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.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
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.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Dispatches - Pakistan's Taliban generation
I'll never forget the time my father came back from Pakistan, having spent some time in Sawat in the Northwest Frontier Province. It was the only time I saw him genuinely excited by anything, face lit up with genuine pleasure. He swore that next time, we would go.
For some reason, we couldn't manage Sawat, so we ended up going to Kaghan instead. I had no problems with the switch. As I stood there, looking out at the Himalayas, breathing the air, I felt something I have rarely felt before or since - home. For a moment, this endlessly wandering pilgrim was at rest. It was worth the sun poisoning Rabia and I suffered that night.
And the people, blessed Lady. Beautiful, vibrant, friendly. I loved the kids who clustered round us asking us who we were, talking to us, laughing. The girls wore heavy shawls over their clothes to keep off the cold; the boys ran about without coats.
The first morning, I uncurled myself from under the razai (the most GORGEOUS, THICK, WARM, USUALLY SATINY-VELVETY duvets you will EVER find), washed up, and walked outside into the most glorious sunshine, to find my uncle getting shaved with a straight razor - the first time I'd ever seen it, and I was mesmerised.
The trip was magical - the natural beauty, the people, a heartstopping horse ride to Sahful Malook (pic below) - and the last night was full of magical, hysterical laughter as my mother's youngest brother kept us all gasping for breath - he's always been the family card.
Those are my NWFP memories.
For some reason, we couldn't manage Sawat, so we ended up going to Kaghan instead. I had no problems with the switch. As I stood there, looking out at the Himalayas, breathing the air, I felt something I have rarely felt before or since - home. For a moment, this endlessly wandering pilgrim was at rest. It was worth the sun poisoning Rabia and I suffered that night.
And the people, blessed Lady. Beautiful, vibrant, friendly. I loved the kids who clustered round us asking us who we were, talking to us, laughing. The girls wore heavy shawls over their clothes to keep off the cold; the boys ran about without coats.
The first morning, I uncurled myself from under the razai (the most GORGEOUS, THICK, WARM, USUALLY SATINY-VELVETY duvets you will EVER find), washed up, and walked outside into the most glorious sunshine, to find my uncle getting shaved with a straight razor - the first time I'd ever seen it, and I was mesmerised.
The trip was magical - the natural beauty, the people, a heartstopping horse ride to Sahful Malook (pic below) - and the last night was full of magical, hysterical laughter as my mother's youngest brother kept us all gasping for breath - he's always been the family card.
Those are my NWFP memories.
Saiful Malook, gorgeous glacial lake in the Kaghan Valley.
So, to see it last night, savaged, scared, broken, oppressed by Taliban rule I didn't know existed in Pakistan, made my heart break. The emptiness, the pain, the breaking of the people's spirit vied with the stupidity spewing out of boys' mouths - "Al Qaeda did this, so I'm going to join the Taliban" - to make me alternately cry and scream.
The injuries, the deaths, the Taliban member who made me post a violent status yesterday after he called children 'tools to achieve the will of God', the brainwashed boy who said that 'God wants women to stay home, so what the hell are they doing out and about?' left me in horrified shock and rage.
One lad offered a moment of gallows humour when asked, "Do you want to be a suicide bomber?"
He replied, "I'd love to be, if I can get permission from my father."
The girls made me cry. The one who wanted to stay where she was and become a doctor, but will have to go back to her Taliban controlled village. The two girls who could have been my daughters who stood in a ruined school, whilst one said, "Education is a ray of light, I want some of that light."
The other...the other said she'd have to start wearing the burqa her father bought her. When asked whether she liked it, she said, "No. I trip on it all the time." Listen to hearts break everywhere.
Her brave father was the one man who made any sense on the programme; the rest sounded like Borg clones.
But what made my blood run cold was the young boy's voice singing a song at the beginning and end for which I had no need of the subtitles:
"If you try to find me after I have died/you won't find my body whole/you will only find little pieces/and if God approves/He will put the body back together again"
Pakistan, my Pakistan, what will become of you?
I'm not sure I dare hope.
Thursday, 12 March 2009
Sunday, 8 March 2009
The black and white riders...
"But his [Will's] attention was on the two tall riding figures starkly outlined ahead against the soft green of the park. In a few moments, the White Rider, as he felt he must call him, dropped aside and quietly trotted away. The coach went on, following the black upright form of the other.
