply, a text from Paz:

Hey I went to Cairo cafe and have looooadddsss left over so if you want it don't buy lunch!! It's moussaka and rice xx

A simple message of nurture and friendship. Clearly, there IS such a thing as a free lunch.

I went straight back to work and...guess what? Despite offering me half her lunch, Paz half-apologised for it being vegetarian.

*Affectionate eyeroll* P-doodle, it was fabulous. Thank you for taking care of me today, and most days.

And ja, I am going to miss you like hell, chick.

GC, Day 17 - Hands

2011-11-17T20:58:00.003Z

I have always loved hands - read about that in detail here. (Yes, I know this is a bit of a cheat, but it is true!)

And not least as I watch male friends light up and pull into themselves, revealing a vulnerable side one so rarely sees.

For all hands (and opposable thumbs) do - healing, nurturing, holding, touching a beloved - I give thanks.

GC, Day 16 - Just in time...

2011-11-16T20:40:00.004Z

Today, I was sure that I was going to write a very different entry, but a facebook status, posted at 19.45 GMT, changed all that.

Right now, I am simply filled with gratitude that I had the time to say, 'I'm sorry. Thank you. I love you. And I'm here.' It matters not how it is received; whether there is a reply; what that reply may be - it matters simply that she knows.

So easily, it could have been too late.

Thank you.

GC, Day 15 - Adversity

2011-11-15T22:11:00.003Z

Yes, you read that right.

Today's adversity was trivial - it was simply a matter of my final case study not arriving on the day that everyone else's did, and not knowing whether I'd passed or not, even as I watched my FB wall fill up with statuses joyfully announcing folks having passed their case studies as I sat at home, seething at the postman, wondering why I hadn't put my work address on the envelope. It was the subject of THREE (HA HA HA, to quote the Count) facebook statuses, one of which went something like this:

Ok. Now that her study group mates have GOTTEN THEIR CASE STUDIES BACK TODAY, SHE IS FUCKING. FREAKING. OUT.

And that simple, angst-ridden status brought on a rush of support:

L: Perhaps they are saving the best for last?

P^2: Oxford post is rubbish. FACT x

Irim: Argh!!! *freak freak freak freak* - or we just have a profoundly crap post delivery - I swear, about 1/10th of the post that should get to this house actually DOES. xx

Irim: ‎L - bless you! xx

M: I'm with L on this - it is probably so good they are really really studying it in depth

Irim: I have the best friends in the world, I really do. ♥ you guys. I'm just going through it in my head, thinking, 'GAH!' I SHOULD have had it delivered to work. xx

PS: ‎*HUGS*

Irim: Thanks, hon, *HUGS*

PS: anytime hon :)

K: Rubbish post. Kxx

E: It'll be absolutely fine. You know how terribly the post is in Oxford. When I lived in London it would take at least twice as long to send something to Oxford as it did to send something to Bristol or Cambridge. I'm totally sympathetic, though, I got my dissertation back weeks after most of my friends...... They'd lost it!

Irim Sarwar ‎*HUGS*, K & E. Am feeling loads calmer now thanks to my awesome friends :-). xx

That's leaving out Ari, who was my gchat saviour, making me think logically and breathe; and Mazz, my gchat sussie, who just let me go ARRRRRRGH indefinitely.

I have the best friends in the world, I really do.

That quote just sums it up. This was the tiniest of things, yet when I showed I needed support, my friends were there in droves. And trust me, when it gets harder, that safety net gets stronger; when it gets darker, their collective light shines brighter.

I am truly blessed by them, and that is why I give thanks for adversity - because it reminds me, in spades, that I have truly found my family.

GC, Day 14 - Music

2011-11-14T19:39:00.006Z

What to say? So much, yet there aren't words.

Music has always been the way into my feelings - especially when I didn't know what I was feeling: from Tallis to Victoria to Bach to Evanescence and Twisted Sister, music has been my salvation, my joy and my soul's voice; how I enter and explore my emotional and spiritual depths. With or without lyrics, it is the one place in which I lose - and find - myself.

Crikey, this isn't easy to explain, is it? Ok, I'm a teacher, so let's take a recent example.

Today, my friend, Marie, mentioned a couple of songs that had really moved her, and gave me a napster link that didn't work. So I googled both song titles and youtube. Only one popped up, and I took it as a sign that it was the one I needed to listen to.

I should have known - from the first line, I had to fight back tears as I worked, thinking, 'I'm at work, can't cry; I'm at work, can't cry.'

I grew up in what is probably best described as an emotionally dysfunctional family - by the time I was 4, I felt no attachment to my parents at all - and the feeling was mutual. My dirty little secret has always been this: 'How unlovable must I be that my parents couldn't love me and how horrible must I be that I didn't feel attached to them?'

I always felt that my only purpose was to be an extension of my parents; to be something that propped up their sense of worth, though I couldn't have phrased it that way then. Never was there a sense of being loved no matter what; 'love' - or rather, approval - was doled out sparingly when one got an 'A' or did something else that enhanced the parental image. Everything else was met by scorn or anger, even things beyond our control: my mother was furious with me when I got my period too early for her liking; my father once refused to speak to me for a week for something I didn't do - but he couldn't be bothered to find that out before cutting me off.

No, wait. The best summary of my father is actually the following: when I finally told him his brother had sexually abused me for 4 years, starting when I was 5, his response was, "It's not important; it doesn't matter."

So I grew up in a house never feeling safe in someone's love and protection; never believing there would be anyone there for me when I needed them; believing childhood was hell, marriage and family a trap; never believing that I would be worth anything to anyone simply for who I was rather than what I could do for them.

I've come a long way, baby, believe me.

So I grew into a girl - and then, a woman - who is a remarkable survivor, much like a spore, but didn't know how to revert to seed: I knew how to keep people out and I knew how to pursue love, but not how to be in it or with it. As recently as Sunday, I said to a friend about my being loved (specifically by a man in a romantic relationship), 'I'm not sure I believe in it.' It wasn't what I meant to say, but it was absolutely true.

Loved, adored, for me? Someone caring enough for ME to come after me because they treasure me, love me, want to be with me, care for me, because I'm me?

Are you on CRACK? I don't even believe that of God. I never went to God with things I couldn't handle until I was completely stuck because, of course, God would just yell at you, tell you what a fucking failure you were, and why couldn't you EVER get it right? He gave you free will after all.

And so, when Marie brought me this song, music finally found a way in where nothing else had:

I saw you as a little girl
When you were in this room all alone
And you wanted to be found
But no one came and found you
But this is your time now
This is your day
Cause that little girl inside of you
Is what makes my heart ache

You are my love
You are worth purusing
You are my love
You're worth pusuing

I am finding you right now
Right now I'm finding you in that room
And I am taking you by the hand
And I'm leading you out
Into a new place
Forever that place that kept you in
Forever that place that held you in
Forever that place
Forever that place will be shut off

You are my love
You are worth pursuing
You are my love
You're worth pursuing

And you're not going to have fear anymore
You're not going to fear being alone anymore
You're not going to fear
You're not going to fear
Becuase it's being swallowed up in my love for you
And my passion for you
I'm so taken by you
And I'm going to restore all your years
I'm going to restore every tear
You will know my joy
You will know my smile
And you will know dance
Because I am going to show you off
I am so proud of you
And it's time for you to know it
You're so beautiful to me
You're so beautiful to me

Wait. What?

Something that happened to me made someone's heart ache?

Me? Worth pursuing? You want to find me? To really know me, all of me? Not just what I can do for you or how I can make you feel or...? You're PROUD of me?

You'll always be there? I'm safe?

...you love me?

Okay. Something in the music tells me I can believe you, so I'm willing to give it a try.

Deo gratias.

GC, Day 13 - Ethereal light

2011-11-13T17:58:00.004Z

(http://visitscotland.com)

One of the many things I've loved about moving further north - heaven knows I haven't gotten proper winters, with the Gulf Stream - is the ethereal autumn and winter light. Even many an autumn later, my heart sings at the first sign of the mellowing of the light in late August.

At first, in late August, it is just a softening from the sharp yellow of summer to a warmer gold. Then one day in September, I'm walking into work, look down the road, and my breath is taken away by a glow that promises entry into the world of the Sidhe. Oxford has this odd sense of being at the crossroads of many times; I've often felt that if I turned a certain way, I'd find myself back in the 17th century - and the autumn/winter light just enhances that by adding the tantalising prospect of entering another dimension.http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

I whisper a prayer of gratitude every time I catch that glow, more ethereal as autumn brings us to winter. By mid-October, one could actually be in the land of the Sidhe.

Just one step off the well-travelled path...

(http://www.equinoxshard.com/ms/woe/races/sidhe.php)

GC, Day 12 - Dreams

2011-11-12T17:38:00.002Z

I have always dreamt intensely and often - remembering 3 dreams a night is not unusual for me - which has meant many a night has seen me wake up bolt upright from dreams that seemed more real than daytime life. It has meant a lot of time trying to work out what they're trying to tell me.

That might seem like a nightmare to some, but I love it, because it's like stepping into other worlds, sometimes several in a night, and it's like having an extra messenger or an extra classroom - even with dreams like last night's:

In the dream, two teeth on the lower right side of my mouth came out when I pushed my tongue against them. This happened after a fortnight of my teeth not feeling like my own. I was in the midst of pushing at my teeth with my tongue (an old habit) when they both came out.

I panicked and burst into tears. In a panic I tried to put them back and they crumbled into pieces, and I noticed that there was a long contraption that looked like it had been keeping one tooth in its place since childhood, and I pulled it out.

I put my shattered teeth into a ziploc bag, desperate to the point of tears to find a dentist. I kept getting distracted and ended up having to meet people (I was somewhere sunny - blue, blue sky and beautiful ocean - everything was blue, actually) and trying not to smile.

Finally, my friend SK found me an appointment with her NHS dentist and made the appointment for me the next day (she was the receptionist, oddly enough), and I was going to get new teeth - better than the old ones, though I was really stressed about the intervening time. I also tried to ring EE, a dentist friend back home, to find out what to do, and to tell her that I wished I was within reach of her office! To add insult to injury, I got a message from Halifax bank (not mine) that someone had taken thousands out of my account over time.

Freakily enough, S has just signed up with a dentist and had a recent message from Halifax - but there's also a message for me here - about stepping out of the dark into the light (the kitchen/house I was in was dark and didn't let in enough light; going out to see others in BRIGHT sunshine, not a cloud in the sky), letting go of the old and trusting in the new.

But unsettling as it was, I am thankful for this dreams and all the others - messengers with lessons I need to learn.

GC, Day 11 - Veterans

2011-11-11T18:18:00.003Z

There are no words to express my gratitude to the men and women who, over the years, have enlisted in the Armed Forces and offered their lives - and the lives of their families, who have borne so much, from PTSD and shell-shock, to boys on bicycles bringing telegrams to officers walking up to their door - to protect us all. To this day, I can barely watch a Remembrance Day programme without my tears blurring the picture on the screen.

Thank you is all I have, but I offer it from the depths of my heart.

And since my words will not suffice, perhaps the words of one of your erstwhile comrades might:

For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
--Laurence Binyon

Replace 'England' with the name of any country, for this is for all those who have sacrificed for their country - for you are all known to the innermost heart of your own land.

Lest we forget.

GC, Day 10 - a night off

2011-11-10T16:12:00.005Z

Don't get me wrong, I LOVE counselling, and I love my Thursday night shift. But that doesn't mean that I don't occasionally need a night off - and recently, I've been feeling pretty damn close to the end of my reserves. So much so that getting to my Thursday night shift was beginning to feel like a real chore, though I loved how I felt after the sessions. But I had resigned myself to waiting till 1 December for my planned few days away before I had a break.

Today, at 15.45, about 20 min before I'd normally leave, my phone went, but the number didn't show up before it went off. I turned it off and turned it on again, put it somewhere it had signal, when a text came through - my client had cancelled.

One shiftmate was off this week already, the other was wrapping up a final client. At worst, I'd have to go down to babysit and be out at 18.30. I made ready to go - after all, what chance was there that HIS client had cancelled too, right?

"But my intuition kept hounding me. 'Ring him. Ring him and check. She has, you know."

"Oh, come ON,' my logical side said. 'Don't be stupid. Just go. Wishful thinking."

'RING. YOU KNOW YOU HATE IT WHEN I'M RIGHT. AND I'M ALWAYS RIGHT."

I sighed, acknowledging defeat. So I nipped out to where I had signal and rang.

He picked it up on the fourth ring, and after the usual greetings, I asked, 'Hey, on the offchance, has your client cancelled?'

He said, 'Well, yes, yes she has. Why?'

Once I'd overcome my shock at the serendipity, 'Because mine has cancelled, so there's no point in us showing up; there's no one to see.'

His voice lit up. 'REALLY? A night off!'

I grinned. 'Yup.'

In unison, 'See you next week.'

I was somewhat surprised at how relieved I was at having to stay at work and just go home at 17.00 as usual; to be able to wrap up in my slanket and not to have to help anyone.

But for once, I didn't feel guilty. As they say on airplanes, place your mask on yourself first before attempting to help others. And this night off is my mask, which I'll be putting on and drawing deeply of the oxygen of rest.

So, to Our Lady, the Holy Spirit and the angels for orchestrating this one - a huge thank you and a big 'mwah'.

And now, it's time for me to get home to my slanket. Till tomorrow, everyone. I'm off to nestle in on this dark, autumn night of the full moon.

GC, Day 9 - Rum & Coke

2011-11-09T23:26:00.004Z

Have had about half a pint too much - so I've had more alcohol in the last week than I have the entire year to date - but rum & Coke will always have a special place in my heart, since it's the first drink I ever had, made by LLM when we were in high school - using 1/2 rum and 1/2 Coke. My proportions are closer to standard now (though the ones Jack made tonight are between a double and a triple) - but I still love that fizz up my nose, that much-loved cola taste with the twist of West Indian spice.

Perfect.

I may drink more gin and tonics, and anything with a Baileys base will always be a favourite, but rum & Coke, you were my first.

And we all know how you never forget your first. L'chaim!

GC, Day 8 - Counsellor review

2011-11-08T21:48:00.004Z

Didn't think I'd be grateful for this - I was actually quite dreading it. But I was blessed enough to have my review with 2/3 of my interview panel - both of whom I get on with really well, trust and feel I can speak my mind to.

The synergy was amazing - lots of laughter, challenge, thoughtfulness and 'How about Question 10? Shall we start with that?'

'Anarchy!'

Me: 'But you're client-centred - that shouldn't matter!' (cue *gales of laughter*)

That pretty much set the tone for an open, warm, organic conversation, which wasn't short on probing, depth or honesty. I had been worried about how I was going to say what I needed to say about my concerns, but I needn't have been - they arose naturally in the course of the discussion, without the edge, without the anger I feared would creep in.

And when I left, the bus to get me home - which only comes every 30 minutes - showed up 5 minutes after I got to the bus stop.

The whole evening was a perfect example of flow, reminding me of something else very important: Wu Wei, or doing through not doing.

What needed to be done was done; what needed saying was said - all in the most effective way possible, with the least effort, in a way that it could be most absorbed.

And I had nothing to do with making it happen.

I couldn't have forced it to happen or manipulated it to happen in a better way - anything I would have tried would have led to a poorer outcome.

So - reviewers who listen, synergy and Wu Wei via Ruach (as well as allowing room for it to happen - or breathing room, perhaps?), G-d, we give you thanks.

GC, Day 7: Tonglen

2011-11-07T23:41:00.005Z

I don't particularly want to talk about it in detail, but today, the practice of tonglen - whether it was breathing in anger, fear, hurt or grief (and yes, I did all four and then some) - mine or anyone else's - made a real difference.

Having a practice to sit with difficult feelings meant that I could act from my centre, that I could ask G-d for help, that I could remain grounded in the midst of a maelstrom.

Thank you, Buddha, and thank you, Pema Chodron - you made it possible for me to both stay in the space and hold it, even when I most thought I might not be able to.

GC, Day 6: Those with breathtaking talent

2011-11-06T18:55:00.004Z

A few weeks ago, I sat through a sermon where the preacher suggested that some of the worst times in our life were times when we realised that people were better at things than we were - e.g., playing the piano.

I was mystified. Why would knowing that someone was better than me at something be one of the worst times in my life? The worst times in my life have been the moments of unimaginable loss, when I could barely breathe, barely remember who I am. Other people being better than I am and not being the person I thought I was weren't even at the periphery of my mind. Even as I heard him, I thought, 'Why would I be upset at someone being better than I am? Someone always IS.'

My parents felt like he did - that I needed to be the best at EVERYTHING intellectual, and that if I wasn't, I was either being lazy or robbed. Even then, I knew it wasn't true. What I resented was not being allowed to work out who I was and who I wanted to be - and what MY gifts really were.

At our high school commencement exercise, we were told to applaud those around us - to start clapping and never stop. I hope I've done that.

And do I clap wholeheartedly? I do.

I take immense pleasure in watching the breathtakingly gifted using their gift to the full: Usain Bolt; Itzhak Perlman; Mikhail Baryshnikov; Carl Rogers; Stephen Hawking; Salman Rushdie; JM Coetzee; Nelson Mandela.

It's like catching a glimpse of the spirit of God move upon the waters. Because people pouring out their gifts, using them to the hilt, is a continuation of that first act of creation.

It is holy.

And do I ever get upset if I see those better than I am at my gifts? No. Watching Lorna, our tutor last year, teach, was an incredible experience - I just wanted to learn from her. Ditto my friend Keith, who is a superb therapist. And as for writing, well:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
--John Keats

Tell me, no matter how wonderful a writer one hoped to be, how could one not melt into that for sheer joy in its beauty? To resent that would be a sin.

We all have gifts to bring in ways that only we can bring them - and it is for us to continue Creation's song by pouring them out as do the Usain Bolts, the Mikhail Baryshnikovs, the Nelson Mandelas.

And so I am deeply grateful for them - not only for the joy and good they bless us with as we witness their beauty and power, which is a form of tikkun olam, but also - and even more so - for pointing the way to compose our own phrase in Creation's song.

Sometimes, having your breath taken away can be a good thing.

GC, Day 5 - FIRE

2011-11-05T19:46:00.003Z

No serenade, no fire brigade, just pyromania --Def Leppard

As it's Guy Fawkes Night on this side of the pond, also known as Bonfire Night, I thought I'd give thanks for fire - because I love it in so many forms: in its roaring forms such as fireplace, campfire, woodsmoke, and bonfire, of course. But I also love it in its quieter forms such as candlelight, pilot light, gas stove, glowing embers, lava, thurible.

I love its dance, its glow, its beckoning.

And though I have a healthy respect for fire, I find myself fascinated by it in its more destructive forms - taken in by its hypnotic power even when I should move away.

Fire warms, cleanses, purifies, destroys dross, tempers steel, makes room for new growth - though often devastating when not channeled - as are so many things, not least our shadow.

It may wreak havoc, but it has made life possible.

And so, Prometheus - thank you. And everyone else, I've got something to say...

It's better to burn out - than fade away!

So, walk into the ring of fire - you will, without question, find devastation - but you will also find passion, warmth, creativity and a dance with life.

GC, Day 4: Nighttime walks

2011-11-04T23:42:00.003Z

This entry was totally going to be about the theological conversation I overheard last night - in fact, it's still in draft as Day 4, but will have to become Day 5, because half a pint of strawberry beer and splitting a bottle of white wine with Nick means I am too drunk to do a complicated gratitude entry before midnight.

So, I am grateful for nighttime walks in my city. Oxford is beautiful at any time, but increasingly so at dusk and after - and the sense of being at a crossroads in time - that you'll turn a certain way and find yourself in the 17th century - envelops one. It's why I go on the Oratory night walk every year. To turn a corner and see one of the many stunning buildings - colleges, chapels, part of the Bodleian library, lit from inside underneath a moonlit sky fills my heart with joy.

Note to self: must take more.

GC - days 2&3, the cheat: Gosia & Paz

2011-11-03T08:49:00.006Z

Ok, as I said yesterday, since I started on 2 November, I'd cheat on one of the days of the gratitude challenge and do two things for which I'm grateful. So, here we go: I'm grateful for the two greatest officemates ever, Gosia and Paz. They can decide between themselves which one is 1 November and which one is today.

Gosia and I started here at about the same time, autumn 2007, and discovered that we were birthday twins (she's the younger) - which was all we knew about each other whilst I was cataloguing books part-time. We'd smile at each other, have brief conversations, but didn't really get to know each other till my job changed and I came on full-time in a position where I had the pleasure of working closely with her, and later, of sharing an office with her.

G (as I call her) exudes the cool and glamour of old-style movie stars: tall and graceful as a Grecian column, she can be wearing jeans and still make one feel under-dressed. In addition, she is frighteningly competent and shows remarkable equanimity with things that drive me into wanting to slap people silly. Professional glam, that's G.

But scratch the surface, and you find an amazing cook (her baked goods are to DIE for), a wicked sense of humour, and a superb listener who dispenses some of the best advice I've heard and reminds me that there are times to leave it be. Without a doubt, she's a friend you'd want by your side no matter the situation. She reminds me that it is possible to be passionate and professional, a gift I hope to do justice to one day.

I am so grateful to count you amongst my friends, G, and I shall miss seeing you every day.

Paz - or the delightfully pint-sized Pizzazzadoodle/P-doodle (as I call her - don't ask) - is as warmly effervescent as G is coolly glamorous. Unfortunately - or fortunately - she's as easily amused as I am (again, best NOT to ask), so our peals of laughter are often heard through the office, as Gosia grins, yet somehow manages to remain the grown-up presence as we find ourselves unable to speak. But as with the froth on the surface of the ocean, don't let the effervescence fool you - there's a perceptiveness and depth that startled me early on, but does no longer - and a genuine acceptance of people as they are, and a real 'to each their own path', that is a true grace - one I'd love to have one day. Our daily lunchtime constitutionals are something else on my gratitude list, the more precious now that they are numbered.

As, of course, is the Pizzazzadoodle mug she gave me for my birthday.

I shall miss you loads, P-doodle: not quite sure what I'll do at lunchtime anymore, or without the sound of your Diet Coke cans opening. I'm sure I'll figure it out, but I think it'll take a while.

With such different personalities, one would have thought this would have been one of the spikiest offices in North Oxford - but it came together with such synergy that by the end of Paz's first month, I knew we had something special - and by grace, I have never taken it for granted.

Now that it is coming to an end so soon, I find myself grieving, of course, because I shall miss them more than I can express. But I am also deeply grateful that I have had this time with them, and wouldn't have traded it for the world.

Love you guys, and wish you all the joy in the world as you move on - may all your dreams and so much more come true.

The gratitude challenge - All Souls' Day

2011-11-02T10:02:00.006Z

A friend has just posted a gratitude challenge that she did last year - one thing you're grateful for in every day of November. I want to do this because I tend to focus on what needs fixing and I need to shift that, but also because I'd like to write more regularly. I missed yesterday, so I'll be a bit naughty and do two in a post soon - but for today, it'll just be the one, since it's an unusual one.

I am grateful for All Souls' Day - the day the Catholic Church commemorates the faithful departed. It may seem an odd thing to be grateful for, but it is one of my favourite days - and masses - of the year.

I'm a twilight girl by nature, so I'll naturally prefer the nighttime Easter Vigil to the brightness of Easter Day; the shadows of All Souls to the dazzling All Saints. But my gratefulness is about far more than my preference.

In a world where we are told that we are failures if we are not perpetually happy, where we worship youth and shun aging and death, a day dedicated to death, prayer and grieving brings us back into the natural rhythm. We belong to both the light and shadow, joy and sorrow - we cannot have one without the other. It has been said that burnout is caused by a failure to grieve our losses, leading to a loss of joy and purpose, and an inability to act.

We need to grieve to live.

And so, I give thanks for this day of requiem: a day of black vestments, unbleached candles, minor keys, and twilight. This day, we enter grief's domain, and pray in the depths of our souls for those losses we have suffered in a way no one else has suffered them - but do so collectively, knowing that those next to us also grieve. And as we widen the spiral of prayer for the dead and bereaved to include their sorrow, those in our pew, and our church, the Church, the world...we go deeply into the heart of our grief, and come out the other side, finding solace, catharsis and peace.

And so today, even my facebook status marks this descent:

Irim is in an All Souls' mood: introspective, melancholy, praying for all souls, those who stand at the veil, and all who grieve - and looks forward to Anerio, unbleached candles, black vestments and stillness.

Even in the heart of grief, I am blessed to be part of this tradition.

Thank you.

A dream of Rome, a carnival and crossing the Tiber...

2011-08-24T11:29:00.002+01:00

...or not.

Last night, I dreamt that I was at a carnival in Rome with my work crew (so non-Catholics, with the exception of G).

Rome was bright, sunny and warm - and in the dream, completely divided by the Tiber. No bridges across from one side to the other; the only way across was by ferry, which didn't run very often, and if you missed it, you were out of luck. We were on the higher side with a better view, but there was a catch to that: you couldn't leave the city. The high road was a dead end, and to leave, you had to take the ferry across to the lower end and proceed to the exit.

The carnival was unsettling - I had the sense it had a Catholic theme, e.g., Mardi Gras (but wasn't). It *appeared* normal, with the colourful masks and costumes, but it *felt* wrong. I expected Pennywise the Clown to appear at any moment, but seemed to be the only one feeling uneasy. We picnicked along the Tiber, wandered, everyone else seemed happy, whilst I felt vigilant. [This is an early analysis, but I suspect part of the unsettledness was that this was somewhere I'd expect my close Catholic/clerical friends to be, and if they were at all, we were separated and unable to reach each other.]

The carnival ended, and I pushed for us to leave sooner rather than later, sensing something wasn't right. People dithered a bit, but in time to make the last ferry - just.

If, that is, it hadn't gotten stuck in the middle of the river under an old (unsafe) bridge.

There was a rope hanging just within reach, so I grabbed it to see if I could swing to the ferry and work out what to do from there. No go, it was just short, so back to the bank, standing in the shadow with my work colleagues to think.

