Finding Judas

Thursday night's "House" episode packed a kidney punch for anyone who is the friend, lover or relative of an addict. Our favourite television doctor, brilliantly portrayed by Hugh Laurie, a Brit who can do an American accent without sounding like he has a wasp in his mouth, is rapidly approaching the bottom of his downward spiral of (prescription) drug addiction. The sharp jabs we've forgiven because he was trying to save lives, the cynicism that amused, the crustiness that we suspected was an overlay for real humanity - all crashed over the line into irredeemable nastiness in the last episode.

Dr. Gregory House was an asshole, and I wanted nothing more than to pull him through the television and beat him up to within an inch of his life to make him see what he was doing to the people around him, especially those who cared about him. I'd have been equally happy if Lisa Cuddy, to whom House utters the unforgivable, "Good thing you failed to become a mom because you suck at it," had done it for me.

Someone on that writing team knows what they're talking about.

Nowhere is that clearer than in the depiction of how House's addiction affects everyone around him - from the pharmacist who dispenses his prescription to his best friend, James Wilson. House's unpredictable bursts of anger; his life revolving around obtaining the object of his addiction at the expense of everything else; the waning of his gifts; his inability to apologise when he realises he's gone too far will be eerily familiar to many. So will the portrayal of others walking on eggshells; involuntarily flinching away at his approach; their impotent rage; their loyalty, even when the person they became friends with or looked up to has disappeared down the black hole of addiction.

People who have never been close to an addict offer sweeping, facile advice: "Well, just stop spending time with him/her." "TELL THEM what they've become." "Why are you still friends with them?" Of course they need to hear the truth, but what good will destroying an already fragile ego do? And are you telling the truth out of love or to vent your anger and eliminate your own guilt? If they're not ready to hear it, will it do more damage than good?

However, staying with an addict shouldn't bring automatic applause. There are times when walking away and letting them fall is the best thing to do. The reasons for staying with your child, lover or friend aren't always noble. Sometimes you're afraid to leave because you don't know what else to do; sometimes you need to save someone; sometimes you feel guilty. Often, it fills a need to avoid your own pain. There are reasons some people are addicted to taking care of addicts.

That's not to say that one shouldn't stay for love or friendship: if you can keep your sense of self and firm boundaries, enter their darkness without being sucked in, and if you can still find the person you care for, then don't move an inch. Be searingly honest with yourself: motives are rarely pure, and this is no exception. Knowing that, if you honestly want to stay and can do so without losing yourself and becoming a martyr, you deserve that applause.

But remember: *if* they ever come out of the addiction - and it is only ever an *if* - you'll be building a new relationship. Your friend will either choose another addiction or will grapple with the underlying pain and be transformed. The shift in interpersonal dynamics will register a 10 on the Richter scale. No matter how patient, how caring, how understanding you've been, it will all matter: every lie; every broken promise; every time they were too self-absorbed to be there for you; every time they went for the jugular and never apologised because they couldn't remember what they'd said. Whether you admit it or not, you're hurt and angry. That can become a permanent barrier in the relationship if it isn't resolved with honesty and love.

But before that day comes, it's likely that even the strongest camel's back will break.

It is here that the scriptwriters' brilliance came through twofold: first, in the title, "Finding Judas". Aside from the obvious allusion to betrayal, it throws up real questions about Judas' motives: did he feel that Jesus was getting addicted to the power given him? That the attention they were drawing would bring about the extinction of their race? That he didn't go to the high priest out of greed, but because he felt he was acting for the greater good? Did he feel he was being faithless to be trustworthy?

" You've started to believe
The things they say of you
You really do believe
This talk of God is true.
And all the good you've done
Will soon get swept away.
You've begun to matter more
Than the things you say...

Listen, Jesus, do you care for your race?
Don't you see we must keep in our place?
We are occupied; have you forgotten how put down we are?

I am frightened by the crowd.
For we are getting much too loud...
And they'll crush us if we go too far.
If we go too far...

Listen, Jesus, to the warning I give.
Please remember that I want us to live." -Jesus Christ Superstar

This interpretation of Judas' motives makes it particularly appropriate that the person who goes to the detective investigating House isn't Chase, whom he punched; or Cuddy, whom he ripped into. It's his best friend, Wilson - the nice guy, the empathetic, caring one who didn't turn when his assets were frozen and his practice shut down by his refusal to incriminate House, but who had finally had enough when other people were really getting hurt.

We see him step into Detective Tritter's office, take a deep breath and say, "I'm gonna need thirty pieces of silver."

And one day, so will most of us.

One gospel, two sermons...

This weekend, I had the experience of listening to two sermons on one gospel reading. I went to mass twice (polishes halo, checks horns to see if sharpening needed) - last night as a scheduled reader, this morning as a dutiful Catholic.

The gospel reading centred on the line, "Love one another as I have loved you."

Last night's sermon was given by an expansive American priest - his heart was in the mass and in the sermon and it showed. He started off by calling it a nearly perfect gospel reading: the only factor marring it was the timing - Judas had just left to betray Jesus. He then went on to state that loving one another as Jesus loved us wasn't the fluffy proposition it is often suggested to be, because loving as Jesus did meant following the way of the cross, not as in "my cross to bear", but dying those little deaths. He told us, "Think of the people who make you crazy." And he told us that loving them as Jesus loved us means explaining something to them one more time, listening to that problem one more time, letting them push us out of our comfort zone one more time: not rolling our eyes or whingeing behind their backs, but really being *present* for them in that time, in that place. And he even pointed out that when we talk to God, we might sound just a wee bit like those needy people we go on about (squirms uncomfortably).

It was a *wonderful* sermon. He acknowledged our feelings of annoyance and dislike as being human, but told us that we needed to move through them to something bigger, to seeing Christ in each one of those people that make our lives difficult. What made it really work was that it was something he was passionate about - and he was right in there with us. It was a sermon that said, "You're human, feeling that way is normal, but we're here to love one another, so push through it." It left you feeling ready to do just that.

Today, Fr Voldemort, in a sermon that would have kept Freud and Jung busy for months, went on about how, instead of feeling distressed when we feel nothing at church, we should feel relieved because "We shouldn't trust our feelings. Feelings are subjective." Well, so is your opinion. Frankly, my feelings have told me far more about what is really going on than my head ever has.

Love is action, he said. Not untrue. He used Mother Teresa as an example: "She found the poor repellent. But she reached out to them anyway." Now, I don't know if anyone else has a problem with this, but I do. You CANNOT see Christ in anyone *if you find them repellent*. They are mutually exclusive states. Love does not mean feeling a tight bond with someone, true, but it means that *you understand that they are a child of God* and acknowledge that in them - which means you *feel* respect, openness, interest in who they are and the stories they have to tell. Being repelled by them is in direct opposition to being open to them - love is far more than doing what you're supposed to. Mother Teresa has just fallen at the first hurdle to sainthood, and you've fallen into a Kantian fallacy, Fr V.

After that, on to the liturgy. "That is why we should guard against making our liturgy exciting and entertaining." London Oratory Choir, darling? They qualify as 'entertaining', and I know you approve of them. Followed by one of the best lines of all time:

"WE ARE NOT IN CHURCH TO ENJOY OURSELVES."

Leaving aside the argument that "daily life is your temple and your religion" (Gibran) and all you do for God should be done with love, warmth and joy, what is the resurrection about? Joy. So, really, yes, we are there to *celebrate* Christ, re-present Him in the Eucharist and enjoy our fellowship, whether we choose evangelical services or a Latin Mass.

To round it off, Voldemort destroyed his entire argument by using Our Lady at the foot of the cross as the ultimate example - even using the phrase, "a sword pierced her own heart". News bulletin: *FEELINGS* DON'T GET DEEPER THAN THAT. Her grief must have been beyond anything someone who isn't a parent can understand. And even though she *loved* her son (with feelings, just to clarify), she *let him go* and engaged with everything his life brought her: joy, worry, the everyday blessings and the sword. She felt every inch of it, and was transformed as a result.

And don't you think that *Jesus* felt that love for us? In what moment in the Gospel do you see him repelled by the poor, the lepers, the adultress, the marginalised?