"Bran said, 'Why should some of the Riders of the Dark be dressed all in white and the rest all in black?'
"'Without colour...' Will said reflectively. 'I don't know. Maybe because the Dark can only reach people at extremes - blinded by their own shining ideas, or locked up in the darkness of their own heads.'
--Susan Cooper, Silver on the Tree (p. 652 of the Dark is Rising Sequence, London: Bodley Head, 2007)
That is one of my favourite quotes of all time, and I've been meaning to blog it for a while, but today's discussion in the Social Club really pushed me to do it.
Nick came in and dropped down in the seat across from me. After mutual complaining about the rain, he nipped up to the bar to get a G&T and sat back down.
Then, the real conversation began.
One of the things I treasure about our friendship is that Nick and I really *listen* to each other. It may seem that we should spend the entire time using the phrases *traddy twit* and *liberal bitch*, but actually, our core principles/values are very similar, though how we express them politically can be vastly different. Passionate and headstrong in our convictions we may be, and hands will fly and voices rise (we both have cultural backgrounds that lead us to gesture a lot), but there will also be a pause as heads are tilted and ears opened. It's never just black and white.
Today's subject, twixt the odd funny story and teasing retort, was abortion, which moved into Bush's and Obama's conscience legislation. Not a subject I could usually discuss at the Oratory. But I knew I was safe with both Nick and Adrian (the raconteur), and so I was honest. And that meant a lot of emotion.
It doesn't get much more polar and emotional than abortion; and good friendships can be at risk over it. It hits on huge issues that can make it hard to listen to someone on the other side: "When does life begin?" "What are the rights of someone over their own body?" "Does a man have a say in whether or not he becomes a father?" "If a woman is raped or a girl is sexually abused, can you force her to carry the child of the aggressor for nine months?" and so many more.
The Black and White Riders run rampant across this road, with each side believing that it holds the shining ideals of life or of freedom, neither one willing to look to the other and acknowledge the complexity of their reasoning, the struggle that may have led them to their stance, the validity of some of their points. When Barack Obama said, "Every abortion is a tragedy," almost every pro-choicer I know jumped down his throat, despite his 100% NARAL rating. They felt 'betrayed', or 'Well *I* don't think it's a tragedy.' Fine. That's your position, but it is fascism to demand that it must be mine.
Allow Barack and the rest of us our more nuanced positions. Just because we find this side of the fence difficult sometimes, just because the necessity for abortion makes us sad, doesn't mean we are betraying the cause. We are one of the many shades of colour that make up the pro-choice side.
If I allow the pro-choice side many shades of colour, then I must assume that the pro-life side, made up of the same variety of human beings, has the same. That as angry as members of that side can make me, they are worth listening to.
The problem with both sides is that we make assumptions about the other; as a pro-choicer, I'm certainly guilty of that. When I hear someone is pro-life, I think "SPUC wacko" or "clinic bomber". I don't think "Nick, my friend, who always thinks things through and has good reasons for what he believes."
He probably stereotypes pro-choicers as liberal wackos who see abortion as just another medical procedure. He doesn't think, "Irim, my friend, who thinks things through and has good reasons for what she believes."
Today, I heard the words "love and support them" from him, and he heard me say, "I KNOW. I find it hard, but..." There were times when I could hear the unspoken "I hear you; I understand, but I can't agree," and times when I'm sure Nick and Adrian could hear the same. I've always wanted to be a mother, I've always been deeply aware of the immense potential of each life the moment sperm meets egg, but I simply *cannot* demand that a woman who has been raped or sexually abused carry a child to term. I cannot demand that a woman who finds out that her pregnancy endangers her life carry that child to term and risk leaving him/her and possibly other children motherless. I know that women will die if abortion is made illegal.
That means that no matter how hard it can become whenever I hear of a woman using abortion as birth control for the umpteenth time, I will stand for every woman's right to have an abortion. Because I *know* that it cannot be an easy decision. My position will always be far closer to the more nuanced Jewish position than to the absolute Catholic one.
People are not absolutes, and the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. When we believe the latter, the Riders drag us between them, leaving no room for humanity.
But as absolute as the topic of abortion may be; as heartfelt our disagreement, the Black and White Riders had no place in this discussion.
We found ourselves in the middle, passionate, on opposite sides of the fence - but leaning across it to listen. And that's as it should be.
