I have several 'Quote of the days' that find themselves into my inbox. One of my favourites is "Oneness" from Rasha, and the last two quotes have been particularly apropos:
"Allow the episodes of greatest intensity to play out unimpeded, for your judgment of the depth of your feelings could serve to inhibit the authenticity of your response. The objective here is not restraint, but rather, release."
"Trust that there are levels of consciousness within you that understand precisely what is happening and why it is necessary that you be subject to this period of upheaval."
And intense episodes and upheaval it has been indeed, from December with very little let-up over the last seven months. Bottom line? I'm absolutely shattered.
But faith keeps me putting one foot in front of the other.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
"They are very small ducks"
I know, I know, I need to get round to writing some proper entries.
Meanwhile, love this, of which THIS is the BEST example. I was laughing so hard I needed supplemental oxygen afterwards.
Alongside the 'no pets', Mr Thorne's 'seven-legged spider' puts him in the premier league of 'crazy like a fox' emailers.
Fucking brilliant. Now I just need to get him to email the Vatican...
Meanwhile, love this, of which THIS is the BEST example. I was laughing so hard I needed supplemental oxygen afterwards.
Alongside the 'no pets', Mr Thorne's 'seven-legged spider' puts him in the premier league of 'crazy like a fox' emailers.
Fucking brilliant. Now I just need to get him to email the Vatican...
Friday, 17 July 2009
Candles, cathedrals and dreams
It must be a mark of how shattered I am that if I'm home before 6, like as not, I'll tumble into bed for a 45-60 min nap. And that in that short period, I dream. Vividly. And I'll still sleep like a baby at night. Well, maybe not my friends' babies, but...
This evening was no exception. I arrived home at 5.55 pm, went upstairs and fell into bed, falling asleep almost immediately. And suddenly, I was in a huge cathedral.
It reminded me very much of the National Shrine of the ImmaculateConfection Conception in Washington, but without the angry Zeus Jesus on the ceiling and the pastiche of styles that make it truly ugly. High, white ceilings, HUGE, open, basilica - and it was a sunny day. I was standing at the back whilst a number of my clerical friends milled about and mixed further into the cathedral, grinning with pleasure watching them, but remaining behind the last row of pews, near a large pillar candle.
Suddenly, they decided to play around and have a mock procession through the cathedral, with Robert OP leading. It was a huge procession, and with the exception of my friends, the figures were shadowy. I thought, 'that looks like fun', and suddenly Krzysztof, hands shaking, came out of the procession and wordlessly handed me what looked like a menorah, but far more rectangular/angular than the ones that I'm used to (and fond of: I tend to prefer the classically round shape or some of the more antique looking ones).
It looked a lot like this, but gold, and I think there was only ONE branch downwards to the base:
http://www.keeneshops.com/ChanukahGuide/menorah.gif
For those of you who know the Oratory, it looked a lot like one of the rows at the candelabrum of Our Lady of Oxford.
There was only one white candle lit, and as I started to move to join the procession it blew out because of a strong wind from behind me that I had just noticed.
"Damn," I thought, "I'll light it again from the pillar and shield it, then I'll be able to keep it lit and get it out of the wind." No chance. That time or the several that followed it.
Finally, Robert and Nick came out of the procession to find out what was going on and why I hadn't joined them. As the others gathered, I explained and they tried, Nick reaching over to straighten the candle in its holder, whilst Robert took over trying to light it. But the wind at my back grew ever more insistent, and suddenly I looked down at the menorah/candelabrum and there were four white candles tumbled onto the base, slightly melted with the black residue that was the result of repeated attempted lighting.
At this point we paused briefly, as Robert talked out what might work and Nick stood back, brow furrowed, chin on hand, looking at me and the candelabra thoughtfully, trying to work out what was going on. And then it struck me. Not a breeze ruffled their hair or their cassock/habit. The pillar candle burned cheerfully, unwavering. The back doors weren't open.
I was the only one affected by the zephyr at my back that I now realised felt sentient.
I tuned back into Robert, who was saying, "We could do what we do with the Easter vigil candles and put plastic cups over them - you know, with the holes cut out of the bottom."
The words tumbled out of my mouth: "No, Robert, you can't. It'll keep them lit, but it'll shelter them too much - they're not meant to be sheltered, closed in like that."
I sensed the agreement as the wind blew harder at my back whispering, "No, no, no."
I woke, my eyes falling on the clock - 6.55.
My first thought was, "You can never light a menorah in a cathedral. It doesn't belong there."
Over to you - all thoughts welcome.
This evening was no exception. I arrived home at 5.55 pm, went upstairs and fell into bed, falling asleep almost immediately. And suddenly, I was in a huge cathedral.
It reminded me very much of the National Shrine of the Immaculate
Suddenly, they decided to play around and have a mock procession through the cathedral, with Robert OP leading. It was a huge procession, and with the exception of my friends, the figures were shadowy. I thought, 'that looks like fun', and suddenly Krzysztof, hands shaking, came out of the procession and wordlessly handed me what looked like a menorah, but far more rectangular/angular than the ones that I'm used to (and fond of: I tend to prefer the classically round shape or some of the more antique looking ones).
It looked a lot like this, but gold, and I think there was only ONE branch downwards to the base:
http://www.keeneshops.com/
For those of you who know the Oratory, it looked a lot like one of the rows at the candelabrum of Our Lady of Oxford.
There was only one white candle lit, and as I started to move to join the procession it blew out because of a strong wind from behind me that I had just noticed.
"Damn," I thought, "I'll light it again from the pillar and shield it, then I'll be able to keep it lit and get it out of the wind." No chance. That time or the several that followed it.
Finally, Robert and Nick came out of the procession to find out what was going on and why I hadn't joined them. As the others gathered, I explained and they tried, Nick reaching over to straighten the candle in its holder, whilst Robert took over trying to light it. But the wind at my back grew ever more insistent, and suddenly I looked down at the menorah/candelabrum and there were four white candles tumbled onto the base, slightly melted with the black residue that was the result of repeated attempted lighting.
At this point we paused briefly, as Robert talked out what might work and Nick stood back, brow furrowed, chin on hand, looking at me and the candelabra thoughtfully, trying to work out what was going on. And then it struck me. Not a breeze ruffled their hair or their cassock/habit. The pillar candle burned cheerfully, unwavering. The back doors weren't open.
I was the only one affected by the zephyr at my back that I now realised felt sentient.
I tuned back into Robert, who was saying, "We could do what we do with the Easter vigil candles and put plastic cups over them - you know, with the holes cut out of the bottom."
The words tumbled out of my mouth: "No, Robert, you can't. It'll keep them lit, but it'll shelter them too much - they're not meant to be sheltered, closed in like that."
I sensed the agreement as the wind blew harder at my back whispering, "No, no, no."
I woke, my eyes falling on the clock - 6.55.
My first thought was, "You can never light a menorah in a cathedral. It doesn't belong there."
Over to you - all thoughts welcome.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
How do you solve a problem like Maria (Goretti)?
There are millions of Catholic saints, many named, but most not.
Of those that are named, everyone has those that they have an affinity for and those that repel them. Whilst I adore Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross, I couldn't dislike Therese of Lisieux, Padre Pio or Jose Escriva de Balaguer more. Different strokes for different folks.
But Maria Goretti is something else entirely.
For those who do not know the story of Maria Goretti, here it is in short: born in 1890, it is claimed (with all the smell of a justifying backstory) that she was a particularly God-fearing, pious little girl. On 5 July 1902, her neighbour, Alessandro Serenelli, came upon her sewing and said he would kill her if she didn't let him rape her, at which point she told him it was a mortal sin and that he would go to Hell if he carried on. He choked her, she refused, he stabbed her 17 times. She died later in hospital, supposedly having forgiven her attacker.
She then became the patron saint of those who had been raped and sexually abused.
Do we see a problem here?
Let me sum Saint Maria Goretti up for you in four words: better dead than deflowered.
Several years ago, I sat in church on her feast day, open-mouthed in absolute shock as the priest stood up and waxed lyrical over how Maria had died to protect her purity, how amazing that was, and how she was an example for everyone to follow. My rather politically incorrect thought, and the only one that is vaguely printable, was, "WTF does a woman's purity matter to YOU, you aging queen?"
When I confronted one of his colleagues, who happens to be a good friend, about it, he responded that Maria Goretti's sainthood was about forgiveness, not her chastity. I know he believes that, but I think he's wrong - and here's why:
From Pope Pius XII:
"The value of Christian virtue is so great, so overwhelming, so imperative, that it is worth more than life. Purity is not just a separate part of our being. It belongs to our existence as a whole, it is essential for our life. Purity brings us in harmony of body and soul."
From JP II:
"Maria Goretti, so illuminating with her spiritual beauty, challenges us to a firm and secure faith in the Word of God, as the only source of truth, to remain firm against the temptations of this world."
"Young people, look at Maria Goretti, don’t be tempted by the tempting atmosphere of our permissive society, which declares, everything is possible. Look to Maria Goretti, love, live, defend your chastity."
Oh, and let's not forget the Maria Goretti Society which has cute pink t-shirts that say 'Maria Goretti Society: Purity is worth dying for'. Is it, fuck.
Of course, we all know that being threatened by rape is the same as being tempted by 'permissive society'. It's the same as choosing to remain chaste. I mean, after all, what's the difference between being a child, helpless in the face of someone twice your size or a woman threatened at gunpoint and saying 'No' to your boyfriend because you want to wait?
Obviously, none in the eyes of the above popes, and thus, none in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church.
So, let's look at virginity/purity. Worth dying for?
Virginity is simply the state of not having had sex - nothing more and nothing less. In and of itself, it is neutral. Value is placed on it by a patriarchy incapable of getting past its animal nature: a virgin bride/woman ensures that any children belong to the man who's sleeping with her (also the reason that a woman's faithfulness is more important than a man's, of course). Perpetual virginity, robbing a woman of her sexuality, makes a woman the eternal girl, meaning that she is non-threatening to the men who idealise her - making it impossible for any living woman to measure up.
I'm sure as hell not dying to protect that. And there is NO way I'd want a daughter of mine to, either.
I'm not saying, 'Wey-hey, everyone, go out and shag mindlessly' - unless that's your thing. You should never give up anything that is uniquely yours - and your body and the way you have sex is that - to win approval, to buy love, to manipulate, to fill an emptiness you can't face. You should give it because you WANT to, because you LOVE what you are about to do. And in that case, when you give it and to whom is no one else's business (unless you're doing it where I and everyone else have to watch).
The problem with Maria Goretti is the message she, and the priests & faithful who idolise her, sends - that those of us who were sexually abused or raped and lived aren't worth a hell of a lot. At the very least, we're worth less than Maria Goretti and those who chose to die.
Read my lips: Bullshit.
Whilst I absolutely respect and mourn those who have died, the courage and power of the survivors never ceases to humble me. Does some sheltered celibate REALLY believe that I would rather have a daughter of mine DIE a virgin than LIVE, having survived a horrific crime? How can you POSSIBLY even THINK that I would rather bury a child than hold her, help her make it through her darkness, teach her to trust, help her to take the steps she needs to heal?
Whilst we mourn and honour the women who chose to fight their attackers and died, we celebrate those who survived. Those who take those baby steps back towards trust, love, being able to be touched. Those who cheer every milestone: the moment a lover can touch you there; the first time you don't freeze or check out during a makeout session or sex; the first time a man coming up behind you doesn't freak you out; the first time you can sit in the middle of a row at the movies; the first time a man can touch your hair without your tensing up and oh-so-many-more things most people take for granted. Those who breathe through the flashbacks; through the two steps forward, one step back; those who wake up from the nightmares.
Survivors become rape counsellors. Survivors learn immense compassion. Survivors can enter almost any emotional landscape. Survivors make a disproportionate difference. And eventually, survivors thrive.
Don't you DARE tell me dying takes more courage. Unless you've been there or been beside someone who has, you know NOTHING. Speak not of what you know not - especially from the pulpit, where your words have immense effect - for good and for ill.
Worshipping a 12-year-old and glorifying what one of my priest friends sneeringly called 'infant chastity' is just *sick*. And making her the patron saint of women who have been sexually abused and raped reeks of contempt. Find us someone who has actually survived, suffered and overcome.
Go on. I dare you.
Maria Goretti's feast day is Monday, 6 July. A day that I can make it to mass. Will I go?
You bet. Why?
Because if one of the four priests most likely to go into raptures over how wonderful it was that Maria died protecting her chastity is up there and opens his mouth, I want him to have to LOOK at me when he says that.
And then, I want him to have to answer to me on behalf of every amazing survivor - man or woman - who has suffered rape or sexual abuse. I want him to understand exactly what his words could have done to someone in his congregation who has been violated in ways he can't even begin to imagine, or to impressionable children. I want him to remember that his vocation is to heal, not expound some twisted ideal - after all, he wouldn't suggest that someone who was mugged should have died instead, would he? No rape/sexual abuse victim bears ANY responsibility for the crime perpetrated on them. The responsibility - EVERY LAST IOTA OF IT - lies with the person who chose to attack and violate.
A small thing - one person, one statement. But a small difference is better than none at all.
And this one's for everyone who has the courage to survive - and find their way back to living, loving and laughing. One step at a time.
Of those that are named, everyone has those that they have an affinity for and those that repel them. Whilst I adore Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross, I couldn't dislike Therese of Lisieux, Padre Pio or Jose Escriva de Balaguer more. Different strokes for different folks.
But Maria Goretti is something else entirely.
For those who do not know the story of Maria Goretti, here it is in short: born in 1890, it is claimed (with all the smell of a justifying backstory) that she was a particularly God-fearing, pious little girl. On 5 July 1902, her neighbour, Alessandro Serenelli, came upon her sewing and said he would kill her if she didn't let him rape her, at which point she told him it was a mortal sin and that he would go to Hell if he carried on. He choked her, she refused, he stabbed her 17 times. She died later in hospital, supposedly having forgiven her attacker.
She then became the patron saint of those who had been raped and sexually abused.
Do we see a problem here?
Let me sum Saint Maria Goretti up for you in four words: better dead than deflowered.
Several years ago, I sat in church on her feast day, open-mouthed in absolute shock as the priest stood up and waxed lyrical over how Maria had died to protect her purity, how amazing that was, and how she was an example for everyone to follow. My rather politically incorrect thought, and the only one that is vaguely printable, was, "WTF does a woman's purity matter to YOU, you aging queen?"
When I confronted one of his colleagues, who happens to be a good friend, about it, he responded that Maria Goretti's sainthood was about forgiveness, not her chastity. I know he believes that, but I think he's wrong - and here's why:
From Pope Pius XII:
"The value of Christian virtue is so great, so overwhelming, so imperative, that it is worth more than life. Purity is not just a separate part of our being. It belongs to our existence as a whole, it is essential for our life. Purity brings us in harmony of body and soul."