We went back to a house we'd been using, and the librarian and his wife, who'd taken an earlier ferry over and back to buy things, popped round. I asked, 'Why didn't you just GO? Why did you come back here?'

I decided we were going to walk up the road and see what we could do - I knew cars got across somehow, through police manned, alarmed barriers, and I was going to argue our right to walk through them and get out, because of the ferry mishap. We headed off with me in the lead, arguing with police - who, interestingly, were dressed as Swiss guards - and they simply replied, 'Rules are rules.'

My response? "!@£$%^&*()(*&^%$£ statutory law v case law. Circumstances MATTER."

I tried to sneak through an alarmed barrier, as all my work peops shouted, 'IRIM!' in horror. I came back through and we ended up in the little guardhouse, where I took charge and spoke Spanish whilst they spoke Italian, so we understood each other, mostly.

Finally, at the end of my wits, I begged them to open up and allow people off 'Por Dios!' and then 'Por Roma!' - neither of which garnered much of a reaction. But then I remembered the most basic tenet of the faith I follow:

How do you get through to a Catholic male?

'POR *LA MADRE* DE DIOS!'

That got a reaction, as I looked out the window and saw swarms of Catholics moving up towards the barriers, some looking like zombies, others looking as if they were waking from a long dream.

Then, I knew. And I turned to them and said, with all the certainty of Teiresias or Cassandra:

"The people are coming. If I were you, I would move. NOW."

Tonglen in the Lady chapel

2011-07-26T15:30:00.005+01:00

It's an open secret that whenever I get a chance, I slip into the Lady Chapel for a few minutes at lunch to light a candle and say a quick prayer.

This afternoon, unusually, I was on my own, so I decided to try something different. As I've mentioned recently, I've been reading Pema Chodron's When things fall apart and The places that scare you (with a strong preference for the second) - and the first was on loan the minute I finished it. Brilliant, brilliant books - and they've totally transformed my spiritual practice.

There are different ways of using the practice, but the structure is always the same: you stop and find a moment of stillness/spaciousness; then you explore and work with the texture of the feeling you are going to breathe in - which is most often a negative, such as fear, anger, doubt, claustrophobia - whatever is there; you begin with yourself or someone you love; you make the circle bigger: yourself ==> someone you love ==> someone neutral ==> someone difficult ==> all beings. You breathe in the pain and breathe out spaciousness (or anything that would be healing/calming - I've been known to breathe out coffee, as did one of Pema's students, and chocolate!)

You can do it for your suffering and difficult feelings at the moment, initially breathing in your feelings, exploring them, holding them in maitri - or loving kindness and compassion for yourself - and then breathing for all those feeling like you at the moment and expanding the circle. You can do it for another's suffering and all those like them. That is classic tonglen.

But you can do it for all or any of the following, known as the four immeasurable truths - Love, compassion, joy and equanimity - these are the classic phrasings, though I've been known to change them. Use what holds the essence and works:

May all beings enjoy happiness and the root of happiness.
May they be free from suffering and the root of suffering.
May they not be separated from the great happiness devoid of suffering.
May they dwell in the great equanimity free from passion, aggression and prejudice.*
*I actually think that living our lives fully requires passion, so I specify it as 'passion that gives rise to aggression'.

Today, for me, smouldering over Glenn Beck and other things, Door #2 - 'free from suffering and the root of all suffering' was the right answer.

God was clearly smiling down on me, as when I got to Taylors, there were plenty of pastrami and emmental sandwiches left, so I grabbed one and headed into the cool semi-darkness of church, and the deeper sub-darkness of the Lady chapel. I didn't light a candle and stand or even pace as I prayed, as is my usual wont. I sat down and started to breathe.

May I be free of suffering and the root of all suffering.

*Squirm* I absolutely HATE praying for myself. And I DO mean *HATE*. Three breaths was pushing it, four was too far, but I stayed with it.

May he be free of suffering and the root of all suffering.

A good friend I'm really worried about. I could have stayed with that one for ages, but did it till it felt complete and moved on to neutral:

May the people in this church at this moment be free from suffering and the root of all suffering.

No resistance, only slight connection, but a disinterested kind of well-wishing. Ok, that's where I am, but need to work up from there to feel more engaged. But where I am is fine. Now for the toughie:

May Glenn Beck be free from suffering and the root of all suffering. No, edit that, may Glenn Beck and the Tea Partiers be free from suffering and the root of all suffering.

Resistance but managed to slip past it. Just as I was feeling spiritually smug, a voice whispered, 'It's easy when it's abstract. Pick someone you know.' Allah damn it. Just when I thought I was home free...ok, you pussy, woman up. Who's it going to be? Ah, yes. Someone who reminds me of a controlling mother.

May SHE be free from suffering and the root of all suffering.

NOW it was hard to breathe, the resistance and tension were so high, but I kept pushing - gently, in keeping with maitri, more like stretching, but I finally broke through - and found a compassion for her fear that I'd never expected to find. I'd always known she was afraid, but now I ached for her in her fear, rather than hardening in response to it.

Then I lined us all up and said it for us all together, spreading to Oxford, the South, England, the UK, the world and all beings.

Finally, I stood up and lit a candle to Our Lady. I have NEVER felt so grounded in my own centre, in my own strength. For the first time, I fully understood Kris' words to Talia in Mercy Lackey's Arrow's Flight:

"Ground and centre, greenie!"

In that moment, I fully knew what it felt to have slightly overlapping versions of yourself with fuzzy edges snap into one, with sharp, crisp boundaries. I knew nothing could shake me.

Then I turned around and nearly started laughing - not 5 steps away was a parishioner I find very difficult, because I perceive her as a mother who is 'too good' in the sense of 'this is what good is, let's be it' - and I experience her as very controlling through that 'I'm so good' way. She sets my teeth on edge. I smiled as I passed her and I thought, 'Come on, girl, breathe. Or colloquially, 'SUCK IT UP, BABES. THIS IS YOUR PRACTICAL.'' So I started breathing for her - and it wasn't easy.

Fifteen steps later, I passed by a regular asking for the sacristy key. As I'd just seen the sacristan go up the side with the above parishioner, I poked my head through and said, 'X, the sacristan has just gone up the side.' I got told, in no uncertain terms, to piss off and got totally blanked as he passed me. Normally, that would have led to annoyance, but I knew that was just the way he is, and what I'd done could have been seen as controlling rather than helpful. So now it was time to start breathing for him, as well.

Out the church door and into the sunlight, with an uneventful walk back to the office, also a church. And as soon as I sat down, who should sail to my desk but yet another difficult customer.

By now, I knew the laughing Buddha was glancing cheekily in my direction and was finding it hard to keep from giggling myself. There was no question that Our Lady was laughing richly, Joseph's lips were twitching, and Jesus was grinning like a boy who had just put a whoopee cushion on Mum's favourite chair, as the Father and Holy Spirit looked down and said, 'If you're gonna talk it, hon, you gotta learn to walk it.'

Ain't that THE spiritual truth? Being real?

And so, as I continue to breathe in and out for all of us, this time from Stephen Cope:

May you be protected and safe,
May you feel contented and pleased:
May your body support you with strength -
May your life unfold with ease.

Exodus, slavery and freedom

2011-07-18T23:46:00.007+01:00

Every Monday, I have a standing appointment at church, one that has only been interrupted over the last decade by jobs that meant I couldn't get there by 17.15 - and it has absolutely nothing to do with holiness. It does, however, have everything to do with crossword puzzles and deep mutual affection.

My friend, John Lynam, has had the Monday afternoon shift on the Oratory Lodge since its inception - or near enough so. It took us a little while to meet, but once we did, those Monday meetings where we do the Telegraph general knowledge crossword (I have the upper hand here) and the cryptic crossword (I'm getting better, but he still has the upper hand here. However, texting Alexander has always been the way forward - he's downright scary good) were almost as set in stone as the Ten Commandments. This has been interspersed with political and religious chat, as well as my reminding John where things are (years after I had to give up the lodge).

It makes Monday one of the best days of the week.

At around 17.45, he shuts up shop and we scoot into church for the evening mass, which ends with the veneration of St Philip's relic at about 18.35 or so. Occasionally a sermon, usually not, either way it entails discussion such as...

'Fr Richard finished mass in 18 minutes - caught most of the community flat-footed there. I didn't think it was possible!'

Today, we waxed lyrical over the rarely heard EP4 (only Fr JB ever does it, and even he, rarely) and talked about the sermon, which was about Exodus.

The reading was the complaining of the Israelites:

And they said unto Moses, Because there were no graves in Egypt, hast thou taken us away to die in the wilderness? wherefore hast thou dealt thus with us, to carry us forth out of Egypt? Is not this the word that we did tell thee in Egypt, saying, Let us alone, that we may serve the Egyptians? For it had been better for us to serve the Egyptians, than that we should die in the wilderness.

So: it would be better we had died enslaved and certain of what our life was, than to die free, uncertain and responsible for our choices.

The preacher focused on sin, which was understandable - but I think this passage goes far deeper than that; it goes to the core of one of our deepest struggles.

This passage was very synchronous for me. I have recently been reading Stephen Cope's Wisdom of Yoga, Jack Kornfield's A Path with Heart, and most recently, Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart and The Places that Scare You.

Every one of them speaks of understanding uncertainty and groundlessness as part of the path to freedom - that certainty is what we chase to avoid reality - the reality that everything changes and is impermanent, that nothing is certain. I am healthy today, but I could be dead of an aneurysm tomorrow. My world is stable and appears unchanging at the moment, but everything could shift in the blink of an eye. I see myself in a certain way, but even THAT isn't the truth - there are so many parts of me that are hidden and unexplored. One thing I realised yesterday is that the distance I've experienced in intimate relationships mirrors the distance I keep from myself - my whole self.

Freedom is about truth. Freedom is about intimacy - first and foremost with ourselves, and then with others. And freedom is about the certainty of uncertainty - and the adult responsibility of navigating it.

We think our feelings about freedom should be unmitigatedly positive, so we push away any suggestion of fear, struggle, or doubt when it comes to freedom. Of COURSE we want to be free - we wave freedom like a banner. But do we truly understand what it means? Every country that claims freedom is a slave to something: fear, addiction, competition, materialism, being powerful - the list goes on and on.

No, freedom means meeting every situation as it is in the moment, with full awareness, and with our full self (not our limited image of who we are) at our disposal - knowing that even as we make choices, they may not turn out as we planned. People may not stay - they die, they leave, relationships change. Things disappear - and so we must treasure what we do have, even as we do not depend on it for our happiness/joy - even as its presence may bring us great joy. Nor do we use it as a barrier to what scares us or to the truth.

You see, the dirty little secret is that certainty and safety makes us feel better - even as it enslaves us. To quote Kahlil Gibran:

...have you only comfort, and the lust for comfort, that stealthy thing that enters the house a guest, and then becomes a host and then a master?

Ay, and it becomes a tamer, and with hook and scourge makes puppets of your larger desires.

Though its hands are silken, its heart is of iron.

It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your bed and jeer at the dignity of the flesh.

It makes mock of your sound senses, and lays them in thistledown like fragile vessels.

Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.

So we grasp and we cling - not because we truly love, but just so that we know for sure, so that we have comfort.

Letting go of certainty doesn't mean we change relationships or our ideas as often as we change our clothes, mistakenly believing that we are being fluid or loving ourselves: staying with what is real, forming a relationship with it and being able to meet uncertainty requires steadfastness, not yet another form of running away.

And so, this inability to admit our mixed feelings about freedom leads us to roll our eyes at the Israelites, perhaps even condemn them, as they complain to Moses and even suggest that they were better off in the land of Egypt. But perhaps we condemn them as vociferously as we do because we know it is our truth - that we would rather go back to the addictions that keep us from true freedom - money, work, unhealthy relationships, unhealthy emotional patterns, drink, drugs, extreme forms of religion or anything that offers us escape or absolute certainty.

Perhaps if we could find compassion for the Israelites, we could find it for ourselves, and begin the long, slow walk to freedom.

In one of my favourite books, My Grandfather's Blessings by Rachel Remen, the young Rachel and her grandfather have the following conversation:

"Are they [the Israelites] very happy [about escaping], Grandpa?"

"No, Neshumeleh, they are not. They told Moses they did not want to go. They asked many questions. Where are we going? Who will feed us? Where will we sleep? Moses was deeply surprised. He could not answer any of these questions and he did not know what to do. How could he tell G-d that after all He had done to make freedom possible, they did not want to go?"

"But they were suffering, Grandpa. Why didn't they want to go?"

"They knew how to suffer," he told me. "They had done it for a long time and they were used to it. They did not know how to be free."

And this is the crux of the human condition, isn't it? We know our stories, we know our suffering, we know our wounds. We know how to survive. What we don't know how to do is how to live. But this little box is comfortable enough, right? I'm doing just fine. Who knows what will happen if I leave it?

But a gilded cage is still a cage.

So how do we move towards freedom, take that first wingbeat out of our cage into the exhilaratingly, yet frighteningly, open and infinite skies? As Rachel's grandfather reminds us, "...the choice people have to make is never between slavery and freedom. We will always have to choose between slavery and the unknown."

And the unknown is bloody scary. It's enough to make you slam that gilded cage door, peck birdseed and flap the odd half-wingbeat every once in a while for the rest of your life.

But again, the rebbe offers us hope if we dare to leave that door open and just flap those completely unfurled wings once, when Rachel asks, "Why does G-d come himself, Grandpa?"

"Ah, Neshumeleh, many people have puzzled over this question and have thought many different things. What I think is that the struggle toward freedom is too important for G-d to leave to others. And this is so because only the people who become free can serve G-d's holy purposes and restore the world. Only those who are not enslaved by something else can follow the goodness in them."

Freedom isn't a turning away. It is a turning toward, as any true vocation should be - a turning toward truth, integrity and love, and a continued acting from it. We may be in the wilderness for a long time; perhaps we will die in sight of the Promised Land, not quite reaching it - but through our continued acting from truth, perhaps we have helped others reach theirs.

Frightening? Yes. Exhilarating? Yes. Uncertain? To be sure.

But if we stand in that cage door and make that first wingbeat into open sky, we know this: in our move toward freedom, none other than G-d Himself will lead us.

Knowing that, perhaps we can find the courage to begin the journey, for...

...there are many paths to tread,
through shadows to the edge of night
Until the stars are all alight.

High mass...

2011-07-15T11:33:00.003+01:00

…Irim-style. The celebrant, deacon and subdeacon watch, bemused, as the altar servers fight over who gets to play with the thurible - which is the baby rattle you can just see between pig and gorilla. The tissues are supposed to be birettas; they're all I had to work with. And ja, the one in PVC is me as MC.

The wolf would totally have been the deacon if he hadn’t been in the room that was in use for the full 3 hours…the leaning forward and watchful look would have been truer to life.

Finis

2011-07-12T15:49:00.002+01:00

It was after one more incomprehensible interaction with a longstanding male friend that I finally (via chat) threw up my hands at Ari and said, without knowing what was going to come out,

WHAT THE HELL IS IT WITH ME AND ANGRY, TRAPPED MEN?????????????????

It's almost never women. My issues with female friends are few, but the ones I do have revolve around helplessness, playing the victim and neediness. The overwhelming majority of my female friendships are strong, vibrant, healthy - ja, we're all wounded but we're having heart-to-hearts, talking things through, cheering each other on as we move forward.

That's not to say that my relationships with men are all unhealthy. I've got some of the best guys in the world amongst my male friends, and I challenge anyone to say otherwise: they've manned up, take responsibility for their lives, care for others, live and love as best they can. They rock.

But Christ almighty, do I have a pattern amongst the men. There is a not inconsiderable swath amongst my male friends and acquaintances who fall under the 'angry, trapped men living unlived lives'.

Now, I get it. I get that it reflects something in me that feels trapped and is living an unlived life - that it's a mirror. That it's about my father and my brother - that these are men I know how to relate to; men who feel deeply familiar - who are the substrate to my enzyme, creating the perfect induced fit; men, at some level, I'm desperate to save.

But I can't.

Just like I couldn't save my father. Just like I couldn't save my brother - and the latter, God, I've harboured that guilt for years. When I left, why didn't I go back and get him once he was of age? Why didn't I help him GET OUT? Why did I fight with him on his brief visit here, and write him off as my parents' Stepford son? And yes, I've often thought he paid the price for my leaving, and the guilt over that is immense.

But it's NOT MY FAULT. They're both big boys, they could have made choices. Might I have mentored my brother differently? Maybe. But I DID THE BEST I KNEW HOW AT THE TIME, and the rest was UP TO HIM. TO THEM.

The guilt? The need for redemption and forgiveness for not having saved the first, most important, men in my life?

It ends now.

To those in that space, here's what's going to happen/stop happening:

1. I am not your whipping post, the person you get angry at (rather than share anger WITH, which I can do till the cows come home) because you can't get angry at your situation. Talk to me about it all you want, let's find a way through, but you don't get to take it out on me.

If you do, I'm calling you on it. If you don't hear me, I'm walking away.

2. I am not going to channel your anger if you can't deal with it yourself. I'm happy to help you admit it, face it, deal with it, accept it if it's legitimately directed at me - but I'm no longer doing it for you because you think I'm 'an angry person' - which, by the way, is usually what you give me a hard time for. You can't have it both ways.

3. If I'm trying to tell you what I see, and particularly about your situation, if we've been discussing it/you asked - which is different from my being provocative where, if I get an argument, I deserve/expect it - listen, as I will try to do for you. If stuff comes up for you around it, let's talk about it. But you don't get to lash out because at some level, you know what I'm saying is true - and that you hate me for questioning your comfortable world.

4. I am happy to try to articulate why I am still in the Catholic Church to those who do not genuinely understand. *I* don't genuinely understand. But give me the space to work it out. I KNOW I'm in a contradictory space, that it doesn't make sense. But please don't push - if and when I'm ready, I'll move. And if I'm not ever? That's ok too.

5. On the other side, I refuse to deal with those questioning whether or not I am really a Catholic or trying to make me a 'real Catholic' - essentially using that as a way to feel better about their own holiness. On FB, this manifests as people who are silent as death through emotional posts, political posts, funny posts, anywhere I need support, positive posts about the Catholic Church - but then suddenly appear, and volubly, when a post that shows my dissent with the Church or that might even SLIGHTLY challenge the Church, to 'set me right'. If you can't be there for the fun, for the positive, for when I need you - but only pop on to tell me what a crap Catholic I am (I do NOT mean authentic discussion/dissent) - Houston, we have a problem.

6. I am going to make you angry. There are no two ways about that, especially if we're close - and you're going to fuck me right off. We deal with anger in our own ways. Need some time to cool off? Fine. But then come back and talk to me. Your feelings, your responsibility. My anger? MY responsibility. I will NOT be frozen out for months on end, expected to know why I upset you and to come grovel. I know it's scary; but cutting off communication for considerable lengths of time increase the likelihood that the relationship won't recover. If our friendship matters, let's talk. I'll try to hold the space - I may not do it well, but I will do it. If, however, freezing people out is about manipulating them and making them chase you? Don't look behind you. Won't be anyone there.

7. Don't expect uncritical adoration. If you need a prop for your ego, find someone else. I will love fiercely, but I will see clearly.

8. The drama llama: if you're on it, I'm going to slap its ass and make it run in a random direction. Away from me. Have fun.

9. The unpredictable moods, usually found in addicts/alcoholics: I got really good at walking on eggshells - but now I like the crunch under my feet. Feel like trying the unpredictable snaps of anger for no reason that used to make me chase my alcoholic ex to make him feel better? I'm just going to be pouring myself another drink and looking at you over my glass.

10. Oh, and the mockery that one can back away from, claiming, 'I was just kidding'? That's not about me and I know that. So I'm holding up that mirror to you. Genuinely angry with me? Man up and talk to me about it. Way to make yourself feel better? Find a more authentic one.

Trust me, I recognise these things because I DO them in more variations than I care to admit to and because I know how to chase them, how to fix them, how to placate them. Doing all those things feels comfortable, familiar.

But comfortable isn't where I want to be. It's too small; too deadening.

So what will happen is that I will try to hold the space, however imperfectly and humanly I do it. I will try to listen, however imperfectly. I'm learning.

I don't promise you the perfect friend. I don't promise to always get it right. I don't promise I'll never push your buttons. I don't promise you a rose garden.

What I DO promise you is that I will be real. That I will be here through darkness and light. That I care, passionately - which is why you'll get the full range of emotions. And that if you're angry, trapped and want to find your way out, I will stand right by you, though I may tell you things in ways you don't want to hear them: "Look at yourself! In the mirror, in pictures! What are you trying to tell yourself? Clue phone, babe, emergency ring tone. IT'S FOR YOU."

But I can't, and won't try to, do it for you.

I can't save you, just like I couldn't save my father or my brother. The only person I can save is myself - though I'll need a little help from my friends.

That's my promise; that's what my friendship will look like.

Whether or not you choose to accept it is up to you.

Group therapy - what's the issue?

2011-06-23T23:39:00.006+01:00

I have a confession to make - when clients don't show up at my volunteer counselling sessions, I've taken to playing with the stuffed animals. The other week, it was Pooh being distracted by biscuits; this week, we had group therapy, with Duck being distressed. The box of tissues hides Duck's teddy bear.

So...what brings this unlikely group of characters together in therapy? Answers on a postcard, or preferably in comments.

Ascension Epilogue

2011-06-12T20:10:00.002+01:00

Last Saturday night, I was out for a curry with a friend, and we were discussing my Tridentine experience.

She asked me what my issues were around having the server say the Confiteor.

"I don't want to lay that on him. It's not his job to carry anyone else's sins. And he's too young - no 16 year old can carry the sins of an entire congregatiom."

She nodded thoughtfully, then said something I hadn't expected:

"There's something about trust in there."

I felt like I'd been struck in the solar plexus, which I knew meant she'd offered me a deep truth.

I tilted my head and asked her to explain.

She said she understood why I felt that he shouldn't shoulder it and she agreed. But she felt that for me, it was about trust, about an inability to allow anyone to bear a burden for me, even for the length of the Confiteor.

I sat back. 8 days later, I'm still unwrapping that.

She's absolutely right. One of the things I took 'pride' in about my spiritual meltdown was that I managed it without burdening a single cleric. Kind of a "See, I can do the tough walk without you. Just hand over the sacraments, and run off like a good boy, because I know you can't handle this 'relationship with God'/messy emotional stuff."

That resonated with something I'd heard someone say months ago, about the moment she realised that part of her problem with being in a relationship was that she assumed that men didn't have capacity, so she took everything on, and ended up in friendships and intimate relationships with men where there was little mutuality. She was always doing everything, organising everything, initiating communication, you get the drift.

I hold others easily, but I have immense trouble being held - both emotionally and physically. I'm great with being the emotional container, less good with being contained.

It's all in the letting go.

I'm not alone in this: I know any number of women who hold everyone else in their lives and never let go themselves. When you're feeling overwhelmed? Close up, get spiky, push people away. It's the best way in the world to make sure no one ever gets too close and into a space where they can hurt you.

So whilst we talk about how we want to be the one in someone's life, we set up a world in which it's not possible, where doors to the inner sanctum slam shut. And in order to be the one in someone else's life, we need to let them feel that they are the one in ours - and that they have all of us, not just a select part.

But that doesn't mean letting everyone wander willy-nilly in the precious space that is ours - doing that, whether through co-dependence, or merging, or any form in which we allow others to rob us of self - is the flip side of the coin. That's why we often see people swing from extreme self-containment to merging: often, extreme self-containment hides a deep hunger for attachment, and when that hunger can no longer be denied, there's no model for healthy attachment - so, to quote Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, 'We've gone to the other extreme...'

It's all about healthy boundaries, which are established through learning how and when to trust.

And if we don't learn that through early secure attachment - knowing that our physical and emotional needs will be taken care of, learning trust and healthy attachment will be extremely difficult. Not impossible, but much harder without that initial knowledge of what trust feels like. It's like...picking up a language later in life, but without the structure of grammar and vocabulary to help. And unlike learning a language, when you get it wrong, it really really HURTS.

But there's no other way forward - we learn to trust the way a child learns to walk - a few steps forward, falling on our bums, getting up to try again. Yes, it's made much harder when you've spent a lifetime keeping yourself safe, because learning requires risk - and in learning how to trust, the risk isn't small.

But the payoff - genuine intimacy, love, connection - is huge.

Trust isn't all or nothing - it's nuanced and we learn how much and when to give it through learning in tandem with that gift of the Holy Spirit, discernment - which means we need to let the winds of inspiration help us on our way.

And so, to the clerics I'm closest to, take a seat. I need to talk to you about my relationship with God.

Ascension, continued: Extraordinary Form, or, 'Dude, it's awfully quiet in here. When does mass start?'

2011-06-03T10:38:00.011+01:00

As I crossed the forecourt, the Paraclete Express kept chugging my way. I ran into a friend who looked surprised to see me and after exchanging greetings, he said:

"You know, it never ceases to amaze me that you come to the masses [which you're going to find most difficult]."

"I know. But I keep thinking if I can do this, it'll make me a better person. It doesn't always work, but..."

In the middle of my answer, I heard the still, small voice: "Irim, stop the war." Finally, I really heard myself on the subject for the first time.

In Stephen Cope's book, The Wisdom of Yoga, he talks about samskara and vasana, or reactive patterns that develop from our taking in a situation, evaluating it, and then reacting to it. One of his teachers referred to such patterns as "those etched in water, those etched in sand, and those etched in stone."

My need to struggle, to push, to challenge – so ingrained that my mantra is ‘growth needs resistance’ – is so deeply etched in stone it is akin to an addiction. When using my favourite image of a butterfly beating its wings against a chrysalis, I forget it is only temporary, and that afterwards, the butterfly is free. Resistance is meant to be temporary.

But going up against resistance, stepping into conflict, is my crack. I heard it in my voice: tense, invested, frustrated. Attached. I need the war - for the same reasons an addict needs his drug of choice.