Our conversation ended with Nick saying that the extremists on the left wing terrified him more than anything on the right wing. I said the opposite - that the right wing extreme frightened me more than the left. And I think we both have enough sense to be afraid of the extremists in our own wings.
We both fear the Black and White Riders, knowing that those blinded by shining ideas are locked in the darkness of their own heads. We know that in that direction lies the loss of the balance, compassion and love of neighbour we both hold as core values.
Maybe that's why our discussions are always in Technicolour.
May it ever be so.
"Bran said, 'Why should some of the Riders of the Dark be dressed all in white and the rest all in black?'
"'Without colour...' Will said reflectively. 'I don't know. Maybe because the Dark can only reach people at extremes - blinded by their own shining ideas, or locked up in the darkness of their own heads.'
--Susan Cooper, Silver on the Tree (p. 652 of the Dark is Rising Sequence, London: Bodley Head, 2007)
That is one of my favourite quotes of all time, and I've been meaning to blog it for a while, but today's discussion in the Social Club really pushed me to do it.
Nick came in and dropped down in the seat across from me. After mutual complaining about the rain, he nipped up to the bar to get a G&T and sat back down.
Then, the real conversation began.
One of the things I treasure about our friendship is that Nick and I really *listen* to each other. It may seem that we should spend the entire time using the phrases *traddy twit* and *liberal bitch*, but actually, our core principles/values are very similar, though how we express them politically can be vastly different. Passionate and headstrong in our convictions we may be, and hands will fly and voices rise (we both have cultural backgrounds that lead us to gesture a lot), but there will also be a pause as heads are tilted and ears opened. It's never just black and white.
Today's subject, twixt the odd funny story and teasing retort, was abortion, which moved into Bush's and Obama's conscience legislation. Not a subject I could usually discuss at the Oratory. But I knew I was safe with both Nick and Adrian (the raconteur), and so I was honest. And that meant a lot of emotion.
It doesn't get much more polar and emotional than abortion; and good friendships can be at risk over it. It hits on huge issues that can make it hard to listen to someone on the other side: "When does life begin?" "What are the rights of someone over their own body?" "Does a man have a say in whether or not he becomes a father?" "If a woman is raped or a girl is sexually abused, can you force her to carry the child of the aggressor for nine months?" and so many more.
The Black and White Riders run rampant across this road, with each side believing that it holds the shining ideals of life or of freedom, neither one willing to look to the other and acknowledge the complexity of their reasoning, the struggle that may have led them to their stance, the validity of some of their points. When Barack Obama said, "Every abortion is a tragedy," almost every pro-choicer I know jumped down his throat, despite his 100% NARAL rating. They felt 'betrayed', or 'Well *I* don't think it's a tragedy.' Fine. That's your position, but it is fascism to demand that it must be mine.
Allow Barack and the rest of us our more nuanced positions. Just because we find this side of the fence difficult sometimes, just because the necessity for abortion makes us sad, doesn't mean we are betraying the cause. We are one of the many shades of colour that make up the pro-choice side.
If I allow the pro-choice side many shades of colour, then I must assume that the pro-life side, made up of the same variety of human beings, has the same. That as angry as members of that side can make me, they are worth listening to.
The problem with both sides is that we make assumptions about the other; as a pro-choicer, I'm certainly guilty of that. When I hear someone is pro-life, I think "SPUC wacko" or "clinic bomber". I don't think "Nick, my friend, who always thinks things through and has good reasons for what he believes."
He probably stereotypes pro-choicers as liberal wackos who see abortion as just another medical procedure. He doesn't think, "Irim, my friend, who thinks things through and has good reasons for what she believes."
Today, I heard the words "love and support them" from him, and he heard me say, "I KNOW. I find it hard, but..." There were times when I could hear the unspoken "I hear you; I understand, but I can't agree," and times when I'm sure Nick and Adrian could hear the same. I've always wanted to be a mother, I've always been deeply aware of the immense potential of each life the moment sperm meets egg, but I simply *cannot* demand that a woman who has been raped or sexually abused carry a child to term. I cannot demand that a woman who finds out that her pregnancy endangers her life carry that child to term and risk leaving him/her and possibly other children motherless. I know that women will die if abortion is made illegal.
That means that no matter how hard it can become whenever I hear of a woman using abortion as birth control for the umpteenth time, I will stand for every woman's right to have an abortion. Because I *know* that it cannot be an easy decision. My position will always be far closer to the more nuanced Jewish position than to the absolute Catholic one.