THAT is your mistake, Fr V. The way to love is to *engage* your feelings, not deny them, as you do, and insist that we should. The way to love is to grow *through* them: the anger, the pain, the hurt, the joy, the grief that are all part of our human experience, and rightly so. "Doing it anyway" should be a stage, not a way of life. Spiritual dryness, the same. To be fully human, we need rain to grow - and we need to be that rain for others.

Of course, this sermon took this particular angle because it is Fr Voldemort's way of being, his particular struggle. And to him I would say this: because you hold feelings in fear and contempt, your feelings own you. Every day, more of the anger leaks out round the edges of that cool surface persona, and takes away a little more of the man you could become. Don't let it destroy you.

I know you don't want to hear it, that you will dismiss it. But I say it because you are my brother in Christ, and even though you drive me crazy, I'm feeling the love right now...

Who am I?

Picked this up from CJ...figures the celebrity I'd look most like is a man...

30 April 2007

Give up yer aul sins...

Fr. Former Librarian popped in to do a library search with this DVD in hand, which piqued my interest. He allowed me to borrow it on the condition that it stayed with me and came back safely to him. Done.

Brilliant, brilliant stuff. I haven't stopped laughing through the seven episodes, based on Peig Cunningham's tapes of her students' retelling of Bible stories in the 1960s at Rutland Street Primary School in Dublin - found in a dustbin years later.

Cathal Gaffney and Darragh O'Connell knew a good thing when they heard it, and decided to make a short animated film - which took the film world by storm and was nominated for an Academy Award in 2002. Proof that the best work comes from keeping it real.

I'm particularly tickled by the interpretation of Salome's dance of the seven veils, and I love the animation, which still kicks CGI to Timbuktu. Enjoy!

To speak or not to speak, that is the question...

There has been a lot of discussion on various blogs about this well-intentioned move for a day of silence across the blogosphere on 30 April for the victims of the Va Tech massacre, and, by extension, for victims of violence around the world. Many people will be participating and are spreading the word.

A significant minority (at a quick glance) will make their voices heard on Monday, saying "no" to silence. Their reasons are equally well-intentioned: many people will go along with it as a fad, to feel part of history, to follow the crowd. Instead of falling silent, they argue, we need to speak out in rage: for gun control, against injustice, for the death penalty, against the system. At least one person has said that it will be "business as usual" at their blog. Good reasons, all of them. After all, talking (or typing) is what we do best.

But there are compelling reasons to remain silent, one of which is to acknowledge and bear witness to unbearable anger, grief and pain in a world that considers speaking of "healing" the day after a tragedy like this appropriate. We live in a world that runs away from its Shadow by repressing it or trying to reach a "higher level of consciousness" without going through the darkness. True healing only comes by being *with* our darkness and our pain, letting it crack open the walls around our heart, and allowing it to pass through us, feeling it fully.

Most of my readers know how much I love Judaism. I feel very strongly that Jewish customs acknowledge every minute of our lives here, light and dark, as holy - and sitting shiva is one of the most powerful, giving us room and ritual which allows us to fully live our grief and paving the way to healing.

From the keriah, or rending of the garments prior to the funeral service, deeply symbolic on levels ranging from anger at our loss to the halachic requirement to 'expose the heart', to the covering of mirrors and sitting on the floor, shiva gives us permission to leave the outside world behind and completely enter the inner world of our grief for seven days. The process is allowed to begin, unhindered by the demands of others, aided by their love and support.

Shiva is also salutary for those who visit the mourners. When they come to the shiva house, they are to sit down and take their lead from the mourner. If the mourner is silent, then they remain silent - no platitudes such as "He was in so much pain, it was a blessing," or "She's in a better place," the comments so often overheard after a funeral or interment. We believe them to be for the mourners, but they're really for us, because we are uncomfortable staying with someone else's pain and grief. Shiva makes us focus on their needs, not ours. It forces us to be still and listen, and doesn't allow communication to become a barrier to communion.

The time comes when we must all rise from our grief and enter the world again, renewing our commitment to life and allowing our hearts to heal once more. Life is a cycle, and the key to fulfilling our vocation of living it authentically and in love is to trust in the cycle and enter each part of it completely and willingly: joy and sorrow; happiness and anger; light and Shadow.

And so, even though the time will come to analyse how the tragedy at Va Tech could have been avoided and to speak out against our culture of violence and gun laws, that time is not now. Let us be with those families and friends who have lost those they love to unimaginable violence.

It is not yet time to speak.

It is time to pay a shiva call.

Fell off the wagon...

Oops, back to Personality Quizaholics Anonymous for me...

Your Love Style is Agape

You are a caring, kind, and selfless partner. Unsurprisingly, your love style is the most rare. You are willing to sacrfice your world for your sweetie. Except it doesn't really feel like sacrifice to you. For you, nothing feels better than giving to the one you love.

What's Your Love Style?

Your Seduction Style: The Charmer

You're a master at intimate conversation and verbal enticement. You seduce with words, by getting people to open up to you. By establishing this deep connection quickly, people feel under your power. And then you've got them exactly where you want them!

What Is Your Seduction Style?

Grin

I have finally arrived! My post on limbo has needled a traditional Catholic blogger named "Simon Peter" so much, he has linked to it and commented on it from where I cross-posted it on "Emerging Women", and others have joined in, calling it nonsense. Bloody brilliant. One of the regular readers on "Emerging Women" linked to an earlier post and was absolutely lovely about it...but somehow, I didn't feel like I'd arrived until I'd been properly slagged off.

And bless him, he spells phonetically..."Wimmin", indeed. Wonder if he attends the Oratory here. I'd love to shake his hand and thank him. On second thought, probably a London Oratory type.

THE TRIDDIES HATE ME! YES!

*Does funky chicken dance and kisses own hand in self-congratulation*

Happy Monday, everyone!

Blessed be

Recently, I've been doing a lot of spiritual reading and trying to put it into practice. My Grandfather's blessings by Rachel Naomi Remen is one of the most powerful books I've ever read and will certainly be one that I will go back to again and again. In it, she talks about blessing life and allowing ourselves to be blessed by it.

Today, I finally understood that by heart.

My housemate went out with her boyfriend, asking if I would be staying in, as the cats were out and about. As I was just planning to faff about, I answered in the affirmative. She responded by asking me to get them back in if I changed my mind.

About an hour later, I felt a bit restless and decided to nip down to the shops about 15 minutes walk from us. The cats were in, so I shut the back door and headed out.

Just as I crossed the little street before the shops started, I stepped under a tree shedding its blossoms - a 'blossom storm', as I've always thought of it. An elderly gentleman in a hat stopped me, and looking up at the tree, said in a rich, Eastern European accent:

"You know, in Japan, when the cherry blossoms touch someone, they bless them." Then he looked directly at me and putting his hand out towards me, said, "And so, I bless you."

Heartfelt, freely and spontaneously given, it was one of the most powerful blessings I had ever received. A barrier I had erected against life and its flow through me gave way.

I looked back at him, the words "And I, you," caught in my throat. Instead, I simply said what I could - a heartfelt "Thank you." And I blessed him in my heart.

How he knew that cherry blossoms were my dearest delight of a Washington spring, that I needed to be able to receive, that I most needed the unconditional love and safety that a blessing offers, I will never know. And I don't need to.

I suspect it's that he allows life to flow through him - and life knows.

And so, overflowing with the love and gratitude from having been blessed, I pass it on.

Blessed be.

Limbo in...erm, limbo

From Reuters:

VATICAN CITY (Reuters) - The Roman Catholic Church has effectively buried the concept of limbo, the place where tradition and teaching held that babies went if they died without baptism.

In a long-awaited document, the Church's International Theological Commission said limbo reflected an "unduly restrictive view of salvation".

The 41-page document was published on Friday by Origins, the documentary service of the U.S.-based Catholic News Service, which is part of the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops.

Pope Benedict, himself a top theologian who before his election in 2005 expressed doubts about limbo, authorised the publication of the document, called "The Hope of Salvation for Infants Who Die Without Being Baptised".