But the war doesn't just affect me. As Jack Kornfield says in A Path with Heart, an internal war will always become an external war. That had been exemplified at the weekend, when a friend was telling a story over lunch, and I judged the behaviour of one of the characters (let's just say it wasn't exemplary) quite harshly. From my left came a gentle, but strong, reminder: "But it is very human, and therefore, very understandable."

And there was the addict's response, "Yes, but it's up to us to be better than that."

As the Paraclete Express hit me yesterday in the forecourt, I knew it was time to stop the war. But how?

I went in, sat and waited - and it came to me. Maybe I couldn't end it immediately, but I could refuse to engage this battle. I could do that in a very simple way - by staying present. Then, when I moved away from presence, bringing myself back with awareness, without judgment or recrimination.

As mass started, this proved very easy to do, since I can't be on autopilot during the Tridentine the way I can during the Novus Ordo. Yesterday, I had to juggle the Trid missal and the sheet with the special collects and prayers for the Ascension, so there wasn't much room for brooding.

As I stayed present, something interesting happened. I felt clear. I could feel the full range of emotions - touched, irimtated, amused, curious - stay with them, and let them pass through me. I did that and followed my breath, and suddenly, I had space, and more room to be clear.

I was no longer attached - and suddenly, I understood.

I don't HATE the Tridentine mass. It will never be my favourite mass, because I firmly believe that in not participating in the mass - e.g., reciting the Confiteor aloud - the congregation is denied that most necessary element of the spiritual life - taking responsibility for it. I also feel that it cuts the priest off from the people - and because I picture the mass as a triangle: one leg is Priest-God, the other is People-God, the base is priest-people. Take the base away from the triangle, and it doesn't work.

As I stayed present, this was simply an observation - no anger, sense of futility, or frustration attached to it. It simply was - and is - how I feel, which is absolutely fine. Letting that feeling be what it was allowed me to see what I really appreciate about the Tridentine mass: there are parts of the text that I prefer to the Novus Ordo, I think the priest is more deeply present when distributing communion, and I love ending with the prologue from John. All in all, I think that if the Tridentine had been allowed to evolve naturally, the Catholic Church would have had a liturgy beyond imagination, with undisrupted, solid roots, and plentiful branches, lush with greenery and fruit.

Suddenly, like stumbling through an open door, I realised: the Tridentine mass is simply that - A FORM of the mass. Everything we associate with it - right wing agendas, intolerance, smugness, rigidity, resentment, slavish adherence to the past - none of them belong to the mass itself. They are projections ONTO the mass by us, because of what we desire, need or fear it to be.

In this moment, engaged with the sermon in which the Paschal candle is extinguished and Fr Jerome says, "We extinguish the Paschal candle as a sign that Our Lord's visible presence is removed from us - from now, we are only to meet Him in silence, in shadows, in the sacraments."

Right where I want Him to be - because I need to take that leap of faith.

Adsum, Domine. Follow the breath.

Done with the liturgy, but what of the people? There is no denying that stereotypes exist because there is often considerable truth in them - and the stereotype of Tridentine mass-goers as right-wing, angry, intolerant, isolationist, rigid almost to the point of snapping is no exception. Very few people can make me go incandescent like they can.

Liturgy is easy, it's inanimate. People, well - when you can keep that spiritual calm around people, it'll be your ascension we'll be celebrating.

Communion. Usually, I would have dismissed the server at a Tridentine mass as 'one of them', but in my presence in the moment, I noticed his hand shaking visibly as he held the paten - and my heart went out to him.

Post-communion prayer, and the Paraclete Express decided to reverse over me.

Over the past few weeks, as I've been walking into work, I've been practising Cope's version of the Metta, or loving kindness meditation. As with all meditation, one centres by following the breath, then beginning with oneself, one recites some version of the following:

May you be protected and safe,
May you feel contented and pleased,
May your body support you with strength,
May your life unfold with ease.

After directing that prayer of loving-kindness to oneself, one directs it to loved ones, then those for whom one has neutral feelings, then to those one finds...difficult - and finally, to all of creation.

I had been having no problem with those I loved (of course), nor with my parents, or the uncle who abused me. Not surprising, I think, since I am considerably removed from my relatives - so it's easy to wish them well and feel particularly proud - 'LOOK! I did my uncle! Go me, I must be done.' Ja. And Satan will be hosting the Winter Olympics in 2014.

The group I had felt real resistance to, the group that was REAL work, was the group encompassing the ones I bump up against all the time who trample my triggers, setting them off in series.

As I knelt after communion, I thought, 'What better prayer is there than to wish the others here well?' Thus I found myself reciting the Metta meditation as I knelt after communion in a Catholic Church.

Hey, you knew I was a spiritual patchwork quilt. So sue me.

Easy enough to begin with Fr J and the altar server for whom I'd felt that sudden protectiveness. Then John, Juliet and George were easy. Someone in the front served as neutral. And then...

...there was the mother who hadn't taken her child out. There were the rigid faces with the slight contemptuous twist that put me on a hair trigger. They were my crack, the people I wanted to square up to and push against.

It was time to walk my spiritual talk. I could feel the resistance, so I went back to neutral and came at it again - first with one difficult person. Then another.

Suddenly, Metta was magick. Wishing them all well in that moment, in that space, was effortless and felt amazing. Finally, I got it:

But it is very human, and therefore, very understandable.

They're not evil. They're not my enemy. They're afraid.

It's how they create certainty in an uncertain world; how they feel rooted, attached. The way they act - adaptively or maladaptively - is organised around that need for security, attachment and love.

Very human, indeed.

As I left church, I felt at peace. I was no longer prisoner to my projections on the Trid mass - I could come to one or not as I pleased, knowing that I could remain centred in what was real.

When I passed church again, having come back from buying lunch, I passed a gathering of the younger 'Trid boy' types in front of the archway, posturing. One of them said, in a manner reminiscent of a stereotypical Oxford don, 'I have some sympathy for that position...' A week ago, I would have wanted to smack him. Yesterday, the teacher in me saw the boys I'd taught, standing in the school hallways, in those same positions, using that same tone of voice - and I grinned.

...though I may not have the answers
At least I know what I'm looking for

Yes, I can do without the sorrow
There's a day after tomorrow -
So I'm leaving it behind

I'm free, I'm free -
Things are only as important
As I want them to be...

The Ascension, Prologue - spiritual meltdown

2011-06-02T23:12:00.005+01:00

God doesn't offer many neon signs - but this was one of them.

Today, 40 days after Easter, is the Ascension and a holy day of obligation. Normally, that would mean that if I can't make the 18.00 solemn mass - as would have been the case today - I could have gotten up early and gone to the 07.30 or, in extremis, the Vigil mass last night.

Unfortunately, NOT in England and Wales where, for some reason, the Bishops decided to ignore the fact that Jesus ascended 40 days after Easter, not 43, and transfer it to the Sunday. I have to admit, liberal as I am, that gets on my (not inconsiderable) tits. 40 days is 40 days.

That left me with a decision: business as usual, and go to the Sunday mass, or make a statement and go to the Tridentine rite (Extraordinary Form) mass of the Ascension today?

I leaned towards not going for three reasons:

1. Paz and I hadn't had a lunchtime walk all week, and I was looking forward to a catch up.

2. I had to leave early for counselling, and going to mass might cut out too much of the day.

3. More often than not, those associated with the Tridentine mass drive me into a murderous rage. Not ideal.

I got to work early, checked my nemesis, Outlook, for email messages that needed attention and got down to business - once I'd made coffee in my Pizzazzadoodle mug, of course. Nothing happens without morning caffeine. When Paz came in, I asked her what she wanted to do for lunch. She looked at me apologetically and said, 'I'm going to get my hair cut.'

I know when I'm being railroaded by the Holy Spirit.

In a last ditch attempt to avoid being run over by the Paraclete Express, I texted a friend in the know, asking him how long he thought mass would take. He reckoned 45 min - 1 hr, but I suspected I knew who the celebrant was and that I could shave about 5 min or so off that guesstimate, which made it more than feasible.

Damn.

After many whacks over the head with a clue-by-four, I've learned that if events are lining up towards a particular choice, going with the flow is the way forward, no matter how difficult it might seem to be. So I gave in and decided to go to the 12.15 mass - though I couldn't IMAGINE what God had in store, aside from irimtating me for the rest of the day.

Even so, I wondered - much has changed since the last Tridentine mass I'd attended. I've been in spiritual meltdown since March, when a decision I'd helped someone come to went from being simply 'very important' to 'life-changing'.

Now the work, of course, was hers. But in that moment, I suddenly realised that however much I tried to take myself out of the equation in what had happened, I couldn't. That I had been there *mattered*; that it was *me* mattered; that *I* had been placed there and worked through: I couldn't have orchestrated this, imagined it, made it happen, forced it, any of it.

Suddenly, I saw God's hand all over this and that He had used me - not just for brightening up someone's day; not the 'this is how I see it'; none of the stuff I'm used to. I looked away for *two seconds*, tops - and God put me THERE, where her having someone to listen, be there and ask questions to, so she could come to her decision, made all the difference. And I realised, 'Oh. my. God. If I let You all the way in, what the hell are You going to do?'

I guess I thought that I had figured You out
I knew all the stories and I learned to talk about
How You were mighty to save
Those were only empty words on a page
Then I caught a glimpse of who You might be
The slightest hint of You brought me down to my knees

Suddenly, briefly, I caught a glimpse of the tapestry and the Weaver - and I was absolutely terrified by how wrong I was and how limited my vision had been.

What do I know of You
Who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
But the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury?
Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?

Most of my faith had been dissolving for a while: certainty of who God is, what He intends and how He acts has made me recoil more and more; a lot of stuff around me has been making me uneasy. Much of my own armour was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I feel unsure that I have any idea what faith is, what holy looks like, how God works or what my journey to Him is meant to look like. I'm even less sure, meandering as it has been, that my journey has been a mistake at all - and I've been dead certain about the wrongness of my life for at least a decade.

And so began the descent into the Underworld.

I can take great emotional shifts in my stride, but this, on top of paper thin boundaries that meant I was feeling the emotions of everyone around me - which, just my luck, were mostly intense and chaotic - made my knees buckle. Early on, it became clear that it was too deep, too intense, for almost anyone to hold the space - and I was far too raw to be able to bear watching close friends squirm uncomfortably or look away. If I tested the waters and no response appeared to be forthcoming, I simply took it as 'I can't/don't know how do this kind of intensity, I'm sorry,' and left it at that. It was easier than asking again and hearing the 'I don't know how to be here for you.' I could go it alone, I knew that. So I got moving.

Traci and Ari were too stubborn to let me do that. Traci, a fellow Catholic, held the religious and emotional space; asked the questions; was there to wrestle with the relationship with God and the theology; called it like she saw it; called me on dissociating and not feeling what I was going through; let me be scared, angry, unsure. Ari was Ari - the friend who has known me in the darkest of places and moods, and just sat with me - listening, asking, letting me be fully me - intensely emotional - something I wick away from most people. I owe them the deepest gratitude - not feeling alone during the inner hurricane; being able to have space held for me when I couldn't hold things back to protect others - I couldn't even protect myself - was the most precious of gifts.

At church and work (which has a religious culture), I locked up tight. I was numb for most of Lent, and when I wasn't numb, I was furious. The Triduum was beautiful as ever, but I felt locked in ice; not even Tenebrae, which always moves me deeply, could touch me. There was the odd thaw - I can never shut out those close to me, and if they needed support, love, affirmation, I was drawn out of my icy enclosure to connect, which helped me too - for the most part, though, I wasn't there.

But the desert wasn't as barren as it seemed. Fr Dom's talk on prayer at the Passiontide Oratory unlocked something that took weeks to emerge. If I could pray, I did it. If I couldn't, fuck it. I prayed as I was, not as I wasn't. I remembered Mark Poulson's words from the pulpit at a funeral I'd been to: "I think God can take our questions, our doubts, our grief, our anger - all of it. I think He says, 'Give it to me. I can take it.' And He wants it all because He loves us." At some point, when I couldn't carry it any more, I must have let it go and handed it over, just saying, 'Fuck it. I have no clue. Let's see what happens.'

Only when I let it go - and let me be honest, not out of faith, but out of sheer exhaustion - did it begin to happen. A friend waxed poetic about Stephen Cope's The Wisdom of Yoga: a seeker's guide to extraordinary living in a blog entry or several. 'Huh,' I thought. 'I'll give anything a try.' I checked Amazon, and when I couldn't stop reading the VERY long excerpt from it, I ordered it - and then couldn't put it down as truth after truth launched themselves at me from every page, shattering my icy prison.

I was finally fully present; the game was afoot. I had no idea how things were going to unfold, but finally, I was good with that. Early days, but I was going to try to follow the signs and go with the flow. As far as I was concerned, God and life could bring it on.

It was in this state that I found myself under the Oratory arch this afternoon at 12.05. 'All right, Lord, I'm here. Bring it on.'

I took a deep breath and stepped through.

Deleted: unread

2011-04-27T13:57:00.003+01:00

What most people don't know is that because we had problems last year, I've set my work email to send 'read' receipts. Not as obvious as it sounds, since the person has to agree to send it. That means that what I know about email I send from work falls into 3 categories:

1. Email that has been read and I know it has been read.

2. Email that has been read or at least briefly scanned before deletion, but I don't have a receipt.

3. Email has been deleted: unread.

How do I know #3? Because when I require a 'read' receipt, I automatically get a 'Deleted: unread' receipt.

I rarely get them - the vast majority of what I send is individual, and the group emails I send tend to be reasonably important. Even so, I absolutely expect to get a number of those - from supervisors, students, etc. I don't bat an eyelid and I don't take it personally.

Until this weekend, when I got *2* - from a good friend, when the subject lines were pretty clearly not mass emailings.

The sense of rage and betrayal took me by surprise. I let them know I knew, but I sat on how I felt - which may seem surprising, but if folks look closely, you'll notice that I actually only go off on big things in public: Church, politics, sermons - anything I deem to be in the public domain, unjust or intolerant, or an 'I'm generally overwhelmed' vent.

So - rage and betrayal. To quote myself in a therapy session, 'Let's explore that, shall we?'

Why the anger and betrayal?

People have the absolute right to do what they want with their email. It's their email, right? So big deal. I got an email of mine deleted by a friend. Boo fucking hoo.

Here's why it's a big deal for me: deleting an email without so much as opening it is a dismissal. It is, quite literally, saying, 'This is trash; I'm not even going to take the time to look at it.' I only ever delete things without reading them if I know they're spam.

If a friend's name is attached to them, no matter how crazy they're driving me, even if it says 'chain letter' in the subject line, whatever - unless I know for sure it's a virus email or the friend has specifically asked me to delete without reading - there is not even an iota of doubt that I will open that email

S/he is my friend, and no matter what, I will hear them. That is one of the most basic tenets of friendship.

Opening an email and at least briefly scanning it before deleting, no matter how busy you are, is about valuing the person who sent it. It doesn't matter if you think, 'Oh, G-d, what are they angry/upset about NOW?' (Maybe it's time to ask them what's driving the anger and listen, especially if there's a particular target?) or 'Not another forward, I don't need that now!' - opening it matters.

I suspect it's a particular bugbear for me because I write. I'm far more adept at expressing deep emotions in writing; I find it much harder in speech. It is the very rare person I can go up to and lean my head against their shoulder and not speak when I'm stressed beyond measure; otherwise, it's all in writing: text, email, letter, whatever.

So what I write matters. What any of your friends writes to you matters.

Now that doesn't mean I expect immediate responses - or even responses - to everything. Some things don't lend themselves to that. What I do expect, and have the right to expect, as your friend, is that you will read what I have to say and take the time to make that judgment.

The rules aren't hard and fast - a friend and I are currently in the midst of an intense conversation that has been on ice for about 3 weeks because she's had a PhD defence and needs to submit. We've had desultory IM chats and other, less demanding conversations in between, but neither of us is bothered about the hiatus because that's how we work. We know we'll get back to it when we're ready. Oddly, I'm far easier with a long lull in the middle of a conversation than an initial silence, perhaps because I've already read the other person (pun intended) and it's easier to jog them and go, 'Hey, I don't think we were finished here. Do you mind if we pick it up again?'

And I'm not perfect either, nowhere near. But I DO have a set of principles I try to abide by, and here they are:

1. If a friend sent it, I will always read it and evaluate how to respond.

2. If a question is asked or a request is made, I will respond either with 'Yes,' 'No,' 'Let me think about it,' - usually with considerable elaboration.

3. Jokes, 'I'm here, on my way,' etc. may or may not get a response.

4. The more emotionally intense/wound up the email/text/whatever, the more immediate my response, because the more it is needed. Some things I'd prefer to do in person, and I'll say that, but in most cases, it's just not possible. So I'll write - even if just to say, 'Got this, will get to it asap, KICK MY ASS if I don't, b/c I'm so busy and you might slip off the front page of emails.'

5. Listen. I've had some huge rows via email, really heartfelt, down in the mud, knock down, drag out, 'This is how I feel about what's happened' exchanges. And there have been long lulls in the middle of some of those exchanges. But 9 times out of 10, the friendship has become far closer. And the 10th time? It's told me the truth of who the other person is, what they can/cannot handle, and moved them to the outer circles, where they belong.

As Traci once said, 'You're about intimacy and deep connection,' which means it's going to get intense, in good ways and bad. Not everyone wants that from a friendship, and that's fine. But because it's where I am, then, for both our sakes, those that aren't need to be further out, where we're both comfortable.

Those are my principles. Within that, everything is flexible and based on context, because every relationship is different. The desire for, and the concept of, connection may be universal, but each connection is unique.

So, what do I ask in return when I send an email? I know not all of my friends are writers, and in fact, I know some absolutely can't abide dealing with the big stuff in writing. No biggy. You are where you are, but:

1. At least open it and scan it. Then decide if you want to chuck it.

2. Listen, even if you have to take a deep breath and it isn't easy. Bugs you? TELL ME. I get the feeling that some friends feel that if they leave it long enough, we'll both have forgotten about it and everything will be ok. No. Even if it is for a while, it's going to come back up in another form. Let's deal now.

3. If we're close enough that I'm emailing you when I'm stressed, depressed, tired, angry (about personal stuff), freaked out - please acknowledge the email. I've never understood why people freak out when I get upset, and hope that if they just ignore it, it'll go away, I'll be fine and phew, they don't have to deal with it. You may not want to deal with it in writing. You may not know what to say. That's ok. But connect with me. If you can't even bear to write, 'I don't know what to say,' or 'I'd rather talk about this,' then the next time you see me, acknowledge it. Let me know that how I'm feeling matters to you. If I've let you in that far, let me know that you can hold that space; that I'm safe with you.

4. If I ask you a question or ask you for something, please respond, even if only briefly. 'Yes,' 'No,' 'Let me think about it,' 'I'm not comfortable with that,' 'Give me a few, freakishly busy,' are all absolutely fine. I just need to know.

Within that, I'm flexible.

It's so easy to just delete emails: the person isn't in front of us, most of the time we don't get receipts, and we're all overwhelmed with the number we get - work, corporate, advertising, friends, spam - every day. We feel plugged in all the time - and we are, what with mobiles, laptops, desktops, Crackberries - but connection is about what - and who - is important. And it doesn't mean emails that are pages long. It can be as simple as, 'I hear you.' I've gotten emails that simply say, '*HUGS*' - and that's enough. There will be time enough for words, but it is the reaching out, the connection, the 'Hey, I'm here,' that matters.

Typing in a quick sentence or a word of comfort or 'I'll be on top of that as soon as I can,' doesn't take more time than it takes to delete 5 Groupon emails. But the difference it makes is immense.

Don't just plug in, connect. And save 'Deleted: unread' for those Jehovah's Witness and 'Hi, my name is X from Y, could you send me your entire bank account' emails.

Those you care about deserve a 'read letter' day.

Talk given at Church of England Diocesan Interfaith Advisors Conference, 16/3/11

2011-03-17T19:52:00.007Z

Reflections on Caring for Converts

I first came across the Guidelines for the Care of Converts when I had the immense pleasure of meeting Dr Wharton and Guy (Wilkinson) last November.

"'Caring for converts?' I thought. 'Concept!'" An obvious one, once you think about it, but it doesn't seem to be thought about often.

Why is that? One of the first things that came to mind was a quote from the leader of a workshop I attended recently: "There is no object, there is only process." The reason we don't consider care for converts very often is that we see the conversion as an object, the finishing line - in the same way we see a funeral as the end of our need to support the bereaved - in both cases, we see it as time for them to move forward on their own.

But we forget that conversion - like grief - is a process, not an object. Conversion, true conversion, does not end at baptism and welcome into the Church. Conversion is a person living a story making a journey of faith. Nor is the new convert alone in this - we are all in the process of conversion, of taking steps on our spiritual journey every day, whether or not we attend church, read the Bible or meet for fellowship. How we treat the harried salesclerk, the hapless waiter, those with whom we share our lives, are all part of our conversion. To quote Kahlil Gibran, "Your daily life is your temple and your religion."

So what does this mean for the guidelines I received from Kate last month? I believe it means that we start these guidelines from the underpinning principle that we are supporting a process rather than achieving a goal - which means we may approach it from a different angle, use different language and so on. The tension - and possibly, the paradox - here is that as we support the process and draw up the guidelines to do so, we cannot predict how the process will unfold.

Well, that's all nice and woolly as a flock of sheep, isn't it? So how does that translate? When I first read the guidelines, I really felt for Kate. I could sense her overwhelm and how much she felt she had to try to do. I wondered if what might be needed was a step further back to ask the questions 'What are we trying to do?' 'How are we trying to do it?' - to give a thread which will help create a coherent whole. We need to define what we mean by conversion, support and care.

Here were some ideas I had along the way:

1. We are supporting a process, and not a natural one, at that. It is one which begins with a huge change/rupture for the convert, which will require specialised support: possibly of those who've been there, those from their own background, but equally likely, specialised psychological support.

2. The question we must always ask as we draw this up/work with converts: "For whom are we doing this?" It is very easy to see the convert as a point on the religious scoreboard or to get invested in their journey and think it is ours. It is very easy to lose sight of the fact that we are walking with someone on THEIR spiritual journey, not forcing them on a path that we feel they should follow. Rachel Remen's differentiation between attachment - which leads to imprisonment - and commitment - which leads to freedom - is helpful here. We may be COMMITTED to the convert's spiritual journey. We may NOT be ATTACHED to how that journey unfolds. Every time we answer that question, the answer must truly be, "For the convert, to support their journey to God."

How do we do that? Tom (the previous speaker) brought in Transactional Analysis; I'm going to mention Carl Rogers, whose core conditions of unconditional positive regard, empathy and congruence are essential here. No matter how the convert may act out - and they will - or what they say, it must be welcomed with love, understanding and honesty.

3. ASK them what they need. Let them lead and take responsibility, for it is only in doing so that they can make the faith their own and come to maturity.

4. Relationship. The Christian God, a Trinity, lives in eternal relationship of love, hospitality and self-knowledge. We've touched on the first two, but the third is very important: we must always be aware of what's happening with us, and not put it on the convert. If we get very angry or upset, we need to stop and reflect and think about how much is about the situation and how much is about us.

Conversion takes place in relationship, and it may be a good idea for the guidelines to consider what a healthy relationship looks like.

5. DON'T PIGEONHOLE. We can draw common themes or make guesses - but don't assume. Listen to their story. Remember that those who tend to be happy in the culture/family they're living in probably AREN'T GOING TO CONVERT - if they're comfortable, they're not going to ask the questions necessary for change.

Don't assume people want family connection - I didn't.

It's good to have an outline of what we know about various cultures - South Asian, Iranian, North African, etc. - but remember that within those communities, people have unique experiences. Don't immediately shower them with people who share their ethnicity - they may recoil. I would have told you where to go, how to get there, and given extremely detailed directions. Sometimes people don't want family - sometimes they need a monastic or desert experience to heal from their family.

6. Support is not always warm and fuzzy, sometimes it's confrontation in the desert. We've talked about God living in an eternal relationship of love, but let's not forget that the Father sent His Son to die and that the Son asked for the chalice to be removed from him and that at the end, He asked, 'Father, why hast thou forsaken me?'

Appropriate challenge and conflict do not rupture, on the contrary, they drive intimacy deeper.

One of my favourite forms of support is that of the rabbi who turns away the convert twice before accepting her. In that way, he is more certain of her sincerity and motivation. I often worry that we as Christians grasp: we grasp as soon as someone is thinking of converting; grasp to hold someone in 'our' church; grasp to force them onto a path that looks like one we recognise. The problem with grasping is that it is about fear, and fear drives out love, which is the ONLY way to support a convert's journey.

By leaving room for the Holy Spirit, by creating space through challenge - even though we LOVE that they are throwing themselves into our church activities and slagging off their old religion - we allow for healthy growth. If we say 'no' to a potential convert because we sense that their desire to convert is not about God, but about getting back at family/renouncing their heritage, we allow space for a TRUE 'yes' - in God's time, not ours. Those of you who have read The Shack will remember Sarayu's love of fractals and wild growth - and her tendency to put them everywhere. In my experience, the Holy Spirit rarely works in a straight line.

So, to close - where to go for these guidelines to make them generally helpful, but not specifically stifling? At the beginning, definitions and principles need to be made explicit: conversion, care, support, process, relationship: getting the underpinnings right will get the details right.

Then draw them out by asking questions: what does a healthy sponsor/convert relationship look like? What possible forms could it take? When do we worry? When do we say 'no'? How do we respond? How do we challenge? What does care look like? What resources do we have?

I almost feel that these guidelines - like my talk - need to be a book: Converts' stories, principles drawn, good practice, FAQs, resources. But that's just me. Somehow we need to offer concrete help without dictating how all journeys must unfold: and I suspect the way to do that is to draw from experience to offer ways forward, and seeing the theology emerge from the experience rather than having the theology drive the experience. Yet we must always remember that, as we draw from experience, we must respond in the moment: for our God is not 'I was' nor 'I will be', but I AM.

On being called ma'am

2011-02-23T18:33:00.003Z

I hate it. I can tolerate it from those younger than me, but when it comes from those older than me, it's so physically repellent I want to throw up.