People are not absolutes, and the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. When we believe the latter, the Riders drag us between them, leaving no room for humanity.
But as absolute as the topic of abortion may be; as heartfelt our disagreement, the Black and White Riders had no place in this discussion.
We found ourselves in the middle, passionate, on opposite sides of the fence - but leaning across it to listen. And that's as it should be.
Our conversation ended with Nick saying that the extremists on the left wing terrified him more than anything on the right wing. I said the opposite - that the right wing extreme frightened me more than the left. And I think we both have enough sense to be afraid of the extremists in our own wings.
We both fear the Black and White Riders, knowing that those blinded by shining ideas are locked in the darkness of their own heads. We know that in that direction lies the loss of the balance, compassion and love of neighbour we both hold as core values.
Maybe that's why our discussions are always in Technicolour.
May it ever be so.
Friday, 6 March 2009
Random thoughts on the nature of things
Over the last few weeks, or months, even, I've been thinking of a particular metaphor that arises from having a father who is an engineer (as does the embarrassing fact that when people first spoke of models on a catwalk, I thought, "Why the hell are they having a fashion show underneath a bridge?").
I've been thinking about the idea that foundations need to be rigid, but structures on those foundations need to be flexible.
So, let's take my chosen religion - Catholicism.
God's existence: foundation. Trinity: foundation. "For God so loved the world...": foundation. "Thou shalt love the LORD thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets. ": foundation.
THAT is the foundation. The rest is structure.
And that's my problem. Too much of what is *structure* and needs to be flexible is treated as foundation - hierarchy, form, rules that are generated by underlying principles, not ends in and of themselves.
Too much flexibility, and a structure is worthless, true. But there needs to be some give, and right now, I think the Church has become petrified. The Holy Spirit needs space and nooks and crannies and the ability to FLOW to do its work. I worry that Catholicism no longer has that.
The problem is that we confuse rigidity with strength and flexibility with weakness; yet it is so often the opposite. Leaving aside religion, many problems in secular society come from rigidity: a rigid idea of beauty; a rigid idea of what constitutes 'success'; rigid labels, which ignore the fact that we all have complex stories; rigidity in problem-solving; a rigid idea of what our life is supposed to look like. Rigidity far too often leads to brittleness. It's no wonder the world is such an unhappy place.
All that should be rigid in our lives is that we acknowledge ourselves and others to be human, with all that entails: the right to be who we are, not an extension of others; the right to mess up; the right to meander; the right to our own definition of success; and above all, the right to a life with equal opportunities to achieve that idea of success, whether you live in America, DRC or Kazakhstan. "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." That is our foundation.
The rest? Flexible.
We would do well to remember Jacqueline Carey's motto for one of the Houses in her Kushiel series: "That which yields is not always weak."
After all, what are the strongest natural forces in our world?
Not rock.
Water and fire. Both of which have core characteristics, a foundation, that make them what they are, but both of which are the ultimate in flexibility of form and movement - even so, their power to save or devastate remains unequalled.
Yet in that immense power, they dance.
Perhaps to recover ours, so should we.
I've been thinking about the idea that foundations need to be rigid, but structures on those foundations need to be flexible.
So, let's take my chosen religion - Catholicism.
God's existence: foundation. Trinity: foundation. "For God so loved the world...": foundation. "Thou shalt love the LORD thy God with all thine heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy might. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets. ": foundation.
THAT is the foundation. The rest is structure.
And that's my problem. Too much of what is *structure* and needs to be flexible is treated as foundation - hierarchy, form, rules that are generated by underlying principles, not ends in and of themselves.
Too much flexibility, and a structure is worthless, true. But there needs to be some give, and right now, I think the Church has become petrified. The Holy Spirit needs space and nooks and crannies and the ability to FLOW to do its work. I worry that Catholicism no longer has that.
The problem is that we confuse rigidity with strength and flexibility with weakness; yet it is so often the opposite. Leaving aside religion, many problems in secular society come from rigidity: a rigid idea of beauty; a rigid idea of what constitutes 'success'; rigid labels, which ignore the fact that we all have complex stories; rigidity in problem-solving; a rigid idea of what our life is supposed to look like. Rigidity far too often leads to brittleness. It's no wonder the world is such an unhappy place.