The verdict that limbo could now rest in peace had been expected for years. The document was seen as most likely the final word since limbo was never part of Church doctrine, even though it was taught to Catholics well into the 20th century.

"The conclusion of this study is that there are theological and liturgical reasons to hope that infants who die without baptism may be saved and brought into eternal happiness even if there is not an explicit teaching on this question found in revelation," it said.

"There are reasons to hope that God will save these infants precisely because it was not possible (to baptise them)."

*****************************************************

I'm sorry. Did I miss something here? "There are reasons to hope God will save these infants..." "Reasons to hope"? I don't need "reasons to hope" for those precious children and those parents, some of whom are my friends. I know. God is love - every baby is His most precious creation, and should one die when she has barely touched this Earth, who could believe that He would do *anything* other than sweep that soul back up into His arms?

Only people who had never loved anyone deeply could possibly assume otherwise and even dream of creating a place like limbo.

You may ask, and rightly so, "*Why* did they feel the need to come up with limbo?" Well, if the Church allowed unbaptised babies to go straight to heaven, the next question would be about good people who hadn't been baptised...and if the babies could go to heaven, then the door to heaven would be open for *them*, and what would be the point of baptism into the Church? Or, indeed, the Church at all?

Hmmm. Does that sound like a clarification of God's will? Or does it sound like a way of putting God in a box, of justifying the Church's existence? After all, if there are as many paths to God as people, with only "Remain in God, who is love, and operate from there" as the key principle...there's no need for organised religion or laws to keep the faithful 'good' and separate from their wholeness - whether it's their anger, sexuality, passion, or pain. There is just a community of people, interconnected through their humanity and divinity, helping eachother on their way home.

No way of controlling anyone, of being more worthy than anyone, of having all the answers. That must be a frightening thought for those who are addicted to a priesthood of any denomination. Maybe even for all of us, much as we'd hate to admit it.

So, goodbye to limbo, which, like the Church that gave it birth, has an "unduly restrictive view of salvation." (The "If you're not in the club, you can't come into the treehouse" view of salvation, I call it. It's difficult to hate the Church if you think of the Vatican as a bunch of adolescent boys dressing up in red robes, making up ever more complex rules for their club. And actually believing that those rules determine how God, reality and the world work.) Good riddance. Aristotle, go on up!

And hello to the little ones looking down from heaven over the centuries who've been having a good giggle about this whole concept:

"You mean I nearly spent 75 years there? Blimey. Mind you, the harp playing IS getting a bit tedious..."

Not such a bad position to be in...

Last Thursday, I took Rachel up on a dare.

She gave me one of the qoolest cricket t-shirts ever for Christmas. It's dark blue and in big black/white print reads:

"69-2
Not such a bad position to be in"

Rach dared me to wear it to church. I did one better. I wore it on a day I was going up to read.

I nipped into the sacristy to ask Fr Celebrant (a good friend) if he wanted me to do the sing-songy Easter sequence, and he answered in the affirmative. As I left to sit down for mass, he said, "I *read* that."

I looked back cheekily. "Yes, but did you *get* it?"

"Yes, I did."

A few minutes later, he toddled out of the sacristy to where I was sitting. I looked up expectantly, wary of the wicked twinkle in his eye.

"I meant to ask...is it just your t-shirt, or have you been there?"

Stunned, and grateful that blushes don't show up against my skin, I looked at him and said, "Been there, done that..."

In unison, everyone: got the t-shirt.

Wore it in public. To church.

He grinned and walked off, and to his credit, managed a straight face whilst I read. Fr Voldemort's face over the chalice was priceless. His eyebrows nearly reached the top of Our Lady's statue.

In a church where most of the parishioners are hooked on liturgy, sexlessness and humour deprivation like we wish kids were hooked on phonics rather than Xbox, it felt good.

Damn good.

And to the earnest American saying, "I can't believe the audacity..." outside church after mass:

Believe it.

I'm through pretending.

"My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?"

It's Good Friday, the darkness before the dawn for the Christian church. The day that the Catholic Church feels most vulnerable, with every tabernacle bare of the Blessed Sacrament and Christ's comforting presence.

After the joy and comfort of the Pesach Seder that marks Maundy Thursday, the altars are stripped bare, the Blessed Sacrament is moved to the altar of repose, and darkness, grief and vulnerability mark the Church until the candle of hope is lit, at the beginning of the Easter Vigil. The Catholic Church embodies these phases beautifully with the Triduum - essentially one liturgy over three days marking each part of the story and the emotions that ensue.

I go to Tenebrae (Latin, "darkness") each morning of the Triduum, which is essentially Matins and Lauds, including the sung Lamentations of Jeremiah, psalms, readings, and an ending sequence that is spine-tingling. On Saturday, the Oratio Jeremiae is sung. It is a beautiful way to begin each day of the Triduum and focus on what lies ahead.

Today, Good Friday, is a day of brutality, grief, silence, numbness - and fear that the light of tomorrow's Easter Vigil may not come. In a superb sermon today, the celebrant spoke of visiting Rwanda, how there are some events that are beyond words, that we must grieve, but offer the action (in Catholic terms, mass) that Jesus has given us: "Take, eat; this is my body, which will be given up for you."

A few weeks ago, my friend Jan and I were discussing Christ's words from the cross, as she was writing some meditations for some Lenten concerts she was organising. "My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?" took up most of the conversation, as we talked about Jesus' emotions at that moment, and I said, in a flash of intuition:

"Jesus was angry. Jesus was angry at God."

As I listened to today's sermon, that conversation came back to me. We always talk about the grief of Good Friday, and well we should. But why is it that we always avoid the *anger* in those words of Jesus? We say, "See, he felt forsaken, so it's ok for us to feel that way. He's taken it on for us," or we talk about his momentary doubt. But we never talk about what one author calls his "anguished reproach" of God, the fury unleashed in Jesus Christ Superstar's Garden of Gethsemane:

I only want to say
If there is a way
Take this cup away from me
For I don't want to taste its poison
Feel it burn me,
I have changed -
I'm not as sure as when we started
Then I was inspired...
Now I'm sad and tired
Listen, surely I've exceeded
Expectations
Tried for three years
Seems like thirty
Could you ask as much
From any other man?
...
Why, why should I die?
Oh, why should I die?
Can you show me now
That I would not be killed in vain?
Show me just a little
Of your omnipresent brain
Show me there's a reason
For your wanting me to die
You're far too keen on where and how
But not so hot on why
Alright I'll die!
Just watch me die!

Many people were shocked by this portrayal of Jesus: we are so often presented with him as going meekly to his slaughter, and how like a lamb going to its shearing, opening not his mouth.

What, we expect this passionate man who had just upset the money changers' tables in the temple to go to his death without opening his mouth? He did, and boy, *how* did he. That anger, that reproach is embodied in "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"

As a society, as a world, we have huge problems with anger: we see its destructive capability - emotionally, physically, globally, and we try to push it away, down into our Shadow, where we don't have to face it, hoping that the pressure of everything on top of it will turn it into some sort of diamond - we'll even take cubic zirconia, thanks very much!

Instead, it blows as explosively and predictably as Old Faithful, the geyser in Yellowstone Park, spraying everyone and everything in its path.

We forget that, as Jesus shows us in JCS's Gethsemane and on the cross, that an open, honest expression of anger can be controlled, *transformative* and often, the mark of an intimate relationship. Beneath Christ's anger lie the very human emotions of doubt, fear, pain, and dare we say it - a sense of betrayal: "I have done everything you asked of me, why *this*?" And it is Jesus' intimacy with God, His complete trust in God's unconditional love, that allows him to speak so openly of his anger, fear and pain.

We forget that burying anger destroys relationships. What if Christ hadn't expressed his anger and doubt to God? It would have put up a barrier between Him and God, as surely as it does in human relationships.

So why can't we face Jesus' anger with God? Perhaps because facing the fact that the Son of God was angry with the Father would force us to face the fact that *we* are angry with God - somewhere, somehow, to some degree. It would make us examine our relationship with God and force us to drop that barrier with God and let our relationship with Him transform us. And that's scary. It's easier to seek the mythical 'perfect' relationship that we imagine Jesus had with God, rather than the full, deep, passionate, authentic relationship He *did* have. It's safer to approach an asymptote than to fully enter into a relationship as our true selves, willing to fall as deeply as it takes to live it properly.