In this case, it has to do with a student who's older than me doing it.

Walking home from the bus stop, I remembered why it's so visceral. I used to joke about it making me feel old, but I always knew that wasn't it. Suddenly, today, I had this image of being in Pakistan and being about 9 or so, and having my relatives' servants call me 'baji' - same kind of respect as 'ma'am'...and feeling deeply, deeply uncomfortable with it. Even then I thought, 'This is so wrong. I'm a KID. Just because I was born into a family with more, YOU - YOU, who know more about life than I do, who have had a hard life, who works so hard - YOU have to call me 'baji'? I don't think so.'

The most fun I ever had in Pak, outside of time with my cousins, was with the servants. They read our palms, they babysat us, they gossiped, they loved us when we sat in the kitchen, they told stories, kept our secrets. They were REAL, and often happy in a way other adults weren't. I ADORED them and felt so guilty when they did stuff for me.

More times than I want to remember, one of my aunts or uncles would yell at them for the smallest infraction, because dinner wasn't ready fast enough or because they were taking out their frustrations on them. I might have spoken up, on occasion, saying that it wasn't their fault - and sometimes, if I wasn't dragged off, I'd stay and comfort one of the younger women if she was crying after being yelled at. That made me feel worse about going up to them and asking for something to hear 'Gee, baji?' From an ADULT to a CHILD. So wrong.

People would say it's an appropriate mark of respect. Respect? For a *9* year old? What fucking respect had I earned by being middle class? Exactly NONE. 'Sufi', 'Hajji', titles that are earned for some achievement or mark of character, ok. Otherwise? No.

And I feel the same way about priests. You get the respect of your office when I respect the man you are. Character gets respect. Titles aren't worth the graphite a pencil uses to write them.

This student calling me that? NO. No. He's older than I am, wiser than I am, a better person than I am, has done so much in his life. IF there's inequality here, it goes the other way.

In the end, that's really the crux of it: it creates barriers between people. It gets in the way of talking to you, finding out who you are, genuine meeting.

And taking the time to listen and spend time? Now THAT is real respect.

8 Days. Day 8.

2011-02-08T18:39:00.004Z

Day Eight: Four things you are terrified of, and four things you desire intensely.

4 things I'm terrified of.

1. An intimate relationship. For years, the thought of one brought on an intense sense of feeling trapped and difficulty breathing. The thought of having to share a room (my parents used to LOVE to 'clean' my room and invade it at all times), having to consider someone else when I wanted to get up and go, having someone else who HAD THE RIGHT TO DEMAND TO KNOW WHERE I WAS...FUCK IT. NO. I would go to my friends to have my parents ring 7 times to find out what we were doing; most of the time I couldn't leave the house. THIS. WAS. NOT. GOING. TO. HAPPEN. AGAIN. I. WILL. NOT. BE. CONTROLLED.

2. Living an unlived life. Again, see here. I know I've referred back to it before, but it really sums this one up.

3. Selfishness. OMG, I can't even begin to tell you how terrified I am of this one, of being a raging narcissistic beast who walks over anything and everything, who uses others as commodities to get what she 'wants'. The horror of it; the knowledge of the damage it causes...*shudder*

4. Dying without anyone noticing that I'm missing. This has a lot to do with a fear of not being important enough to someone for anyone to notice that I'm not there.

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4 things I desire intensely

1. An intimate relationship. To be THE person in someone else's life and have them be the same in mine. The deep connection, the joint history built of ordinary and extraordinary moments - some difficult, some joyous, many of intimacy, just about the two of us - the emotional, physical and spiritual closeness. The little touches and looks. Nestling. Talking about everything. Witnessing each other's lives. Raising children. A shared vocation. Passion on all levels - real passion, not a flare, but a lasting fire - sometimes an inferno, sometimes banked.

Love shared in the deepest way possible in true union of body, heart and soul.

2. To make a real difference in people's lives, and thus, in the world. I know I want to do it big, working with people at the edge, working in some of the darkest places...but I'd be happy to do it in a quiet little corner of the world.

3. Deep connection in all my relationships. Truth, honesty, love - even when my heart breaks because of it, this.

4. Unfolding completely into the person I am meant to be and being able to always work from that wild space. Love, compassion, extending my talents to their fullest...flying, running at full stretch - then resting at full stretch. I want to be an alpha female in a wolfpack: at one with her alpha male, sometimes hunting, sometimes still and listening, sometimes playing...and rather often, nipping cubs' ears or picking them up by the scruff of the neck and moving them when they play too roughly, then lazily watching them again.

Home. That's what it's all about...coming home.

8 Days. Day 7.

2011-02-07T10:32:00.007Z

Day Seven: The four most important things someone has said to you, and the four most damaging things someone has said to you

The 4 most important things.

1. I was talking to X [another teacher] and we think you have a huge, unexplored verbal talent. --Jean Hill, my Western Civ/American History AP teacher, senior year of high school

I adored Ms Hill. She kind of scared me in 7th grade, when she was all spiky, but when I ended up sitting next to her in my Western Civ class (she had a circle) and discovered we had similar dry senses of humour, we really clicked. I even rode down to the senior retreat with her and visited her daughter, Julie, when she was in Lower School.

It was, in fact, the day of the senior retreat that she said this to me. She'd pulled me into her office to find out why I wasn't going, and somehow, this came up as we talked about my parents and their expectations. I said something disparaging about my talent, and she responded with this and suggested that perhaps I shouldn't take them at their word when they said all I could do was maths and science.

It was too late for high school, of course, but not for university and beyond. Every humanities course I took, I got an 'A' in. And I learned that I love writing and am a pretty damn good editor.

Ms. H - as usual, you were right.

2. You were meant to go through the world two by two/You'll be a wonderful partner to some very lucky man/etc. --Various friends

I know that one of the reasons I never paired up - and only have the odd partner - is because of how trapped I felt in my family and how desperately unhappy my parents' marriage was. I was about 13 before I worked out that people married because, well, you know, they actually WANTED to. I still have a hard time with that, having known any number of dysfunctional couples who settled because they were afraid of being alone, or because their dysfunctions/wounds fit each other like an enzyme-substrate induced fit (look it up). Despite all the wonderful couples I know, these stick with me, as they elicit the claustrophobic near-panic feeling that I lived with growing up.

But another big part of it is this fear that I would be a horrible partner. Needy, clingy, sucking the other person dry. I'm terrified of this, even though it's not generally how I am in friendships, though I tend to feel that I am in close ones, where I'm more vulnerable. Every time, I think, 'OH CRAP, here I go again, they're going to think I'm completely devoid of humour, needy, too intense, clingy, OMG!!!!' So I pull back, but then, b/c they're close friends, need to talk to them again. Gah.

These quotes, from those who don't live in my crazy head, give me hope. Hope that they see me more clearly and that they are right. The fact that there are numerous versions of that quote over the years makes me hope that maybe they're onto something.

3. I want you/you're beautiful/If I were...

I'm used to being needed. Used to being liked for my humour. The fact that I'm capable. That I can listen. That I'll know what you need before you do. Those sorts of things.

But being desired, having someone think, 'God, you're gorgeous,' just WANTING me without wanting something FROM me...that's amazing. And far too rare. Thank you. You folks know who you are.

4. I love you to bits. I don't want you to change at all/Lose the edge, but not the passion?/Or not even lose the edge. --A close male friend, 20/2/10

I nearly cried.

The background: I had been a bitch. Not to him directly, but it mattered, and that's all you need to know. We'd touched on it a bit in writing, but it was this evening that the real work was done: this evening that we had the heart-to-heart where we spared each other nothing, where we were heart-achingly honest, this evening in our friendship where we knew we could be real with the other and we were absolutely safe.

I had been talking about how I felt hemmed in by all these people who seem to want all these bits of me that they really like, because they're useful to them, but they want X to change so they're more comfortable with who I am; something that makes me less wild.

And he just burst out with that.

I froze and stared at him, trying to read him, looking for the lie, for the reason to doubt him.

There was none.

The continuation of the exchange confirmed that, as has his behaviour - before and since. There is almost no one else with whom I feel so free to be myself, to just let go and be difficult, uncertain, dark me as well as competent, caring, funny, witty me. I do worry that I lean on him too much, because I know I can bring anything to him and I'm safe, but I also trust that he will TELL ME if I am leaning too hard. (Hint hint - you will be reading this, b/c I'm telling you about it :-).)

There aren't words to thank him for what he said that night and the support he's been through our friendship - laughter, listening, joint human observation ('Bossy girlfriend'/'OMG, that's a GUY? I thought it was a girl!'), just talking about anything and everything. AND he gets my idiolect.

I know how blessed I am to count him amongst my circle of friends.

Oh, he cheeks me and is as stubborn as I am - so voices will rise and gestures will fly - but I would trust him with my life. More importantly, I would trust him with the life of a child.

And yes, you, this was a chance to let you know how much this spontaneous comment of yours meant and to say 'thank you for being you' as much as anything else. Because even though I AM going to have to whack you with my cane more than once, our friendship is - to quote a Mastercard advert - priceless.

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1. It's not important; it doesn't matter. --My father

This is what my father said when I told him his brother had sexually abused me.

2. Talk to me, I'm your mother. I won't tell Daddy [sic].

The evening chats when she wanted me to sit at the foot of her bed and have a cosy 'mother-daughter' chat where we shared our confidences. She told me how awful my father was, which made me open up and share how I was feeling. I should have known better: she never offered comfort, only asked more questions. I knew her well enough, that should have told me she was digging for information - but every time, I was stupid enough to assume she cared. That she was interested in my life.

Stupid me.

And yes, she always told 'Daddy', and it always came back to bite me on the ass.

And I was always stupid enough to trust her again.

3. You're flat. --Mr Wilson, 7th grade music teacher and choir director

That was in choir, and he wasn't one for teaching technique. He'd put me with the sops. *Waits for her friends to quit laughing*

From that day to this, I won't sing so I can be heard, even though, far more recently, I was told by another music teacher that I had a gorgeous speaking voice and she suspects that I CAN sing.

4. ""

All those things that I needed to hear, that people assumed I knew about how they felt about me, and were never said.

8 Days. Day 6.

2011-02-06T22:13:00.003Z

Day Six: Four things you are grateful for, and four things you want to change about your life.

1. My friends. They are my family: brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers and have given me heart-children. They have been my strength and that which has pulled me out during the darkest of times.

2. The way I think. I love being an NF, big picture, pattern person with a huge imagination. LOVE IT.

3. My passion. It may hurt like hell sometimes, but I'd rather that than flatline. It gives the world such shades of colour, Crayola and Technicolour couldn't touch it.

4. Being able to see beauty in the universe and the part of me that senses and reaches out for something larger than we are. The stars, galaxies, God, the underlying pattern to it all. I suspect it's that which drives my sense of service, which would have been #5.

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1. I want to be more in touch with my sensuality. Via clothing, what I surround myself with, feeling more comfortable in me. I've become very head/emotional/spiritual.

2. How I feel about my body. I've hated it my whole life for various reasons, or seen it as a vehicle for my brain. I need to learn to love it and revel in the physical.

3. I want to be able to let go and let God - to do what I can and trust that I'll step off a cliff and be able to fly.

4. I want to be able to sing. I've loved and dreamt music since I was young, and whilst not many instruments appealed, singing always has. I want to find my voice.

8 Days. Day 5.

2011-02-06T20:51:00.002Z

Day Five: Four songs from you to yourself, and four songs from you to others

4 Songs from me to myself

1. Evanescence - Bring me to Life - THE song I listen to in my deepest depression. It captures the sense of being frozen, of being lost, of yearning, reaching towards life. The anger, the passion, the searching, the sense of hopelessness, yet deliberation when she lets go...that's me in a dark period.

2. Sarah Brightman - Journey Home - It's a promise from that part of me that knows that there IS a home, a place of sanctuary and rest that I have yet to know, where I am loved and that 'sometimes standing still can be the best move you ever make.'

3. Bette Midler - The Rose - Ever since this came out when I was young, it has been a promise to myself from myself that love will come, and that the times that seem barren hold more promise than they seem...and that I must never be the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live.

4. Peter Gabriel & Kate Bush - Don't give up - This song always makes me cry. I feel like Peter Gabriel far too often. The deeper part of me is Kate Bush - who somehow always brings the friends in the outside world I need.

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1. Kelly Clarkson - Because of you - To my parents. The lyrics are self-explanatory. Yes, I've come a long way, baby. But there's a long way to go that shouldn't have been necessary. We're not speaking, I hear you say? Because of you.

2. Clarence Clemons/Jackson Brown - You're a friend of mine - To Midnight Sidhe. Because I am the one who always makes you laugh until you cry. And you can depend on me till the day you die.

3. Moody Blues - I know you're out there somewhere - An unwavering statement of faith from me to the man I'm meant to be with, wherever you are.

4. John Farnham - You're the voice - From me to the world:

This time
We know we all stand together
With the power to be powerful
Believing, we can make it better

Oooooooh,
We're all someone's daughter
We're all someone's son
How long can we look at each other
Down the barrel of a gun?

You're the voice, try and understand it
Make a noise and make it clear
Oh-o-o-o, whoa-o-o-o!
We're not gonna sit in silence
We're not gonna live with fear

So let's be the voice.

8 Days. Day 4.

2011-02-06T19:48:00.004Z

Day Four: Four talents/superpowers you have, and four talents/superpowers you want

1. Counselling/psychotherapy work: People tell me I'm good at this; I'll take them at their word, because I just assume everyone can do what I do. I've done it since I was young - seeing patterns, asking questions, listening. People's stories fascinate me, so I guess that's why I love it so much. Tired as I am before my placement, I always come out energised. What I need to work on is staying behind the client: I have a tendency to jump ahead.

2. Big picture/patterns. I love looking for them and teasing them out. Understanding systems of people - communities, hierarchies, dynamics - is a real strength of mine. Unfortunately, my detail work is less impressive. I'm a big one for principles and proactive problem-solving - give me the nuts and bolts and I'm going to pass out.

3. Losing myself in other worlds/imagination. Have always been able to do this. It makes reading and amusing myself far easier. Possibly writing as well.

4. Associative/Lateral thinking. I LOVED teaching for this reason. If a kid didn't understand? No problem - finding another metaphor or allegory was a challenge. It makes communicating ideas so much fun and a real pleasure - rather than a trial - to discover other ways of doing it.

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4 talents/superpowers I wish I had.

1. Teleportation. There are so many places and friends I want to visit - and I could be there immediately and spend as long as humanly possible with them before coming back.

2. Healing. As per Deryni/Valdemar worlds - able to heal by laying on of hands and infusing energy; both body and mind.

3. Telepathy. To have the intimacy of speaking mind to mind, layering it with emotion and images, to have the deepest of conversations, to bond that way...yes.

4. Manipulation at the subatomic level. With this, you can change the universe.

8 Days. Day 3.

2011-02-06T19:26:00.002Z

Day Three: The four gods/superheroes you most identify with, and the four you least identify with.

I'm 4 days behind my friend on this, so let's see if I can catch up.

1. Demeter. My maternal instincts can be so powerful, they're archetypal, and Demeter helps me understand them. Also, ashamed as I am to admit it, I withdraw nurturing as a last resort when no one is listening. She needs more balance in my personality.

2. Oya/Persephone. Yoruban goddess of the underworld, wind, fire, lightning and fertility and Queen of Hades, respectively - but ultimately *change* and *transition*, both of which swirl around me so much, I've been jokingly called ta'veren by the odd friend who loves Robert Jordan. Interestingly, *my* life doesn't seem to change much, but those around me do. And the underworld, the psyche, the subconscious and death? MINE. I also love that Persephone can accompany the dead in some versions of the myth - which is what a therapist does with their clients.

3. Angel of Death. I dream about him unsettlingly often; one of the things I'm drawn to in therapy is counselling those who are dying or grieving.

4. Hephaestus. Wounded and imperfect, tossed out of Olympus by his mother in a rage, he became the most incredible craftsman - bad start, abandoned, and out of it he creates unimaginable beauty. True alchemy, and what I would want my life to become.

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4 Gods I least identify with.

1. Zeus. Whiny, immature, unfaithful, unable to lead. A complete dick.

2. Robin. Grow up and get out of Batman's shadow.

3. Hera. Jealous, whimsical and unable to direct her anger where it belongs - at her asshole of a husband. See #1.

4. Mammon. What the Western world, despite its crowing that it follows Judeo-Christian values, serves and values so deeply it has become a slave to it. It's PRINTED PAPER, PEOPLE. It's meant to serve you. FFS. It's just a medium of exchange - use it THAT way or go back to bartering and learn what really matters - love and relationship.

8 Days. Day 2.

2011-02-01T22:23:00.002Z

The four places you most want to go to, and four things you need in a home.

1. Sub-Saharan Africa. Ever since I was young, I'd always had flashes of myself working there with young children, working at the edge. There's always been a magnetic pull; something to do with vocation. The greatest draw is probably South Africa, the fascination beginning with my elementary school songbook which had 'We're all marching to Pretoria' in it. But the idea of crossing the equator totally freaked me out.

2. From Lahore to Jalandar. The reverse of the trip my parents made during Partition. Just as that border of violence, blood and pain was crossed when their lives of fear, pain and anger began, it needs to be crossed the other way for healing to begin. I want to see where they grew up, where I might have gone as a child had the subcontinent remained undivided. And yes, I want to see India.

3. To an alternate universe where WWI never happened. What we lost in that war was incalculable and arguably, the set up for the 20th century bloodbath that followed. I want to see what happened in the world where the boys who came up to university in 1913 had the same idyllic 3 years that their 1910 predecessors did. What happened to the map? The Bolshevik revolution? What did we create? Who led us?

Did we find our way better than we're finding it now?

4. Space. I've been in love with the stars as long as I can remember. One of the possibilities for my tombstone will be an epitaph on that of two amateur astronomers: '[I] have loved the stars too fondly to be afraid of the night.'

I want to be on the Enterprise - under Picard, not Kirk, please!

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4 things I need in a home

1. Sanctuary. That means unconditional love and acceptance, with the honesty that goes with that. I grew up in a house with way too much subtext, a place I hated to live. I have worked hard to create a home that is an emotional sanctuary, where I'm free to be me. That's not something I'm ever, ever giving up.

2. Open space. I don't have that so much now, but when I CAN, I do want an open plan downstairs as much as possible, high ceilings. I think the need for physical space is a reflection of the need for psychic and emotional space, having been hemmed in by others for so long.

3. Cosiness. They seem diametrically opposed, don't they? I don't think they are - by this I mean stuffed chairs, fluffy throws, things that are comforting and comfortable. Things one revels in running one's fingers through and touching. Luxurious fabrics, plush throws one can wriggle one's toes in, sofas one can sink into, furniture one can cuddle on. I don't do minimalist furniture; I do warm - colours, furnishings, all of it.

This, I think is about the need for intimacy, and 2/3 are a balance for me.

4. LIGHT. Sounds funny from a girl who loves her long evenings and soft indoor lighting, but during the day, I want to capture as much light as possible in the house. Yes, summer evenings ARE too long, but I prefer to move and work by daylight, not artificial light, for as long as possible.

And all this with as many windows as possible overlooking the sea.

Right, off to design it then...right after I win the lottery...

8 Days. Day 1.

2011-01-31T23:09:00.003Z

Day One. The four funniest things you've ever heard, and the four saddest things you've ever heard.

Now, I can't promise that these are THE four funniest. Suffice it to say, they're at the very least near the top.

1. Hyperbole and a half. Oh. my. god. Just one of the FUNNIEST things ever. I was introduced to it when several friends who have nothing to do with each other posted this entry within minutes of each other. I cried with laughter. But I didn't nearly suffocate, as I did with this one, because that child could be yours truly - and it strikes me that is what really happened with Joseph and Mary and...Kenny Loggins.

This is often so similar to my running commentary in my head, it's uncanny: I wish I could write like this. I'm aware of how serious my writing IS, and would love to move a bit more in this direction.

2. Goodness Gracious Me, especially season 1. I'm an American of Punjabi descent, and these sketches were all written by British of Punjabi descent. Much of it transcends ethnic boundaries and speaks to the immigrant experience generally. Much of it is so Punjabi-specific, it hurts. I could not stop laughing the first time I saw it - and it cut so close to the bone, I was often crying and laughing, it spoke so deeply to me. These people ARE my family.

If there's one sketch EVERYONE has to see, it's this one. Sheer brilliance.

3. LOLcats, Inc. Whoever came up with this was a genius. The entire empire is fabulous. And in a particular context, 'OH HAI!' leaves me on the floor, unable to speak.

4. Facebook threads with good friends, especially K8, LSN and 3C, some of which have run to 100 comments and usually include chicken porn. 'nuff said.

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The 4 saddest things

1. Bill Zeller. I first read his last words 3 weeks ago, and I couldn't breathe, my heart broke over and over. I meant to blog it...but I still can't breathe.

2. A child's cry growing quieter and quieter, till it ends in the whimper when she realises no one is coming. It's why I know that attached parenting is probably closer to my style than Supernanny.

3. Male grief. I can cope with a woman crying, but when a man loses it, so do I. I'm not sure WHY male grief paralyses me: if a woman cries, I can move to comfort her. Men...I don't know. Last year, I said something to a guy friend on IM, and he said, 'Stop it, man, I'll be crying in a minute.' That nearly started me off.

I talked to a friend of mine who is a bereavement counsellor, and he said that in his experience, when men get to the point of crying, it is actually a total collapse, and that's what he thinks I'm sensing - that absolute helplessness that I need to reach for, but can't help. Someone else told me that I lived for so long around my father's unexpressed grief, knowing I couldn't touch it, that any other man's grief feels like a replay. I think there's something of the truth in both.

4. The eyes of those suffering who know it isn't going to get any better. Famine, disease, war, poverty. All those images. Their eyes haunt me every day, and drive me to make a difference, even if it is a small one.

But one day, I want to go out there and be there with them.

8 Days. Meme prologue.

2011-01-31T22:30:00.002Z

I am nicking this prologue from my friend, word for word.

We recently did a meme and found the experience both intense and incredibly therapeutic; a lot of important stuff got pulled up for both of us, and we were rather sorry to see the end of it. We also felt like there were a few things we'd have liked to see included in the meme that weren't included.

So we decided to make up our own, starting today.

We liked the structural constraints of the original, but of course we didn't want to just copy it, so we used it as the point of departure instead. What we came up with is an eight-days meme with eight items per day on a single topic, but the lists are to be split in half, so that four items explore one aspect of the topic and the other four explore another. Then we tried to arrange the items in increasing order of intensity. It was very much a collaborative effort; I think we each came up with four of the eight days, and we were in complete agreement about how to order them.

The list goes like this:

1. The four funniest things you've ever heard, and the four saddest things you've ever heard
2. The four places you most want to go to, and four things you need at home
3. The four gods/superheroes you most identify with, and the four you least identify with
4. Four talents/superpowers you have, and four talents/superpowers you want
5. Four songs from you to you, and four songs from you to others
6. Four things you are grateful for, and four things you want to change about your life
7. The four most important things someone has said to you, and the four most damaging things someone has said to you
8. Four things you are terrified of, and four things you desire intensely

Day 10. 1 Confession.

2011-01-22T13:31:00.010Z

I've thought long and hard about this - should it be big? Should it be trivial? Funny? Serious?

In the end, I simply decided that it should be real.

My confession:

I don't want the life I have. If the Angel of Death came down right now and offered me his hand, I would bargain for at least a week to clean up my room, sort out funeral arrangements, burn my half-assed diaries, give away my belongings, and get the hell out. Actually, for a personal reason, I would see if he would let me hang around till after mid-March, then I'd be all his.

Why? Because on most days, my life feels like it has been a complete and utter waste.

Now, before the God or New Age squads start - shut it. Really. Because all you have to offer are platitudes; nothing in your relentlessly 'love and light' worlds, whether Jesus-based or 'suffering is an illusion' or 'life is a gift'-based, helps - at all. Neither does the Wayne Dyer, 'Law of Attraction', CBT 'change your thoughts' New Age shit. None of it. It might change things for a day, or a week, but because it never reaches the depths, the feeling comes rushing back. And whilst it may be factually, Myers-Briggs 'S' true, the practical "It's what you've got, babe," doesn't help either.

Let's be brutally honest: those soothing platitudes are more about you than about the person who's feeling the pain - all parroted rules/thoughts that you mouth at these moments because feelings like this make you panic and you have to push them away: so you're unable to be real, to be with the person in that moment. That is where G-d, Spirit, Source is, not in your precious little 'Jesus loves you'/'Well, change your thoughts and the world will change!' chirpy moments. Keep them away from me, please.

Love from friends? That DOES help, because it's real, because it makes me aware that my life has made a difference to others - because I think loving and being loved is the ONLY reason for being here. Not only that, it's only recently that I've started being able to *feel* love when it is offered. That is always welcome. But though that eases the emptiness and sense of waste, it still hovers in the background, waiting to pounce.

There's only one thing to be done: pull a Pema Chodron and sit with it, breathing deeply, letting it be what it is. Embrace it. Love it.

The first thing that comes up for me is that my life has been 'trivial', and thus has been a failure. I haven't had a major career; I haven't saved lives; I haven't made the world a better place - all of which would have been a way to mitigate, or even nullify, what feels like the biggest failure: not having a husband and children of my own.

*Breathe* Under the surface.

Obviously, I'm not special enough or pretty enough or glamorous enough or sparkly enough or high-maintenance in your face enough or lovable enough to be THE person that is the most important someone in another person's life. The supportive one through various things, maybe, but not THE one.

*Breathe deeply* And again. Further.

I am fucking SICK TO DEATH of being happy for everyone else, watching their lives motor past mine, especially since quite a lot of the time, I don't think they should be marrying whoever it is they're marrying, having children, whatever.

*Breathe* And dive.