From JP II:
"Maria Goretti, so illuminating with her spiritual beauty, challenges us to a firm and secure faith in the Word of God, as the only source of truth, to remain firm against the temptations of this world."
"Young people, look at Maria Goretti, don’t be tempted by the tempting atmosphere of our permissive society, which declares, everything is possible. Look to Maria Goretti, love, live, defend your chastity."
Oh, and let's not forget the Maria Goretti Society which has cute pink t-shirts that say 'Maria Goretti Society: Purity is worth dying for'. Is it, fuck.
Of course, we all know that being threatened by rape is the same as being tempted by 'permissive society'. It's the same as choosing to remain chaste. I mean, after all, what's the difference between being a child, helpless in the face of someone twice your size or a woman threatened at gunpoint and saying 'No' to your boyfriend because you want to wait?
Obviously, none in the eyes of the above popes, and thus, none in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church.
So, let's look at virginity/purity. Worth dying for?
Virginity is simply the state of not having had sex - nothing more and nothing less. In and of itself, it is neutral. Value is placed on it by a patriarchy incapable of getting past its animal nature: a virgin bride/woman ensures that any children belong to the man who's sleeping with her (also the reason that a woman's faithfulness is more important than a man's, of course). Perpetual virginity, robbing a woman of her sexuality, makes a woman the eternal girl, meaning that she is non-threatening to the men who idealise her - making it impossible for any living woman to measure up.
I'm sure as hell not dying to protect that. And there is NO way I'd want a daughter of mine to, either.
I'm not saying, 'Wey-hey, everyone, go out and shag mindlessly' - unless that's your thing. You should never give up anything that is uniquely yours - and your body and the way you have sex is that - to win approval, to buy love, to manipulate, to fill an emptiness you can't face. You should give it because you WANT to, because you LOVE what you are about to do. And in that case, when you give it and to whom is no one else's business (unless you're doing it where I and everyone else have to watch).
The problem with Maria Goretti is the message she, and the priests & faithful who idolise her, sends - that those of us who were sexually abused or raped and lived aren't worth a hell of a lot. At the very least, we're worth less than Maria Goretti and those who chose to die.
Read my lips: Bullshit.
Whilst I absolutely respect and mourn those who have died, the courage and power of the survivors never ceases to humble me. Does some sheltered celibate REALLY believe that I would rather have a daughter of mine DIE a virgin than LIVE, having survived a horrific crime? How can you POSSIBLY even THINK that I would rather bury a child than hold her, help her make it through her darkness, teach her to trust, help her to take the steps she needs to heal?
Whilst we mourn and honour the women who chose to fight their attackers and died, we celebrate those who survived. Those who take those baby steps back towards trust, love, being able to be touched. Those who cheer every milestone: the moment a lover can touch you there; the first time you don't freeze or check out during a makeout session or sex; the first time a man coming up behind you doesn't freak you out; the first time you can sit in the middle of a row at the movies; the first time a man can touch your hair without your tensing up and oh-so-many-more things most people take for granted. Those who breathe through the flashbacks; through the two steps forward, one step back; those who wake up from the nightmares.
Survivors become rape counsellors. Survivors learn immense compassion. Survivors can enter almost any emotional landscape. Survivors make a disproportionate difference. And eventually, survivors thrive.
Don't you DARE tell me dying takes more courage. Unless you've been there or been beside someone who has, you know NOTHING. Speak not of what you know not - especially from the pulpit, where your words have immense effect - for good and for ill.
Worshipping a 12-year-old and glorifying what one of my priest friends sneeringly called 'infant chastity' is just *sick*. And making her the patron saint of women who have been sexually abused and raped reeks of contempt. Find us someone who has actually survived, suffered and overcome.
Go on. I dare you.
Maria Goretti's feast day is Monday, 6 July. A day that I can make it to mass. Will I go?
You bet. Why?
Because if one of the four priests most likely to go into raptures over how wonderful it was that Maria died protecting her chastity is up there and opens his mouth, I want him to have to LOOK at me when he says that.
And then, I want him to have to answer to me on behalf of every amazing survivor - man or woman - who has suffered rape or sexual abuse. I want him to understand exactly what his words could have done to someone in his congregation who has been violated in ways he can't even begin to imagine, or to impressionable children. I want him to remember that his vocation is to heal, not expound some twisted ideal - after all, he wouldn't suggest that someone who was mugged should have died instead, would he? No rape/sexual abuse victim bears ANY responsibility for the crime perpetrated on them. The responsibility - EVERY LAST IOTA OF IT - lies with the person who chose to attack and violate.
A small thing - one person, one statement. But a small difference is better than none at all.
And this one's for everyone who has the courage to survive - and find their way back to living, loving and laughing. One step at a time.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Thoughts on the priesthood
The year of priests began on Friday, and after a lovely, unfussy mass and an excellent sermon by Fr Daniel, I've spent the last few days reflecting on my complex feelings about the Catholic priesthood.
That reflection was further complicated by the discovery yesterday that someone whose behaviour shows him to be utterly unfit for the priesthood is a seminarian.
A story to illustrate the point: 18 months ago, I was having dinner with a friend. Seminarian X knew this; he'd been told. During the course of the evening, he rang my friend NO LESS than 7 times over the course of the evening to ask if he could come over or if my friend could come out. I wondered who the hell this person and his group were, and unfortunately, I later had occasion to find out as, even after having been told "NO, I HAVE A GUEST THIS EVENING," ad nauseam, Seminarian X showed up, sat down and promptly started eating the candy bar my host had just unwrapped.
The utter selfishness, violation of personal boundaries, lack of respect for others, immaturity and the lack of genuine friendship was...staggering. More trivially, since my host and I spent the rest of the evening trying to get away, it totally ruined what had been a lovely evening.
There is no way this was hidden in the interview or in any recommendations he received - he's too unaware of self to KNOW to hide it. No way he could have hidden the split between what he professes and how he behaves. But the seminary accepted him anyway.
The most likely reaction from the people at my church? A "So what?" and a limp wrist wave.
I'll tell you 'so what' - that boy will be dealing with people at their most vulnerable, from birth to death. He will be their SHEPHERD. This is NOT a LIVE ACTION ROLE PLAYING GAME (LARP) so he can ponce about in lace, pretty vestments, with a thurible. Nor is it a way to put off growing up and becoming responsible - something both religious communities and the training for the priesthood do far too often these days.
These are people's lives, hearts and souls on the line. So, yeah, I think character, maturity and people skills are important. Deal.
That doesn't make me anti-clerical. It makes me demanding; it makes me tough; it means I have high expectations from those of you shepherding God's flock.Yes, I allow for imperfection. But ONLY where you are committed to growth - emotional and spiritual. Where you can admit that you are wrong. Where you are committed to learning. But where you're using imperfection as an excuse to be lazy and not change, I will give no quarter.
This is where I step up and say: part of this is because I'm sick of cleaning up after the bad ones. I've lost count of the hours where I've sat down to talk down someone in tears because some boy said something in the confessional that made me cover my mouth in horror - things I wouldn't even say to the uncle who sexually abused me. We won't discuss the things that have been said outside the confessional, in the public domain, things priests thought were funny or clever, but were only passive-aggressive and hurtful. Let's not even go into the ways problems - big problems, obvious unhappiness, clear unsuitability - are ignored until it is way, way too late. And sometimes, that costs lives.
One instance I remember most sharply is where a cleric came to me one day, hugged me and just put his head on my shoulder. I let him be there and then we talked. Absolutely the simplest thing in the world. Later, one of his colleagues said, "I'm so glad he came to you. The rest of us didn't really know what to say."
Erm, what? Excuse me, BUT ISN'T THAT THE ESSENCE OF YOUR VOCATION?
He was lucky he didn't get what was on the tip of my tongue to say: "Well, God forbid any of you should have displayed some pastoral ability. Wouldn't want that."
I sound pretty unambivalent, don't I?
But I'm not. Because frankly, I lay a LOT of this at the door of their training. Those who should never be accepted ARE; those who should be weeded out in seminary are not; those who have the skills to be good priests aren't properly trained. I'm not sure I actually believe that seminary is much more than a place for Borg assimilation and some intellectual work, with the barest nod to real pastoral work or moral training. Essentially, you've put a young man in a group of people who look like him, who agree with him, who will apply peer pressure to think the accepted groupthink and don't require much responsibility or knock the corners off. Put them in a place where they're taught that they're 'special' or 'more important' or, in the one Vianney quote I don't like, 'everything' - and you lose the man, don't you? He becomes a boy again. To become a man - let's use the gender neutral adult - you need to be able to see other points of view without being threatened, you need to think through your speech and actions, you need to take responsibility - and you need to realise that you are not, and will never be, more special than any other of God's children.
You cannot call yourself a man if you live in ways, places or with people that are invested in keeping you a boy. And unfortunately, in its odd mix of attempting to hammer down the nail that sticks up yet inculcating a sense of 'specialness', of 'entitlement', priestly training does exactly that - creates a boy to do man's job, setting far too many up for failure.
Good priests only seem to happen by accident or grace, not by design of the Church. And that's just plain wrong.
There's the other reason I'm ambivalent - I know some absolutely amazing priests. The ones who make me want to hug them as they struggle their way out loud through a difficult pastoral situation and I can hear the emotion in their voice. The ones who can call situations 'tough and tragic' and apply orthodox teaching compassionately - and by orthodox teaching, I don't mean pretty liturgy. I mean the priests who can say that suicide is not a mortal sin because even though it is grave matter, full knowledge and consent can't have been present. The ones who call me on saying 'forgive but not forget' because they KNOW I really mean 'I don't forgive' - and make me admit and deal with it. THAT is true orthodoxy. The ones who choke up (and that DOES get a hug for as long as needed) when they talk about the gratefulness of the parents of a stillborn child after the funeral or any of the countless situations where they share, even as they try to comfort, someone's pain or darkness. The ones who undo the damage of their colleagues as only they can.
THEY are my many clerical friends. THEY are the good priests, the good men who, as one of them beautifully put it, pour their lives out as a libation. The WORLD, not just the Church, is a better place for them. (Though I think they ought to be able to marry, but that's another discussion.)
Those of you I know and those of you I don't - THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
They are, quite simply, God's vessels. But there aren't enough of them. They don't get nearly enough support - from the laity or the institution. And God knows, they certainly don't get the initial or continuing training they need. They get worn down by the disproportionate number of parishioners who come to them and by those who aren't priests in the true sense of the word. That balance needs to shift dramatically in the other direction. They need and deserve all the support they can get.
The Church needs to recognise, nurture and support them. The dead weight needs to go.
So where does this all lead us? To how Irim would set up and run a Catholic seminary, of course.
What was that sound? Oh, that would be the sound of my clerical friends groaning in despair ;-).
Sorry, boys, you'll have to wait for the next installment - I've got an essay to finish...but watch this space.
That reflection was further complicated by the discovery yesterday that someone whose behaviour shows him to be utterly unfit for the priesthood is a seminarian.
A story to illustrate the point: 18 months ago, I was having dinner with a friend. Seminarian X knew this; he'd been told. During the course of the evening, he rang my friend NO LESS than 7 times over the course of the evening to ask if he could come over or if my friend could come out. I wondered who the hell this person and his group were, and unfortunately, I later had occasion to find out as, even after having been told "NO, I HAVE A GUEST THIS EVENING," ad nauseam, Seminarian X showed up, sat down and promptly started eating the candy bar my host had just unwrapped.
The utter selfishness, violation of personal boundaries, lack of respect for others, immaturity and the lack of genuine friendship was...staggering. More trivially, since my host and I spent the rest of the evening trying to get away, it totally ruined what had been a lovely evening.
There is no way this was hidden in the interview or in any recommendations he received - he's too unaware of self to KNOW to hide it. No way he could have hidden the split between what he professes and how he behaves. But the seminary accepted him anyway.
The most likely reaction from the people at my church? A "So what?" and a limp wrist wave.
I'll tell you 'so what' - that boy will be dealing with people at their most vulnerable, from birth to death. He will be their SHEPHERD. This is NOT a LIVE ACTION ROLE PLAYING GAME (LARP) so he can ponce about in lace, pretty vestments, with a thurible. Nor is it a way to put off growing up and becoming responsible - something both religious communities and the training for the priesthood do far too often these days.
These are people's lives, hearts and souls on the line. So, yeah, I think character, maturity and people skills are important. Deal.
That doesn't make me anti-clerical. It makes me demanding; it makes me tough; it means I have high expectations from those of you shepherding God's flock.Yes, I allow for imperfection. But ONLY where you are committed to growth - emotional and spiritual. Where you can admit that you are wrong. Where you are committed to learning. But where you're using imperfection as an excuse to be lazy and not change, I will give no quarter.
This is where I step up and say: part of this is because I'm sick of cleaning up after the bad ones. I've lost count of the hours where I've sat down to talk down someone in tears because some boy said something in the confessional that made me cover my mouth in horror - things I wouldn't even say to the uncle who sexually abused me. We won't discuss the things that have been said outside the confessional, in the public domain, things priests thought were funny or clever, but were only passive-aggressive and hurtful. Let's not even go into the ways problems - big problems, obvious unhappiness, clear unsuitability - are ignored until it is way, way too late. And sometimes, that costs lives.
One instance I remember most sharply is where a cleric came to me one day, hugged me and just put his head on my shoulder. I let him be there and then we talked. Absolutely the simplest thing in the world. Later, one of his colleagues said, "I'm so glad he came to you. The rest of us didn't really know what to say."
Erm, what? Excuse me, BUT ISN'T THAT THE ESSENCE OF YOUR VOCATION?
He was lucky he didn't get what was on the tip of my tongue to say: "Well, God forbid any of you should have displayed some pastoral ability. Wouldn't want that."
I sound pretty unambivalent, don't I?
But I'm not. Because frankly, I lay a LOT of this at the door of their training. Those who should never be accepted ARE; those who should be weeded out in seminary are not; those who have the skills to be good priests aren't properly trained. I'm not sure I actually believe that seminary is much more than a place for Borg assimilation and some intellectual work, with the barest nod to real pastoral work or moral training. Essentially, you've put a young man in a group of people who look like him, who agree with him, who will apply peer pressure to think the accepted groupthink and don't require much responsibility or knock the corners off. Put them in a place where they're taught that they're 'special' or 'more important' or, in the one Vianney quote I don't like, 'everything' - and you lose the man, don't you? He becomes a boy again. To become a man - let's use the gender neutral adult - you need to be able to see other points of view without being threatened, you need to think through your speech and actions, you need to take responsibility - and you need to realise that you are not, and will never be, more special than any other of God's children.
You cannot call yourself a man if you live in ways, places or with people that are invested in keeping you a boy. And unfortunately, in its odd mix of attempting to hammer down the nail that sticks up yet inculcating a sense of 'specialness', of 'entitlement', priestly training does exactly that - creates a boy to do man's job, setting far too many up for failure.