What we must remember is that Jesus expresses his anger from the heart - not to lash out, not to manipulate, not sideways towards someone it isn't really directed at - and that is why it is transformative: his hands and his heart are open, not clenched. He asks questions such as "Would what I've said and done matter anymore?", and uses words such as "sad", "tired" or "forsaken". It's between Him and His Father, and that's where He works it through.

And so, He moves forward, towards acceptance and the greater intimacy with God that is His at Easter, uncertainly at first:

Then I was inspired
Now I'm sad and tired
After all, I've tried for three years
Seems like ninety
Why then am I scared
to finish what I started
What you started
I didn't start it
God thy will is hard
But you hold every card
I will drink your cup of poison
Nail me to your cross and break me
Bleed me, beat me
Kill me, take me now
Before I change my mind

but later, with absolute trust after expressing His anger and sense of abandonment from the cross:

"It is finished. Father, into thine hands I commend my spirit."

May being completely authentic and vulnerable in our relationship with God - from the joy and love to the rage, fear and doubt - give us the courage to do the same.

On being faithless to be trustworthy...

I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
--"The Invitation", Oriah

This poem, which has been circulated around the world since Oriah first shared it with her students in the late 1990s, shook something loose in me when I first read it. Tears ran down my face as I read stanzas like:

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

She wrote this poem after one of those dismal parties where everyone natters on about shallow, soul-destroying subjects. Where people exaggerate that little bit to make themselves sound better than they are. Where they try oh-so-hard to sound like intellectuals, and sound like pretentious prats instead. Where they exaggerate the number of people they slept with and how their exes are all still pining after them. Where, of course, they couldn't possibly mention their shortcomings, wonder about the nature of the universe, admit that someone else is better at something than they are or laugh at themselves, because that would make them look weak. Human.

And God forbid they should ever use the words "I don't know."

The kind of party that, if you have any desire to really connect with people, makes you want to slit your wrists.

She got home and wrote the poem using a simple technique she learned at a workshop: pair a sentence beginning with "It doesn't matter to me..." with one that starts "I want to know..." And she turned it into something that touched the hearts of people around the globe.

The first stanza I quoted made my breath catch when I first read it. What fascinated me even more was that it made people *furious*. Many wrote her and told her that she meant faithful, and would list the reasons why. Instead of exploring how you could be "faithless and therefore trustworthy", people wanted to change it to fit their comfort zone. How could you possibly be *faithless* and trustworthy?

One of the first examples that sprung to mind was the Catholic clergy, not least because in a recent lunch with a clerical friend, he had said, with great vehemence, "I hate the ones that leave. I think they're traitors." I questioned whether he meant the priesthood or his particular group, and he said, "Both." I was struck by his vehemence and inwardly wondered, "Are you turning your anger outwards onto those who dare to do what you wish you had done?"

I thought about clerics I knew who had left their orders, congregations, etc. to become secular priests or to get married. The ones who had dared to face down the institution and say, "Enough. I won't lie; I won't pretend; God is calling me to something/somewhere else. I'm leaving." The ones who bore the anger, scorn, hatred, accusations of betrayal, questions about their sanity to be true to who they were and what they felt God was asking of them (sound like the Via Dolorosa, anyone?). The ones who showed those around them that you can be true to yourself and that they needed to stop seeking approval and start seeking love and truth.

I realised that I trusted them with my heart and my life. That I could talk to them at length and depth without fear of scorn or attempted emotional manipulation to get me to follow a certain way. I can feel the Spirit of God in them loud and clear and their essence sounds as true as a crystal note.

Faithless, and therefore trustworthy.

I also know those who stayed because it was expected, because they needed approval, because they were afraid. I watch them dismember themselves and become less of who they truly are as they sink into busyness, power-seeking, glib superficiality, people-pleasing, alcoholism, drugs to numb the pain of amputation after amputation. One of the saddest and most disturbing statements I ever heard was, "He told me that at first, your vows make you stay. Then eventually, you want to stay." My heart broke on those words.

That isn't truth. That is fear, comfort and the death of the spirit within you - both mundane and holy. Even God will stop whispering when He knows it falls on deaf ears:

Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.
--"Houses" from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

Over time, I realise that I tell them less and less - the breadth and depth of conversation lessens; I won't go to them for confession; I don't trust them with my real thoughts and feelings.

My heart whispers, "You lie to yourself, to your Church, to all those who are close to you. Your entire life is a lie. How can I trust you?"

Faithful, and therefore untrustworthy.

But even as I use them as examples, I know that as I point one finger at them, I'm pointing three back at myself. The truth is that those lines hit me because *I* am guilty of being faithful and untrustworthy:

I am not a Catholic.

Barely able to watch the Cricket World Cup...

On March 18, just as the Cricket World Cup was bedding in, Bob Woolmer, Pakistan's coach, died. I had just sat myself down in front of the cricket on telly after a lovely afternoon with friends when Mark looked over at me from the kitchen sink and said, "Did you know? Bob Woolmer is dead."

I stared at him, uncomprehending. "WHAT?" "Bob Woolmer is dead," he repeated. I must have still looked like a gormless foreign teenager who had spent two hours, tops, at any of the schools of English in the city, because he said it *again*.

Stunned, I think I asked how. At that point, the prevailing wisdom was that it was a tragic death due to natural causes such as a heart attack or a diabetic coma. My heart went out to his family and all those who knew him - he seemed like such a lovely man, with such a passion for the game. When I read that blood and vomit had been found at the scene, my heart sank. I knew he'd been murdered.

That was confirmed on Friday, when the autopsy results were revealed. When Chris B. popped by the library, he told me that his Indian friend who runs the corner shop had said to him early last week, "He has been murdered and there's a lot more to come out." Apparently, Pakistan television had announced that Bob Woolmer had been murdered and an arrest had been made on TUESDAY, days before the autopsy results were available. Things that make you go hmmmm.

I've barely been able to watch the cricket since.

But I haven't missed all the coverage and speculation in the press...and some journalists, such as Mark Marqusee in the Guardian, are claiming 'stereotyping' of the Pakistani team and 'hysterical' reactions in the press.

Political correctness irimtates me no end - especially the "we can't say this b/c they're not white" crap rampant in the press. Had the coach of a white team been murdered, the team would have been under the microscope and no one would have turned a hair. (No Darryl jokes, please) If you'd say it about a white team, you can say it about a black or brown team - not doing so is just another form of condescension and racism.

The reaction isn't 'hysterical' - Pakistani cricketers - and Pakistani men in general, really - *are* temperamental and refuse to take responsibility for their actions, because *no one ever holds them accountable*.

As the Daily Telegraph says,

"The impression is that many of the players, like the male-dominated society they come from, are a law unto themselves with allegiance only to Islam and their family. That could be why democracy has failed in Pakistan and the reason military dictatorships seem to be the only effective form of government."

In my experience, that is the truth - except that they hold to Islam b/c it justifies their male-dominated, tribal society, and as for allegiance to their families - well, there have been enough bride burnings and 'family honour' murders and acquittals when a sister was raped or married out of her own choice to show a very...unique sense of family allegiance. So really, Pakistani men's only allegiance is to themselves and eachother - as long as you're from the same tribe.

So let's look at the facts. Have Pakistani cricketers tampered with the ball more than most? Yes. Have they been involved in match-fixing? Yes. Taken drugs? Yes. Have they refused to accept responsibility for how they play and/or behave? Yes. There is evidence for *all of these*. Hence, no one is stereotyping, they're basing their comments on past experience and evidence.

Let's call a spade a spade and not give in to 'political correctness'. Bob Woolmer, God rest his soul, most likely opened the door to his killer. Thus, he must have known and trusted him. That puts the team, whatever its nationality, firmly in the frame.

And let's not forget that Pakistan Television (PTV) reported Woolmer's death as a murder on Tuesday, 20 March. Before the autopsy results were out. So somebody over there knows something.