I am utterly weary of living my life without integrity, and even more, watching those around me, especially those I love, do the same. Just recently (and repeatedly), I have wanted to grab a close friend and say to him, "LISTEN TO YOURSELF!! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING AND *WHY* ARE YOU DOING THIS TO YOURSELF???" Then I realised that if I did it to him, I would have to do it to myself. I'm utterly tired of remaining silent about practices around me that go so deeply against my values, I feel ill thinking about them. I am utterly weary of knowing what I know about 'pillars of society' that make me barely able to look at them. I am weary of remaining silent to 'protect others'. All I want to do is be real, speak up and let the chips fall where they may.

*Breathe*...and dive

My life is way too small. I need more depth, more challenge, more abundance, more freedom. My life is the life of a survivor. Work is way too small - I find admin soul-deadening; there are so many things I do better. Money is tight. The space I live in is too small. Church/religion is too small, and in some ways, diametrically opposed to my spirituality - I am about relationship; in so many ways, it feels like most religious people are about avoiding it. It's running out of air. The way I'm living my spirituality feels twisted, dislocated.

Deeper.

I can see a young me panicking and thinking, "Nobody loves me!" Even then, I felt like a commodity to be used for other people's needs.

*Deep, deep breath* - and as deep as one can go...

God doesn't love me; God is just using me for His purposes - He doesn't give a fuck about me as long as He gets what He wants out of my life for His precious little pattern. Life is just a vehicle: for parents to have little extensions of themselves and feel grown up; for leaders to use as fodder to further their own ends; for others' needs/pleasure. Fuck it.

God can't be trusted. Life is to be borne. And if you, like my parents, gave me life just to further your own ends/feed your own ego - then you, my Lord, can go fuck yourself. I'm not going to make it easy for you.

And beneath that, a pain beyond words.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

*Eyes snap open in utter shock*

Oh. I had no idea.

But finally, at long last, I'm honest. With myself and with G-d. And it's only from here that healing and real relationship can start.

Because I know, from the preciousness and depth of the close relationships that I do have, which must mirror that first relationship with G-d, that's not true. As I read what's above it, I know those are not true either, not completely - I have examples from my own life and those around me to know that, though feeling it is a different matter.

From this thought - "This is an ordinary moment, and it is totally rocking. I love my peops, where I am and what I'm doing right now, simple as it is" - I know life for the incredible gift that it is.

But that does not invalidate this feeling or make it unworthy of acknowledgment. This pain is part of the whole and worthy of being loved - this pain, like love, is home.

So I turn to the Angel of Death - of whom I will never be afraid, and to whom I will ever be closer to than my own breath - hold him close for a moment, then step away. As I do so, I say:

"No, not yet. Much have I been, but even more have I yet to be and love here. As Gibran said,

Only another breath will I breathe in this still air, only another loving look cast backward,
Then I shall stand among you, a seafarer among seafarers.
And you, vast sea, sleepless mother,
Who alone are peace and freedom to the river and the stream,
Only another winding will this stream make, only another murmur in this glade,
And then shall I come to you, a boundless drop to a boundless ocean.

But another winding has this stream to make - perhaps short, perhaps long, but its journey to the sea must be complete, not cut short. And I will meet you at the ocean's edge when the time comes - not before, my friend."

Death nods his acquiescence, and if it is possible for Death to look happy, he does - and turns away.

And finally, as Paul on the Summer Tree, I understand the meaning of Death's visit and his offer:

And he understood then, finally: understood that it had to be naked, truly so, that one went to the God. It was the Tree, stripping him down, layer by layer, down to what he was hiding from...Naked or not at all, one went to Mornir. And oh, that was too much for them, too hard to be forced to go into the darkest places then, so weak, so impossibly vulnerable.
...
But not that night. Because of pride, of pure stubbornness, and because, most surely, of the dog, Paul Schafer found the courage not to turn. Down he went. Arrow of the God. So open the wind could pass, light shine through him. Last door.

And so too, G-d, I choose not to turn - facing you in all my fear, my mistrust, my anger, my vulnerability, my lack of integrity, my certainty that you love me not.

Only this have I left to pray: take me through that last door and bring me into life and love, which alone are real.

Day 9. 2 Images that describe your life right now and why

2011-01-21T18:07:00.006Z

1. "Eventide" from Digital Blasphemy, one of my favourites. Because the night ocean under a full moon is where I feel like I am right now. Journeying on the waters of the soul with no idea of home, but trusting the light of the soul to lead whilst the psyche rows. Spirit is moving, no doubt, but where it leads, I know not. To quote George Eliot:

"I would not creep along the coast but steer out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars."

So let the transformation come, and with it, home.

2.

My tattoo - yet another way of taking my body back, but also a symbol of my transformation - it feels like a mark of initiation. I consider the wolf my totem (since my lioness dream, *a* totem, I guess), and the moon, a symbol of my commitment to the intuitive, the depths, the night - the divine feminine. Combined like this...they're me, as well as a symbol of my ability to take action, to commit and a deeper transformation, discussed in depth here.

Day 8. 3 Turn-ons.

2011-01-20T09:47:00.003Z

I hadn't realised how cathartic and, well, angry yesterday's post would be. It's amazing how things just bubble up in this meme; things I didn't quite expect. It's the same with this one, which is just as intense, but in a different way.

I'm going to try NOT to repeat what I said here, but apologies if I do.

1. Know me so well. Almost nothing turns me on like this. I know the psychologically healthy thing is that I should be able to articulate my feelings at any moment and not expect a man to read my mind, blah blah blah. But there is little sexier than having a man come up and ask 'Are you ok?' or 'What's wrong?' and not take 'No' for an answer, because he knows you. Nothing like him knowing that you need a back rub, a bath drawn, a little bit of room, some pampering, because HE KNOWS YOU. Sometimes better than you know yourself.

And that goes both ways. It's up to you to get to know him so well - and do the same for him.

2. Touch me now. Not tonsil hockey. Not grabbed in a massive hug when I'm not expecting it. But the little touches. The extra squeeze when we hug that makes me stumble slightly and brings me fully against you. Unconsciously rubbing or stroking my back or arm. The touch at the small of the back that says 'Mine.' Brushing me when we pass just because. Being secretly naughty and touching me somewhere that's publicly unremarkable, but privately drives me wild.

This includes all the little established couple touches: hands, knees, hair ruffle, Eskimo kisses, all sorts of kisses (but quick if they're public), leaning up against each other, adjusting clothing, all of it. Sheer, sheer pleasure.

And let's NOT leave out sex - from tender, languorous sex to...well, perhaps not here...

3. Masculinity: Midnight Sidhe and I are unanimous on this. When I mentioned to an acquaintance that I loved it when men were protective, he smugly claimed that he knew that. "Why?" I asked. "Because man-haters like you always do."

I was torn between killing him and laughing at him. I chose to ignore it - clearly, he'll never get to #1 on this list.

I love men; I could watch them all day. From broad shoulder to narrow hip, to how they walk, to their sweet shyness when they don't know what to say when you're upset and give you something to make you feel better. When they're jealous (within normal bounds - abusive and controlling is NOT ok). When they're concentrating, lighting up, thinking...all of it. When they puff out their chest and protect you. Those glances, intense conversations, serious flirting...

...and let's not leave out their aftershaves or their 5 o'clock shadow. And that little bit of chest hair when the top button is opened - or even better, when they look down their shirt for some reason and you can see they have *the perfect amount*. I've been known to have to think, 'FOCUS, Irim, FOCUS!' for fear of losing the thread of a conversation with a male friend who had done just that. The hairline at the back of their neck. Their hands. And yes, that.

Gorgeous. Chuck in everything from Day 3, making him a man, and this Atalanta might just find herself losing her first race.

And loving it.

Day 7. 4 Turn-offs.

2011-01-19T09:59:00.005Z

1. Selfishness: at the core of all of it, and it encompasses almost everything. Whether you climb the career ladder at the expense of others; don't consider others when you do things; don't make time for those who care about you but expect them to ; see your kids as an extension of yourself; make it all about you; feel entitled to have things done for you RIGHT NOW; think your view is the only view - and anything that proceeds from that, including watching people do things and not offering to help - I have absolutely no time for you whatsoever. And most of my schadenfreude arises when the selfish get exactly what they deserve.

2. Religious asshattery/rigidity/hypocrisy: I've experienced so much of this, beginning with my family, I don't even know where to start.

One of the best examples of this was an acquaintance who did a climb for charity, and the recipient organisation was something I supported wholeheartedly: one that would help kids, so I sponsored her - until she excitedly added on her sponsor sheet, 'I've spoken to someone high up in the charity, and he said we could channel the money to CATHOLIC KIDS!!!!!!' At this point, not only did my name come off her sponsor list, but I wrote in protest, only to get others saying that one should 'take care of one's own tribe first.'

I was so repelled by the transparent selfishness/tribalism of it that, on that day, I swore never to funnel my charitable giving through a religious organisation if I could help it.

Because for me, here's the deal: those in greatest need get first. There is NO order, NO preference, NO 'you're 'ours' and you get first'. The most vulnerable first, full stop. Because there IS no Catholic or Muslim; black or white. There is, as far as I am concerned, only humanity. My money will go where it most needed, regardless of race, creed, religion, tribal affiliation. Read my lips: all I care about is that those who need get. Religion has no place here, except as God's vehicle to provide material and spiritual comfort.

Rigidity: plenty of it in all sorts of circumstances. For that, let me refer you to this entry of mine with the passage from Silver on the Tree by Susan Cooper that sums it up. "Without colour..." Will said reflectively. "I don't know. Maybe because the Dark can only reach people at extremes - blinded by their own shining ideas or locked up in the darkness of their own heads." Sums up far too many religious folk of all stripes far too well.

Hypocrisy: if you're claiming to be the perfect specimen of X religion because you follow all the rules, get this: everyone has a right to be relentless in holding you to them, where we would be much more forgiving with those who are more moderate and admit struggling, doubt and their humanity. So, if you're virulently and vocally 'pro-life', you don't get to be pro-war and pro-death penalty. If you're virulently anti-gay marriage, your ass is ours when you're caught on Clapham Common. If you're a conservative poster boy priest for the Pope who judges his flock in every interaction, from in private to the pulpit, be prepared to be judged.

Why? See #1 and #3. Religion is not your stick to beat those not like you, or to puff yourself up because of some imagined status, and it certainly is not meant to be the LARP it so often becomes, with its own universe separate from G-d's reality. Religion is meant to be your door to let G-d in, to develop a relationship with Him, a way to love Him and His creation.

Religion is a means, not an end - not a way to separate yourself from G-d and others, but to find that you are, in fact, at one with them.

3. Lack of authenticity. I can smell fake from a mile away, and the spikes are out the second I do. My particular pet peeve is the 'sugar/sweetness/light' peddled by those who can be acerbic about most things/feel perfectly comfortable dumping all their anger/darkness on you, but suddenly, when you criticise one of their untouchables, they become completely incapable of understanding hyperbole, offering thoughtful contributions and go all breathy, wide-eyed and 'Oh, you CAN'T say that, maybe the robber with an AK47 didn't MEAN to kill anyone,' 'You know, you really can't say/think/do that,' (Yes, in point of fact, I CAN) or 'It's so UPSETTING when you get angry,' (but clearly, YOUR being angry/upset and dumping it on me is NOT), peddling lack of engagement and condescending moral superiority as charity. If you want me to deal with your shadow, you'd damned well better be prepared to deal with mine.

Oh, and yes, excessive and unnecessary PDAs count here. Because we all know they're bullshit and that it's the little touches that show crackling chemistry between a pair.

And I'll spare you my feelings on the people who lose the ability to think for themselves when they become half a couple or a BFF - suddenly, their SO's/BFF's political/social/style ideas are their own - even if they were diametrically opposed two days ago. But I'm sure you can guess what those thoughts are.

I suppose this turn-off is really about shallowness: not dealing with what you don't want to deal with; not fully engaging with, not struggling towards, who you really are. None of us are fully there - least of all me - but there's a world of difference between moving towards it and amputating/denying it - and it's the latter that I'm talking about here.

4. Drama llama: Arm-waving, dramatic hand against forehead, hyperventilating, fake extreme emotional affect, running around telling everyone what needs to be done when you can't be bothered to lift a finger will NOT make me feel sorry for you. It will make me want to slap the hysteria out of you, most commonly phrased as 'It's an inconvenience, not a catastrophe.'

Get OFF the drama llama yourself, or I will take you off and stand you where it will spit in your face.

Bet you're all glad tomorrow is 3 turn-ons then, aren't you? ;-)

Day 6. 5 people who are important to you, in no particular order

2011-01-18T18:17:00.005Z

I've decided that there are too many of you that mean too much for me to choose from those of you in my life right now. I couldn't leave any of you out - so, with the exception of my high school crew, y'all are disqualified for this meme. You know how much you mean to me - and if you don't, ask.

1. Bob Tupper: my 'It's Ac' coach for 4 years and my Modern European History teacher, he was my first surrogate dad, and takes a good chunk of the credit for my being able to overcome my childhood. From him I learned that you could still be loved if you were 'bad' (read: angry, upset) and that an argument didn't mean the end of a relationship. 'Thank you' isn't sufficient, Mr T, but it's all I have.

2. Jean Hill: my American history teacher who said to me, "I was discussing you with another teacher, and we think you have this HUGE unexplored verbal talent." My parents had always told me I was shit at anything but maths and science. Ms Hill opened my eyes and made me realise where my heart really was, though it took some time. I AM a liberal arts girl. I can DO science, but my soul is English and history and psychology and...

3. Nana-abba: Grandpa (maternal). This is hard, because I still love and miss him so very much. Just...the gentlest, most spiritual man I've ever known. And I lost him when I realised just how much there was to learn from him. I hope that the woman I am, spiritually, emotionally, in how I am to others, is someone he could be proud of.

4. Lou de Misa: my friend who worked the Child Crisis Line when I worked the Crisis Hotline. She committed suicide and I didn't see it coming. She was a surrogate mother when I needed one, and I wish I'd gone into the room to hug her the last time I saw her, even though she was busy. Requiescat in pace.

5. Nicki, Lari, Sue and crew: this is a cheat - but my high school pod counts as one person, in my eyes. Thank you for being my first friends, for sticking with me despite how difficult I was - for being my shelter, my laughter, my strength when I most needed it. And for pushing the friend button when we found each other on facebook. You were some of the best times in my life at one of the worst times, and halfway across the street or halfway around the world, you will always, always, be a part of me and have a place in my heart.

As will everyone currently and previously in my life that I love so dearly that aren't on the list. You have made me who I am, and words are inadequate to express what you mean to me.

And those of you I have yet to meet, I cannot wait: may our soul ties draw us ever closer to the corner where we turn and find each other. See you soon.

Day 5. 6 things you wish you'd never done.

2011-01-17T14:47:00.005Z

1. Held back from saying 'I'm in love with you.' I did it because I didn't want to lose the friendship; didn't want to make things difficult. But over time, I've come to believe that as long as it isn't impossible - i.e., they're taken or they bat the other way from you, in which case, it's just putting them in an impossible position and making you deeply unhappy - it's worth the risk, and even if the answer is 'no', it's worth knowing.

2. Let my parents control me for so long. I wish I'd really fought back early: fought for extracurricular activities, fought for MY course choices, refused to be dragged onto endless summer computer/accelerated maths courses, fought to apply to a LOT of colleges AWAY from home. I might have gotten some or none, but if the former, what a different life this would have been.

3. Spent so much time with people who didn't share my values, outlook, sense of humour. Too much time trying to make friendships/social occasions like these work meant I missed out on ones that belonged to me.

4. Shut friends/teachers out growing up or tried to push them away in anger. I lost my two best friends after high school because of that, and though we've found each other on facebook, we'll never get back that closeness or those years in between, which would have meant we would have TRULY shared our lives.

5. Gone against my intuition. Always, always, ALWAYS THE WRONG ANSWER - even if what people were saying sounded rational and what my intuition was saying sounded crazy - it was always right and they were always wrong.

6. Converted to Catholicism - without really exploring the Anglican/Episcopal Church. I honestly don't know which way I would have gone. I can hear my clerical friends all saying 'Catholic, of course,' but I think they're wrong. Given the chance to be a minister to G-d's people, to have a real voice in what happens, to be able to argue without being labelled 'heretic', I might well have fallen on the other side of the fence and been happy. But once I'd chosen Catholicism, I wasn't going to leave unless I left Christianity or organised religion altogether, no matter how hard the attraction to Anglicanism tugged. Whether that was because of a sense of failure, of needing to stick with it, I don't know yet; maybe I never will.
I would never have had to deal with the misogyny; the sense of betrayal by the Church; the 'epithets' of 'heretic', 'angry feminist'; insufferable boys who felt privileged because they could be what I couldn't: an altar server, a priest, even if they weren't called to either; the sense of constant struggle with doctrine.

But then, I wouldn't have met so many people I know and love now - members of my inner circle amongst them.

And perhaps that is the lesson: in the end, maybe it is those things that we wish we'd never done that bring us that which is most precious: maybe in this case, those wrong turns have made the most amazing right.

Day 4. 7 Things that cross your mind a lot

2011-01-16T16:01:00.002Z

1. Mass train of thought: Interesting hymn choice...crap modern mass setting...the MC is SLOW - what part of 'be in front of the celebrant on the last note' DO YOU NOT GET? - RUN this mass, don't let it run you...this is a mass, not a concert, and the choir is still deeply crap; E needs to go...ooooh, the ministers look CROSS and there's some sotto voce going on, find out what after mass...sermon thoughts...mmmm, incense is NOT Basilica - rose? myrrh?...they really need to let me TRAIN their altar servers...OMG, he's really thin and his ass looks HUGE in that lace cotta...right, off to clear the pews of hymn books this privileged congregation can't seem to pick up themselves/No, this week, someone else can do it.

2. We're 1:47 into the sermon - clerical hobbyhorse/insecurity/personal issues coming up in 5...4...3...2...1 - Houston, we have liftoff!

3. Cute baby/kid/father-daughter moment! *melt*

4. Oh. This is an ordinary moment, and it is totally rocking. I love my peops, where I am and what I'm doing right now, simple as it is. Beauty.

5. I have the absolute best, most awesome friends in the world. I do not deserve them, but thank you, God.

6. ARE YOU ON CRACK?

7. How do I do this; how can I be here for them? What if I'm the wrong person, what if I fuck up? I DON'T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS! Oh wait, yes I do. Breathe. Be present. Listen. Love. And get the hell out of the way of that which is greater than you, working through your intuition - G-d, Source, Holy Spirit, collective unconscious - and let It do what needs doing.

Day 3. 8 ways to win my heart

2011-01-15T13:10:00.004Z

1. Authenticity. I didn't have to think too hard about what went at the top of this list, because everything else flows from this: be whole. Be REAL. Be comfortable in your own skin. This encompasses personal responsibility and self-awareness: grapple with what you need to grapple with; if someone points out something they think you're not facing, consider it, talk about it, admit it if it's true. My inner Sneakoscope is very sensitive and is constantly going off [I cannot tell you how loud it is in church! ;-)]. If it's silent around you, you're on.

2. Listen. Really, really listen. Not just to me, but to everyone. I'm likely to melt if I'm watching you *really* listen to someone, no matter who they are or how crazy I know they drive you, because it says so much about the kind of man you are.

3. Treat the people who serve you the way you would treat the pope (if you're Catholic) or royalty. Say 'thank you'. Smile. Be patient. If something is wrong, explain it calmly. If you treat a shop assistant, waiter/waitress, bank clerk like crap - shouting, being aggressive or mocking, as seems to be the wont in OX2, whilst being a complete sycophant around your boss, clerics or anyone you perceive to be above you, you're out the door - and that'll be via my foot connecting with your ass.

4. Love children. I don't just mean as in 'I want children one day.' I mean that in the deep, powerful, protective, almost archetypal way that I love children. As in 'No matter whose child it is, I will fall at the first ditch to protect them.' I will know from watching you with them and from the longing note in your voice when you speak of them - I will know if they're as much your vocation as they are mine.

5. Put your foot down with me. Yes, you read that right. "Irim, you're wrong," is one of the sexiest phrases I can hear. I'm a very strong, opinionated, provocative personality - and I need someone who'll stand toe to toe with me and offer equal resistance. Too often, people just agree or don't engage. I want a partner, not a pushover; someone to engage with me, to tussle with - someone with the strength to work alongside me.

6. Be cheeky, cheeky, cheeky. Teasing and banter are amongst my favourite ways to communicate. I expect you to give me cheek, and I expect you to be able to take it. I do NOT mean the kind of edged, angry teasing that hides anger or poking at a sensitive place - mockery makes me angry and is one step away from contempt. I mean the warm teasing that comes from affection and intimacy.

7. Have depth, passion, complexity. Yes, that's all one. It's about being at home in the deep, where it can seem still, but there are powerful currents and emotions running through that you are in touch with. It means noting everything that is there: love, anger, joy, pain, hate, tenderness, hardness - and being able to hold it, being comfortable with it. Loving and playing with the nuances and teasing out the complex patterns found there - even better, offer me some of yours to play with...and I'll let you play with mine.

8. Offer strength, protection, sanctuary. If there is one thing I long for when I wake at 4am and can't get back to sleep, it's this - being held. I spend a lot of time being strong, holding space for and being a sanctuary for others - I need one of my own. I am deeply emotional and I go to some very dark places: I need you to be able to hold the space for me and not be afraid, not pull back, when that happens. I need to be able to collapse against you and know you won't break. I'm NOT expecting you to fix it or make it better; I need to know you're there, like a lighthouse bringing me home in a fog or onto tricky shores. Sometimes, I want YOU to stand up for me. I can stand up for myself, but to have someone who cares enough to stand up and say, "She's NOT like that, you don't KNOW her. Back off," means a lot - in my presence or out of it.

Ja, feminist I may be, but opening doors and making sure I get home or on the bus/taxi safely wins me over bigtime. That's not about control, it's about care; making sure that I'm doing what I can and not putting myself at risk. Oh, and if I've been drinking and tell you I can walk home, and you look at me and say, 'No, you're not,' in a tone that brooks no argument, that gets you bonus points (see #5).

And that's the way love goes...

Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.
Day Five: Six things you wish you’d never done.
Day Six: Five people who mean a lot (in no order whatsoever).
Day Seven: Four turn-offs.
Day Eight: Three turn-ons.
Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now, and why.
Day Ten: One confession.

Day 2: 9 things about me

2011-01-14T10:19:00.003Z

1. I adore old photographs. Put me in a room with them and you'll almost never get me out. I can't resist looking, reading expressions and body language, wondering what had happened before and what happened to them afterwards. Were they happy? Did they die young? Did their hearts break? Did they imagine what would happen to them, in those pictures where they were young and the world lay before them?

2. When I was about 7, the thought of crossing the equator and being in the Southern Hemisphere would put me on the edge of a panic attack (so, of course, I'd make myself think about it). I couldn't understand how people stood up in Australia - after all, they WERE upside down. The idea of winter in June was just BIZARRE. The idea of being near the bottom of the world without land for thousands of miles made me edgy. But the one that REALLY freaked me out? The Coriolis effect. The idea of water going down the toilet/drain the other way or the thought of watching cyclones spinning the other way on the weather report made me hyperventilate. I was long over that when, at dinner with a couple of friends in winter 2008, a Southern Hemispherean looked up the sky and said, "Orion. Of course, it's upside down." The old panicky feeling came back and I just held back from saying, "DON'T FUCK WITH MY STARS!"

3. I do divisibility rules on licence/registration plate numbers. They have to be at least three digits, of course, which means the UK has been a bit pants for that since 2001, when it changed the format. It relaxes me. My favourite divisibility rule is 7. I also solve quadratic equations at random intervals. I'm a lateral, intuitive thinker by nature - so I find the sequential nature of this relaxing when I'm tired. (Today, I saw 861 on a licence plate and discovered it was divisible by 7. Awesome.)

4. I'm an introvert. This seems to shock a lot of people, because I'm not backwards about coming forwards (read: opinionated) - but I need time alone to recharge. There are people that I can be with when I need that time, but they are very few and far between. I can't be around a whirl of emotions and not snap at someone. My favourite place at a large party is in the kitchen doing something, because it makes it manageable

5. Silver may be considered 'cooler', but I prefer gold or copper - I love their depth and warmth.

6. "Sleep well, dreamer." I loved it when a friend said that the other night, because it's true. I've ALWAYS dreamt often, in colour and vividly - nights where I don't remember snippets of at least three dreams are unusual. I love thinking them through, analysing them, turning them over - and I daydream a lot too. I also believe that the 'people dream in black and white' is an utter crock: if that were true, why wasn't that posited from when we started discussing dreams - Jung? Freud? Our minds recreate our world - and we see the world in colour. Why would we recreate a 1930s film world when what we SEE is colour? I actually believe that on hearing that, people started convincing themselves that's what they did.

7. I love the darkness - long winter nights, moving by intuition, the void - even though it's uncomfortable. Even the parts of it I don't love, I'm fascinated by - hence my addiction to shows like 'Wire in the Blood' and "Criminal Minds". I suspect there's a strong Goth clothing streak in me, though I've never explored that. Wounded men with dark streaks? Bring 'em on. Unrelieved daytime has never done it for me. Though I've always thought I'd have been a clinical psychologist given the chance, I have a hunch I might have gone for forensic.

The siren call of the darkness is never far off.

8. "You're about intimacy and deep connection." All I'd add to that is authenticity, passion and complexity. Most of me is encompassed in that, as evidenced by the fact that my deepest desire is to find my beloved and hold my own children in my arms. And I don't think I can explain it - I think you have to experience it for yourself.

9. "You've got the filthiest laugh, even when it ISN'T a dirty joke." Guilty as charged - and my friends hear it a lot :-D.

Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart.
Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.
Day Five: Six things you wish you’d never done.
Day Six: Five people who mean a lot (in no order whatsoever).
Day Seven: Four turn-offs.
Day Eight: Three turn-ons.
Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now, and why.
Day Ten: One confession.

Stolen from MidnightSidhe: Ten Days. Day One.

2011-01-13T11:23:00.011Z

I'm trying to get back to blogging, so I thought this exercise I swiped off MidnightSidhe might be a good place to start. Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.