Good priests only seem to happen by accident or grace, not by design of the Church. And that's just plain wrong.
There's the other reason I'm ambivalent - I know some absolutely amazing priests. The ones who make me want to hug them as they struggle their way out loud through a difficult pastoral situation and I can hear the emotion in their voice. The ones who can call situations 'tough and tragic' and apply orthodox teaching compassionately - and by orthodox teaching, I don't mean pretty liturgy. I mean the priests who can say that suicide is not a mortal sin because even though it is grave matter, full knowledge and consent can't have been present. The ones who call me on saying 'forgive but not forget' because they KNOW I really mean 'I don't forgive' - and make me admit and deal with it. THAT is true orthodoxy. The ones who choke up (and that DOES get a hug for as long as needed) when they talk about the gratefulness of the parents of a stillborn child after the funeral or any of the countless situations where they share, even as they try to comfort, someone's pain or darkness. The ones who undo the damage of their colleagues as only they can.
THEY are my many clerical friends. THEY are the good priests, the good men who, as one of them beautifully put it, pour their lives out as a libation. The WORLD, not just the Church, is a better place for them. (Though I think they ought to be able to marry, but that's another discussion.)
Those of you I know and those of you I don't - THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
They are, quite simply, God's vessels. But there aren't enough of them. They don't get nearly enough support - from the laity or the institution. And God knows, they certainly don't get the initial or continuing training they need. They get worn down by the disproportionate number of parishioners who come to them and by those who aren't priests in the true sense of the word. That balance needs to shift dramatically in the other direction. They need and deserve all the support they can get.
The Church needs to recognise, nurture and support them. The dead weight needs to go.
So where does this all lead us? To how Irim would set up and run a Catholic seminary, of course.
What was that sound? Oh, that would be the sound of my clerical friends groaning in despair ;-).
Sorry, boys, you'll have to wait for the next installment - I've got an essay to finish...but watch this space.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Cardiff Singer of the World disappointment
I only caught the first 'semifinal' this week, but was pleased to note that my ability to gauge singers, despite my inability to sing, was sharp as ever - the commentary running in my head was almost word for word what the experts said after, and I chose the winner of the heat within a single phrase.
Marvelous. I was ready. For various reasons, I missed the other heats, but I caught the last three of tonight's final. The bass was lovely, but not out of this world.
Next up was the counter tenor. I sat up straight...a COUNTER TENOR? IN THE CARDIFF SINGER OF THE WORLD FINAL?????????????? OMG. *BRILLIANT*
Now, any of my friends who know my musical preferences will be sitting back in shock. I'm a baritone/bass, alto/mezzo girl. I tend to dislike the higher ranges because so many who claim to sing them CAN'T, and sound like strangled cats at the top of the range. I'm going to get a lot of grief for this, but I HATED Luciano Pavarotti's voice. HATED it. Love Placido, but realised why when I learned he had been a zarzuela baritone. He has the richness of the baritone and the proper range of a tenor, and musicianship FAR superior to anything Pavarotti displayed - and was always undeservingly seen as second best, I felt.
Sopranos start off with an 'UGH' from me and really have to prove themselves. I hate what I call the 'light Mozart' sops - all air, no substance. Anya Harteros, the 1999 winner of Cardiff singer, is that rare, rare soprano that I love - one whose voice is like liquid gold, with depth, texture and range. When I like sopranos, they tend to be Wagnerian.
So, what I like in voices - texture, depth, darkness - I most often find in the lower ranges, so I gravitate towards them.
It's either that or crystal clarity - found in the trebles that are the staple of the English choir, NOT in light Mozart sopranos - or in that rare tenor like Fr Dom, whose voice a friend once described as 'ethereal, fragile, like Venice - you turn around and you're not quite sure he'll be there'. The most magical moment of the liturgical year is in a candlelit Oratory, the moment he sings the first note of the Exsultet - and then it's really a place out of time. Interestingly, listening closely this year, I caught some of the texture that I'd missed before.
Back to Cardiff singer. That was all a long diversion to explain why it would be such a surprise for my musical friends to discover that I was thrilled to find a countertenor in the final.
Yuriy Mynenko proved me right. His repertoire was one never heard in a Cardiff Singer final before :
Ombra fedele anch'io (Idaspe) - Broschi
Crude furie degl'orridi abissi (Serse) - Handel
Oh patria! ... Di tanti palpiti (Tancredi) - Rossini
His voice was divine; his phrasing, incredible; his emotion, electric. The vocal runs were jaw-dropping. I didn't look away for his entire repertoire, and the audience clearly felt the same. "He HAS to win," I thought.
When I heard who the next performer was, my heart sank. A pretty, Russian soprano who had 'blown the jury away' at her semifinal - Ekaterina Shcherbachenko. Aw, crap.
Yeah, go on, guess how often it was mentioned that she was 'pretty', or 'looked elegant' and how that made her 'the whole package'.
Mmmmmm.
Her repertoire:
Je voudrais bien savoir ... Ah! je ris (Faust) - Gounod
Signore, ascolta! (Turandot) - Puccini
No word from Tom (The Rake's Progress) - Stravinsky
Already, she was at a disadvantage with me - I don't like hearing French *spoken* (sorry, Christelle), let alone being sung - its nasality is like nails on a chalkboard for me. Give me Spanish any day. And Stravinsky 'The Rake's Progress'? *CRINGE* Puccini? Meh.
She sang it creditably - she's a lovely soprano, but no Anya Harteros, and I was perfectly capable of answering FB messages during her singing, even the Puccini didn't move me, though I could appreciate her technical ability. She felt OVERemotional to me.
THIS was where the experts and I diverged. They couldn't praise her enough, and how 'from the heart, it has to be Ekaterina".
Pass me a bucket.
So, of course, it was.
I can't tell you how disappointed I am in the jury. Of course, they know more about music than I will in several lifetimes, but I can't believe that the difference was more than a whisker.
The jury missed a chance to do something that would change the history of the competition forever: award the prize to the first countertenor ever.
A prize that would not only have legitimised the countertenor as a male voice, but would have gone a long way to striking a blow against the unease most audiences have with a male singing in a female range - and therefore, would have struck a blow for widening the range of what qualifies as acceptably masculine, which is frighteningly narrow.
Leaving aside the fact that 'gay' should not be a pejorative term and that being gay doesn't make you any less a man - it would be a good thing if what is acceptable in the heterosexual male repertoire was far wider than it is now. A man should be able to dance well, sing countertenor, hate sports, have heart to hearts with his male friends, participate in high liturgy and not have his sexuality questioned.
I've had far too many male friends ask why people assume they're gay - read 'not really male' - simply because they didn't like sports or because they were quiet. Enough.
As a friend once said to me, 'Why do we DO this to men? It's not fair.'
She's right.
The Cardiff jury had a chance to reach out beyond their usual preferences and strike a blow for something far bigger than the opera world.
They missed the boat.
And I, for one, am deeply disappointed.
Marvelous. I was ready. For various reasons, I missed the other heats, but I caught the last three of tonight's final. The bass was lovely, but not out of this world.
Next up was the counter tenor. I sat up straight...a COUNTER TENOR? IN THE CARDIFF SINGER OF THE WORLD FINAL?????????????? OMG. *BRILLIANT*
Now, any of my friends who know my musical preferences will be sitting back in shock. I'm a baritone/bass, alto/mezzo girl. I tend to dislike the higher ranges because so many who claim to sing them CAN'T, and sound like strangled cats at the top of the range. I'm going to get a lot of grief for this, but I HATED Luciano Pavarotti's voice. HATED it. Love Placido, but realised why when I learned he had been a zarzuela baritone. He has the richness of the baritone and the proper range of a tenor, and musicianship FAR superior to anything Pavarotti displayed - and was always undeservingly seen as second best, I felt.
Sopranos start off with an 'UGH' from me and really have to prove themselves. I hate what I call the 'light Mozart' sops - all air, no substance. Anya Harteros, the 1999 winner of Cardiff singer, is that rare, rare soprano that I love - one whose voice is like liquid gold, with depth, texture and range. When I like sopranos, they tend to be Wagnerian.
So, what I like in voices - texture, depth, darkness - I most often find in the lower ranges, so I gravitate towards them.
It's either that or crystal clarity - found in the trebles that are the staple of the English choir, NOT in light Mozart sopranos - or in that rare tenor like Fr Dom, whose voice a friend once described as 'ethereal, fragile, like Venice - you turn around and you're not quite sure he'll be there'. The most magical moment of the liturgical year is in a candlelit Oratory, the moment he sings the first note of the Exsultet - and then it's really a place out of time. Interestingly, listening closely this year, I caught some of the texture that I'd missed before.
Back to Cardiff singer. That was all a long diversion to explain why it would be such a surprise for my musical friends to discover that I was thrilled to find a countertenor in the final.
Yuriy Mynenko proved me right. His repertoire was one never heard in a Cardiff Singer final before :
Ombra fedele anch'io (Idaspe) - Broschi
Crude furie degl'orridi abissi (Serse) - Handel
Oh patria! ... Di tanti palpiti (Tancredi) - Rossini
His voice was divine; his phrasing, incredible; his emotion, electric. The vocal runs were jaw-dropping. I didn't look away for his entire repertoire, and the audience clearly felt the same. "He HAS to win," I thought.
When I heard who the next performer was, my heart sank. A pretty, Russian soprano who had 'blown the jury away' at her semifinal - Ekaterina Shcherbachenko. Aw, crap.
Yeah, go on, guess how often it was mentioned that she was 'pretty', or 'looked elegant' and how that made her 'the whole package'.
Mmmmmm.
Her repertoire:
Je voudrais bien savoir ... Ah! je ris (Faust) - Gounod
Signore, ascolta! (Turandot) - Puccini
No word from Tom (The Rake's Progress) - Stravinsky
Already, she was at a disadvantage with me - I don't like hearing French *spoken* (sorry, Christelle), let alone being sung - its nasality is like nails on a chalkboard for me. Give me Spanish any day. And Stravinsky 'The Rake's Progress'? *CRINGE* Puccini? Meh.
She sang it creditably - she's a lovely soprano, but no Anya Harteros, and I was perfectly capable of answering FB messages during her singing, even the Puccini didn't move me, though I could appreciate her technical ability. She felt OVERemotional to me.
THIS was where the experts and I diverged. They couldn't praise her enough, and how 'from the heart, it has to be Ekaterina".
Pass me a bucket.
So, of course, it was.
I can't tell you how disappointed I am in the jury. Of course, they know more about music than I will in several lifetimes, but I can't believe that the difference was more than a whisker.
The jury missed a chance to do something that would change the history of the competition forever: award the prize to the first countertenor ever.
A prize that would not only have legitimised the countertenor as a male voice, but would have gone a long way to striking a blow against the unease most audiences have with a male singing in a female range - and therefore, would have struck a blow for widening the range of what qualifies as acceptably masculine, which is frighteningly narrow.
Leaving aside the fact that 'gay' should not be a pejorative term and that being gay doesn't make you any less a man - it would be a good thing if what is acceptable in the heterosexual male repertoire was far wider than it is now. A man should be able to dance well, sing countertenor, hate sports, have heart to hearts with his male friends, participate in high liturgy and not have his sexuality questioned.
I've had far too many male friends ask why people assume they're gay - read 'not really male' - simply because they didn't like sports or because they were quiet. Enough.
As a friend once said to me, 'Why do we DO this to men? It's not fair.'
She's right.
The Cardiff jury had a chance to reach out beyond their usual preferences and strike a blow for something far bigger than the opera world.
They missed the boat.
And I, for one, am deeply disappointed.
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
A familial exchange
On Monday, 8 June - a full 12 days after my birthday - an email popped up in my OCMS inbox.
"Dear Irim,
I had sent you a note using your Yahoo e:mail address. But did not get a reply. Hope all is well. Anyway Happy Birthday again.
Love ,
Uncle"
On first glance, nice, right? I'm less sure. Over the last 16 months, since he's been in touch, he has claimed to have emailed to my yahoo adress several times without getting a response. For some reason, his emails never get through.
I don't buy it. Everyone else emails me at my yahoo address and has no problem; how is it that he's the only one that does? And if he KNOWS there has been a problem with Yahoo in the past, then why KEEP EMAILING ME THERE? Or, at the very least, if it's time sensitive, as birthdays are, why not email BOTH addresses to make sure it gets there on the day?
And when you KNOW I will reply to you with 24-48 hours, WHY didn't you email my other address earlier?
Sounds like somebody is:
a. Fishing for information
b. Laying on the guilt
c. Maybe more than a bit angry that since he got in touch, I haven't exactly jumped back into the family with great joy - I wonder if he thought I was pining for them or something and would be eternally, cringeingly grateful that he had deigned, as the patriarch in my father's family, to bring me back into the fold.
Why would I return to the fold?
This wasn't the place I was going to write about it, but I will now. I haven't had a big celebration for my birthday - instead, I'm going to treat myself by catching up with everyone in ones and twos over time, so I can talk to them properly and actually BE with them, which I couldn't do last year. Did that make me feel - less loved on the day? Less cared about?
Blessed Mother, no way. My birthday morning started with my logging into facebook and picking up an early morning, heartfelt message from a friend in South Africa that choked me up for the rest of the day, not least because I could see his expression and hear his voice as I read it.
And it went on from there - as message after message popped up on my facebook wall, on my phone, in my various inboxes, I couldn't have felt more loved as I saw the faces and heard the voices of everyone from high school friends to new friends; friends from Australia to South Africa to Stateside to Oxford - MY family. I grinned as I imagined what they were doing: juggling a baby on a lap (several of you!); walking purposefully up St Giles, drawing deeply on a cigarette and texting; furtively facebooking at lunch; taking a day off in my honour - to feed gerbils ;-).
I got cards in the post, a bottle of Cava from the boss I was with on the day and when I finally made it to OCMS the following week, the entire contingent of staff and students surprised me in my carrel with a rousing round of 'Happy birthday' and a card.
No matter how near or far you were, I felt your affection, love and friendship. I spent my birthday feeling absolutely adored and supported, and ended it with one of the heart-to-hearts I'm planning as my gifts to myself over the summer. It couldn't have been more perfect - thank you.
Back to my uncle.
So I responded, trying to give a little more news than usual, but I'll acknowledge that the bit about not having a sig other might have been too much of a swipe at the unhappy marriages of my parents and so many others in my family:
"Dear Uncle,
And yet again, I didn't receive it, or I would have replied :). It's irimsarwar@yahoo.co.uk - not .com - does that help? If you don't receive a reply, always assume I didn't receive your email - I'll always reply when I do.
Many thanks - had a lovely one on the 27th with lots of messages from friends and am spreading out the celebrations so I actually have TIME to talk to my friends this year: I had a party with 35 people last year - fabulous, but didn't really get to chat to anyone.