My cousins in Pakistan are probably wondering out loud if the team had anything to do with it. They won't be offended by the thought; they're considering it as a very real possibility. If *they* can, why not the international press?

If Pakistanis don't have a problem considering the team members as possible suspects and match-fixing as a motive, neither should anyone else.

Blogthings...

On lunch hour, having a bit of fun. Apparently, I'm an agnostic - go figure. Loved this one though, thought it was spot on:

Your Theme Song is Beautiful Day by U2

"Sky falls, you feel like It's a beautiful day Don't let it get away" You see the beauty in life, especially in ordinary everyday moments. And if you're feeling down, even that seems a little beautiful too.

What's Your Theme Song?

and the 5 factor value test was pretty spot on as well - I value loyalty, but not *blind* loyalty. It needs to be earned:

Your Values Profile

Loyalty: You don't really value loyalty. In your opinion, friendship should be earned. If you don't agree with someone, it doesn't matter how close you are. You'll let them (and everyone else know) exactly what you think. Honesty: You value honesty highly. You're unflinchingly honest, even when it's not easy. For you, integrity is very important - in yourself and others. People may not always like what you say, but they know they can trust it. Generosity: You value generosity highly. So much so that you often put your own needs last. There's nothing wrong with having a caring heart... But you may want to rethink your "open wallet" policy. Humility: You value humility highly. You have the self-confidence to be happy with who you are. And you don't need to seek praise to make yourself feel better. You're very modest, and you're keep the drama factor low. Tolerance: You value tolerance highly. Not only do you enjoy the company of those very different from you... You do all that you can to seek it out interesting and unique friends. You think there are many truths in life, and you're open to many of them.

The Five Factor Values Test

Nobody expects...

...the Spanish Inquisition or what Dominicans get up to once the laity have left. Grand Inquisitors they may be, but they need just that little bit more rhythm.

Yes, working in a priory really is like this.

And I can't help but think that since St Dominic was Spanish, they might have moved more smoothly to Ricky Martin's "Living la vida loca".

Luminox review

Luminox was magic. I stepped into Broad Street and entered a fire garden...one almost expected to see salamanders (the fire elemental, not the animal) whizzing through the air. From a fire chandelier held up by a crane to streamers of fire descending to the Bodleian to a Rube Goldberg-like fire and water feature, it was a sensory delight. (And a pyromaniac's one, of course.)

Suddenly, the strong smell of burning coal took me back to winter nights in Pakistan, walking down a dark Bahawalpur street or sitting on a roof in Sahiwal...for a moment, I could feel the dust beneath my feet. As I walked down the darkest part of Broad Street by firelight, I half-expected a Juma'a bazaar to appear and to hear the Friday night haggling on a chilly subcontinental winter evening.

Fire is primal. It exerts great power in our lives and in our imaginations, bringing us comfort and fear, light and heat, life and death. It has been considered one of the four elements, alongside water, earth and air. People were drawn to it like...erm, well, I was going to say, 'moths to a flame'. The street was crowded, and faces flickering past me were smiling, engaged and enchanted, something so rarely seen in these days of post-technological ennui.

And all because of fire - as part of various structures, granted, but the structures were simple in form - a chandelier, a sphere, streamers...magnificent to behold and hypnotic, nonetheless.

As per the Orange cinema advert about the New York blackout:

Sometimes things need to switch off for people to switch on.

Luminox

Just a quick note post-coffee break: this week, to kick off the celebrations of Oxfordshire's 1000th birthday, they're setting Broad St on fire! The show is called Luminox, and it began last night and ends tomorrow night. In honour of a happy medium, I'm going tonight - and I can't wait. The picture to the left is from flickr, and there are 21 more from last night here. Enjoy, and those of you who are in town, hope to see you there - by firelight, of course!

Becoming Jane...and the four millisecond rule

I've just gotten home from watching "Becoming Jane". Lovely film, even though it was a bit odd to see one of the current villains in "24" as Jane's loving father. Casting was excellent, with only an occasional vowel of Anne Hathaway's giving her away. And very brave of Hollywood to go for the (look away now) unhappy ending.

In the film, Jane is in love with Tom LeFroy, a young barrister dependent on his uncle's purse. They decide to run off together, but Jane thinks better of it when she realises that Tom sends his parents a share of the allowance he stands to lose if they marry.

But leaving the angst aside for the moment, let's go to the delightful scene reminiscent of the ball scene from the definitive "Pride and Prejudice" from 1995 (Colin Firth, a man I wouldn't kick out of my bed for eating jam doughnuts), where the sexual tension was so intense, I snapped open my fan. In this film, Jane and Tom, each with other partners, meet in a diagonal cross during a country dance.

Reading between the lines, here's how I reckon the conversation *really* went:

Jane and Tom see eachother - their eyes widen, they blush, they grin like hyenas.

Jane: Tom! How lovely to see you!
Tom: Jane...why, you know, I never noticed what a lovely bosom you have.
Jane: Yes, this housekeeper really knows how to fit one into a corset. But, love, I have never noticed you breaking the four millisecond rule before.
Tom (blushing): Well, my darling, we do, actually. We're terribly beastly. I just didn't want you to catch me looking...you're the one woman whose good opinion ever mattered...
Jane (blushing): Well, now that you mention it...
Tom: Yes, my sweet?
Jane: I've been looking too. And those trousers...
Tom: Yes?
Jane: Well, I expect you'd have a hard time finding the proper size cricket box...and...
Tom: Why, Jane! Such hidden depths. And...
Jane: That coat makes your bum look fabulous.
Tom: Why, darling, it's getting warm in here. And my heart is beating faster... would you consider...
Jane: Yes?
Tom: Spending your life with me?
Jane: Well...
Tom: I'll have £2500 a year.
Jane: Ah. In my novel, "First Impressions", Mr Bingley has £5000. Mr Darcy, £10,000.
Tom: I see. A bit of pride and prejudice over my situation, perhaps?
Jane: (Thoughtful silence) Those figures are a bit excessive. I can dispose of myself for £2500 and affection.
Tom: Such sense and sensibility...shall we, my love?
Jane: Indeed.

I hope I've convinced you with my powers of persuasion.

*The four millisecond rule states that every man, straight or gay, looks at a woman's chest for four milliseconds on meeting her. Breaking the four millisecond rule means staring for five milliseconds or longer.

Purim Sameach

Tonight, the night of the 13th of Adar, the day that Haman chose for the extermination of the Jews, the night they were saved by G-d through Queen Esther, begins the joyous holiday of Purim. This year, with a total lunar eclipse of the full moon on its way, there is just that extra touch of magic.

On this night, when Queen Esther dared to appeal directly to the king himself for the saving of her people, Jews are commanded to drink until they cannot tell the difference between "Blessed be Mordechai (Esther's cousin)" and "Cursed be Haman." To see a world turned on its head, you need to be off yours.

This past Thursday, I was looking forward to reading from the Book of Esther during mass. It is one of my favourite chapters of the year, Esther 14 - and not least because my secret pleasure is that it always falls on the Thursday nearest Purim:

Then Queen Esther, seized with deadly anxiety, fled to the Lord. ²She took off her splendid apparel and put on the garments of distress and mourning, and instead of costly perfumes she covered her head with ashes and dung, and she utterly humbled her body; every part that she loved to adorn she covered with her tangled hair. ³She prayed to the Lord God of Israel, and said: ‘O my Lord, you only are our king; help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, ⁴for my danger is in my hand. ⁵Ever since I was born I have heard in the tribe of my family that you, O Lord, took Israel out of all the nations, and our ancestors from among all their forebears, for an everlasting inheritance, and that you did for them all that you promised. ⁶And now we have sinned before you, and you have handed us over to our enemies ¹²Remember, O Lord; make yourself known in this time of our affliction, and give me courage, O King of the gods and Master of all dominion! ¹³Put eloquent speech in my mouth before the lion, and turn his heart to hate the man who is fighting against us, so that there may be an end of him and those who agree with him. ¹⁴But save us by your hand, and help me, who am alone and have no helper but you, O Lord.