1. I think you are one of the most wonderful human beings on the planet and I love you dearly, but I wish you could see how your unwillingness to face unpleasant truths about certain things has built this huge, transparent barrier in our friendship. I'm sure you've noticed that I don't speak to you as freely or at the depth that I used to. It's because I'm afraid that sharing so much of what I'm really thinking/feeling might break that shell you live in - and I'm afraid of what would happen then. I know facing those truths and dealing with them might mean frightening, huge changes - but it would also mean the emergence of gifts of yours that have never had the chance to express themselves: the truth shall set you free. I wish I COULD talk to you about how I'm really feeling.

2. There you stand, in your rigid moral certainty, pouring contempt on those who don't see or do things as you do. You think you are the epitome of strength and truth, yet all I see is a scared child lying to everyone, desperate for approval. I alternate between wanting to turn around and hold a mirror up to you until you SEE, until you break down with seeing, and putting my arms around you like a mother and telling you it will be all right. You think you are a bastion of trustworthiness, but your inability to be whole, to be real, makes you utterly untrustworthy. You believe that you are selfless, but your actions are all about you: either about protecting the narrow straitjacket you've created to prove that you are truly good - better than anyone else - or relating with others in ways that fulfil deep needs/desires you try to deny. You'd be more *truly* good if you'd just be real, rather than trying to amputate parts of yourself that you see as 'evil'. They aren't. They are simply part of the whole.

3. I wish you realised just how beautiful and amazing you are, and that you don't need to be like me or anyone else - you're incredible the way you are, and it is my privilege to be your friend and watch you unfold.

4. Thank you. I know it didn't end well - and I'm really sorry for my part in that - but thank you. Thank you for the days when seeing you made it hard to breathe; touching you even harder. Thank you for giving me back so much of myself. But above all, thank you for desiring me - though I heard your words, what told me that was your reality was your face when our eyes met and your hands when you touched me. I know there was no way it could have worked long-term, even if things had been different: but know that even though I may regret moments where I could have done things differently, I'm so glad we happened.

5. I am so sorry. We were such good friends, and now I've not been in touch in ages. When I didn't get a Christmas card from you this year, that hurt like hell, but I understand. You tried so hard, but I wasn't in a place to respond, not consistently. I need to write you a letter, but I'm so ashamed, I don't know where to start.

6. I'm sorry I couldn't be the person you wanted, but I'm even sorrier you couldn't love the person I am. I should have been the most precious thing in the world to you; that which you'd protect above everything, not someone to whom you said, 'It's not important; it doesn't matter,' when I finally told you I'd been sexually abused. I remember telling someone that I remember that by the time I was 4, I didn't care when you came home. She gasped in shock, saying, "You should have been his little princess!" I wish I could express how entranced I am - the exquisite joy and deep ache - when a little girl knows she is beyond safe in the arms of an adult male who absolutely adores her - her father, uncle, family friend. Even now, I can't look away. Just thinking about it makes me want to cry. But I know you wouldn't get it.

7. I've heard that you miss me, but you haven't really tried, have you? You never tried. When it was sorting out my health, it bored you. Doing anything for me was utilitarian; it was never out of love. You pretended to really want to listen to me only when YOU needed an ear or when he sent you to get information. You betrayed me over and over again. He yelled; you pretended helplessness. Even then, you knew it was my weakness, didn't you? That I'd come running every time, thinking you were a victim - not the partner in crime you were. You will never betray me or any of mine ever again. You thought your role meant automatic unconditional love and someone who would take care of you when you needed it. You cannot manipulate, demand, guilt or assume love. That is obligation. Love is a gift, one without the strings - make that jungle vines - you felt the need to attach, because you were so afraid I'd leave if you didn't. You two didn't bank on my having a machete.

8. It suddenly occurred to me one day last year that YOU are my love map. You are the reason that, despite never having smoked (or wanting to), I find a man lighting up so sexy. Ditto a man being shaved with a straight razor. You're the reason dark hair and light eyes turn my head every time, at least briefly. And YOU are the reason that the cheeky guy will get me every time. I remember how I LOVED watching you cheek my mother ("BAAAAAAAAAAAJI") and how you'd break through that facade to get her to smile. How you'd get us Baskin Robbins sundaes behind her back. And how, when you came to us at your sickest, when you could barely get up, you brought laughter and momentary peace to a fraught house devoid of both. I adored you then - and still do. Someday, G-d willing, I'll find you and the rest again. I miss you guys so much.

9. I wish I could hug you one more time. I LOVED YOU SO MUCH, and I don't think I ever said it, though I hope I did. I wish, I wish, I wish you were still here. I knew then how much I loved you; I know now how much I need you - your wisdom, your spirituality, your unconditional love, our roots. I wonder what you would have thought of me as an adult. Wherever you are, I hope I do you proud.

10. I remain in awe of how effortless our friendship is; the depth of connection; of what a joy it is to be with you. Of how I can tell you anything; feel anything; be anything and know I am utterly safe. It shouldn't anymore, but it still surprises me when you say something I've said to someone else not 24 hours before - in almost the exact same words. I love that you call me on my crap. Sometimes, I sense such melancholy and aloneness in you. And I wish you'd let me reach it - or at least sit there with you. Love you - more when I see you.

Day Two: Nine things about yourself.
Day Three: Eight ways to win your heart.
Day Four: Seven things that cross your mind a lot.
Day Five: Six things you wish you’d never done.
Day Six: Five people who mean a lot (in no order whatsoever).
Day Seven: Four turn-offs.
Day Eight: Three turn-ons.
Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now, and why.
Day Ten: One confession.

Elizabeth Gilbert on creativity

2011-01-01T12:56:00.003Z

Creative pursuits and those who follow them make us anxious because it is through creative pursuits that we brush against the divine - far more than through standard religious pursuits, where we choose to meet God in a box. When internalised and seen as springing from the individual, it's no wonder the psyche cannot bear it. The concept of a daimon or a genius spirit is a brilliant one. Far too often, I've started an entry, thinking it'll go one way and it has gone in a completely different direction, through no aegis of my own.

Thank you, Elizabeth Gilbert.

Dream 1: Analysis

2010-12-24T00:20:00.000Z

Ok, as promised, dream analysis of the first dream here.

This entry is an analysis of the dream about work, where I'll put myself into the roles of people/symbols who seem important.

1. Dresses: I have to admit to finding it difficult being an inanimate object, but here goes. I am simplicity and luxury in one: clean lines, but lush fabric, one that - like you - begs to be touched. I am freedom and I flow: both attributes that are naturally yours that you deny yourself, like your femininity. Your fear is that each of these will make you weak: that forcing yourself to challenge, to always stand up and speak, being tough are what make you strong. They are not. What resists the relentless rhythm of the sea or the power of the air as tornado? You do not need a hard shell, nor do you need to mete out resources to yourself by inches to prove that you are a survivor. If I am summed up by anything, I am summed up by this: abundance. Abundance that you do not allow to flow in because you see life as a burden to be borne, something to be paid for, rather than as a free gift to be reveled in, to be fully owned, to be liberal with.

You believe you have shaken off all of the baggage your parents left you - but this, that life is hard, that life is a burden, that you will not get what you want - that, you still carry. And it is your last, and greatest, barrier.

2. X: I am the universal spirit of generosity, the archetypal mother, bringing you abundance - do you not remember how much I carried in? There was plenty for everyone, but you couldn't trust that, just like you couldn't trust your own mother, who would give only to take back or betray. So you let others go in front of you to take the risk, to see if any trap is hidden in what I have to offer. Once you decide there isn't, you come forward. And then you feel that there is nothing in your size, not the red dress you want, that there is nothing for you - that everyone else has and you don't. And that reinforces your belief that life must always be a struggle, that it denies you, that life will never freely give you anything. You just walked out - you didn't even wait to see, nor did you ask if there was something else. You ASSUMED that you had been betrayed and that there was nothing for you, that there never was.

You forgot that in the form I came in, I was a seamstress. Why didn't you ask? Why didn't you TRY something? Why didn't you work with me to create something uniquely yours, something you might have loved even more than your pre-conceived idea of what you wanted, rather than storming off, assuming I had lied to you, that I had betrayed you, that I had chosen to withhold from you, to deny you and you had to go elsewhere for help? That may have been your childhood, but it isn't your life now. Open your eyes, see what is offered. I AM BRINGING IT TO YOU, LOOK AND LISTEN.

3. G&P: Much as you love us, we are the people you envy. The people you see as having a simple, straightforward time getting what they want, for whom life is effortless, those who take it as a given that happiness is theirs. Those who take it as given that happiness will come their way, and because they believe it, it does.

4. Y: I am severity, austerity, extreme criticism, stinginess. I look at those around me with judgment and contempt. I look at MYSELF with judgment and contempt. I give little, I love even less. I am trapped in my story. I am what you are afraid of becoming, but that which you need to face in yourself to avoid that. I am prickly, like a cactus. Dry. My roots go deep. But let love's healing rain fall on me, and you will see the most brilliant blooms nature has to offer. Embrace me.

5. Manure field: I may seem to be the most disgusting of places to be, but I am the most fertile. I am the potential garden that you walk across, that you try to escape when you climb over the gate. Instead of walking over me and ignoring me, kneel - get to work with me. Seed me. Because of me, you can grow anything in this garden. Work me. Don't let me go to waste because you think of me as your blight, as your burden. I am your potential.

6. Barn: Like the manure field, I represent your LIFE. Note my spaciousness, my light, my structure, which is both simple and beautiful - begging for you to make a mark on it. Instead, you want to leave me and walk away, starting again elsewhere. Don't. Stop going from place to place, never making anywhere yours, holding yourself back from me. Paint me. Put pictures on my wall. Take risks. Bring to me the velvet, the plushness, the sensuousness to balance my simple structure. Currently, I am a storage space for whatever is happening at the moment, something you bear, you survive. I am begging you to make me your home, as the manure field is begging you to make it your garden, for she is an extension of me.

Whoa. So I was in my life, which had various things happening, but mostly work, when the universe brought me the essence of who I am, combining simplicity and sensuousness, clarity and passion, but I didn't think I found it in my size, and I chose not to work with the universe because I don't trust anything that comes to me, so I stormed out. I then walked across my potential, born of what I've borne - like a survivor, like the traveller in Alan Parson's song - ready to leave, ready to make do somewhere else, yearning to start over - whilst the universe, the mother, followed me trying to talk to me, and I WOULDN'T listen.

Main themes:

Mistrust
1. Deep doubt that there will ever be anything good for me, doubt of abundance
2. Unwillingness to look at what's being offered if it's not exactly what I expect to see if it's a manifestation of abundance; I need to unwrap it to see if it's a blessing
3. Lack of awareness of how much potential there is around me and in me
4. Ditto how much help is around me
5. Need to keep the edge, but love it, so it becomes an asset: crisp like an apple rather than sharp like a poisoned dart
6. I need to own my life and make it mine rather than just write it off and assume the next one will be my 'real' one - the structure is beautiful and the potential immense
7. Need to allow myself my sensuality and love of abundance and fun
8. I need to listen like my life depends on it - if the universe is chasing me down to talk me into staying, then there must be so much that can be done with this. I remember the barn was immense
9. REAL issues with femininity here - my own and trusting the feminine, the receptive quality. The garden is feminine, I refuse to make the house feminine. I refuse to let myself go to it, though I will use qualities of it if necessary, and as my friend Jack once said, "You are well maternal." AND, interestingly, even though I lean towards Our Lady and feminine imagery of the Godhead.

Ok, this will probably have edits/additions later, but for now, that's where I am. Over to you - really. The comment section is really going to help here, since this is a new technique for me.

Dream experiment

2010-12-08T22:42:00.008Z

Monday night, I had two very intense dreams - and considering I had about 5 hours of sleep, tops, that's not unimpressive. I've come across a method of interpreting dreams that is very powerful, so I'm going to post them and try to analyse them as a blog exercise.

The way this works is that one takes all the important symbols/people and becomes them. Speak from the "I am" perspective: "I am X, and I represent Y, etc."

So here are the dream summaries:

Dream #1: I was in what looked to be a big barn conversion with folks from work - it was light and looked like a fashion designer's room, actually, or the costume room at a play/production - and we were doing some kind of Christmas pageant at the party. X came in with an armful of dresses that looked medieval: long sleeved, full-length cream chemises with overdresses, something like this, but with a rounded neck and more velvety in texture:

They were also in deep jewel tones: red, blue, green. I asked X if there were enough - she said that yes, there were plenty. I allowed others to go first: P got a small, G a medium and then it was my turn, as I passed G & P adjusting their overdresses.

I flipped through the dresses with anticipation, but nothing in my size, or rather, a large in a colour I didn't want (or there was something else wrong with it). I went ballistic, at which point the barn went dark and I delivered an outburst that shows how little I really trust the world: "What the FUCK? You said there were plenty. NO ONE ever tells me what's really happening. Everyone got what they wanted. No one made sure there was something for me. There's NEVER anything for me."

I stormed out under the disapproving gaze of Y and the stunned countenances of all the others - into pure manure. Not frozen, not even dry - boggy manure that sucked your foot in up to the ankle. I was so angry, I was shaking and ready to cry. X followed me out, walking with me across the (interestingly, also indoor) manure and stood by me as I went over the stile and gate, trying to listen, calm me down and let me know it could be sorted.

Some pretty obvious stuff here, but it goes very deep, so I'll want to be:

The dresses
X
Y
the manure field
G &/or P, possibly
the barn, I think

Then we'll work from there.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Dream 2:

I was near Cape Town, having just been driven out of it along the highway by a woman I don't know IRL. Interestingly, we were driving on the right side of the road, which is wrong. CPT was to our left - she blessed it as we passed - and we pulled into a layby.

I was barefoot, and stepped out onto an asphalt walkway covered in broken glass. I thought about putting on shoes, but she told me to trust, so I kept walking, and looked up to see a two story peach coloured stucco house - something like this:

We went to the top floor, and there was a gorgeous room: part canteen, part game area, part shop area. but more generally all purpose room full of black boys and young black men. Our arrival turned some heads, but they kept on what they were doing: some studying crafts, some playing, some working the canteen - but all happy. There was broken glass being used ornamentally in the jet black tables, and clearly some used in the stained glass windows in the room.

I stood in awe, feeling electricity running through me as she said, "They were all orphaned and left to die, look what they've done."

My last thought before I woke up was that the friend I was in Cape Town with NEEDED to know about this.

Here, I need to be:

Friend driving
Road (why on the wrong side?)
Path
Broken glass
House
Room
Possibly the boys as a collective; the whole idea
Possibly CPT itself: what did it represent, why was I there? This feels tied to a dream I had about the Southern Cross months ago.

Those will be the subjects of the next blog entry or so. Stay tuned.

Musings on 15,001 ---> 13,000

2010-12-04T01:03:00.000Z

My yahoo account has been slow for weeks. I knew it was probably because my inbox was too full, but I put off doing anything about it. However, when getting to 'reply' seemed like too much work for yahoo Tuesday morning, I knew it was time.

15,001 emails, covering nearly 8 years of my life. What to do? I decided to delete the early ones - perhaps up to the beginning of this year - en masse. I'm not referring back to any of the emails and haven't since the time in question, so why not?

It was harder than I thought it was going to be. I'd dip into an email, smile at the memory of the context - my exchanges with my cataloguing buddy, SA, were a particular delight, as were offlist conversations with several people I'd met online – I’ve certainly not changed in essence: analytical, cheeky, introspective. But more and more, perhaps because it is the unresolved thread from then, I found myself going back to the emails of a man I was involved with at the time. I’ve read the emails leading up to the first kiss, and those leading away from it to the end. Far more difficult and dark, very painful, but no less a pleasure.

Why? Because I loved him. No question there, looking back. Yes, I can analyse it now and think, ‘It was more about need and what I expected/needed him to be,’ but I can see the love shining through the emails as well. I recognise my tendency to affirm those I love (not just in THAT way) endlessly; the little tells in a shared foreign language; the shared pleasure in contact – talking about philosophy or daily happenings. As I read, I can feel the shared physical tells we once had: the hugs that were a little too long when we were just friends; the way I would turn into the smell of his cologne; the feel of his 5 o’clock shadow against my cheek; the little touches that scream ‘intimate’ louder than tonsil hockey in the street.

But reading reminds me, too, of how hard it was, even at the beginning. A friend of mine once said that relationship with me 'demands intimacy'; a newer friend said to me, 'You're about deep, honest connection.' They're both right; I don't do small talk for long: if a deeper connection isn't on the cards, I'm done.

But here, in a relationship that was 'intimate' by definition, the deep connection was always missing, always a struggle, only ever briefly brushed - and always by some combination of extreme reaching and walking on eggshells on my part.

In an early note to a good friend:

I don't even want him to touch me right now. There's a part of me that doesn't want to see him, that doesn't want him within a hundred miles of me right now, and another part that wants him right here.

And to another, one which reminded me that I've always tried to face things when they're hard:

You asked the right [questions], the tough ones - I need to articulate all that. And you're absolutely right, I *am* closed down at the moment, it's the only way I know to function...as is the analysis, really - it allows me to detach and intellectualise it.

I’d forgotten how early it started; how early it went from being exquisite to be in a relationship to exquisite agony. In my head, I was completely relaxed and wrapped in it until much later, but looking at the dates of these emails, the angst set in early. Interesting, that: ‘In my head.’ Not in my feelings, not in my body, but *in my head*. How treacherous that head of mine is.

But why? If, as both my friends correctly note, deep connection is so much a part of how I relate, why struggle with an intimate relationship where it is only ever fleetingly present? If I insist on it in friendships, why not more so here? Why not walk that much sooner? Because I wanted to save him. Because it was a challenge, something to reach, the Holy Grail. Because I thought he was the One, and I had to get it right – that if I just turned myself this way, sat on that tendency…it would click into place. Because being desired, being touched like that, was intoxicating. Because…

…like him, I was emotionally unavailable.

Some of my friends would argue that, would say that I’m TOO emotionally available, that I don’t draw boundaries well enough and will be there for everyone till I drop. That’s true in an intimate relationship too, but that doesn’t mean I’m *emotionally available*. Being emotionally available entails being aware of your feelings, your processes – what’s really going on with you – and with others. I have a tendency to do my emotions in my head: I have insight – but awareness, which is deeper, which pushes us towards action – is much harder to come by. I don’t sit with raw emotion easily, as has been noted; I tend to need to place a pattern, an analysis on it early to make it bearable, to feel in control. That is an indication of my inability to be emotionally vulnerable, to let go of control, my difficulty in being emotionally honest.

Wait, Irim, you’re not emotionally honest?

Not when it places me in a vulnerable position: then, I hide behind capability, intellect, the ability to help others. But no one's getting near me when I'm feeling raw: and I don't withdraw, I attack. I don't want anyone near the place that hurts.

And that's the other part of emotional availability: the willingness to be vulnerable and aware of how you and others are. The capability is all well and good, but it's the willingness that matters. Then, the willingness to be vulnerable was minimal, and choosing someone emotionally unavailable made a lot of sense, though it also made for a lot of pain, because my nature leans towards intimacy. As was said to me in my first year at uni, "You're one of those people made to go through the world two by two," and more recently, "Yes, you DO well on your own. But you're better in partnership."

Is it any surprise that I'm deeply stuck? I can be emotionally available in friendships, where the risk isn't all of me: my heart, my nature, my essence. But in an intimate relationship, it's too much - it's overwhelm: sensory, emotional, physical...and checking out, freezing, taking care of other or not being emotionally present become barriers against the terror of being engulfed and lost.

He was the same. I've been reading these letters, thinking, 'You didn't know me,' and later, 'I didn't know you,' but I think at the level that mattered - to quote Elaine Page - I knew him (and he me) too well.

And as I've remembered and worked through that, I've remembered what I learned:

I am deeply kinaesthetic, though I tend to think of myself as more verbal. I need touch: from the little touches as a guy passes me, but even more skin to skin, whether it's holding hands, or cheek to cheek, or... If I have that, then I don't need words. I can rest.
I have a very strong nesting - or perhaps, with a wolf totem, 'denning' - instinct.
I love being desired and everything that goes with it. Though it isn't often expressed, sensuality is very much a part of my nature.
He brought a lot of healing along with the pain.
I am, truly, better in partnership.
I can love. I can stay when it gets hard. I can make this work.
From the way my friends gathered round, I realised how loved I was...

...though I've only begun to really feel it recently.

And over the last few days, I've learned that going back to that relationship was the best thing I could have done. Far from turning me into a pillar of salt, it allowed me to free a part of myself that had been frozen there, still chilled from the inside out by the pain.

Loving myself, applauding the risk I took to love and be involved, allowed that part to rejoin me and live again. Thawing may be painful, but it is the way to warmth and life.

And loving myself allowed me to love him by thanking him and finally letting him - and us - go.

You know who you are: thank you, and may you be blessed on the road that is yours. May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, and may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

Farewell.

Where Moshe is reminded that Hashem's ways are not our ways...

2010-11-30T14:14:00.003Z

This morning I discovered that I have 15,001 emails in my Yahoo inbox (that's almost 8 years' worth, for those who want to know), so I've taken it upon myself to delete at least 1,000 a day. Starting with the earliest, which I am deleting en masse, I've paused occasionally to read the odd email with an interesting subject line, or from a guy I later became involved with. As I read one from said gentleman and deleted it, another one from a cataloguing friend popped up to take its place: that became my current status. I saved that one. Then another - this one. As Prince of Egypt came into my consciousness yesterday (I posted Ashira L'Adonai on my facebook wall), I couldn't help but note the synchronicity. Another part of this synchronicity was that I happened to be listening to Chris de Burgh's One world yesterday, and the second verse begins:

I believe there is a God: but it doesn't mean that my God is greater than yours - it only means we all have the right to believe, 'cos nobody knows it for sure, for sure...

And as Archbishop Bloom points out in this story, not even he who met Hashem in the burning bush can define who G-d must be to the rest of us:

One day Moshe finds a shepherd in the desert. He spends the day with him and helps him milk his ewes, and at the end of the day he sees that the shepherd puts the best milk he has in a wooden bowl, which he places on a flat stone some distance away. So Moshe asks him what it is for, and the shepherd replies, "This is God's milk."

Moshe is puzzled and asks him what he means.

The shepherd says "I always take the best milk I possess and I bring it as an offering to God."

Moshe asks "And does God drink it?"

"Yes,” replies the shepherd, "he does."

Then Moshe feels compelled to enlighten the poor shepherd and he explains that God, being pure spirit, does not drink milk. Yet the shepherd is sure that He does and so they have a short argument, which ends with Moshe telling the shepherd to hide behind the bushes to find out whether in fact God does come to drink the milk.

Moshe then goes out to pray in the desert. The shepherd hides, the night comes, and in the moonlight the shepherd sees a little fox that comes trotting from the desert, looks right, looks left, and heads straight towards the milk, which he laps up, and disappears into the desert again. The next morning Moshe finds the shepherd quite depressed and downcast. "What's the matter," he asks.

The shepherd says "You were right. God is pure spirit and He doesn't want my milk."

Moshe is surprised and says "You should be happy. You know more about God than you did before."

"Yes, I do", replies the shepherd, "but the only thing I could give Him has been taken away from me."

Moshe sees the point. He retires into the desert and prays hard. In the night in a vsion, God speaks to him and says "Moshe, you were wrong. It is true that I am pure spirit. Nevertheless, I always accepted with gratitude the milk which the shepherd offered me, as the expression of his love: but since, being pure spirit, I do not need the milk, I shared it with this little fox, who is very fond of milk."

It reminds us that I AM THAT I AM, who is All that Is, lives in relationship with every part of creation - from the galaxies to the tiniest single cell - and that requires an infinite number of presentations to be in relationship: one for Moshe, one for the shepherd, and one for every being He is in relationship with, meeting them where they are.

What would you do if...

2010-11-12T23:52:00.007Z

I've had reason to think about this lately - if I were on my deathbed, what would I look back and wished that I had been or done or had? Here's a partial list:

1. A childhood - a carefree childhood in which I had just been allowed to be, allowed to play
2. A close immediate family of origin - I would have loved to have had parents that I could have been close to, told everything to, been friends with, trusted - parents I could have been loved by.
3. A crazy adolescence - one where I'd gone clubbing, drank, gone out with my friends, had all the crazy teenage pics so many of my friends have (including the bad hair and fashion choices and stupid moments in heels with my arms around friends)
4. Finding my style - I wish I'd had enough confidence, enough wherewithal to experiment and discover my style, instead of sticking with the practical. I still can, of course, but I wish I'd started playing at 18...
5. Play - That last one reminded me of something I didn't learn to do young and still feel very bad at - play. Just let go and play...
6. Loving and being loved - I have the best friends in the world, but I've always known deep down that I want to be in a deeply loving, intimate relationship. One of my uni friends said, "You're made to go through the world two by two." She knew I was fiercely independent, but she also recognised a deep truth about me - that I work better in close partnership. Never having a man with whom I'm intimately bonded for life - emotionally, spiritually, physically - would probably be my deepest sense of loss along with my not having...
7. Children - I've known since I was a young child that being a mother was part of my vocation. Mothering my friends is great, mothering their little ones is great, don't get me wrong - but I want my own, deeply and fiercely.

Now over to you: what is it that you want, hope, desire to be, have, do? Nothing is too small or too great. Put your answers in comments, and flesh them out if you want: see, feel, hear - give it texture; make it real. Put it out there and start to make it real - and if you want, put down the first step you'd be willing to take towards it.

As for me, it's time to find myself some 40s-style clothing and get a haircut.

Then, I'm going out to play.

An ode to chav pants

2010-10-30T16:28:00.003+01:00

Today, I haven't left the house. Hell, I didn't leave my room till after 12.30. And after I showered, I put on the ultimate symbol of that decadent lounging: chav pants. And as I stared at that bling and felt the velour under my fingers, I felt my creative expression begin to flow, so I grabbed the nearest piece of kitchen roll and began composing. With apologies to Keats:

Chav pants, O chav pants,
Blue velour and diamante,
that lead me into sloth
and possibly
the Inferno of Dante.