All good here; the training to become a psychotherapist proceeds apace and should have done it years ago; still no man in the picture, but that leaves me free to do my own things and I'm not trapped in an unhappy relationship for the sake of being in one or b/c of what people will think. If the right man comes along, he comes along. If not, I have a great life. Not worried.
And you? What news at your end? Oh, and does [family friend] have an email address? xx"
Ja, I could have done a bit better. There's a tightness, defensiveness and anger beneath the forced lightness that didn't really need to be there. I can see the 'Don't tread on me' and 'don't come any closer' stamped all over it.
And yes, the bit about being single stands out as defensive, no question about that. But as a South Asian woman, your success IS judged, at least partly, on whether or not you're married, so in some ways, that was a pre-emptive strike. But too much of one, I think.
Next time.
And the response reflects that tightness, I think:
"Dear Irim,
Glad to know that you are well and good. All is well here.
N has come here to do his Fellowship in Cardiology at Walter Read [sic, should be Reed] Hospital. [Family friend] does not have an email address;however her telephone is xxx-xxx-xxxx. I gave her your email address and she is going to write you from her friend's computer.
She was asking for your telephone number which I did not have.
Your mother does talk about you a lot and miss you.
Well : stay happy and enjoy your life. Our prayers are always with you."
One of the reasons I like to write is that it helps me think things through, and sometimes my feelings and my point of view shift from beginning to end.
Do I think this response is manipulative? Terse, certainly. Tense, without question. The not having my number is a 'misremembrance', because I gave it to him last year and have the email to prove it.
The line about my mother IS manipulative, but doesn't hit home, because frankly, if she wanted to be in touch with me, she could be. Her excuses about not being in touch with me hold no more water than her excuse about having to be at work and being unable to drive to Dulles the day I left to come to England. If she really wanted to get around my dad, she could.
Miss *me*? Unlikely. She doesn't really know me and spent my childhood weaselling information about how I really felt to hand over to my father as a weapon and to use as one herself. She was never worried about me as a person, but worried about how I would reflect on her as an extension of herself, someone through whom she could live vicariously.
What she really misses is someone she can live through and the appearance of the perfect family.
She can talk about missing me as much as she likes. I'll believe her when she acts.
Hard? Yes. But if I were a mother, I'd be even harder on myself.
As for my uncle, what strikes me is my friend Ari's comment that his prose is 'stiffly formal'. So, yes, I think a, b and c may well hold, but there's something else here: an awkwardness, an uncertainty about how to act with...a stranger.
A stranger who used to be a bright, pliable child. The one child who WAS going to be a doctor or a lawyer for sure, but ended up not being so. The good child, the child who was going to be IN the family, no matter what, because she'd never have the guts to leave. The child who would keep the culture more than the wayward others. The child who would always NEED them. Who had all the spirit beaten out of her. The quiet, studious one.
Amazing how wrong we can be when we don't know someone's inner world, isn't it?
Always watch out for the quiet, still ones. More often than you think, you're looking at a backdraft waiting to happen.
"Well : stay happy and enjoy your life. Our prayers are always with you."
A dismissal? Maybe. I think he just didn't know what to say, and I think he doesn't understand; it's like a foreign language. I'm touched by his prayers and grateful for them.
And for once in my adult life, he can count on my obeying that command. Enjoying my life is exactly what I plan to do - and if he wants to open up and be a part of that, he will be welcome.
If not, my prayers go with him.
"Dear Irim,
I had sent you a note using your Yahoo e:mail address. But did not get a reply. Hope all is well. Anyway Happy Birthday again.
Love ,
Uncle"
On first glance, nice, right? I'm less sure. Over the last 16 months, since he's been in touch, he has claimed to have emailed to my yahoo adress several times without getting a response. For some reason, his emails never get through.
I don't buy it. Everyone else emails me at my yahoo address and has no problem; how is it that he's the only one that does? And if he KNOWS there has been a problem with Yahoo in the past, then why KEEP EMAILING ME THERE? Or, at the very least, if it's time sensitive, as birthdays are, why not email BOTH addresses to make sure it gets there on the day?
And when you KNOW I will reply to you with 24-48 hours, WHY didn't you email my other address earlier?
Sounds like somebody is:
a. Fishing for information
b. Laying on the guilt
c. Maybe more than a bit angry that since he got in touch, I haven't exactly jumped back into the family with great joy - I wonder if he thought I was pining for them or something and would be eternally, cringeingly grateful that he had deigned, as the patriarch in my father's family, to bring me back into the fold.
Why would I return to the fold?
This wasn't the place I was going to write about it, but I will now. I haven't had a big celebration for my birthday - instead, I'm going to treat myself by catching up with everyone in ones and twos over time, so I can talk to them properly and actually BE with them, which I couldn't do last year. Did that make me feel - less loved on the day? Less cared about?
Blessed Mother, no way. My birthday morning started with my logging into facebook and picking up an early morning, heartfelt message from a friend in South Africa that choked me up for the rest of the day, not least because I could see his expression and hear his voice as I read it.
And it went on from there - as message after message popped up on my facebook wall, on my phone, in my various inboxes, I couldn't have felt more loved as I saw the faces and heard the voices of everyone from high school friends to new friends; friends from Australia to South Africa to Stateside to Oxford - MY family. I grinned as I imagined what they were doing: juggling a baby on a lap (several of you!); walking purposefully up St Giles, drawing deeply on a cigarette and texting; furtively facebooking at lunch; taking a day off in my honour - to feed gerbils ;-).
I got cards in the post, a bottle of Cava from the boss I was with on the day and when I finally made it to OCMS the following week, the entire contingent of staff and students surprised me in my carrel with a rousing round of 'Happy birthday' and a card.
No matter how near or far you were, I felt your affection, love and friendship. I spent my birthday feeling absolutely adored and supported, and ended it with one of the heart-to-hearts I'm planning as my gifts to myself over the summer. It couldn't have been more perfect - thank you.
Back to my uncle.
So I responded, trying to give a little more news than usual, but I'll acknowledge that the bit about not having a sig other might have been too much of a swipe at the unhappy marriages of my parents and so many others in my family:
"Dear Uncle,
And yet again, I didn't receive it, or I would have replied :). It's irimsarwar@yahoo.co.uk - not .com - does that help? If you don't receive a reply, always assume I didn't receive your email - I'll always reply when I do.
Many thanks - had a lovely one on the 27th with lots of messages from friends and am spreading out the celebrations so I actually have TIME to talk to my friends this year: I had a party with 35 people last year - fabulous, but didn't really get to chat to anyone.
All good here; the training to become a psychotherapist proceeds apace and should have done it years ago; still no man in the picture, but that leaves me free to do my own things and I'm not trapped in an unhappy relationship for the sake of being in one or b/c of what people will think. If the right man comes along, he comes along. If not, I have a great life. Not worried.
And you? What news at your end? Oh, and does [family friend] have an email address? xx"
Ja, I could have done a bit better. There's a tightness, defensiveness and anger beneath the forced lightness that didn't really need to be there. I can see the 'Don't tread on me' and 'don't come any closer' stamped all over it.
And yes, the bit about being single stands out as defensive, no question about that. But as a South Asian woman, your success IS judged, at least partly, on whether or not you're married, so in some ways, that was a pre-emptive strike. But too much of one, I think.
Next time.
And the response reflects that tightness, I think:
"Dear Irim,
Glad to know that you are well and good. All is well here.
N has come here to do his Fellowship in Cardiology at Walter Read [sic, should be Reed] Hospital. [Family friend] does not have an email address;however her telephone is xxx-xxx-xxxx. I gave her your email address and she is going to write you from her friend's computer.
She was asking for your telephone number which I did not have.
Your mother does talk about you a lot and miss you.
Well : stay happy and enjoy your life. Our prayers are always with you."
One of the reasons I like to write is that it helps me think things through, and sometimes my feelings and my point of view shift from beginning to end.
Do I think this response is manipulative? Terse, certainly. Tense, without question. The not having my number is a 'misremembrance', because I gave it to him last year and have the email to prove it.
The line about my mother IS manipulative, but doesn't hit home, because frankly, if she wanted to be in touch with me, she could be. Her excuses about not being in touch with me hold no more water than her excuse about having to be at work and being unable to drive to Dulles the day I left to come to England. If she really wanted to get around my dad, she could.
Miss *me*? Unlikely. She doesn't really know me and spent my childhood weaselling information about how I really felt to hand over to my father as a weapon and to use as one herself. She was never worried about me as a person, but worried about how I would reflect on her as an extension of herself, someone through whom she could live vicariously.
What she really misses is someone she can live through and the appearance of the perfect family.
She can talk about missing me as much as she likes. I'll believe her when she acts.
Hard? Yes. But if I were a mother, I'd be even harder on myself.
As for my uncle, what strikes me is my friend Ari's comment that his prose is 'stiffly formal'. So, yes, I think a, b and c may well hold, but there's something else here: an awkwardness, an uncertainty about how to act with...a stranger.
A stranger who used to be a bright, pliable child. The one child who WAS going to be a doctor or a lawyer for sure, but ended up not being so. The good child, the child who was going to be IN the family, no matter what, because she'd never have the guts to leave. The child who would keep the culture more than the wayward others. The child who would always NEED them. Who had all the spirit beaten out of her. The quiet, studious one.
Amazing how wrong we can be when we don't know someone's inner world, isn't it?
Always watch out for the quiet, still ones. More often than you think, you're looking at a backdraft waiting to happen.
"Well : stay happy and enjoy your life. Our prayers are always with you."
A dismissal? Maybe. I think he just didn't know what to say, and I think he doesn't understand; it's like a foreign language. I'm touched by his prayers and grateful for them.
And for once in my adult life, he can count on my obeying that command. Enjoying my life is exactly what I plan to do - and if he wants to open up and be a part of that, he will be welcome.
If not, my prayers go with him.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Geekiness, divisibility rules and fractals
Most of my old friends know, from Nicole, Larisa, Susan and Lauri to Doug, Tom and Lauren. My current friends suspect it, but they don't know the depth...
Hi, my name is Irim and I'm a geek.
I was gutted when the UK got new registration plates. Why? Because there are no longer 3-digit numbers. (They used to go M345 KLW; now it's VK07 MMJ - 07=the car was bought in the first part of 2007)
So, you ask, looking at me like I've gone mad (which is not untrue), why do those 3 digit numbers matter?
Because I run divisibility rules on them as I'm walking into work.
Ja. Now you KNOW I'm crazy.
Look, I love numbers. I grew up playing with numbers the way I now play with words - I had to be able to figure out the total and the tax on purchases we were making at the supermarket before we ended up at the cashier. I recited my multiplication tables in front of my father more times than I care to count - and I remember that 3s were particularly difficult, because for the longest time, I'd only recite those to my father in order. And yes, I can do long division and find square roots by hand.
Numbers were at first familiar, then they became friends. Unlike many people today, I never found them scary or indecipherable. As one should with friends, I try to understand their limits as well as their strengths.
I fell in love with algebra. Solving for an unknown, the elegance of the dance towards a solution, quadratic equations...bliss. Geometry grew on me, and now I love the concept of angles, right triangles and shapes almost as much as I love quadratic equations. Almost, but not quite.
So, back to registration plates. Why divisibility rules?
Because what do you do with your friends? You PLAY.
So here are the divisibility rules:
2 The last digit is even (0,2,4,6,8)
3 The sum of the digits is divisible by 3
4 The last 2 digits are divisible by 4
5 The last digit is 0 or 5
6 The number is divisible by both 2 and 3 114 (it is even, and 1+1+4=6 and 6÷3 = 2) Yes
7 If you double the last digit and subtract it from the rest of the number and the answer is:
* 0, or
* divisible by 7
Repeat as necessary until you GET to a number that you know is or isn't divisible by 7.
8 The last three digits are divisible by 8
9 The sum of the digits is divisible by 9
10 The number ends in 0
11 If you sum every second digit and then subtract all other digits and the answer is:
* 0, or
* divisible by 11
See? Simple and doable in 5 min or less. And just plain old cool. My favourite discoveries are numbers divisible by 7 and 11. Make of that what you will.
I also find factoring quadratic equations step by step fun. I can usually do it in my head quickly, by working out what factors of a*c will sum up to b (ax^2+bx+c), but I love just writing it out and watching it unfold. I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm an associative, lateral thinker, and being forced to do things sequentially is relaxing, making me slow down and unwind.
I was actually geeky enough to be cross that I hadn't started the Fibonacci sequence on Brendan's exam status.
But these small pleasures are offshoots of the large one - patterns. I LOVE patterns - finding them, dissecting them, putting them together, watching them in motion, what happens when they're disrupted.
If I love sport, it's because I love the patterns in it: a rugby team running down the pitch, the pleasure of a cricket field being set, the angles on a snooker table.
And yes, that is the biggest pleasure of the 11am mass when it goes well. A good friend couldn't help ribbing me about how I was just as bad as the altar servers I complain about, noting the *littlest* thing that went wrong up there. I couldn't get cross because he's absolutely right. I notice because when it works up there, it's a true liturgical dance (sorry, guys, couldn't resist :P!) - a pleasure to watch. However, when the choir goes on and breaks the flow, or when the collect isn't at the priest the moment he's ready to read, I notice. It's a disruption in the pattern.
And that's why I note MCs so closely. I once told Ben Earl he was an amazing MC, and he commented that he had failed because I had noticed him. Whilst I agree with his sentiment that an MC shouldn't be noticed, he certainly didn't fail. I deliberately watch MCs to see how they set patterns in motion, how they keep them there and how they deal with disruptions in the pattern. Ben's timing and direction were near perfect. Interestingly, the people that you often think would be the best MCs because of their attention to detail and perfectionism aren't, because they're too rigid and a problem can throw them off, creating bigger problems. The friend mentioned above is superb - his relaxed vigilance means he'll see problems arising and nip them in the bud and be able to deal with change on the fly.
But my favourite patterns to watch? Interpersonal dynamics. I LOVE people watching and making connections in everything from their stories to their relationships. And that means from the microcosm of individual story and relationship to the macrocosm of world history, created by the interlocking patterns of a world of individual relationships.
So, do I love patterns because I love discerning order in a world that often seems to have none? Maybe.
But the explanation that resonates most with me is the explanation offered by Sarayu, the Holy Spirit, in "The Shack", when explaining an apparently chaotic garden to Mack:
"From above, it's a fractal," Sarayu said.
"A what?"
"A fractal...something considered simple and orderly that is actually composed of repeated patterns no matter how magnified. A fractal is almost infinitely complex. I love fractals, so I put them everywhere."
"Looks like a mess to me."
"Mack! Thank you! What a wonderful compliment! That is exactly what this is - a mess. But it's still a fractal too."
Order and chaos; complexity and simplicity, hand in hand. Mmmm.