Unfortunately, this lovely, amazing, courageous woman got bumped by that peevish travel agent for guilt trips, St Paul, because it was the feast of St David (I'm sure the Welsh would have preferred to hear Esther). And of course, the disappointment was all the sharper because it meant that I didn't even have the smallest share in Purim this year.

I love the wild abandon and sheer joy of Adar. When I taught at the Hebrew Academy, Adar was the month teachers remembered to lock our doors, otherwise you were likely to find all your desks shoved together in the centre of the room. The laughter that rang through the hallways from good-natured practical jokes made us all grin during the bleakest of Februaries. There's an unrestrained passion and fearlessness to it that I miss in Catholicism, which feels so sanitised - an acceptance that G-d is as much in the letting go as He is in the rigid self-control. More so, perhaps.

Purim's topsy-turviness draws me in like a magnet - nothing is quite as it seems. What seems assured can disappear; what was hopeless materialises; what is hidden is revealed. It's like stepping into the chaotic realm of the trickster. Stay awake and stay alert - but step into it knowing that with G-d, anything is possible.

It is a day that has given me, a Catholic, unexpected gifts since sundown. A moment of profound sharing with someone I often see, but rarely speak to. A vision where I sat in my childhood bedroom with myself at seven and told her how proud I was of her and thanked her for allowing me to become who I am. A bus ride seated behind someone most people might avoid, probably homeless and with an unusual view of reality - but he made me laugh and dropped two comments that made me wonder how 'mad' he really was:

I commented that I was only "visiting planet Earth." He responded, "As long as you're visiting, Earth will entertain you. When your body dies and your spirit leaves Earth, you take the good you've done with you to another world."

Just before I got off, he put his hand out for me to shake, and I took it. He held onto it, looked at me and said, "Don't fall in love until your lover deserves you."

Welcome to Purim and a full moon. I wonder what the second half will bring, so I will step out courageously into Loki's land: awake, alert, fearless and hopeful.

I wish the same for you. Purim sameach, everyone.

By the pricking in my thumbs...

I stood apart, a few yards away, whilst they looked at the dead animal on the ground. Though very fond of the younger friars, something held me back from joining their circle. Deeply uneasy, I watched their white habits swirl about them as they changed angles and rapid-fired comments and questions like machine guns: "Oh my G-d." "What could have done this?" "Look at that." "Why kill it and not carry it off to eat?" "It looks like it just killed for the sake of it." "What do you think?"

I kept observing. One piped up, "It was probably a wolf." "Yeah, it looks like a wolf did this." "A wolf." "Yes, definitely, no question. A wolf." "What was that Our Lord said about a wolf in sheep's clothing?" "You're right." "Mystery solved." They started to walk away.

Horrified by this example of groupthink, I tried to shout, "No. This is *wrong*, evil. Wolves DON'T BEHAVE LIKE THIS. THEY DON'T KILL FOR PLEASURE. LISTEN TO ME," but no sound came out. I knew I was partial to wolves, since friends had once coined me an alpha female wolf, but I was certain not all was as it seemed.

Suddenly, I found myself walking quickly along a country lane, flanked by shoulder-high golden wheat. I was thinking, "We have to get to the bottom of this. I'm sure it wasn't wolves. *WHAT* kills for pleasure? Weasels? Hmmm. That's very 'Dark is rising'." As I thought, I looked down and saw a fox hidden in the wheat at the side of the road and nodded to him; a few yards later, I did the same to a rabbit. "Where are the wolves?" I wondered. Suddenly, a mangled, bloodied animal appeared at my feet. I stopped, went to move it with my toe, then knelt, and looked carefully. "Those don't look like wolf bitemarks," I thought, relieved. "The teeth are smaller and sharper...and...*weasels*? Is that right?"

Suddenly, a sinuous, black form crossed my path and stood over the body. I looked into its unnaturally red eyes and said, "Clever. Do the killing, let the wolves take the blame, since everyone sees them as an enemy already.The only thing that would make it perfect would be if you were where no one will ever look - the hierarchy."

"Who says I'm not?"

I sat up in bed and looked at the clock. Nearly ten. I leaned back, fully awake, aware that sleep wasn't going to happen and probably shouldn't. I showered, poured my Special K, and sat in front of Hallmark's House, M.D. weekend, letting the analysis percolate in my subconscious.

Wilson: That smugness of yours is a really attractive quality.
House: Thank you. It was either that or get my hair highlighted. Smugness is easier to maintain.

Advert.

Key dream points:

1. The group was made up of young religious, but it isn't about those particular individuals. They symbolised how I feel about many of the Catholics who surround me: not looking deeply enough, going with the crowd, unquestioning, naive, unable to think out of the box, measuring their 'goodness' by the rules they follow, and believing, "It's all soooooo perfect!!"
It's a mindset incapable of seeing danger on the horizon and one that will look in the wrong direction for danger once it is impossible to ignore.

2. I knew them all well, consider them friends, but I hung back. That is very much how I feel about Catholicism - there is much about that I love: the sacraments, the core story - but I have never felt fully part of it and expect that I never will. I suspect that would surprise most people who know how involved I have been at church, that my day is spent working in a priory and how fond I am of the respective communities. Knowledge, awareness and affection doesn't equate with a sense of belonging to the institution as a whole.

3. I feel alone in my questioning, in my need to get to the truth of things, in my hatred of glib, easy answers. I'm not, as evidenced by the fox and the rabbit hiding in the wheat, and the wolves I sensed nearby, but I often feel it.

4. As per the tornado dream around Christmas, I will take on danger alone, and perhaps I need to learn to trust someone enough to take them with me.

5. I identify with the 'wolves' being accused of tearing the Church apart - questioning liberals. The problem is, Catholicism attracts those who need certainty and who want easy answers. They want someone to tell them what to do. These are people who *need* to feel "We're the best. It's us against the world," because they're unable to hold on to a solid sense of identity whilst someone disagrees with them. They're threatened by a point of view different from theirs that is *equally valid*, so they need to ridicule, bully and threaten. Anyone who dares to poke questions at that safe, neat worldview will always be seen as a threat.

6. The real threat is within the Church, well-hidden behind 'orthodoxy' and deeply entrenched. I've always believed that, and part of the proof comes in how the hierarchy handled child molestation in the States: protect the institution at all costs. You cannot try to protect the institution at the expense of what is right. Once you start worshipping the institution as all-important, you're doing the weasels' work for them - creating something hollow and easy to take down.

Hmmm. That's it for now, I think. Comments welcome. Back to House, M.D.:

House: Well, there's the fever that Cameron was looking for.
Cameron: We knew if it was myelitis there had to be an -itis. This must be the infection that set it off.
House: Yeah. Except in this universe effect follows cause. I've complained about it, but...

Steel magnolias

Sunday night is television night - chores are done, time to unwind, unbreakable date with "24" at 9pm. At about 7pm, I was sitting down to dinner and decided to flick through the Sky channels...and came across what Sky info rightly described as "the Rolls Royce of all chick flicks" from 1989 - "Steel Magnolias".

It's the story of a tightly knit group of women friends in Louisiana. The main characters are: Truvy Jones (salon owner and all-round nurturer), Clairee Belcher (a well-to-do, easily amused Southern belle in her late 50s), Ouiser Boudreaux (a crotchety old Southern belle), M'Lynn Eatenton (Shelby's mum and all-round warm, hospitable Southern girl), Shelby (lively, funny, pink loving girl) and Annelle Dupuis (shy girl to party animal to religious fundamentalist).

The main storyline begins with Shelby's wedding and covers the next few years, peaking around her decision to have a child against medical advice (she's a diabetic) and the consequences. Parallel storylines include the unlikely closeness between Ouiser and Clairee, Annelle's metamorphosis, and Truvy's relationships with her husband and sons.

I've seen it at least four times, and it still makes me laugh till my sides ache and cry like a baby.

From Thelma and Louise to Beaches to Steel Magnolias and Sex and the City, there's something mesmerising about women's friendships. One might suspect that even men get sucked in (I have a male friend who admits to loving Beaches). Yes, we know they can be bitchy, competitive, and co-dependent, but there's nothing like the bond between women friends who've laughed with, listened to and supported eachother over years. Shelby's inclusion in that tight knit circle reminds us how much women pass on to eachother down the generations, and how much of that we've lost - a theme also touched on in How to make an American quilt.