O Chav pants,
your various styles
the subject of much discussion:
more bling?
velour? cashmere?
My head feels like I've had a concussion.

But even though my head hurts,
I must thank you, o chav pants:
the comfort of your elasticated waist and soft touch
spare my friends many Facebook rants.

*to non-British readers, definition of chav here.

Dare. Change.

2010-10-15T13:31:00.004+01:00

My friend Kenetha posted this on her fb wall. I had noted it, but it wasn't till she nudged me that I watched it. This was last night, and I've probably watched it at least 20 times since, I'm so drawn to it. It's as beautifully put together as the Embrace Life advert from earlier this year, and just as emotive:

One thing that struck me as I watched it - and I don't think it's just that I have an affinity for wolves - is that I can't, no matter how I try, see the wolf as her enemy or obstacle. I see him as her helper: there to force her choice, to make her fight rather than draw back, to make her challenge him: because she has no choice but to move forward. If she draws back, he will follow and give chase and make her face him anyway.

In essence, both are trapped if she avoids him.

Once she makes the choice to accept his challenge and chooses to run towards him, to move forward and fight him if need be, his mission is accomplished - and they are both set free.

Poem for thought...

2010-10-14T12:36:00.004+01:00

I've been pulling in a bit recently for various reasons, but mostly for a bit of a life review. In that vein, this poem by Paulo Coelho popped up when I was looking at an FB picture a friend was tagged in, clicked on it to make it bigger, but ended up moving on to the next picture instead, which had this poem...perfectly grabbing at what was at the centre of my musings. I love synchronicity - have I said that a gazillion times yet?

Every Warrior of the Light
has felt afraid of going into battle.

Every Warrior of the Light
has, at some time in the past, lied or betrayed someone.

Every Warrior of the Light
has trodden a path that was not his.

Every Warrior of the Light
has suffered for the most trivial of reasons.

Every Warrior of the Light
has, at least once, believed he was not a Warrior of the Light.

Every Warrior of the Light
has failed in his spiritual duties.

Every Warrior of the Light
has said 'yes' when he wanted to say 'no.'

Every Warrior of the Light
has hurt someone he loved.

That is why he is a Warrior of the Light,
because he has been through all this and yet has never lost hope of being better than he is.

--Paulo Coelho

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

2010-10-13T12:09:00.003+01:00

I bet we never thought a cylinder coming out of the ground would hold us entranced, united in our willing it to safety as it descends empty, and our relief/joy when it emerges again with its precious cargo. Campamento Esperanza goes worldwide.

Come as you are...

2010-10-11T09:39:00.002+01:00

Whatever your sexuality, imperfections, shadow - come out of the dark closet into the light. Come as you are - it's National Coming Out Day in the US and tomorrow in the UK. As a straight woman, I've never had to fight this battle, but I've had to fight plenty of others - and I've seen friends in the closet suffer what no one should ever have to. So, whilst this isn't my struggle, the battle for LGBT rights IS my battle. Come out, come out wherever you are - and to my fellow heterosexuals: whilst you may not understand being attracted to someone of the same sex and the struggle that ensues, you DO understand what it's like to want to be free to be - and love for - who you REALLY are. So it is incumbent upon ALL of us to create a world where it is safe for everyone to be real, whatever that means.

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti - let's get ready to rumble...

2010-10-09T23:32:00.003+01:00

Waltz therapy

2010-10-03T16:07:00.012+01:00

"Let him HOLD you! Trust him," I finally shouted at the screen in utter frustration as Patsy Kensit yet AGAIN refused to let go and let her professional partner, Robin Windsor, lead. Her refusal to do just that meant she'd lost her frame any number of times and in this particular moment, as he dipped her, it looked horribly awkward and jerky, as she refused to give him her weight. What made it worse is that it was clear that Patsy had a great deal of talent.

But as frustrated as I was, my heart went out to her. Her fear would have been palpable even if it hadn't shown so clearly on her face. I also knew that her marriage has just broken up and that faith in men must be in extremely short supply - and that in a dance as intimate as the waltz, a dance in which the man has almost total control as the lead, that faith is absolutely essential.

I learned to waltz informally, in the house of folks who were so into ballroom dancing they built a ballroom onto their house instead of a garage. Every Sunday night, 7-10pm, was ballroom dancing night. I was never as consistent a participant as my housemates were, but I had loads of fun and learned a great deal.

One of the things I learned was that my favourite dance was the waltz. There is nothing, nothing, like letting go and just BEING in the arms of a man who can dance the waltz...it's dancing on air, flying, a taste of utter freedom.

But to get there, you have to trust; you have to let him lead. And I owe my ability to do that to one of the expert dancers who insisted on holding me by the small of the back (I far prefer the waist hold for the waltz to the 'oh my hand is just on your shoulder/side' standard closed hold. I want to be held, damn it) as the ONLY hold - no hands extended, nothing. If anything happened, I had to trust him to catch me.

I cannot even begin to tell you how terrified I was. I kept waiting for the back of my head to meet the parquet dance floor, even though I knew just how good he was. It didn't.

My waltzing improved astronomically as of that episode.

Watching Patsy and being simultaneously sympathetic and frustrated, wondering why the feeling was so familiar, I suddenly realised that this was how I often feel when my counselling hat is on: I understand, but I want them to realise that at this point, nothing but themselves is preventing them from moving forward. But 'moving forward' in those terms is so abstract, so vague. By contrast, moving forward in waltzing or dancing is so much more concrete, so much more rewarding, because you can see the improvement, see that you're ready.

Would it then, be possible to make 'moving forward' in therapy more concrete, clearer? If so, how? Listening to the judges say to Patsy almost exactly what I'd yelled at the screen, pairing the awareness of just how intimate the waltz is and the sense that Patsy Kensit's problems on the dance floor arose from her head space made me wonder...

...could something like the waltz be used to help *clear* one's head space, to move therapy forward?

We do a lot of talking in therapy. We talk through ideas, feelings, experiences. We make verbal realisations, huge leaps forward in emotional and cognitive understanding. We start to heal.

But far too often, our ability to make changes in the physical world lag far behind our cognitive understanding. That might be natural. But watching the waltz, I wondered: is it?

Is it that we're missing something; we're cutting something off? That we don't involve the body? I can emotionally understand that when a man touches my hair or tells me that it's beautiful, as my uncle used to, he intends no harm, but may well be trying to compliment me or show affection. But when a man touches my hair, the reaction is *visceral*, not cognitive. It's like a spinal reflex: it doesn't go to the brain; I don't consciously process before I react.

I needed to learn to be still with men touching my hair, stroking it. To let it happen. To PRACTISE it. Over years, I did - and found the joy in it, even if I tensed first. And so, when the day came that a good male friend cheekily tugged my hair as he came up behind me, I felt nothing but surprise and 'Who?' till I turned round and relaxed into it as he teased me in greeting.

It wasn't till later that day that I realised how far I'd come - and how much of that reaction had depended on practising the physical enactment of the cognitive understanding that a man touching my hair could be a wonderful thing that represented genuine affection, not something creepy.

And so I wonder if it is the same with trusting and intimacy: even as we talk about it, understand the reasons why we do what we do, do we need to find safe ways in which to practise it so that we can learn - or re-learn - it? So that we develop what is essentially a 'muscular memory' for it?

If that is the case, then could something like the waltz - a dance that is the epitome of partnership and trust - be used to help build/rebuild those qualities in a non-threatening, almost sideways manner? Could something that is essentially play (and non-threatening, unlike 'your homework is to place your profile on an internet dating site') with someone who doesn't trip our defences against intimacy (the way a love interest might) help develop a muscular memory of being held, of not being dropped - abstractly, trust - that could then be carried into a relationship?

If we married cognitive and physical in therapy somehow - whether we send clients off for massage, dance, practising certain skills in the physical world in ways that feel like play, rather than work - would they move faster? Be less stuck? Could learning go both ways?

My inclination is to say 'yes', because cognitively processing your feelings and physically processing them are two very different things: there's a reason we use 'visceral' to describe incredibly strong emotion. One of the things Donald Kalsched, a Jungian psychologist, says about trauma is that it splits an archetype along the intellectual/affective axis - I can't help but wonder if the physical might not be a quicker, more powerful way into affect - and if, alongside talking, it might not reunite the two more quickly.

Another side benefit of this might be teaching clients to listen to bodies they may have dissociated from for various reasons. This may allow them to pick up emotions earlier than they might have done before, and allow them to know when they are going against their integrity rather than with it.

I'm not sure about this; it's only a fledgling thought. But something resonates - something feels right.

Viscerally.

For Patsy Kensit, I hope that her time with Robin Windsor helps her heal from a difficult year, and though she's done the waltz, here's hoping that the rhumba, tango and salsa bring a spring to her step and a smile to her face again.

As for you, wherever you are - physically or emotionally, remember:

Life's a dance you learn as you go
Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow
Don't worry about what you don't know
Life's a dance you learn as you go

...so keep dancing.

Gratitude

2010-09-28T13:23:00.001+01:00

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְיָ אֶלוֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הַעוֹלָם שֵהֵחְיָנוּ וְקִיְמָנוּ וְהִגִיעָנוּ לַזְמַן הַזֶה

Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha'olam shehehiyanu v'kiyemanu v'higiyanu lazman hazeh.

"Blessed art thou, Lord our G-d, King of the Universe, who has granted us life, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this season (also translated as 'moment' or 'occasion')."

This gorgeous prayer is known as the Shehechiyanu, a prayer said in moments of great joy or upon experiencing something good for the first time. So it is said at the beginning of a holiday, the first time a ritual is performed in a year or a lifetime, the first time food is eaten in a season.

But most Jews I know use it at so many other times - when a child is born, when a difficult time is over, at any moment where they feel moved to thank G-d.

It is one of the prayers said over the lulav and the etrog at Sukkot - it was as I was looking these up last week, as Sukkot began, that I really started thinking.

What if, even in the most difficult moments, when it seemed darkest, I recited the Shehechiyanu - as a reminder that whatever G-d has brought me to, I am grateful that He has brought me to this moment, that I am not alone - no matter how painful, no matter how hard the moment may be?

What if I said it EVERY DAY - no matter how ordinary the day, no matter how frustrating, no matter how simple the pleasures? No matter that I wish for much that I do not (yet?) have?

Would life look different? What would shift, change? How would I live? Who would I become?

I've decided to give it a try. I may not have everything I want, but I have so, so much. It's time I said, "Thank you": because to everything, there is a season - and I have, through countless others, been brought to this one - whatever it may hold.

Baruch atah Adonai eloheinu...

In response to a pro-life blog entry

2010-09-23T14:02:00.004+01:00

The entry is here.

My response:

Beautifully said, Cloister.

I grew up in a country where 'pro-life' meant clinic bombings, murder, frenzied abuse of women entering clinics. What pro-life really meant was "Once you're born, we don't really care what happens to you. We're pro-war, so we're happy for you to be cannon fodder; we'll cut social services, so we're happy for you to abused or neglected; we'll make sure you can't get proper health care or schooling if you're not affluent, so we're happy for you to have no opportunity or die early once you're out of the womb; oh, and if you get arrested - we're happy for you to die via injection or electric chair. And if you're not like us, we don't want you near us: we're pro-segregation, anti-gay, anti-anyone who isn't our clone."

So the real definition of pro-life is thus: "We're pro-life if you're white and middle-class; if you're not, you can have as many abortions as you like - we don't want more of you."

The shrillness, bullying and lack of integrity with which the campaign is run is breathtaking. You see the same with SPUC and its like: lovely to people who agree with them, abusive to those who don't. And pretending to be 'advice services' when what they do is force women to do what they want is just despicable.

I AM Catholic and pro-choice. I don't sit here easily, but I sit here with absolute conviction. As a cleric with far more empathy than you show here once said, "I don't agree with you - I don't think abortion is part of God's plan. I think we need to love and support the women who are considering this."

Ah. A *truly* - and far too rare - Christian, pro-life stance. And one that allowed us to lean on the fence and really talk - and discover that our values are, in fact, extremely similar, though our expression of them may not be. Unfortunately, reactions like yours shut off conversation and encourage polarity and entrenchment in extreme positions.

It occurred to you to be smug and self-congratulatory, patting yourself on the back for your orthodox stance. It occurred to you to be rigid. It occurred to you to question her right to be in God's Church - which is not YOUR place or business, but Christ's - but it never occurred to you to find out what her story was. As Cloister says, making a decision about abortion is difficult and heart-breaking. No woman does it for a good time, and the last thing she needs to do is be bullied. She needs *love*, *support* and someone who will *listen without judgment*.

That is something that will be your job as a priest. You need to reflect deeply and decide if you can do it. If not, then you have some hard thinking to do. Because let me tell you, if you find that response 'horrendous', you are in no way ready to deal with what your parishioners are living through.

Perhaps you need to go and learn from some of your Dominican brethren who, in my experience, are exemplary pastors - thoughtful, compassionate, orthodox, always charitable - and above all, ever aware of the spirit and nuance of the law.

Remember - For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts. To assume you know God's will for anyone - and whether or not they are 'imperil[ing] their supernatural destiny' is the ultimate in arrogance. None of us has any idea of the mind of G-d; how He is choosing to work out His plan for any and all of us. To assume so is to worship an idol by creating Him in our image.

Instead, your encounter with that girl's comment should have been treated as holy. As a moment of meeting, as a moment to wonder what her story might be, as a chance to reach out to her with compassion and show her that the pro-life movement may not be the monolith of intolerant, misogynist religious weirdos she may imagine them to be.

That was a missed opportunity. Don't, in your need to be right, miss the next one.

Fragrance and self

2010-09-11T22:45:00.009+01:00

It was nearly 2pm by the time I managed to prise Mazz off my arm.

I met her in Debenhams at 10.30 on a day when I just felt fat and ugly. I couldn't bear to look at myself in ANY of the mirrors I passed (it didn't help that I was wearing a sweatshirt that made me look the size of a house). I was happy to walk around with her as she chose clothes, but I was utterly uninterested in anything but her company. I HATE shopping, but that's another post.

Things started to perk up when she decided she was looking for a fragrance: that, I could get behind. I grabbed Obsession, which I haven't had since March and sprayed it on my wrists. Mazz really liked it on me, but she was going after Dior Addict - a new version that a Saffa friend had worn and she had loved.

We were disappointed in Debenhams, so we went wandering. We were on our way to Primark when we passed The Perfume Store in the Clarendon Centre and I suggested we give it a whirl. It looked like a cheap discount outlet with sales clerks who knew nothing about the product. She shrugged and we went in.

We couldn't have been more wrong about the sales clerk - perfume, heartnotes, basenotes were clearly her passion. She made it her mission to move Mazz from her single-minded pursuit of Dior. When Mazz demurred, she said, "Ah, I thought the same - until I tried..." She took bottles off right, left and centre, trying to find ones Mazz would like. She hit it right on the nose with some, less with others; Mazz finally settled on one of her usual faves: Armani Code.

Then it was my turn. *I* wanted to see if I could move from CK Obsession - or at least have another choice. Again, she sprayed several, some of which were options, including Armani Code. "You'll love the Gucci," she said. Finally, as she rang up Mazz's purchase, she was by the Gucci and sprayed it on a card.

Mazz loved it; I was less sure, so she sprayed it on both our skins. On Mazz, it smelled like soap. On me...

OMG. Sharp at the top, then settled into the lovely smell of fruit stew wafting through the house, with a lilac bouquet undertone. Slowly, amber and patchouli (though not as strong as I'd like) bubbled up from the bottom.

It smelt like a rich sunset. I'm still a nighttime girl, but this is gorgeous. There's a great review of it here.

Mazz wouldn't stop sniffing my arm, saying, "This just makes me want to hug you all day." Considering that neither one of us would kick Chris Evans (the seriously hot American actor, not the Brit git) out of our bed for eating Death by Chocolate, that's saying something.

Then she said something that made me think: "I can smell the Obsession on you, but I can't keep smelling it. It's sharp. This [Gucci Guilty] is so you. I can just keep smelling it all the time."

"Sharp?" With an implied 'hard' and an explicit 'edge'? Hmmm. That was very much how I wanted to project myself - not to be messed with, dark, with an edge. Wearing a scent that projected such an image was, in part, intended to do what wearing baggy clothes does for me: warn you that if you can't get past the packaging, you don't get to find out what's inside. Move on. Don't waste my time; don't ask me for anything; do NOT touch me.

Gucci Guilty smells, as 'The Scented Salamander' says, of a cornucopia - the gift of the Mother. It is a generous, warm, inviting scent of fruit with a hint of naughtiness in the amber and patchouli foundation. It says, 'Come closer, touch, nestle,' whereas Obsession says, 'Go on, I DARE you.'

It's not an either/or for me; it's a both/and. Beneath the prickliness and the edge, you find the nurturing and warmth - and beneath the nurturing, well, I'll leave you to guess at what you might find - hinted at by Guilty's touch of overripe blossom and the strengthening patchouli about 3 hours in.

I'll always be an Obsession girl.

But for now, I give in to sin...

...because you have to make this life livable.

The Rosary

2010-09-07T23:39:00.009+01:00

"Woohoo!" I thought, as the 4B stopped next to me in the High Street. "Hi ho, Hi ho, off to Littlemore we go!" It had been a full day - talk to the Research Induction School; Dean's Forum; the usual first week frustrations with a new intake. Now off to a 7pm case study.

It was just after 6 when I got on the bus (I like early, especially in rush hour) and was rooting through my pockets for gum (which, of course, I'd left on my desk) when my hand came upon an odd texture.

Beads.

I have a ROSARY in my pocket? Since when?

She is eternal:

Curious to see which one it was, I surreptitiously pulled it out - and found myself smiling. It was the one brought back for me from Israel by my beloved teaching colleague, Helen Raucher, and her husband, Steve, shortly after I'd converted. Blue crystal beads, silver chain, 'Terra Santa' where Our Lady's image usually is. Yes, I'm a wooden bead girl, but a rosary given with love - especially from Jewish friends acknowledging and wishing me joy in my conversion to Catholicism - trumps that a thousandfold. It's my favourite, and was a particularly appropriate one to find as Erev Rosh Hashanah was about to begin.

I gazed at it with trepidation. Anyone who reads this blog knows of my deep love for Our Lady, the dream I associate with her, the fact that I said the 'Hail Mary' long before I was Catholic...

long before nations' lines were drawn - when no flags flew, when no armies stood, [her haven] was born

...but I have a shameful secret. I DREAD saying the rosary. I would rather dental floss an army of cats without body armour than have to say the rosary, especially in congregation after the 10am mass (sorry, guys!).

But I feel torn. Our Lady is what holds me in the Church, and this is really THE form of prayer that focuses on her, and I can't abide it. I know I'm not alone; that doesn't make me feel less guilty. "Ok," I thought, "Let's give it a go. Best way over guilt is to stop avoiding it. You can do it for an intention, right? Just...start."

I tried the Apostles' Creed, but got as far as..."We." Hey, at least I got that far.

I looked at my phone as soon as I got off. 18.30. Not due in till 19.00. Maybe try it walking through the church graveyard at St Mary's and St Nicholas'? Had time to spare, what did I have to lose?

I wiggled through the gate and turned left, starting the Apostles' Creed, as I tried to remember WHICH mysteries...Tuesday...sorrowful. Crap, it's been so long, what ARE they?

Our Father, which art in heaven...

I passed the grave of the lad who died at 19 yrs and 6 months in France in September 1918, and though I continued reciting the rosary, my heart broke with sorrow for one lost so young, so near the end of a war.

And you ask me why I love her - through wars, death and despair. She is the constant; we who don't care

And as the beads slipped through my hands...

Hail Mary, full of grace

...I finally got it. Fr Richard told me ages ago, when I told him I couldn't do the rosary at home or in bed, that the rosary was a prayer of motion. I kind of got it at Walsingham and on Newman night walks.

In the graveyard, I *got* it. It's what any Buddhist or Hindu or Muslim would have told me. The rhythm of repetitive prayer allows your mind to let go and drop deeper into prayer - even if that prayer is the fact that the plumber needs to come and fix the sink. Even if it's about a 19 year old boy I never knew. It's all prayer.

Glory be to the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit...

As I wandered amongst the graves, beads rough against my fingers, slipping from decade to decade, I thought about love, life, loss, being forgotten and remembered, what I'd left behind and where I was going, the constant, deepening struggle between the institutional Church and my unfolding faith.

You wonder will I leave her - but how? I cross over borders, but I'm still there now.

As the sun lowered in the sky, I could feel the internal stillness deepen, and a sense of peace came over me.

Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy...aw, crap, how does the rest of it go? Fuck it. Salve regina, mater misericordiae...

Then I turned the last corner, and the gate came into sight again...and I had the answer. Well, I'd always had it; I'd just been letting too much get in the way, too many well-meaning people decide what KIND of Catholic *I* had to be: you'll be a good Catholic when you receive on the tongue; if you fall in line here; if you stop thinking about this, it'll be so much easier, dear, won't it? And if you stop looking too hard and too deeply and seeing what's really going on, it'll all be fine. Will it, fuck.

I can't say the rosary just like anyone else: others prefer kneeling, saying it together, in bed, in the car, wherever. But that's not for me. The rosary works for me when I'm walking in a graveyard: maybe it'll work when I'm walking on the railway line at Walsingham or somewhere else. I don't know. What I DO know is that tonight, I made the rosary mine. Now, it is always mine.

I need to do the same with my faith: stop looking around; stop listening to even the most well-meaning when they try to change me; stop trying to fit in a mould that doesn't work for me. The other thing I need to stop doing is getting infuriated/drawn into politics, ideological arguments, hard as that is for me, since I love a good argument. But this isn't genuine argument; it's polarisation. And I can only imagine Our Lady's sorrowing eyes as she looks down on it.

How can I leave her? Where would I start? Let [the Church's] petty [factions] tear themselves apart...

Not too long ago, a friend said that I was 'a mix' when it came to my faith. He's *right*. My faith is what it is - it's ME. Complicated, light, dark, sharp, tender, angry, loving, sad - all of it. Take it or leave it. I suspect - or rather, I hope - I know which one Our Lady will choose.

...[Mother Church's] only borders lie around [her] heart.

Happy birthday.

Ancient divination cards and sand dune mountains (Dream log)

2010-08-31T19:44:00.009+01:00

I dream vividly every night. Most nights, I can remember parts of several dreams, often all of more than one. But even amongst the vivid dreams, there are dreams that stand out, that are like being completely in another reality. Last night was one.

I was sitting outside, Indian style, looking out at a dark, surreal landscape. Trees were silhouetted against an eerie blue-green glow in the distance as I looked down at the cards in my hand, which looked like Tarot, but weren't quite. The artwork almost lived. That they were very old, I knew - and I also knew that though I had never used them before, I *knew* them. Knew them as if they were a part of me.

And I knew without a doubt that they were more than just cards as they slipped sensuously through my fingers - that as beautiful as they were, there was a dark side to them.

I heard a voice say, "Every mage across time has owned a set of these. If you have found them again, then you were a wizard, a sorceress, a witch, a priest or priestess - someone who worked with magic, and worked with it deeply."

Suddenly, I was flying over the most beautiful landscape, part the dark lush landscape, but increasingly one of deep blue sky and sand dune mountains. I knew I was flying over inland South Africa, and as I passed over a dune mountain that seemed as high as Everest, I noticed that some of my people were trapped on the narrow summit of one of them - a summit that was like a razor's edge, with barely enough room to hold one's balance.

I landed in the valley with others to make a plan, and suddenly Saffa Greg was there, trying to tell me something essential to the rescue effort but I couldn't hear him over the wind. He repeated it several times and I finally caught it, though I can't remember what he said now. Using that information, we managed to bring the others down - though that part of the dream was sketchy.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the dream ended with me in a library, looking at the cards in my hand and the same voice saying, "The challenge and the difficulty is to use them - without controlling what happens through them. Very few have managed it."

Then my eyes opened to a familiar magnolia ceiling, sunlight and the rush of wings flapping outside the window as I was jolted back into my body. And I wondered.

Pakistan - a personal reflection

2010-08-17T19:08:00.015+01:00

The sky is nearly black and thunder echoes overhead. I sip orange juice as I gaze out the back door, watching fat droplets crash into vividly yellow flowers, sharper in colour because of the charcoal grey sky.

But though it's what everyone else would see, I'm not looking out at an English back garden. My eyes - and heart - are elsewhere. Somewhere where the sharp smells of woodsmoke and duputtas being dyed mingle in the summer air.

Somewhere I haven't talked about in a while, though everyone else is.

Hazel was first, followed by a slew of friends. "I've heard about the floods in Pakistan, do you have any relatives there? Do you know if they're ok?" I made vague answers; said what little I knew. Trying not to face the fact that I DON'T know how the people I really love are.

I'm not one for avoidance. In fact, my friends would probably tell you I'm relentless about seeing the worst possible option as a reality: someone I've trusted for years might be a sociopath and I could be totally wrong (almost always false); if a guy seems interested, he's either a player or gay (ok, yeah, he's staring at my chest, but he's faking it); a pillar of society is a liar/sociopath (that one is far too often true).

My favourite word? Look. Look at what's real. Look towards, don't look away. Look at the shadow. Look into the darkness.

When it comes to my world, it's one of my few unbreakable rules: things AREN'T what you hope they are. DON'T pretend. Look. Look. LOOK.

But every single one of us lacks integrity in at least one aspect of our life. Welcome to one of mine.

I should have known. Should have known when my answers were short; should have known when I felt defensive; should have known when I couldn't speak. I'm the one who always modifies the triage rule by saying that what one refuses to speak about is where one is most traumatised, that which most needs to be expressed. I, who turn my face towards everything, force myself to watch programmes on some of the darkest parts of human history, have turned my face away from Pakistan.

I have refused to look. Refused to watch its descent into anarchy. Refused to know about the daily bombings in Lahore. Refused to look at the natural disasters.

I can't look.

Why? Pakistan is...not this. Not this failed state, not this horrible mess, not this mass of suffering nor this inevitable descent into chaos. Not this, please. Not this.