Oh, and the garden? Mack's soul.
*That* is the heart of my love for patterns - I love catching glimpses of the divine fractals scattered everywhere, from divisibility rules to people's souls.
For a fleeting instant, I feel the movement of the cosmic dance and understand the words of Senex in Madeleine L'Engle's "Swiftly Tilting Planet":
"Now I may move anywhere in the universe. I sing with the stars. I dance with the galaxies. I share in the joy--and in the grief."
And I am home.
Hi, my name is Irim and I'm a geek.
I was gutted when the UK got new registration plates. Why? Because there are no longer 3-digit numbers. (They used to go M345 KLW; now it's VK07 MMJ - 07=the car was bought in the first part of 2007)
So, you ask, looking at me like I've gone mad (which is not untrue), why do those 3 digit numbers matter?
Because I run divisibility rules on them as I'm walking into work.
Ja. Now you KNOW I'm crazy.
Look, I love numbers. I grew up playing with numbers the way I now play with words - I had to be able to figure out the total and the tax on purchases we were making at the supermarket before we ended up at the cashier. I recited my multiplication tables in front of my father more times than I care to count - and I remember that 3s were particularly difficult, because for the longest time, I'd only recite those to my father in order. And yes, I can do long division and find square roots by hand.
Numbers were at first familiar, then they became friends. Unlike many people today, I never found them scary or indecipherable. As one should with friends, I try to understand their limits as well as their strengths.
I fell in love with algebra. Solving for an unknown, the elegance of the dance towards a solution, quadratic equations...bliss. Geometry grew on me, and now I love the concept of angles, right triangles and shapes almost as much as I love quadratic equations. Almost, but not quite.
So, back to registration plates. Why divisibility rules?
Because what do you do with your friends? You PLAY.
So here are the divisibility rules:
2 The last digit is even (0,2,4,6,8)
3 The sum of the digits is divisible by 3
4 The last 2 digits are divisible by 4
5 The last digit is 0 or 5
6 The number is divisible by both 2 and 3 114 (it is even, and 1+1+4=6 and 6÷3 = 2) Yes
7 If you double the last digit and subtract it from the rest of the number and the answer is:
* 0, or
* divisible by 7
Repeat as necessary until you GET to a number that you know is or isn't divisible by 7.
8 The last three digits are divisible by 8
9 The sum of the digits is divisible by 9
10 The number ends in 0
11 If you sum every second digit and then subtract all other digits and the answer is:
* 0, or
* divisible by 11
See? Simple and doable in 5 min or less. And just plain old cool. My favourite discoveries are numbers divisible by 7 and 11. Make of that what you will.
I also find factoring quadratic equations step by step fun. I can usually do it in my head quickly, by working out what factors of a*c will sum up to b (ax^2+bx+c), but I love just writing it out and watching it unfold. I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm an associative, lateral thinker, and being forced to do things sequentially is relaxing, making me slow down and unwind.
I was actually geeky enough to be cross that I hadn't started the Fibonacci sequence on Brendan's exam status.
But these small pleasures are offshoots of the large one - patterns. I LOVE patterns - finding them, dissecting them, putting them together, watching them in motion, what happens when they're disrupted.
If I love sport, it's because I love the patterns in it: a rugby team running down the pitch, the pleasure of a cricket field being set, the angles on a snooker table.
And yes, that is the biggest pleasure of the 11am mass when it goes well. A good friend couldn't help ribbing me about how I was just as bad as the altar servers I complain about, noting the *littlest* thing that went wrong up there. I couldn't get cross because he's absolutely right. I notice because when it works up there, it's a true liturgical dance (sorry, guys, couldn't resist :P!) - a pleasure to watch. However, when the choir goes on and breaks the flow, or when the collect isn't at the priest the moment he's ready to read, I notice. It's a disruption in the pattern.
And that's why I note MCs so closely. I once told Ben Earl he was an amazing MC, and he commented that he had failed because I had noticed him. Whilst I agree with his sentiment that an MC shouldn't be noticed, he certainly didn't fail. I deliberately watch MCs to see how they set patterns in motion, how they keep them there and how they deal with disruptions in the pattern. Ben's timing and direction were near perfect. Interestingly, the people that you often think would be the best MCs because of their attention to detail and perfectionism aren't, because they're too rigid and a problem can throw them off, creating bigger problems. The friend mentioned above is superb - his relaxed vigilance means he'll see problems arising and nip them in the bud and be able to deal with change on the fly.
But my favourite patterns to watch? Interpersonal dynamics. I LOVE people watching and making connections in everything from their stories to their relationships. And that means from the microcosm of individual story and relationship to the macrocosm of world history, created by the interlocking patterns of a world of individual relationships.
So, do I love patterns because I love discerning order in a world that often seems to have none? Maybe.
But the explanation that resonates most with me is the explanation offered by Sarayu, the Holy Spirit, in "The Shack", when explaining an apparently chaotic garden to Mack:
"From above, it's a fractal," Sarayu said.
"A what?"
"A fractal...something considered simple and orderly that is actually composed of repeated patterns no matter how magnified. A fractal is almost infinitely complex. I love fractals, so I put them everywhere."
"Looks like a mess to me."
"Mack! Thank you! What a wonderful compliment! That is exactly what this is - a mess. But it's still a fractal too."
Order and chaos; complexity and simplicity, hand in hand. Mmmm.
Oh, and the garden? Mack's soul.
*That* is the heart of my love for patterns - I love catching glimpses of the divine fractals scattered everywhere, from divisibility rules to people's souls.
For a fleeting instant, I feel the movement of the cosmic dance and understand the words of Senex in Madeleine L'Engle's "Swiftly Tilting Planet":
"Now I may move anywhere in the universe. I sing with the stars. I dance with the galaxies. I share in the joy--and in the grief."
And I am home.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Precious moments
When I come into OCMS, I walk. It's about 40 min (2.5 mi) from where I live, and even though I walk down the Banbury Road, once you're past Summertown, you can look down the road and enjoy the changing foliage.
As an introvert, my favourite season is autumn, of course: deep, rich colours, not the inappropriate gaudiness of spring blossoms; the quiet after the rowdiness of summer; misty cold mornings; nights made for introspection and intimate chats drawing in, with luminous moon and stars like ice chips in the sky; the ethereal, mellow northern light hinting at Sidhe around the next corner.
But no matter what the season, it's 40 minutes of thinking/imagining time, with loads of opportunity for people watching and precious moments.
This morning was one such morning. My walk takes me through an underpass and into a neighbourhood on the other side of the ring road, which I need to traverse to make it to the Banbury Rd, from where it's a straight shot down to work. Today, as I turned into the final street leading up to the Banbury Road, I found myself slowing down to relish an unfolding scene that was probably ordinary to those enacting it, but was endearingly precious to those of us who chose to watch.
A mother was walking her two children and the dog to the bus stop at Squitchey Lane (yes, I know the vast majority of you don't know where that is, but I LOVE THE NAME and had to slip it in). The little boy was 5-6, I'd guess, with straight brown hair, remarkable because of its juxtaposition to his 3-4 yr old sister's riot of Nicole Kidmanesque bright red curls. Mum was walking the dog, occasionally holding young hands as needed; but mostly, the wee ones wandered about 5-10 feet in front of/behind her.
Ordinary, right? Not usually something that you'd take notice of whilst walking along the street. But this scene made my heart melt straightaway.
They were holding hands.
Not because he was supposed to hold little sister's hand, either; it was clearly the most natural thing in the world for them. She absolutely adored her big brother and the feeling was clearly mutual. When she fell behind, as 3 yr olds are bound to do on their short legs, he looked round semi-anxiously to see where she was, and when I was within two feet of her, he looked at me to make sure I wasn't a threat. She immediately ran forward to him, took his hand again and they carried on.
I was behind them for about 7 minutes and couldn't stop smiling. Mum would occasionally take their hands - once she took the little girl's, brother faithfully holding the other and once took each child by the hand. As soon as she let go, they came back together to hold hands again.
I nearly laughed out loud at one point as little sis put her arm round big brother's waist and his arm went naturally around her shoulders and at another when, at her behest, he swung her round, to her great amusement.
They adored eachother and I couldn't help adoring them.
What nearly broke my heart was that Mum didn't seem to notice. She would look back, mildly irritated, chivvying at them to hurry along, or snapped for the odd minor offence (that I hadn't even noticed). I understood she was harried, that she was trying to get him to school on time AND walk the dog, that she sees them ALL the time, and the magic of who they are and what they do is something she sees every day.
But that kind of love? Everyday it may be, but it's pure magic. Had they been the usual squabbling siblings, I'd have rolled my eyes and walked by quickly, as would any number of the other pedestrians they passed. Instead, we slowed down, we smiled, and no few of us absolutely melted into a puddle worthy of the 2007 floods. Those of us who saw those little ones loved just a little bit more today.
I wanted to stop their mother and say, "LOOK. SEE your children, your little ones. SEE how amazing they are; how much they love eachother. DON'T miss this; revel in it. Too soon, they will be 16 and 13, and this will be gone forever. Hold this close, nurture this bond. Hold them even closer."
I didn't, of course. But perhaps we all need to learn to slow down and look at those we love with the fresh eyes of the passing pedestrian and remember just how amazing they are. We need to nurture those bonds, revel in every moment, stop chivvying and wanting them to be or do something else.
Otherwise, one day we'll wake up to find that we've missed the real moments that were so much more incredible than the ones we thought we wanted.
As an introvert, my favourite season is autumn, of course: deep, rich colours, not the inappropriate gaudiness of spring blossoms; the quiet after the rowdiness of summer; misty cold mornings; nights made for introspection and intimate chats drawing in, with luminous moon and stars like ice chips in the sky; the ethereal, mellow northern light hinting at Sidhe around the next corner.
But no matter what the season, it's 40 minutes of thinking/imagining time, with loads of opportunity for people watching and precious moments.
This morning was one such morning. My walk takes me through an underpass and into a neighbourhood on the other side of the ring road, which I need to traverse to make it to the Banbury Rd, from where it's a straight shot down to work. Today, as I turned into the final street leading up to the Banbury Road, I found myself slowing down to relish an unfolding scene that was probably ordinary to those enacting it, but was endearingly precious to those of us who chose to watch.
A mother was walking her two children and the dog to the bus stop at Squitchey Lane (yes, I know the vast majority of you don't know where that is, but I LOVE THE NAME and had to slip it in). The little boy was 5-6, I'd guess, with straight brown hair, remarkable because of its juxtaposition to his 3-4 yr old sister's riot of Nicole Kidmanesque bright red curls. Mum was walking the dog, occasionally holding young hands as needed; but mostly, the wee ones wandered about 5-10 feet in front of/behind her.
Ordinary, right? Not usually something that you'd take notice of whilst walking along the street. But this scene made my heart melt straightaway.
They were holding hands.
Not because he was supposed to hold little sister's hand, either; it was clearly the most natural thing in the world for them. She absolutely adored her big brother and the feeling was clearly mutual. When she fell behind, as 3 yr olds are bound to do on their short legs, he looked round semi-anxiously to see where she was, and when I was within two feet of her, he looked at me to make sure I wasn't a threat. She immediately ran forward to him, took his hand again and they carried on.
I was behind them for about 7 minutes and couldn't stop smiling. Mum would occasionally take their hands - once she took the little girl's, brother faithfully holding the other and once took each child by the hand. As soon as she let go, they came back together to hold hands again.
I nearly laughed out loud at one point as little sis put her arm round big brother's waist and his arm went naturally around her shoulders and at another when, at her behest, he swung her round, to her great amusement.
They adored eachother and I couldn't help adoring them.
What nearly broke my heart was that Mum didn't seem to notice. She would look back, mildly irritated, chivvying at them to hurry along, or snapped for the odd minor offence (that I hadn't even noticed). I understood she was harried, that she was trying to get him to school on time AND walk the dog, that she sees them ALL the time, and the magic of who they are and what they do is something she sees every day.
But that kind of love? Everyday it may be, but it's pure magic. Had they been the usual squabbling siblings, I'd have rolled my eyes and walked by quickly, as would any number of the other pedestrians they passed. Instead, we slowed down, we smiled, and no few of us absolutely melted into a puddle worthy of the 2007 floods. Those of us who saw those little ones loved just a little bit more today.
I wanted to stop their mother and say, "LOOK. SEE your children, your little ones. SEE how amazing they are; how much they love eachother. DON'T miss this; revel in it. Too soon, they will be 16 and 13, and this will be gone forever. Hold this close, nurture this bond. Hold them even closer."
I didn't, of course. But perhaps we all need to learn to slow down and look at those we love with the fresh eyes of the passing pedestrian and remember just how amazing they are. We need to nurture those bonds, revel in every moment, stop chivvying and wanting them to be or do something else.
Otherwise, one day we'll wake up to find that we've missed the real moments that were so much more incredible than the ones we thought we wanted.
Wednesday, 22 April 2009
Human defrag
Last night, my computer refused to turn on, and my friend Danny suggested I run a disk defrag. He explained why it was necessary: disks, once whole, compartmentalise when they save. If you delete something, it doesn't go back and fill up the empty space, it keeps moving along to the next, till eventually, there are lots of tiny spaces, but not enough big ones to let you do anything. A defrag condenses it and makes it whole again - giving you a tightly condensed area and a big open space, allowing you to do what you need to do.
This morning, I read this fantastic post at Chez Fabulous. And I couldn't help connecting it with last night.
Alison talks about personas, the different people we are in different places, the different masks we wear. Sometimes, due to personal development or leaving a particular environment, we drop a persona or mask that no longer serves us, which is great.
But then, do we act like a hard disk? Do we leave that space, not tend to it, not fill it with something more authentic, and carry on fragmenting till we no longer have enough space in our lives to breathe, to do what we need to do, to move forward into truly being ourselves?
Might that be the cause of so much depression, nervous breakdowns, the low to mid-level unhappiness so many of us live with?
Maybe we need to learn to defrag regularly - pulling all those personas into one place, where they can work together as a whole, co-operatively rather separately, making them stronger, more flexible and well-adapted - and leaving us the large empty space we need for breathing, reflecting and resting: in other words, just being.
This morning, I read this fantastic post at Chez Fabulous. And I couldn't help connecting it with last night.
Alison talks about personas, the different people we are in different places, the different masks we wear. Sometimes, due to personal development or leaving a particular environment, we drop a persona or mask that no longer serves us, which is great.
But then, do we act like a hard disk? Do we leave that space, not tend to it, not fill it with something more authentic, and carry on fragmenting till we no longer have enough space in our lives to breathe, to do what we need to do, to move forward into truly being ourselves?
Might that be the cause of so much depression, nervous breakdowns, the low to mid-level unhappiness so many of us live with?