One may scoff and say that the bond between female friends is often romanticised in the media, and that's probably true - they do the same with romantic love, much to our detriment - no one can live up to THAT expectation. But there's more than a kernel of truth in their portrayal of our friendships: that's why most women I know cried at the scene in Sex and the City when the girls surrounded Samantha after they'd heard the news that she had breast cancer - it didn't matter that it was in the middle of Miranda's wedding reception; she was right there with them. Most of us *know* that feeling; we've been on both ends of it.

Just like we understand the scene in Steel Magnolias where M'Lynn is standing by Shelby's grave after the funeral. Her husband Drum goes to the car with the boys, looks back and waits a few minutes before driving off, expecting that someone else will pick her up. The camera pans to the set of friends one by one, each going off with her man. They look back to M'Lynn, and every one of them shoos her man off and goes to stand with her by the grave. No man could have been in that scene.

It is there, with these women, after months of nursing Shelby in her coma, pushing Drum away and being strong through the funeral that M'Lynn finally gives way when Clairee asks her how she is:

I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm fine! I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my daughter can't! She never could! Oh God! I am so mad I don't know what to do! I wanna know why! I wanna know *why* Shelby's life is over! I wanna know how that baby will *ever* know how wonderful his mother was! Will he *ever* know what she went through for him! Oh *God* I wanna know *why*? *Why*? Lord, I wish I could understand! No! No! No! It's not supposed to happen this way! I'm supposed to go first. I've always been ready to go first! I-I don't think I can take this! I-I don't think I can take this! I-I just wanna *hit* somebody 'til they feel as bad as I do! I just wanna *hit* something! I wanna *hit it hard*!

At this point, Clairee grabs Ouiser and suggests M'Lynn punches her, since the entire parish has wanted to for years. They all dissolve into laughter amidst their tears, and M'Lynn goes on more reflectively:

They turned off the machines. Drum left. Jackson left. They couldn't take it. I find it amusing. Men are supposed to be made out of steel or something. I just sat there. I just held Shelby's hand. There was no noise, no tremble, just peace. Oh god. I realize, as a woman, how lucky I am. I was there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life and I was there when she drifted out. It was the most precious moment of my life.

That comment crystallises something about that special bond between women friends: women *stay* - through the laughter, the tears, the endless analyses, the darkness, when the angel of Death comes to do her job - and we are capable of considering those moments the most precious of our lives. On the Via Dolorosa, Jesus meets his mother, Veronica wipes his face, he comforts the women of Jerusalem and women stand at the foot of his cross. Women are also the first to see the tomb empty, and Mary Magdalene is the first to see him. Precious moments, every one.

We're always there - and as women, *how lucky we are*. Let's race up those ladders, ladies, but remember - *be yourself*. You become a priest or a CEO or a creative director or anything you want to be because of WHO YOU ARE. Even if you're in a male-dominated field, don't change yourself to become more like the boys. Be yourself, and bring your wonderful, unique qualities to bear - and change that field for the better.

And boys, we love you. And sometimes, we love being one of you. But right now, we could do with you changing a nappy or two...

A brief plug...

Hi - a real blog entry to follow, I promise. But first, I'd like to take a moment to ask y'all to sponsor me online on the 5k Race for Life Walk/Run for CancerResearch UK. It's an all women's Walk/Run held at many venues all over the country in June/July. The focus may seem to be on breast cancer, but it's for everyone - our parents, our siblings, our men, our children, our friends.

It's a good cause, so please click on "sponsor me online" above to be taken directly to my webpage - it's fast, easy, secure, and for those of you who work in the UK, it's Gift Aided!

If you have trouble with the above link, cut and paste the address below into your browser's URL line. And yes, some of you will be getting emails. Sorry for 'cross-posting'.

http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/irimsarwar2007


We will now resume our regularly scheduled programme. Thank you.

A cricket fanfare for the common man

Well, it's been a while since the last cricket blog...the Ashes were so traumatic, I couldn't talk about England v Australia till last week, when we beat them in an ODI (one day international), after a start to the triangular tournament (3 teams, 3 matches twixt each [3 possible] team combination, best of 3 final - very trinitarian) that was reminiscent of the first day slaughter at the Gabbatoir. We lost to Australia twice, beat New Zealand once, then lost to them once - badly enough so the Kiwis got a bonus point. It looked like the boys would be home early to rest up for the World Cup next month. Then I stepped into a Salvador Dali painting...

First, we beat Australia. By enough to get the bonus point. Australia took it out on the Kiwis. THEN we beat the Kiwis by 14 runs. And we were in the final after having been in last place the entire tournament. We've just won the first game of the best-of-three final - against the best team in the world. Most of that is due to the superb fielding and smart batting of the man in the England shirt in the bottom picture: Paul Collingwood.

As Rach said in one of her blog entries, Colly makes being ginger sexy. Leaving aside his playing, there's a warmth, openness and intelligence to his face that makes him very attractive. He is a brilliant fielder (probably the best in the world), a decent bowler and a good batsman. Never flamboyant like KP and Flintoff, he constructs his innings using his strengths - singles and twos gained by intelligent choices - where to place the ball and when to run between the stumps. Performances like this win matches and "Man of the Match" awards. Colly is an excellent role model for the world today: he proves that humility, teamwork, hard work, going all out and playing to your strengths rather than trying to be someone else, is how big things happen. Substance, not style, is what counts.

Add to that his happy, easy temperament - aside from the occasional flare and unwise sledging - and you've got a definite dish.

Now, I've always liked Colly. But in the last few weeks, an Aussie (quelle horreur!) has been sneaking up the list of favourites. Even more embarrassingly, it's an Aussie I took the piss out of by using rhyming words (his own lyrics, mind you, so fair enough) like Indy, Hindi and bindi. Desperately wanting to unearth a Crocodile Dundee caricature, I looked him up...and my heart melted.

Brett Lee is a peroxide blond Aussie, true. He was the second option for man of the match yesterday, taking 3 wickets for 41. He has a ready smile, and if he *ever* hits a batsman with one of his 95 mph balls, he's the first one over to put a hand on their shoulder. Like Colly, he's a hard worker with a sunny disposition and a ready, open smile. Unlike Colly, he's at home in a tailored suit. When he's not playing cricket, he can be found working at Barclays Menswear pinning suits to customers and promoting his own clothing line. He fell into "gentlemen's outfitting" six months after getting his CA jacket fitted at Barclays, when the owner rang him up out of the blue and offered him a job. On his first day, he was cornered by a haranguing, fussy businessman who wanted a single-breasted suit with a notch lapel. Lee was flabbergasted; happy sadist that I am, I cried with laughter reading about it.

Lee had the sense to admit he didn't know and called his boss over. His boss, grinning broadly, introduced Lee to his best friend. Brett had been well and truly stitched up. In his words from 13 November's "Australian":

"I love [the menswear business]. I think if someone gives you an opportunity in life you should always stick with them, and I made myself a promise that I would stick by Richie the whole way. He didn't teach me only about suits, he taught me about life and how to deal with people.

"It's just a great reality check. I remember after the South African Test series I flew in at 11.30pm on a Sunday night and on Monday morning at 9am I was in there working. And after about an hour this South African came in and starts looking at me. 'Weren't you bowling last night (Saturday) in Jo'burg?' he says.

"I said, 'yeah mate, but it's back to the real world now.'

"But he couldn't believe it. 'Don't you need a rest?' he asks.

"I said 'no, this is what I like to do. It gets my mind away from cricket and puts some balance in my life'.

"I was talking to him in Afrikaans. He said, 'I can't believe this', but that gave me another edge to make the sale. I love the challenge of making a sale and look at a customer in much the same way as I look at a batsman when I'm preparing to bowl. You study him walking through the door, size him up and work on his weakness and try to take his wicket and make the sale."