Pakistan is...being greeted at Lahore by as many of my mother's brothers and sisters who could make it. Being wrapped up in big uncle bear hugs. Laughing till I'm sick at my mother's cheeky, smartass younger brother who probably had far more to do with forming my love map than my father did.

It is being surrounded by a gaggle of cousins; playing 'Pitu garam' barefoot on a hot brick backyard; time on the train; whispered conversations under the razai; cricket on the television. Sudden torrential rain; trips to Shalimar Gardens and Anarkali; blinking sleepily, then rolling over and snuggling further under the razai as the Azan cuts through the dawn sky.

7UP cubes; Enid Blyton; crap Punjabi pop music; trying on Aunty Razia's burqa. Grandpa's twinkling green eyes and white beard and sheer gentle presence. Laughter, parathas, Mom and Aunty Razia in the kitchen making chapatis. Pakistan was a trip to the Kaghan Valley, the breathtaking gateway to the Khyber and Hindu-Kush Himalayan subrange, with one room housing ten of us snuggled under razais as Uncle Javed regaled us with stories that kept us in stitches till well after midnight...and waking to the same uncle being shaved with a straight razor.

Bright sun, bare feet on dusty roads, golguppes from street vendors, the smell of Imperial Leather and sandalwood on men, the scent of food mingling with...

...woodsmoke and duputtas being dyed.

Pakistan was family. Pakistan was love. And its rawness, its place on the edge of life, clicked with its counterpart in my personality, changing me forever - meaning that I ever seek people and places that resonate with that.

That's where I want to freeze it - in that time, in that place - where aunts and uncles were young, strong adults who could carry us easily and hold us safe; where cousins were carefree and dreaming of the life they might live. Where one knew what the political reality was from day to day. Where the kids could walk down to the market without fear. Where international arrivals at Lahore airport was full of young faces shining with love and expectancy.

Don't make me look.

Don't make me face an international arrivals area at LHE that's far too empty, with far too many of those I love gone too early. With uncles and aunts who need my assistance to walk; with cousins careworn from unhappy marriages, infertility, or babies who died too early and a land falling apart around them. Please, don't ask me to look at cousins who are now strangers - in part, because of family choices I've made; in part, because of thousands of miles.

Don't make me look at the fact that the choice I've made with my immediate family means that I have no idea how people I love are doing in this time of bombs and floods.

Because if I look, my heart will break. Break for those I love; break for a people suffering and dying by inches and by the millions; break for a land birthed in so much pain. And I'm not sure it'll ever be whole again.

Yet look I must, and break it must- frozen may be beautiful, but it denies life: the life I've lived and the lives they've lived. To love them truly, to heal, means I must look. And eventually, I must go, hold them and know them again - as they are now, not as I've kept them imprisoned in my heart. Eventually, perhaps I can even take the trip that might symbolise healing for all of us - a trip from Lahore, Pakistan to Jalandar, India - the reverse of the trip they made during Partition.

But I must remember the line from Contact I quote to my friends when they're working things through: small moves, Sparks. Small moves.

First, open your eyes, turn your head - and look.

Speaking up for freedom

2010-08-16T13:34:00.006+01:00

Thank you, President Barack Hussein Obama, for these words:

Let me be clear. As a citizen, and as president, I believe that Muslims have the same right to practice their religion as anyone else in this country. That includes the right to build a place of worship and a community center on private property in lower Manhattan, in accordance with local laws and ordinances. This is America, and our commitment to religious freedom must be unshakable.

A Capetonian Facebook friend posted her support of his words. An American from South Carolina posted the following: More see it as a personal stance then [sic] a politcally correct one since his father was Muslim. Too bad for him that he couldn't keep his opinion to himself.

I BEG your pardon? Since when is supporting someone's right to freedom necessarily narcissistically tied to YOUR history? I support gay rights, rights for prisoners held anywhere in the world, the freedom of speech for the BNP (so I know what they're saying, of course) - but I am NONE of these things. And I would hope that every single one of us supports the rights of those not like us.

Why SHOULD he keep it to himself? It is his SWORN DUTY and moral obligation (as it is for all of us) to stand up for the freedom of ALL Americans, everywhere, whether it's popular or not. How does creating an 'Islam-free zone' and further alienating moderate and relaxed Muslims help anyone?? Marginalising people will radicalise them - trust me, that's the last thing you want. We would do well to remember that there is no exception under the First Amendment: all religions are allowed to practise freely.

And if anyone is to epitomise my favourite poster, which states, 'Stand up for what's right, even if you're standing alone' - it should be the head of our nation, who speaks for all we stand for - our president.

Frankly, I am *ashamed* of the political climate in the country of my birth. That is NOT what America was created for or what it was about when I was growing up. Be against something, fine. But be civil, gracious and empathetic. I do NOT remember this sheer ugly, nasty, shrill narcissism pre-GW Bush. And I'll call a spade a spade: it's evil.

The United States was created as the antithesis of narcissism. THIS is what America is about: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free. Not 'only allow the people like me to breathe free.'

I'm with The Independent: It is regrettable that Mr Obama felt he had to underline the need for religious tolerance as he did, but admirable that – despite the sensitivity of the mosque's location – he nonetheless went ahead and gave it the seal of presidential approval.

It is more than regrettable, it's HORRIFIC and UNTHINKABLE in a country with America's constitution.

You know, Europe 'kept it to themselves' in the 30s and 40s - and six million people died. I'm not willing to take that chance.

Are you?

Assumption Sermon

2010-08-15T18:38:00.008+01:00

Today's preacher, close friend and confessor, stopped by my pew before mass. This is a usual weekly face-to-face catchup, and I always keep my head tilted for his familiar tread up the side aisle. This time, he mentioned that he was thinking of ad-libbing the sermon, as he had done at the 09.30. I firmly came down on the side of him taking the risk.

He did. And how it paid off.

I'm not sure if he was aware of the elegant completion his sermon brought: on this same feast a year ago, another priest spoke of suicide from the point of view of doctrine. Today, so did he - in a way that made it clear that he understood the fear and hopelessness that underlies that drastic decision, in a way that held those who had either been there or are there. His point was that the Assumption is a feast of hope - and we all *need* hope, even when it is the tiniest silver thread through the darkness which we find ourselves in. One of the most powerful points he made was that when we are in that darkness, it is impossible to see past the present moment: but it is in THAT moment that we most need to look beyond that moment - which brought him, most naturally, to Our Lady.

I wasn't sure whether to cry or cheer - maybe both. What had felt sharply poked at or necessarily hidden now felt safely held.

He also talked about how we tend to emphasise soul over body, but that we are both - and we need to remember that no matter how our bodies can seem to hinder us, they ARE part of us and we can't disown them - and that we need to bring body and soul back together, using Our Lady as a template and a sign of hope.

And in that hope, in that looking to Our Lady, we - as she - need to renew our 'Fiat' to God, with life and our faith every single day of our lives.

It was, without a doubt, one of the best sermons I've ever heard.

Weaving the threads of his sermon, he held us, his flock, compassionately whilst offering orthodoxy, which is what shepherds must always do - from the public pulpit to the private confessional. But it was the fact that he ad-libbed it, which allowed him to be really present and emotionally engage with us, that moved it from great to one of his best.

The person I saw in the pulpit was the person I see across the table at La Cucina.

He was practising what he preached - integrity of body and soul.

Integrity and darkness

2010-08-10T16:40:00.004+01:00

Today, I got a brilliant email question from a clerical friend, which arose from a note I sent him. As I wrote, I thought, 'Blog post!'

So here goes:

By the way, why does integrity involve seeing the dark side too?

*Tilts head, wondering where to begin*

If we think of integrity as wholeness, then by definition, it has to encompass everything. It doesn't mean integrity has to EXPRESS everything at all times, but one needs to know everything intimately and *integrate* it.

I'm going to use myself as an example because it's what I know best - I'm not saying I'm the only one like this or that I'm better, it's just that I live in my own skin and can best explain it that way.

Yesterday, when I asked you [that question], I asked you in full awareness of the fact that sometimes, my triggers with men and kids are hair triggers and might well be wrong. I can't remember if I made it explicit, but I hope I did - and I consider that tendency part of my darkness. Now, I don't ever NEED to express that hair trigger by jumping up and accusing someone - in fact, my being aware of it and allowing it to be what it is makes it less likely that I will.

On a deeper level, I know what my darkest fantasies are - and they're not covered by BDSM, LOL. My darkest fantasies involve what I would do to every member of the Taliban if I got my hands on them, or as I said to Nick once, "Do you KNOW what I would do to protect a child?" I also know that there are occasions, like last November, where a dark night of the soul is SO dark, I have considered suicide - and that coming back from that, recommitting to being here can be very difficult.

But it's only through KNOWING those fantasies and that dark emotional landscape intimately, knowing that THAT darkness is me as much as my light; acknowledging it and loving it enough to integrate it, rather than exile it, that I can actually create a solid foundation built on truth and love and what I AM - not a shaky foundation, a lie based on what I think I should be or others think I should be or some limited concept of a relationship with God.

It's only through that absolute truth/honesty that I can have a real relationship with God or anyone else.

I can't hide that darkness or eradicate it or imprison it: it will always leak out. I see it in myself and - to use our common landscape - I see it leaking everywhere in church and Church - because so many see a relationship with God as one where they have to be a 'Procrustean bed' good, rather than whole. Running from our darkness, repressing it, makes us rigid, unable to see clearly, unable to live. It makes us...one-dimensional; a shadow of what God dreamt and meant for us to be.

Good, if it doesn't emerge from the whole, is a self-serving lie: it is a quest for approval; it is a need to feel good about oneself; it is a way of denying one's darkness. Me, me, me. Only when it arises from the whole can it be goodness for goodness' sake, with no agenda or need attached.

If I embrace the dark, it becomes available to me with all its gifts: empathy and the ability to sit with anyone as they struggle through any darkness; compassion; it gives me depth, even as I can be wild, chaotic and fiery*; it gives me nuance and texture; it affords me myriad ways to deal with anything life brings my way; it allows me to trust God through the most difficult of times; it allows me to love wholly, deeply and in all sorts of ways (e.g., unresolved grief makes us numb/hardens us) through all sorts of things. It gives my relationships, my life, authenticity, depth, colour. It also means that I'm in control of HOW the darkness is expressed: as a thread in a more complex response, to strengthen/nuance it or in cases where necessary, on its own.

If I integrate everything, move towards wholeness, it makes me utterly trustworthy; a sanctuary; a clear, strong vessel for God to fill. There is nothing hidden, no lies to make me weak. I can hold any space and anything God chooses to pour through me.

Do I manage it? Maybe sometimes, if I'm lucky. But God created an alive, diverse universe moving towards dynamic equilibrium. It's about relationship and process. And knowing that we're all in process and all of life is holy ground...

...well, that's integrity too. Why?

Because it's what's real.

*Three adjectives Ari used for me last night. Integrity is also giving credit where credit is due. :-)

Losing my tattoo virginity

2010-08-08T18:01:00.004+01:00

I can't remember when I first went from "EWWWW, tattoos, pool room sleaze!" to "Tattoos! I want one!"

When I made the switch, I REALLY wanted one. But I'm not really good at lifetime commitments. We could say that it's because I'm a Gemini with tonnes of planets in Gemini. Or we could say it's my family history. But I prefer Eric Foreman's take on it:

"People who avoid commitment are people who know what a big thing it is."

And having seen people in (or in the process of making) lifetime commitments that destroyed their soul, I am most certainly aware of that.

So I wasn't going to make this lifetime commitment without being deeply in love with the design I was marrying. I knew I wanted a wolf and a moon. Liked this, considered that, until one day, early in 2009, I came across this and fell in love: a wolf that was PART of the moon, looking out at the world, veiled in mystery by wisps of cloud.

But having been messed around by lust at first sight before, I needed to be level-headed about this affair. It was a bit early in the relationship for a declaration of love. So I did what any woman would do: I talked about it. I posted it on my facebook page; I sent it to friends who didn't have fb and asked their opinion; I talked about where, when, how size mattered, anything.

In June 2009, I made my first visit to Evolution Tattoo to talk about it with someone briefly. Didn't have the £20 to make the appointment, but meant to do it shortly thereafter. Never did, thus convincing most of my friends that the affair was over and that I didn't have the staying power for this relationship.

But I kept looking at it: through the summer and the slide into darkness in the autumn. As I moved out of the land of the dark sun and recommitted to the world above, things started changing. When Sophie K-S wanted to get her tatt done and suggested we go together for an initial consultation in July, I looked at the picture again, realised I was in love, and proposed.

When we got to Evolution this time, and it was time to make a firm appointment, I went out to get the £20. Whilst Soph still hadn't decided on her Arabic script, I was ready to go. Funnily enough, Soph got hers done a fortnight before I did. C'est la vie; all good things come to those who wait.

On the eve of my lifetime commitment, I had an anxiety dream where I told Saffa Greg (who just materialised next to me, as friends in dreams do) that I'd given blood and had tested HIV-positive. He hugged me, told me it would be all right and asked if I'd checked whether it might be a false positive. I was doing that when the alarm went and woke me.

Nervously, I skipped breakfast, decided what to wear, put up my hair and hopped on the bus so I was there about 30 minutes early. Small waiting room meant I moved a lot as people walked in and out around me, including my tattooist (known to one of my colleagues/friends at work). He clearly knew what he was about as he printed off the tattoo for the stencil, asked if that was the size I wanted and moved smartly to his studio. But I didn't relax till one of the artists slipped behind the reception desk and said to one of the others, "I'm not taking her back this time," and received a sympathetic response and a 'go ahead' head tilt.

And I thought, "Yeah. People who relate like this are people I want doing something like this for me."

Finally, Jack called me into the studio, with his stencil ready, his dark inks lined up and needles at the ready. Having at first thought shoulder blade, the size now made me think midback, so I asked him his opinion. He said, "I like things centred," which went with my instincts. "It depends on what else you want done."

"I don't know," I responded.

We agreed, and he placed the stencil on my back, had me check it in the mirror and then it was time.

I had brought a magazine with me to read, but decided not to, in the end: if he wanted to chat, I wanted to have a conversation; but far more importantly, it was essential that I do something I don't usually do - be in body and be in the experience.

In went the first needle: it felt like vibrating sandpaper. It ached, but it didn't really *hurt*. Early on, I asked Jack how he got started as a tattoo artist and was rewarded with the coolest story ever: he used to draw all the time, and first wanted a tattoo at 13. He couldn't get one, so he MADE a tattoo needle himself: using the innards of his walkman and a guitar string. He did tattoos for himself and friends until his mother helped him with a loan for proper equipment - and then his room at home became a tattoo studio. And now, he works in England (he's originally from Poland), doing what he loves.

We compared opinions on cold coffee and discovered that my home state contained a number of his relatives. Others came in to borrow his camera or to ask him to fix a machine - many of which he has made. At one point, the artist who took my booking popped in, looked over Jack's shoulder and went, "Cool."

I couldn't resist. "That sounds like the ultimate in male approval."

Pause. "It is." He perched for a few. "How is it?" the tattoo veteran asked the tattoo virgin.

"It's ok. Not bad," I responded.

Respect flared in his eyes. "Really? I find my back the worst. Jack is gentle, but even so, it hurts."

"It does in some places, especially along the spine." And, as I was to discover shortly, with smaller needles that I had to breathe through. He must have known, because at one point, when he paused, he said, "Almost finished."

Then, like a proper Catholic nuptial mass, 1.5 hours later, the lifetime commitment was made, and the honeymoon had begun - with slatherings of salve and cling film...and Bepanthen.

Sometimes, you discover things living with a partner you didn't know before: you need to shower facing the shower head, because your partner hates getting soaked. Your partner needs soothing regularly, and you can't forget and scratch (brief moment earlier today, just at the edge). No swimming for a month, but you want a beach holiday.

Then you discover that you actually enjoy taking care of your partner through the high-maintenance period - taking the time to slather on Bepanthen, the soreness, the no soaking. The tradeoffs - that it's your choice for your body; having an excuse to take care of yourself; the 'oohs' and 'ahs' of others when they meet your partner; and most importantly, the sheer pleasure of HAVING your partner are more than worth the early graft.

You've met me. And so, without further ado, meet my partner:

Don't worry, he doesn't bite...except when asked.

His truth is marching on...

2010-08-04T22:06:00.001+01:00

Today, it's just a link. Well done, Judge Walker.

California, congratulations. I couldn't be happier for you.

Selfish much?

2010-08-02T19:33:00.010+01:00

Every so often, I pick up a women's mag and indulge one of my little guilty pleasures.

Equally often, I remember why I don't do this more often. Today was one such day.

I made the mistake of reading the agony aunt column (which I can never resist). Most of the questions were *amused eyeroll* questions.

And then...there was the *WTF-my-blood-pressure-just-hit-the-roof* question:

I have two best friends and we've been very close for years - I've asked them to be my bridesmaids. Last year, one of them lost a baby and then her partner, and we were there for her. But now she's never there for us. She didn't turn up for my birthday party and if we arrange a night out, she either turns up for five minutes or not at all. I want her as a bridesmaid, but I'm not sure she'd even turn up...

And if THAT QUESTION wasn't WTFable enough, Irma Kurtz's response is even MORE of an epic fail:

She can't be depended on as she can't depend on herself. Misery overrides her best intentions. You could uninvite her as your bridesmaid, using the excuse that it's too much for her. That puts the ball in her court and you may or may not lose her as your friend. Or you could go ahead as planned, giving her time to cheer up or drop out - perhaps even at the last minute. But what difference does that make. All that matters is your loving marriage ahead.

Yes, of course, that's all that matters. Because Irma is feeding the idea, you selfish waste of carbon molecules, that all that matters is you.

Why don't I take the time to do you a favour and tell you like it really is?

Your 'best friend' - in inverted commas because you are clearly no friend of any kind - has just suffered two of the *most devastating losses anyone can suffer* (even if the partner left rather than died - the latter being what is implied). You and your friends were, of course, 'there' for the requisite - what? fortnight? - till the funerals and then expected her to buck up and be the person she was two years ago, before she lost her child (read that again, her CHILD) and the partner she loved.

And of course, equating her not being able to attend your little 'birthday party' and the odd social gathering with 'not being there for you' makes so much sense. Because you need her to be there for you and support you whilst you're eating, laughing and necking shots. She, of course, doesn't need YOU whilst she's grieving (oh, I'm sorry - you think she should be over it), trying to fathom a life without her baby and her beloved, whilst she's struggling to keep her head above water. She has to show up, happy, chirpy, thrilled for YOU. I mean, how DARE she continue grieving eight, ten, twelve months on? It's impinging on YOUR perfect little life. So what if your marriage reminds her, like a knife twisted in the heart, of what she's lost? Who cares about her? You've done your 'pat her on the back and hand her tissues' quota, now she should forget about it all and be there for you as you eat, drink and get merry.

Bite me and every woman who knows what being a real friend is about, c***.

Let me tell you what a real friend would know, so maybe you can be one someday.

Irma is wrong. Your friend is not going through 'misery', she is going through deep, intense grief that is complicated because of the depth of the ties, the fact that she is suffering more than one loss, and that the losses are unexpected, at least in terms of order. She can't 'cheer up or drop out' (WTF, Irma??? 'Empathetic' in your vocabulary at all?). Children don't die before their parents. Partners don't die young. She has lost her FAMILY.

Grief doesn't have a time scale. It's not 'a few months and it's over', or 'after the funeral, she'll be back to her normal, tequila shot drinking self'. It is a cycle that can take YEARS - her life is completely, utterly shattered. She has to accept the loss, go all the way into it and feel the pain, then begin to re-organise her life. That is going to take time.

And even when she re-organises, she will never again be the carefree friend you had two years ago: she'll be deeper, stronger, darker - she'll know a pain that most people will likely never know.

One of the things she'll need to get there is more than a little help from her friends: friends who will let her grieve; who will gently guide her to CRUSE or therapy if she gets really stuck; friends who will understand when she can barely stay for a night out; who will listen. No, it won't be all girly giggles and drinking; but then real friendship isn't, is it?

Sorry, what was I thinking? You don't know what real friendship is. Selfish much?

My agony aunt advice to you, which Irma - whom Cosmo needs to fire before she can do any more damage - apparently couldn't think of?

Listen to her. Love her. Be there. Yes, your wedding is coming up, but guess what? Even at a time like this, the world isn't all about you. Because what's your wedding really about?

Relationship - for better for worse, dark and light, laughter and tears. It would behoove you to learn how to do that.

Right now, you need to start with your best friend.

Reflections on August at the O and the Missa de Angelis

2010-08-01T15:14:00.005+01:00

1 August - Lughnasadh, the beginning of the old autumn...and, if it's a Sunday, the beginning of a choir-free month at the Oratory.

Pure and utter bliss.

I'd forgotten how much my blood pressure drops when the choir leaves and we get to sing the Missa de Angelis. Normally, I'd dismiss it as being because of a mediocre choir and an annoying choir director. Today, for the first time, I finally went deeper: what is it about that first Sunday in August that makes my heart lift when the single priest, the MC and a minimum number of servers come out of the sacristy during the first hymn?

First of all, it's the sheer simplicity: there's space on the sanctuary; there's space in the liturgy. During the year, there's NEVER silence: either the choir is singing the mass setting or a motet. It's never STILL; the choir, though not present on the sanctuary, crowds it more than the 12-13 altar servers who can sit on it in addition to the MC and clergy at any one time.

That lack of stillness and space inhibits the natural movement of the mass, since liturgical flow - indeed any flow - needs an ebb. The extra music stops movement on the sanctuary dead, making it hard to start up again. E.g., at the end of the Gloria, it's difficult for the MC to know when to bring the collect up. My preference is that it is in front of the celebrant on the last note, so there's no pause, no kerfuffling, just a smooth transition. This is a dance; any break in it is jarring. Most of the year, the MC is late, which has everything to do with not knowing when the interminable 'Amen' is going to finish. Today, it was perfect - on the last note of the 'Amen', the missal was there, and liturgical flow was as it should be.

If we talk about the liturgy as flow, pattern and dance, then we cannot ignore the fact that there are partners: this is not something happening in isolation. And it's also important that the partners be fully engaged in the dance; fully present. The mass is a dance between sanctuary and nave. When the choir dominates, as it does 11 months of the year, the people aren't engaged and the dance falters.

Today, you could feel the shift in energy as the people remained standing to sing the Kyrie and the Gloria. I couldn't stop smiling: you could feel something click into place, an emotional engagement, a real dance partner, a presence. And the whole was more than the sum of the parts. For the first time in a long time, it felt *real*.

As you can tell from what I've written above, I resent the choir's domination of our service: I am coming to this mass to be a part of the worship, not a bystander. The Kyrie is OURS to say; the Gloria, OUR praise to God. It is NOT for anyone else to sing it for us. It's OURS - and singing it with those in the sanctuary creates the prayer, the mass, that rises like incense to its destination.

And then...and then, there's the Missa de Angelis. I'm sure the Oratorians will roll their eyes when (if) they read this, but I absolutely adore it.

The Missa takes me back to my pre-Catholic days, when I would visit my (soon-to-be sponsor) friend, Anni, at Catholic University on a Sunday. At 13.00 in the crypt church (don't waste your time looking at the basilica, go straight down to the lushly dark crypt), there was a Latin mass, most often sung by the ponytailed Fr Marc-Daniel Kirby, O.Cist. Not only did he sing beautifully, but he was absolutely on fire with the love of God - his sermons were passionate pleas for love of God and neighbour, for compassion, for mercy towards one another. And it didn't hurt that I often saw him in his biker leathers around campus, which just made him utterly cool.

If it wasn't Fr Kirby, it was often Msgr Renato Volante. OH. MY. GOD. OH. MY. GOD. There is nothing, NOTHING so sensual as Latin spoken by an Italian. Every time he said mass, I went weak in the knees. And I'll tell you, I peeked through my hands during the Eucharistic Prayer just to watch those Italian gestures. His sermons were almost always wistful ones about loneliness; more often than not, as I passed him on my way out, I just wanted to wrap my arms around him and tell him I was sorry and that I wish I could make it okay.

So, occasionally in August, the church seems to dim and there seems to be a black marble overlay over the late Victorian interior with which I am so familiar.

Then, there's the Kyrie. For me, it will always be THE Kyrie - no other will stick in my head. My first brush with the phrase 'Kyrie eleison' came with Mr Mister's haunting, emotional, opening cry of their song of the same name. I remember having to go look it up, loving the meaning and loving the fact that it made sense in their chorus. I used it as a prayer years before I converted. Even now, when I'm lost for words in prayer, their chorus comes back to mind:

Kyrie eleison - down the road that I must travel,
Kyrie eleison - through the darkness of the night,
Kyrie eleison - where I'm going, will you follow?
Kyrie eleison - on a highway in the light.

Only the Kyrie in the Missa de Angelis approaches this for me: plaintive, yearning, reaching. Maybe it's because it's stripped right down, like the mass in August; maybe because it's the first liturgical Kyrie I ever heard; maybe because it's the one I get to sing. But I put my whole heart and soul into it when I get to sing it, and it's the one that will move me to tears every time.

And the moment I do that, I'm there. At mass. Totally and completely - which allows me to be part of the whole mass, even my little idiosyncrasies, like watching the MC - which today left me in fits of giggles as I watched him use 'Achmed the Dead Terrorist' eyebrows in an attempt to get hapless servers to perform the most basic of tasks. At one point, when he was trying to get them off the sanctuary after communion, the expression was so pronounced, I could hear 'SILENCE! I KHEEL YOU!' - which just made me completely useless. I also engage with the sermon, rather than shutting it out, because I can't afford to be irimtated by one more thing, since the choir has used up my irimtation quota. Good thing today, as the sermon was well worth engaging with.

That engagement and that laughter is part of the holy experience - because you have to be fully present, fully engaged, to worship and be in relationship with God. That is the gift of August at the O for me.

I'm thinking of suggesting an Indian summer, and extending August till the equinox - at least.

Rock on.