Maybe we need to learn to defrag regularly - pulling all those personas into one place, where they can work together as a whole, co-operatively rather separately, making them stronger, more flexible and well-adapted - and leaving us the large empty space we need for breathing, reflecting and resting: in other words, just being.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Dream log 15/04/09
There was more than one dream last night of note. I'm fighting for the memory of the one just before I woke up, but the one that came just as I was falling asleep is one that I am not likely to forget any time soon. Yes, it was one of those 'wake up with your heart pounding, was it really a dream' dreams
I was standing in a huge cave with a good friend - there was lots of light coming in from an entrance to our left and behind us, and from above us, where there was a natural skylight slightly obstructed by a huge rectangular piece of rock jutting across a shelf just below the opening. Weirdly, though neither one of us is an engineer or a geologist - both our fathers are engineers, but different types - we were knowledgeably discussing the cracks in the rock and the safety of the cave. I was pointing to the rocks in the wall and saying, "They're just fine - but if you look up (pointing to the rectangular rock) - THAT is a serious stress fracture, and we need to be worried about that." He nodded thoughtfully.
Suddenly, the earth beneath us shook, and I had a quick vision of houses folding as if they were origami, before looking up to see the rock break in two along the crack and fall - too quickly for me to get away, and I was buried underneath it.
Oddly, my friend DID make it out, though I have no idea how. Possibly because he was slightly to my left and a step behind me, or he'd already started to move. I somehow *knew* there was only time for one of us to make it out, so I wasn't bothered by the fact that he didn't grab me or try to save me too - I knew we were both where we were meant to be. It was absolutely fine. I was completely calm in the dark; I could hear him calling me, but I turned all my energy to finding my way out. Somehow, I managed to stand up underneath it, dropping the two halves of that huge rock from my shoulders like they were styrofoam.
"Irim! You ok?" I turned around to see his head poking through the cave entrance.
"Ja," I replied, assessing the situation and realising I couldn't exit that way.
"We going to have to anchor a rope, have you tie it round your waist and lower you to the floor of the cave and get you out that way."
"Fine," I said, managing to reach the rope he'd thrown my way, and tying it round my waist, feeling the tension as he adjusted it at the other end.
"First, we going to have to bring you up - can you reach the two little girls there if we do that?"
I looked up to see THREE young girls trapped on a ledge near the roof of the cave. I looked at him and said, "There are three - do you want me to get all three?"
"NO," he said emphatically. "If you can reach the two nearest you, I can get the third, no problem."
"Ok." He hoisted me up and I just managed to grab the two girls nearest me as the rope swung. I held them tightly.
"Great. Now we'll let you down slowly. We'll see you at the bottom."
It was unnerving beyond measure to be lowered with my arms full and not be able to use them to feel more balanced, but I held onto the little girls for dear life. The pitch dark seemed to last a lifetime, and children zoomed in out of the darkness to hold onto me and be lowered down, some desperately wanting to be hugged/held so that they could feel safer on the descent. Just once, I started to go to hug one, but held onto the girls for dear life. I was NOT going to let them fall. The others could hold onto any part of me - legs, torso, whatever - but I was NOT letting go of the girls.
Finally, gently, my feet touched the floor of the cave and the kids let go of me and ran through the small, triangular opening through which the sun was streaming. I gently put the girls down and looked out to see my friend and the third girl grinning at me from the other side of it as we moved out to join them.
I was standing in a huge cave with a good friend - there was lots of light coming in from an entrance to our left and behind us, and from above us, where there was a natural skylight slightly obstructed by a huge rectangular piece of rock jutting across a shelf just below the opening. Weirdly, though neither one of us is an engineer or a geologist - both our fathers are engineers, but different types - we were knowledgeably discussing the cracks in the rock and the safety of the cave. I was pointing to the rocks in the wall and saying, "They're just fine - but if you look up (pointing to the rectangular rock) - THAT is a serious stress fracture, and we need to be worried about that." He nodded thoughtfully.
Suddenly, the earth beneath us shook, and I had a quick vision of houses folding as if they were origami, before looking up to see the rock break in two along the crack and fall - too quickly for me to get away, and I was buried underneath it.
Oddly, my friend DID make it out, though I have no idea how. Possibly because he was slightly to my left and a step behind me, or he'd already started to move. I somehow *knew* there was only time for one of us to make it out, so I wasn't bothered by the fact that he didn't grab me or try to save me too - I knew we were both where we were meant to be. It was absolutely fine. I was completely calm in the dark; I could hear him calling me, but I turned all my energy to finding my way out. Somehow, I managed to stand up underneath it, dropping the two halves of that huge rock from my shoulders like they were styrofoam.
"Irim! You ok?" I turned around to see his head poking through the cave entrance.
"Ja," I replied, assessing the situation and realising I couldn't exit that way.
"We going to have to anchor a rope, have you tie it round your waist and lower you to the floor of the cave and get you out that way."
"Fine," I said, managing to reach the rope he'd thrown my way, and tying it round my waist, feeling the tension as he adjusted it at the other end.
"First, we going to have to bring you up - can you reach the two little girls there if we do that?"
I looked up to see THREE young girls trapped on a ledge near the roof of the cave. I looked at him and said, "There are three - do you want me to get all three?"
"NO," he said emphatically. "If you can reach the two nearest you, I can get the third, no problem."
"Ok." He hoisted me up and I just managed to grab the two girls nearest me as the rope swung. I held them tightly.
"Great. Now we'll let you down slowly. We'll see you at the bottom."
It was unnerving beyond measure to be lowered with my arms full and not be able to use them to feel more balanced, but I held onto the little girls for dear life. The pitch dark seemed to last a lifetime, and children zoomed in out of the darkness to hold onto me and be lowered down, some desperately wanting to be hugged/held so that they could feel safer on the descent. Just once, I started to go to hug one, but held onto the girls for dear life. I was NOT going to let them fall. The others could hold onto any part of me - legs, torso, whatever - but I was NOT letting go of the girls.
Finally, gently, my feet touched the floor of the cave and the kids let go of me and ran through the small, triangular opening through which the sun was streaming. I gently put the girls down and looked out to see my friend and the third girl grinning at me from the other side of it as we moved out to join them.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Drawing from the spiritual well, or, being hit over the head with an angelic 2x4
This morning's synchronicities and the trail that followed feel oddly appropriate for the 14th anniversary of my religious conversion. I'm not *quite* sure how to interpret them fully yet, though the overriding message feels like one of reassurance, but there is a hell of a lot in there that needs unpacking.
As per my status comment, after a difficult decision to confront someone on their behaviour and the usual ensuing feeling of being dragged through a wringer b/c, contrary to popular belief, I *hate* performing the INFJ doorslam - it's always a last resort - I received the following quote of the day in my inbox:
"Give it thought, Irim. Consider every angle. And then speak your mind. You've not been drawn into anyone's life just to listen...."
Ok, definitely a sign that it was the right decision, though I may have the odd doubt about the execution and timing - in part for the sake of the person in question, but mostly for those from whom that person is likely to request support.
I carried on cataloguing, working through the feeling that beneath my reasonably together exterior, everything feels...shattered is too strong a word, but something akin to it. Nothing feels whole, I can't see a full picture; instead, it feels like there are loads of sharp pieces. I loved Vera's comment on Skype the other day about it being a mosaic, and until it was whole, I couldn't step into it. 'She's right,' I thought, 'but I want to see more. I feel...lost. Am I completely on the wrong track? I just want to see where the hell I'm going.''
It wasn't the next book, certainly - that would be too much, even for a film. But a few books later, a lovely old-fashioned bookmark fell out, with a picture of a bouquet of flowers at the top and the quote:
"The Lord shall guide thee." Isaiah 58:11
I blinked at it for a few moments, startled. I've almost never received such a direct answer, and something made me feel that though the immediate and total reassurance was meant, there was much more. I needed to see it in context:
"Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?
Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?
Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the LORD shall be thy reward.
Then shalt thou call, and the LORD shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am. If thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke, the putting forth of the finger, and speaking vanity;
And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noon day:
And the LORD shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not.
And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places: thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations; and thou shalt be called, The repairer of the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in."
My kind of religion, without question. I've always adored Isaiah, and this so represents the core of what I believe that it feels like a mandate, more than anything - IF thou..., the Lord shall guide thee. There's a lot of unpacking to be done here, but I get the gist. I'll be working on that one for a while, and following the guidelines for the rest of my life. I love the idea of a 'restorer of paths to dwell in', the idea of making barren places fertile once again - be they hearts, lives or land. Hmmm. Bigtime mother imagery there. Hmmm.
As if that weren't enough, not three books after that, the following fell out:
"There are in this loud stunning tide
Of human care and crime
with whom the melodies abide
of everlasting chime
who carry music in their heart
through dusky lane and wrangling mart
plying their daily task with busier feet
because their secret souls a holy strain repeat."
HAD to google that - and found it in "All the women of the Bible" in Google Books, under a section called, "Mothers like merchant ships". Since my main archetype is Demeter, my wolf ears stood straight up, as far as they could stretch. The line that struck me in that section was "True mothers are unselfish and sacrificial, whose lives are spent for the enrichment of others and whose lives are spent for the enrichment of others and who never fail to deliver the best of goods to those around them."
Again, that concept of nurturing, of salve for the afflicted soul, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked. There are more themes to be drawn out here, but that's the one that hits me first. I'm particularly fond of the merchant ship image, as I love the sea. But 'merchant ship/merchant navy' is ringing a bell that I can't quite place at the moment - and it has NOTHING to do with NCIS, Ell!!! ;-)
Suddenly, I had an image of a page in one of Rachel Remen's books, from a story where she is sitting with a dying friend and they recite "Woman of Valour" together, one of Rachel's favourite parts of the Bible. I can see the lines 'she puts her hands to the distaff', 'her candle goeth not out by night', 'She is not afraid of snow for her household, for all her household are clothed in scarlet."
I googled it and recognised the Eshet Chayil. It's 22 verses, so I shan't put it here, or this will become far too long, but it's beautiful and is sung on the way home from Shabbat services and to the bride at a Jewish wedding, IIRC. The whole poem struck home, but the particular verses for now were:
Oz v'hadar l'vushah vatischak l'yom acharon
Strength and honor are her clothing, she smiles at the future.
Piha patchah v'chochma v'torat chesed al l'shonah
She opens her mouth in wisdom, and the lesson of kindness is on her tongue.
For the whole text, go here: http://www.headcoverings-by-devorah.com/Shabbat_EshetChayil.html
It's just...beautiful beyond words.
The last verse was one my eye fell on as I was waiting for grace before lunch. The Bible on the stand was open to Ecclesiastes, and the verse was: "Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry." That is obvious enough, and probably a sharp tap on the nose from above about how I executed Monday, as was the 'consider from all angles' in today's first synchronicity.
Lots and lots of food for thought and prayer. What does strike me is that all the verses are from the Hebrew Bible and what I would consider strongly Jewish answers - answers I would have expected from the rabbinim that I worked with. I can't wait to start to unpack them and see how they unfold.
And the final blessing? Taking a moment to talk to Clayton before lunch, who then suggested that we DO lunch in the semnar room, where I told him what had shaken me so this weekend - enough to put my faith in where I was in question. He listened and then we had a brilliant conversation. And it was to him that I finally admitted what I've known for months but have been trying to avoid - for the first time in a long time, my one-to-one relationship with G-d is out of kilter, and THAT is what I need to sort before I do anything else. THAT is the foundation. We talked about the tension between our relationship with G-d and being in the community of G-d in church at length, but he told me - gently but firmly - that I needed to take care of my relationship with God first. Community could wait.
I should have known it would be one of my Southern African friends who would tell me like it is in a way I could hear. (Clayton is Zimbabwean, not Saffa, I hasten to add.)
What an amazing confluence of blessings on my anniversary - almost like being caught in God's safety net. I'm looking forward to taking this all home - except Clayton, of course, who is going home to Rosie and his little guy ;-).
I'm hesitant to do so, but I feel like a confluence of Jewish answers deserves a Jewish prayer of thanks - so I'd ask my Jewish friends reading this not to be offended - the closest appropriate prayer I can find is the Shecheyanu, which is to be recited on the receipt of very good news:
Ba-ruch a-tah A-do-nai E-lo-hei-nu Me-lech Ha-o-lam,
she-he-chi-a-nu v'ki-y'ma-nu v'hi-gi-a-nu la-z'man ha-zeh.
Blessed art Thou, HaShem, Lord our God, King of the Universe,
who hath kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.
Amein.
As per my status comment, after a difficult decision to confront someone on their behaviour and the usual ensuing feeling of being dragged through a wringer b/c, contrary to popular belief, I *hate* performing the INFJ doorslam - it's always a last resort - I received the following quote of the day in my inbox:
"Give it thought, Irim. Consider every angle. And then speak your mind. You've not been drawn into anyone's life just to listen...."
Ok, definitely a sign that it was the right decision, though I may have the odd doubt about the execution and timing - in part for the sake of the person in question, but mostly for those from whom that person is likely to request support.
I carried on cataloguing, working through the feeling that beneath my reasonably together exterior, everything feels...shattered is too strong a word, but something akin to it. Nothing feels whole, I can't see a full picture; instead, it feels like there are loads of sharp pieces. I loved Vera's comment on Skype the other day about it being a mosaic, and until it was whole, I couldn't step into it. 'She's right,' I thought, 'but I want to see more. I feel...lost. Am I completely on the wrong track? I just want to see where the hell I'm going.''
It wasn't the next book, certainly - that would be too much, even for a film. But a few books later, a lovely old-fashioned bookmark fell out, with a picture of a bouquet of flowers at the top and the quote:
"The Lord shall guide thee." Isaiah 58:11
I blinked at it for a few moments, startled. I've almost never received such a direct answer, and something made me feel that though the immediate and total reassurance was meant, there was much more. I needed to see it in context:
"Is not this the fast that I have chosen? to loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?
Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? when thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?
Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the LORD shall be thy reward.
Then shalt thou call, and the LORD shall answer; thou shalt cry, and he shall say, Here I am. If thou take away from the midst of thee the yoke, the putting forth of the finger, and speaking vanity;
And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul; then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noon day:
And the LORD shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought, and make fat thy bones: and thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water, whose waters fail not.
And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places: thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations; and thou shalt be called, The repairer of the breach, The restorer of paths to dwell in."
My kind of religion, without question. I've always adored Isaiah, and this so represents the core of what I believe that it feels like a mandate, more than anything - IF thou..., the Lord shall guide thee. There's a lot of unpacking to be done here, but I get the gist. I'll be working on that one for a while, and following the guidelines for the rest of my life. I love the idea of a 'restorer of paths to dwell in', the idea of making barren places fertile once again - be they hearts, lives or land. Hmmm. Bigtime mother imagery there. Hmmm.