Love him - not only for the sense of balance, genuine sweetness, humour and cheekiness that emanate from him, but also because he understands, in the words of ZZ Top:

Clean shirt, new shoes - and I don't know where I am goin' to.
Silk suit, black tie: I don't need a reason why.
They come runnin' just as fast as they can:
Cos every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

Spot on, Brett. Give us a bloke with a heart of gold in a sharp suit, and even tough
girls like me melt like ice cream on a summer day in Lahore. Substance over style,
every time, but substance AND style, well... With a Timex deal (Gold watch, diamond
ring, I ain't missing a single thing), the accessories are sorted(see picture above Colly).

Cufflinks, stick pin: when I step out, I'm gonna do you in. 

You already have. We'll all come running just as fast as we can...

Cos every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

Shadow puppet theatre presents: Jung and fowl play

As a Jungian carnivore, I'm with the chicken, not the tofu, on this one.

Savage Chickens: Barry White 4 Cartoon

In the name of love...

It has taken me nearly a month to write this. A month ago, almost to the day, a good friend of mine sent me this story. He can appear nonchalant and very controlled, but he feels things deeply, and he warned me that the story had left him in floods of tears. "Read it," he typed in the IM window. "I'll wait." I'll be eternally grateful that he did.

Forewarned, I clicked on the link with trepidation and read. And wept - initially, for the same reasons he did: the tragedy of true love lost, rent asunder by the apparently unresolvable tensions of the Muslim-Hindu divide. For the pain that never died, the dark tunnel that never ended that drove her to suicide. For the children who lost their mother and the others left behind. But when I wept again - and I did, more than once - my reasons and emotions were more complex...less sure, more textured, perhaps a touch darker.

Even as I read the story through the first time, swept along by the current to the inevitable tragic ending, noting the beautiful descriptive language along the way, I recognised the tightening in my solar plexus - the twisting tension that signals emotional dissonance, that tells me what I'm seeing is NOT what, or all, I'm getting. I looked more closely. On a second reading, the tragedy no longer seemed inevitable. His mother loved her, and his father even gave the couple his blessing before he died; her parents liked him, but family honour won the day and they arranged a match. Unsurprisingly, torn between her beloved and a seemingly inescapable loveless marriage, she sank into a deep depression.

Parnesh acknowledges this inevitability: "Such conflict - a constant strain on her heart - would tear the strongest to pieces." But he forgets this when they're arguing because he's pushing her to choose him. Suddenly, she is "emotionally fragile," and the depression becomes a character flaw, not the result of an unbearable situation. He creates of her a burden, and of himself a martyr:

"But there were also other demons, mood swings from exquisite contentment to deepest depression. She fought these with my help, and, increasingly, the help of medication. There were nights of tears, of comforting, of visits to doctors. And one dreadful night, a pointless argument, a threat from me to leave, an overdose. I was frantic and rushed her to hospital, promising, and crying, never to hurt her again...But I, too, despaired as the realisation slowly came that it was beyond my abilities to help. I struggled to help, not to give up on her, to continue fighting the depression that, though infrequent and kept in check by medication, would surface now and then."

Parnesh, of course there were mood swings. One moment, she was with you and wanted nothing more; the next, the spectre of an arranged marriage loomed over her and you were threatening to leave. Where could she go but between those two extremes? There was no way out, especially when a heinously irresponsible GP thought *DRUGS* were the answer to a clearly situational depression. Medication at the beginning, perhaps, so that therapy could take hold. She needed someone to talk to: a strong, compassionate counsellor to show her a third option - walking away from her parents and walking away from *you*. The way out of the trap was learning who she was and what she wanted. You and her parents fought over her as if she was a prize doll, not a living, breathing person with emotions and a story of her own. None of you thought about what was best for her. She needed someone to help her work that out for herself. No one did.

Then, Parnesh, you show narcissism and ability for self-deception beyond belief to state, "But my love, though severely tested, did not falter." Indeed. Considering that love is action as well as feeling and words, I presume that was demonstrated when you...pressured her to choose you and forsake her parents instead of supporting her? When you decided that she was defective because she was depressed? When you said goodbye, went to Cambridge and left her? When she rang you *the day before she was dragged to her arranged marriage, begging you to say you wouldn't leave her, so she could come to you and you said you couldn't promise that*? Tell me, Parnesh: WHEN DID YOUR LOVE "NOT FALTER"?

As you can see, I'm very angry. Knowing I was too close, that the story pushed too many triggers, I sent the link to another good friend who has excellent insight into people and relationship patterns. He found it odd that you couldn't promise not to leave her, and thought that your choice was revenge for her initial rejection of you. He wondered, and I did too, if your obsession with her wasn't born of that first 'no'. Was this, in fact, simply an infatuation born of the chase and the drama of the unresolvable, rather than love? Thus, when the going got tough, there was nothing to make you unselfish, nothing to make you care for her more than you cared for yourself, nothing to make you want what was right for her.

But I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. I want to believe you loved her, but that you didn't know how to show it, that you felt helpless and lost too. You tell us you heard news of her over the years, that you shut it out. She rang you last summer to tell you of her life and to hear about yours...and you said you sensed an "unfathomable sorrow", that she wept.

Then, a few months later, she died by her own hand.

I have worked on a suicide prevention hotline. I have had a friend commit suicide. I have been suicidal. Over and over again, from so many angles, I have told people that someone's suicide is *not* their fault. I am about to say something to you that goes against every fibre of my being to say. It's one of the reasons I waited so long to write this entry, because it verges on the unbearable to say these words, but I feel I must: because of the choices you made, the support you didn't give, your hand was on that bottle with hers. I'm sorry, but the four words, "I'll never leave you" would have written a completely different ending for you both.

How do I know? Sit down, Parnesh, and let me tell you a story:

Once upon a time, twenty-two years ago, a young Pakistani woman and an American boy from the Midwest fell in love. She was about to enter her junior year of college, and they had two years of unshadowed bliss. Just before her college graduation, she made the heart-wrenching decision to break up with him because she felt it was unfair to her parents. After a month of misery, she decided she couldn't live without him, and asked him to take her back.

Shortly after her graduation, as expected, her parents presented her with a prospective groom. She took a deep breath and told them about her American boy. They agreed to meet him on the long weekend of 4th July, 1987. After that meeting, her parents took her money, cards, and car keys and forbade her to leave the house without them or meet anyone except for a few high school friends; I believe they even took her house keys, vetted her mail, kept a close eye on the phone bill.

But love wouldn't give up. Those close friends rang him for her. Box by box, she shipped her belongings to him. Then one day, in the middle of August 1987, one of those trusted friends picked her up and drove her to the Greyhound bus station, where she bought a ticket to the Midwest and a certain welcome but an uncertain ending.

They married in February 1988; her parents relented and they had a Muslim wedding that summer and moved back East, where they've lived ever since. They're celebrating their 19th anniversary with their 3 gorgeous sons, and he still thinks she's the most beautiful woman he's ever met. She still thinks he's not half-bad...

Her parents? They adore him; apparently, her mum takes *his* side in their arguments now.

And so, yes, "life being what it is," nothing is certain. Neither was going to Cambridge, but you did. Love, too, is a risk. You have to step off the edge of the cliff in trust to win. Had you given her that reassurance, the ending to the story of my cousin and her husband could have been yours.

You live in my city and walk along my river. I have chastised you, tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, let you be the focus for issues you brought roaring to the surface. What would I say to you if we met tomorrow?

You say, "But she remained always in my thoughts, as do memories of the long journey to the confluence of the North and South Thompson, and those wild and distant places we once visited. I can no longer travel those roads. And never will. Sometimes even the vaguest wisp of the familiar brings back her world. But no matter how much I hide from any evocation of her, she is always there..." I would tell you that you *must* travel those roads, you must turn around and face the memories, the evocations, face the darkness and forgive her and yourself. You can never hide; you will always be found. Meet the demons at your chosen time on your terms. Never regret loving her, and never stop.

I'm not sure I know what else I would do, my feelings towards you are so mixed. Do I want to yell at you and shake you until your teeth rattle? Yes. Do I want to comfort you in your grief? Yes.

Do I hope that every night for the rest of your life, you think of her and dream of her and weep - just a little - for her?

I do.