As if that weren't enough, not three books after that, the following fell out:
"There are in this loud stunning tide
Of human care and crime
with whom the melodies abide
of everlasting chime
who carry music in their heart
through dusky lane and wrangling mart
plying their daily task with busier feet
because their secret souls a holy strain repeat."
HAD to google that - and found it in "All the women of the Bible" in Google Books, under a section called, "Mothers like merchant ships". Since my main archetype is Demeter, my wolf ears stood straight up, as far as they could stretch. The line that struck me in that section was "True mothers are unselfish and sacrificial, whose lives are spent for the enrichment of others and whose lives are spent for the enrichment of others and who never fail to deliver the best of goods to those around them."
Again, that concept of nurturing, of salve for the afflicted soul, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked. There are more themes to be drawn out here, but that's the one that hits me first. I'm particularly fond of the merchant ship image, as I love the sea. But 'merchant ship/merchant navy' is ringing a bell that I can't quite place at the moment - and it has NOTHING to do with NCIS, Ell!!! ;-)
Suddenly, I had an image of a page in one of Rachel Remen's books, from a story where she is sitting with a dying friend and they recite "Woman of Valour" together, one of Rachel's favourite parts of the Bible. I can see the lines 'she puts her hands to the distaff', 'her candle goeth not out by night', 'She is not afraid of snow for her household, for all her household are clothed in scarlet."
I googled it and recognised the Eshet Chayil. It's 22 verses, so I shan't put it here, or this will become far too long, but it's beautiful and is sung on the way home from Shabbat services and to the bride at a Jewish wedding, IIRC. The whole poem struck home, but the particular verses for now were:
Oz v'hadar l'vushah vatischak l'yom acharon
Strength and honor are her clothing, she smiles at the future.
Piha patchah v'chochma v'torat chesed al l'shonah
She opens her mouth in wisdom, and the lesson of kindness is on her tongue.
For the whole text, go here: http://www.headcoverings-b
It's just...beautiful beyond words.
The last verse was one my eye fell on as I was waiting for grace before lunch. The Bible on the stand was open to Ecclesiastes, and the verse was: "Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry." That is obvious enough, and probably a sharp tap on the nose from above about how I executed Monday, as was the 'consider from all angles' in today's first synchronicity.
Lots and lots of food for thought and prayer. What does strike me is that all the verses are from the Hebrew Bible and what I would consider strongly Jewish answers - answers I would have expected from the rabbinim that I worked with. I can't wait to start to unpack them and see how they unfold.
And the final blessing? Taking a moment to talk to Clayton before lunch, who then suggested that we DO lunch in the semnar room, where I told him what had shaken me so this weekend - enough to put my faith in where I was in question. He listened and then we had a brilliant conversation. And it was to him that I finally admitted what I've known for months but have been trying to avoid - for the first time in a long time, my one-to-one relationship with G-d is out of kilter, and THAT is what I need to sort before I do anything else. THAT is the foundation. We talked about the tension between our relationship with G-d and being in the community of G-d in church at length, but he told me - gently but firmly - that I needed to take care of my relationship with God first. Community could wait.
I should have known it would be one of my Southern African friends who would tell me like it is in a way I could hear. (Clayton is Zimbabwean, not Saffa, I hasten to add.)
What an amazing confluence of blessings on my anniversary - almost like being caught in God's safety net. I'm looking forward to taking this all home - except Clayton, of course, who is going home to Rosie and his little guy ;-).
I'm hesitant to do so, but I feel like a confluence of Jewish answers deserves a Jewish prayer of thanks - so I'd ask my Jewish friends reading this not to be offended - the closest appropriate prayer I can find is the Shecheyanu, which is to be recited on the receipt of very good news:
Ba-ruch a-tah A-do-nai E-lo-hei-nu Me-lech Ha-o-lam,
she-he-chi-a-nu v'ki-y'ma-nu v'hi-gi-a-nu la-z'man ha-zeh.
Blessed art Thou, HaShem, Lord our God, King of the Universe,
who hath kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.
Amein.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Overheard in the Oratory forecourt on Palm Sunday
I caught Fr Dom after mass, and as we were chatting about life, the universe, and everything important, including how wonderfully curly the ribbons on Fr Richard's vestments were, Andrew, the organist and a GBF, joined us.
Andrew asked if Fr Dom had liked the organ improv he'd done during mass. I half drifted out of the conversation then, till Andrew said something about 'village organist'. It was too good to pass up: I looked up at Andrew and said, "Village People, more like."
"She has an answer for everything, doesn't she?" said Fr. Dom, resigned after years of friendship.
"She does," replied Andrew.
More conversation about music, and at a semi-appropriate point, I piped up with, "I'd be very happy to stand behind you whilst you play and appreciate your great ass," I said, reaching around cheekily.
THAT was too much even for Fr Dom, who looked at me in shock and said - albeit warmly - "SCANDALOUS woman!" (If only he knew...oh yeah, he's my confessor, he does.)
I gave my (in)famous WTF eyeroll (though I swear, it is nowhere nearly as good as Hyphen's newborn daughter's, who has the *mother* of all WTF looks. I want that.)
Andrew and I immediately shifted into our Indian accents:
"It is not a sexual thing, my friend, don't worry, it is just aesthetic appreciation," I said.
Andrew said, "Just aesthetic appreciation. Good."
Andrew came an put an arm round my shoulder and said, "No, she's not. She's one of those women that Jesus loved very much and spent a lot of time with." Then he looked at me wickedly and said,
"Your problem is, honey, you don't charge enough."
I burst out laughing and replied,
"Damn right I don't charge enough!"
"Perhaps you could bring a jar of ointment next week," said Andrew, which earned him a flippant two-fingered salute and a "I'll bring some in on Friday, shall I?"
"Yes, you can do my feet then," said Andrew.
Not your average Oratory forecourt conversation.
Good thing I was on form, though, because not two minutes later, when Nick told me he'd done three masses that morning and was doing (ie, reading the Passion) the 6.30, I uttered, "Jesus Christ!" and quickly had to backpedal by saying, "I mean my Hispanic friend Jesus in NY, whose mother is Mary and father is Joseph, erm, Jose."
Though actually, I was more concerned for Kevin's sensibilities, since Nick knows me.
Yet another non-average Oratory forecourt conversation.
I'm not sure I'll ever have one...
Andrew asked if Fr Dom had liked the organ improv he'd done during mass. I half drifted out of the conversation then, till Andrew said something about 'village organist'. It was too good to pass up: I looked up at Andrew and said, "Village People, more like."
"She has an answer for everything, doesn't she?" said Fr. Dom, resigned after years of friendship.
"She does," replied Andrew.
More conversation about music, and at a semi-appropriate point, I piped up with, "I'd be very happy to stand behind you whilst you play and appreciate your great ass," I said, reaching around cheekily.
THAT was too much even for Fr Dom, who looked at me in shock and said - albeit warmly - "SCANDALOUS woman!" (If only he knew...oh yeah, he's my confessor, he does.)
I gave my (in)famous WTF eyeroll (though I swear, it is nowhere nearly as good as Hyphen's newborn daughter's, who has the *mother* of all WTF looks. I want that.)
Andrew and I immediately shifted into our Indian accents:
"It is not a sexual thing, my friend, don't worry, it is just aesthetic appreciation," I said.
Andrew said, "Just aesthetic appreciation. Good."
Andrew came an put an arm round my shoulder and said, "No, she's not. She's one of those women that Jesus loved very much and spent a lot of time with." Then he looked at me wickedly and said,
"Your problem is, honey, you don't charge enough."
I burst out laughing and replied,
"Damn right I don't charge enough!"
"Perhaps you could bring a jar of ointment next week," said Andrew, which earned him a flippant two-fingered salute and a "I'll bring some in on Friday, shall I?"
"Yes, you can do my feet then," said Andrew.
Not your average Oratory forecourt conversation.
Good thing I was on form, though, because not two minutes later, when Nick told me he'd done three masses that morning and was doing (ie, reading the Passion) the 6.30, I uttered, "Jesus Christ!" and quickly had to backpedal by saying, "I mean my Hispanic friend Jesus in NY, whose mother is Mary and father is Joseph, erm, Jose."
Though actually, I was more concerned for Kevin's sensibilities, since Nick knows me.
Yet another non-average Oratory forecourt conversation.
I'm not sure I'll ever have one...
Saturday, 4 April 2009
An answer with a twist...
I had a fantastic time with Catherine, my first friend in the UK, and her sister Elizabeth today. As we sat over coffee, Catherine regaled us with a tale from her school visit to Oxford a few weeks ago at University College, where the tour guide asked them,
"One of our most famous graduates was Percy Bysshe Shelley. Can any of you tell me who Percy Bysshe Shelley was?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.
There was a pregnant pause, during which Catherine and her colleague thought "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let one girl know the answer and not embarrass us."
Suddenly, in chorus, the girls answered their silent prayer:
"Mary Shelley's husband.
Catherine and her colleague looked at each other and grinned, in the satisfied knowledge that their job as a girls' school was done.
"One of our most famous graduates was Percy Bysshe Shelley. Can any of you tell me who Percy Bysshe Shelley was?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.
There was a pregnant pause, during which Catherine and her colleague thought "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE let one girl know the answer and not embarrass us."
Suddenly, in chorus, the girls answered their silent prayer:
"Mary Shelley's husband.
Catherine and her colleague looked at each other and grinned, in the satisfied knowledge that their job as a girls' school was done.
Friday, 3 April 2009
The best quote/definition of feminine...EVER
I personally think that as long as you are a) a woman and b) not afraid or ashamed to *be* a woman and revel in the fact (as opposed to the O-type Stepford female), then whatever you want or do is feminine. Feminine is not defined externally; it's defined by women. So it's whatever we want it to be.
--Ari, in our discussion on my future tattoo
Perfect - 'nuff said.
--Ari, in our discussion on my future tattoo
Perfect - 'nuff said.
The difference between right wing and true traditionalism
Most of the time, dealing with the right wing leaves me wanting to either throw up or take a shower, depending on just how creepy the rightwinger in question is. Damian Thompson's thinly veiled ambition, desperation for a good story, lack of integrity and nastiness usually leaves me wanting to do both.
But he's not the only one pretending conservatism/orthodoxy because it allows him to be an intolerant, angry, self-absorbed wanker pointing his finger at everyone else.
Let's be honest here: being rightwing has nothing to do with integrity, no matter how often they clamour about returning to 'old-fashioned' values. I would ask you to note that it is most often on the right wing that you find the homophobe caught in a homosexual relationship, a man berating adultery cheating on his wife, those proclaiming the need for fiscal responsibility embezzling money, naked ambition, unalloyed greed (Thatcher and Reagan) and unbridled individualism.
Essentially, rightwingers want to impose rules on everyone else so that there are more resources/money available to them, b/c everyone else is hobbled by the 'traditional' rules. Almost NEVER do you see the right wing acting in a way that shows care for the downtrodden, society as a whole, those suffering injustice, equal opportunity no matter who you are. They don't CARE about anyone else.
At its core, the right is about pure selfishness born of insecurity.
So it's no surprise that the politics and power struggles in a right wing Vatican make a day at Enron look like a walk in the park.
The truly orthodox/traditional look very different. As one of my more orthodox friends once reminded me when I sneeringly conflated the two said, "Irim, ask a *truly* traditional priest - not one of the insecure neocons who is in it for his own reasons - about suicide as a mortal sin. The latter would crow in horror, 'Of course, of course!' The former would look at you thoughtfully and say: 'grave matter? Yes. Full knowledge? In that state of mind, I doubt it. Full consent? No. Not a mortal sin.' A truly traditional priest is secure, flexible within the rules and has compassion. Don't confuse the two." Wise words. I was strongly reminded of that during a discussion re: abortion with a truly traditional friend the other week.
Also, John Ferris, another real trad, is one of my favourite people in the world, and our conversations about God and the world are ones I'd love to tape and listen to over and over again, especially when he begins sentences with "Some of your views horrify me, but..."
Traditional/orthodox, I can do - even often agree with. But both traditional/orthodox and rightwing are found in the same places, and separating them out can be very hard.
Back to Damian Thompson, whose vitriol against every bishop in England and Wales during the leadup to the Westminster announcement has left this liberal - who supposedly hates the clergy - horrified.
Today, a true traditionalist called him to task:
Perhaps it is now time to reflect on our behaviour during the past few months.
First, your cooperation in the breaking of a Vatican embargo with regard to this announcement. Remember that it is in the name of the Holy Father that this announcement was to remain secret until formally announced; I should be surprised at you going against the wishes of Pope Benedict.
Second, the amount of uncharitable things written about those men who have been chosen by the Holy Father to be bishops. The innuendos, “rumours” and half truths broadcast on numerous blogs, including this one.
Third, the lack of understanding that a bishop tries his best and is often impeded by his priests, religious AND laity. All bishops need our prayers AND support and not constant criticism “from all sides”.
Finally, we all should examine our consciences surrounding this Episcopal feeding frenzy: have we strengthened or damaged the Church? Have we unjustly caused hurt to individuals, including bishops, by what we have said? Are the confessionals going to be busy this weekend? On a brighter note, we might give thanks to God that the Dominicans in this country have so many good friars worthy of consideration. --meaculpa
Amen. A score for true integrity, right or left.
But he's not the only one pretending conservatism/orthodoxy because it allows him to be an intolerant, angry, self-absorbed wanker pointing his finger at everyone else.
Let's be honest here: being rightwing has nothing to do with integrity, no matter how often they clamour about returning to 'old-fashioned' values. I would ask you to note that it is most often on the right wing that you find the homophobe caught in a homosexual relationship, a man berating adultery cheating on his wife, those proclaiming the need for fiscal responsibility embezzling money, naked ambition, unalloyed greed (Thatcher and Reagan) and unbridled individualism.
Essentially, rightwingers want to impose rules on everyone else so that there are more resources/money available to them, b/c everyone else is hobbled by the 'traditional' rules. Almost NEVER do you see the right wing acting in a way that shows care for the downtrodden, society as a whole, those suffering injustice, equal opportunity no matter who you are. They don't CARE about anyone else.
At its core, the right is about pure selfishness born of insecurity.
So it's no surprise that the politics and power struggles in a right wing Vatican make a day at Enron look like a walk in the park.
The truly orthodox/traditional look very different. As one of my more orthodox friends once reminded me when I sneeringly conflated the two said, "Irim, ask a *truly* traditional priest - not one of the insecure neocons who is in it for his own reasons - about suicide as a mortal sin. The latter would crow in horror, 'Of course, of course!' The former would look at you thoughtfully and say: 'grave matter? Yes. Full knowledge? In that state of mind, I doubt it. Full consent? No. Not a mortal sin.' A truly traditional priest is secure, flexible within the rules and has compassion. Don't confuse the two." Wise words. I was strongly reminded of that during a discussion re: abortion with a truly traditional friend the other week.
Also, John Ferris, another real trad, is one of my favourite people in the world, and our conversations about God and the world are ones I'd love to tape and listen to over and over again, especially when he begins sentences with "Some of your views horrify me, but..."
Traditional/orthodox, I can do - even often agree with. But both traditional/orthodox and rightwing are found in the same places, and separating them out can be very hard.
Back to Damian Thompson, whose vitriol against every bishop in England and Wales during the leadup to the Westminster announcement has left this liberal - who supposedly hates the clergy - horrified.
Today, a true traditionalist called him to task:
Perhaps it is now time to reflect on our behaviour during the past few months.
First, your cooperation in the breaking of a Vatican embargo with regard to this announcement. Remember that it is in the name of the Holy Father that this announcement was to remain secret until formally announced; I should be surprised at you going against the wishes of Pope Benedict.
Second, the amount of uncharitable things written about those men who have been chosen by the Holy Father to be bishops. The innuendos, “rumours” and half truths broadcast on numerous blogs, including this one.
Third, the lack of understanding that a bishop tries his best and is often impeded by his priests, religious AND laity. All bishops need our prayers AND support and not constant criticism “from all sides”.
Finally, we all should examine our consciences surrounding this Episcopal feeding frenzy: have we strengthened or damaged the Church? Have we unjustly caused hurt to individuals, including bishops, by what we have said? Are the confessionals going to be busy this weekend? On a brighter note, we might give thanks to God that the Dominicans in this country have so many good friars worthy of consideration. --meaculpa
Amen. A score for true integrity, right or left.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Pictures
...speak 1000 words. I've been known to unsettle people by just how accurately I can gauge someone in a photo, and for confirmation, a series of photos.
Let's just say that the first picture of this person made me recoil from the screen. I looked for more images. The eyes are the same in every one - the smile never reaches them, and I wouldn't trust this man as far as I could pick up and throw Brian Blessed.
Something that should be there isn't. He gives me a serious case of the creeps.
Let's just say that the first picture of this person made me recoil from the screen. I looked for more images. The eyes are the same in every one - the smile never reaches them, and I wouldn't trust this man as far as I could pick up and throw Brian Blessed.
Something that should be there isn't. He gives me a serious case of the creeps.
Facebook Haggadah
In honour of Pesach next week and all my Jewish friends. I can't stop crying with laughter.
Go here immediately. Do not pass go. Do not collect £200. Just go.
I have to admit, I want to see the rest of the '25 things you didn't know about me list' by God.
H/T a Facebook friend.
Go here immediately. Do not pass go. Do not collect £200. Just go.
I have to admit, I want to see the rest of the '25 things you didn't know about me list' by God.
H/T a Facebook friend.
Monday, 30 March 2009
Dream journal, 29/03/09
This morning's dream (I woke up at 5.15, then fell back asleep) is one that reminds me to pick up re-read Clarissa Pinkola-Estes' "Women who run with the wolves". Even *I* recognised the golden/divine child archetype the moment I woke up.
It was dark, and I was on the top deck of a bus going up the Woodstock Road. My friend (I can't remember who it is now, I knew when I woke up) and her mum were in the seat behind me. I was very, very sleepy - as in 'could barely lift my head off the seat' sleepy, and in that sleepy reality was sure that my friend's mum was driving. As we passed the Oratory, I turned around, noticed it was all lit up and saw a sign in the forecourt. I knew I had to go, and I drowsily asked my friend's mum to drop me off. When the bus didn't stop at the next bus stop, I turned around to ask her why she hadn't dropped me off, then snapped wide awake as I realised. I got off at the next stop and ran back to the O.
I walked into a HUGE reception area that looked more like the front of a school or university. People were sitting, milling around, chatting. There was a makeshift stage in the NE corner, and it was clear they were setting up for mass; but I didn't recognise most of the people there. Above the stage hung a banner proclaiming "Sacred Harvest Festival". I was puzzled, since we've just entered spring (From various cues, it was clear that it was taking place early this week.)
I peered through a set of doors opposite the entrance and saw the Oratory Church I'm familiar with. I sat down with my back towards those doors, facing the stage, joining a friend and beautiful, blonde-haired girl of about 8 in a white cotton dress, with the most gorgeous curls - who seemed oddly familiar and was clearly expecting me. I chatted away with my friend whilst the young girl listened.
Suddenly, Fr Richard came out of the doors leading to the church, looking very tense and closed. He put his hand on the girl's shoulder and announced,
"Due to the absolute insistence of the group saying mass with us, we will be having a girl altar server at mass today. I am terribly sorry."
Then he turned on his heel and walked away, as I tried to absorb what I'd just heard. I looked down at the little one, grinned and hugged her tightly, then turned to my friend and did the same - we both must have had the same look of joyous disbelief on our faces. But then the questions came galloping through my head, "Who is this group, and how powerful are they that they can push the English Oratorians into a corner like that?" "Sacred Harvest Festival? Here? In SPRING?" and so on.
Suddenly, I felt a tug on my sleeve. The girl tilted her head at me - she never spoke out loud, but I always knew what she wanted - and 'asked' where the sacristy was. Realising that everyone seemed to have 'forgotten' to tell her, I said, "No one TOLD you? How passive-aggressive," and walked into church with her, pointing out the sacristy. I was going to go up with her and rake someone over the coals, but she stopped me in the centre of church - halfway up the centre aisle - and shook her head. She then disappeared into the sacristy.
I went back to chat with my friend, and when the bell went for the processional, I again found myself in the centre of church to see the girl in cassock and cotta leading the processional - as thurifer. There was a flower pinned to her cotta, possibly a daff, but it was more lily shaped. I was FURIOUS, certain that someone had pinned it there to mock her, and started to move forward in my anger, but her eyes met mine and she shook her head. The message was clearly, "Leave it, *I'll* take care of it."
Hardly the actions of a real 8-year-old.
I didn't dream about the mass, but I DID dream that I texted "OMG, we had a GIRL altar server this week! SO COOL!" to the two members of community on retreat this week (the ones who, as luck would have it, would be able to stop me from smacking someone) and that I was reporting back on the mass to Asta (also away this week), "She was AMAZING. Absolutely perfect, she was practically MC - she corrected Fr Richard when he made a mistake. Brilliant."
Then I woke up, wondering who she was. I remembered that I dreamt of her almost 2.5 years ago, on a cliffside by the ocean, and she stepped onto a path of red dust along the edge of the cliff that led off into the distance, towards a darkening sky. As the wind freshened, she turned back to me, her curls blowing in her face and kept looking, beckoning me to follow - interestingly, she has never once spoken to me out loud, but she has always communicated clearly.
In that dream, I didn't know whether or not I had.
Having just met her again, I hope I did.
It was dark, and I was on the top deck of a bus going up the Woodstock Road. My friend (I can't remember who it is now, I knew when I woke up) and her mum were in the seat behind me. I was very, very sleepy - as in 'could barely lift my head off the seat' sleepy, and in that sleepy reality was sure that my friend's mum was driving. As we passed the Oratory, I turned around, noticed it was all lit up and saw a sign in the forecourt. I knew I had to go, and I drowsily asked my friend's mum to drop me off. When the bus didn't stop at the next bus stop, I turned around to ask her why she hadn't dropped me off, then snapped wide awake as I realised. I got off at the next stop and ran back to the O.
I walked into a HUGE reception area that looked more like the front of a school or university. People were sitting, milling around, chatting. There was a makeshift stage in the NE corner, and it was clear they were setting up for mass; but I didn't recognise most of the people there. Above the stage hung a banner proclaiming "Sacred Harvest Festival". I was puzzled, since we've just entered spring (From various cues, it was clear that it was taking place early this week.)
I peered through a set of doors opposite the entrance and saw the Oratory Church I'm familiar with. I sat down with my back towards those doors, facing the stage, joining a friend and beautiful, blonde-haired girl of about 8 in a white cotton dress, with the most gorgeous curls - who seemed oddly familiar and was clearly expecting me. I chatted away with my friend whilst the young girl listened.
Suddenly, Fr Richard came out of the doors leading to the church, looking very tense and closed. He put his hand on the girl's shoulder and announced,
"Due to the absolute insistence of the group saying mass with us, we will be having a girl altar server at mass today. I am terribly sorry."
Then he turned on his heel and walked away, as I tried to absorb what I'd just heard. I looked down at the little one, grinned and hugged her tightly, then turned to my friend and did the same - we both must have had the same look of joyous disbelief on our faces. But then the questions came galloping through my head, "Who is this group, and how powerful are they that they can push the English Oratorians into a corner like that?" "Sacred Harvest Festival? Here? In SPRING?" and so on.
Suddenly, I felt a tug on my sleeve. The girl tilted her head at me - she never spoke out loud, but I always knew what she wanted - and 'asked' where the sacristy was. Realising that everyone seemed to have 'forgotten' to tell her, I said, "No one TOLD you? How passive-aggressive," and walked into church with her, pointing out the sacristy. I was going to go up with her and rake someone over the coals, but she stopped me in the centre of church - halfway up the centre aisle - and shook her head. She then disappeared into the sacristy.
I went back to chat with my friend, and when the bell went for the processional, I again found myself in the centre of church to see the girl in cassock and cotta leading the processional - as thurifer. There was a flower pinned to her cotta, possibly a daff, but it was more lily shaped. I was FURIOUS, certain that someone had pinned it there to mock her, and started to move forward in my anger, but her eyes met mine and she shook her head. The message was clearly, "Leave it, *I'll* take care of it."
Hardly the actions of a real 8-year-old.
I didn't dream about the mass, but I DID dream that I texted "OMG, we had a GIRL altar server this week! SO COOL!" to the two members of community on retreat this week (the ones who, as luck would have it, would be able to stop me from smacking someone) and that I was reporting back on the mass to Asta (also away this week), "She was AMAZING. Absolutely perfect, she was practically MC - she corrected Fr Richard when he made a mistake. Brilliant."
Then I woke up, wondering who she was. I remembered that I dreamt of her almost 2.5 years ago, on a cliffside by the ocean, and she stepped onto a path of red dust along the edge of the cliff that led off into the distance, towards a darkening sky. As the wind freshened, she turned back to me, her curls blowing in her face and kept looking, beckoning me to follow - interestingly, she has never once spoken to me out loud, but she has always communicated clearly.
In that dream, I didn't know whether or not I had.
Having just met her again, I hope I did.
Saturday, 21 March 2009
For Eve, the first mother, on Mothering Sunday
I think Dom still has the book with this story in it, the story where Rachel Remen's grandfather tells her that Eve's biting into the apple moved her - and us - from spiritual childhood, from the spiritual nursery of Eden to the spiritual adulthood of the world. That because we are what we eat, when she bit into the fruit of the tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, the knowledge in that apple, God's knowledge, which encompasses everything from the tiniest seed to the distant nebulae, as well as the less tangible knowledge of philosophy, theology and love, became part of her cellular makeup.
When she left Eden, she carried God inside her. Sounds to me like she didn't need anyone else to do that for her - then or later.
That's my Eve. I have never believed that she committed a sin that needed to be reversed by her daughter Mary (always portrayed as meek and mild to her first mother's curious and stubborn - interesting, eh, what is considered a 'good woman'?). If Mary did anything, she continued Eve's mission, not reversed it.
And so, in honour of our first mother, I give you this poem by Marge Piercy - and hope I don't get my a** kicked by the copyright faery. Enjoy.
And...happy Mothering Sunday, mum. Hope I'm sassy, stubborn and curious enough to do you proud. xx
Apple sauce for Eve by Marge Piercy
Those old daddies cursed you and us in you,
damned for your curiosity: for your sin
was wanting knowledge. To try, to taste,
to take into the body, into the brain
and turn each thing, each sign, each factoid
round and round as new facets glint and white
fractures into colors and the image breaks
into crystal fragments that pierce the nerves
while the brain casts the chips into patterns.
Each experiment sticks a finger deep in the pie,
dares existence, blows a horn in the ear
of belief, lets the nasty and difficult brats
of real questions into the still air
of the desiccated parlor of stasis.
What we all know to be true, constant,
melts like frost landscapes on a window
in a jet of steam. How many last words
in how many dead languages would translate into,
But what happens if I, and Whoops!
We see Adam wagging his tail, good dog, good
dog, while you and the snake shimmy up the tree,
lab partners in a dance of will and hunger,
that thirst not of the flesh but of the brain.
Men always think women are wanting sex,
cock, snake, when it is the world she's after.
Then birth trauma for the first conceived kid
of the ego, I think therefore I am, I
kick the tree, who am I, why am I,
going, going to die, die, die.
You are indeed the mother of invention,
the first scientist. Your name means
life: finite, dynamic, swimming against
the current of time, tasting, testing,
eating knowledge like any other nutrient.
We are all the children of your bright hunger.
We are all products of that first experiment,
for if death was the worm in that apple,
the seeds were freedom and the flowering of choice.
When she left Eden, she carried God inside her. Sounds to me like she didn't need anyone else to do that for her - then or later.
That's my Eve. I have never believed that she committed a sin that needed to be reversed by her daughter Mary (always portrayed as meek and mild to her first mother's curious and stubborn - interesting, eh, what is considered a 'good woman'?). If Mary did anything, she continued Eve's mission, not reversed it.
And so, in honour of our first mother, I give you this poem by Marge Piercy - and hope I don't get my a** kicked by the copyright faery. Enjoy.
And...happy Mothering Sunday, mum. Hope I'm sassy, stubborn and curious enough to do you proud. xx
Apple sauce for Eve by Marge Piercy
Those old daddies cursed you and us in you,
damned for your curiosity: for your sin
was wanting knowledge. To try, to taste,
to take into the body, into the brain
and turn each thing, each sign, each factoid
round and round as new facets glint and white
fractures into colors and the image breaks
into crystal fragments that pierce the nerves
while the brain casts the chips into patterns.
Each experiment sticks a finger deep in the pie,
dares existence, blows a horn in the ear
of belief, lets the nasty and difficult brats
of real questions into the still air
of the desiccated parlor of stasis.
What we all know to be true, constant,
melts like frost landscapes on a window
in a jet of steam. How many last words
in how many dead languages would translate into,
But what happens if I, and Whoops!
We see Adam wagging his tail, good dog, good
dog, while you and the snake shimmy up the tree,
lab partners in a dance of will and hunger,
that thirst not of the flesh but of the brain.
Men always think women are wanting sex,
cock, snake, when it is the world she's after.
Then birth trauma for the first conceived kid
of the ego, I think therefore I am, I
kick the tree, who am I, why am I,
going, going to die, die, die.
You are indeed the mother of invention,
the first scientist. Your name means
life: finite, dynamic, swimming against
the current of time, tasting, testing,
eating knowledge like any other nutrient.
We are all the children of your bright hunger.
We are all products of that first experiment,
for if death was the worm in that apple,
the seeds were freedom and the flowering of choice.
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