All that should be rigid in our lives is that we acknowledge ourselves and others to be human, with all that entails: the right to be who we are, not an extension of others; the right to mess up; the right to meander; the right to our own definition of success; and above all, the right to a life with equal opportunities to achieve that idea of success, whether you live in America, DRC or Kazakhstan. "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." That is our foundation.
The rest? Flexible.
We would do well to remember Jacqueline Carey's motto for one of the Houses in her Kushiel series: "That which yields is not always weak."
After all, what are the strongest natural forces in our world?
Not rock.
Water and fire. Both of which have core characteristics, a foundation, that make them what they are, but both of which are the ultimate in flexibility of form and movement - even so, their power to save or devastate remains unequalled.
Yet in that immense power, they dance.
Perhaps to recover ours, so should we.
Thursday, 26 February 2009
A tribute to Steve and Nageen on their 21st anniversary
It would be no exaggeration to say that I've known Nageen since I was born. Well, maybe shortly thereafter, but close enough.
She has always been stunning - thin, great bone structure, gorgeous hair. She would look amazing in a bin bag, whilst the rest of us needed to do considerable work to look even half as good as she ever did. Whilst I would heavily mortgage/consider selling my soul to look like Kajol, I'd also have negotiated a mortgage to look like Nageen. I'd have been more than happy with that.
Nageen was always the glam elder cousin with a touch of the rebel about her: self-assured, never an awkward physical phase, always ready with a quick answer, popular, daring to do things that I couldn't even imagine getting away with. (I daresay that though I may not have equalled her in looks, I've probably wrested the rebel crown from her.) We all wanted to be around her and we all wanted to BE her.
She met Steve whilst still in uni - one of her friends met him on the beach, then later cajoled Nageen into going with her to meet him later. Steve hadn't wanted to go to the beach; Nageen hadn't wanted to go out that evening. But when things are meant, they're meant, and go they both did. It was love at first sight.
I suppose I could say 'and the rest is history', but it isn't. What they've done to be together is awe-inspiring, life-affirming and all those things we say about films and books - except their story is real. It's not mine to tell, so I won't share it here, though I've mentioned one part of it to the odd close friend to illustrate the phrase made famous by Meatloaf - I would do anything for love.
I met Steve a while after they'd married and the dust had settled; the first time I was able to travel on my own to visit them in Virginia Beach. We got on like a house on fire from the minute we met; our kinship was cemented the day he was making fajitas and Nageen's brothers were coming over and he said, "I don't know what's wrong with those boys, why one of them doesn't marry you. You're *gorgeous*," said in the way only a straight man can say it when he means it, the first such compliment I ever received. It wasn't the last, but it will always be one of the ones that means the most; one that I remember during those dark, deeply insecure times that all women (and men, I guess) go through.
I've always known I could believe in what Steve said - he'll tell you what you don't want to hear as well as what you do in that no-nonsense midwestern way most Americans are familiar with. He's also one of the most supportive, loving and funny men I've ever met (you can pay me later, babe, I'll send you my bank details) - a real anchor.
As a couple? Fantastic. Their love for each other is palpable, and not in those icky, tonsil-hockey PDA ways that make you want to get a gun licence. It's in the constant flow of support and reassurance, the excuses to touch, the laughter, in the way they stand when they're together, the warmth that flows from their love to everyone around them. Have I seen Steve roll his eyes? Yup. Have I heard Nageen be snippy with him? Yup. Have I even heard the odd row? Yup.
But the love is constant; it's always there, no matter what - best exemplified by the time Steve and I were flipping through old albums and arguing over whether we liked Nageen's hair long (me) or short (him), and in the end he just said, "It doesn't matter - she's still the most beautiful woman I've ever met" - 11 years after they first met. That love is not just obvious in them, but in their three sons, every single one of whom I held as either a babe or a toddler, now on their way to becoming gorgeous young men - and like Sasha and Malia Obama, with the self-assurance and knowledge that they are loved by parents who love each other.
Thank you. Thank you for showing the world that real love exists; that it's supposed to get better as you go on, not fade away; that commitment is worth it; that there's hope out there for all of us; that we need to hold out rather than settle. And even if I didn't remember the lesson, thank you for showing me what a relationship is supposed to look like, and why I've waited.
Above all, thank you for loving me. Thank you for loving me when my parents didn't or couldn't; for loving me when I couldn't love myself. You were the family that I never lost, no matter how far I roamed - my refuge and strength in ways you will never know. And so it was, not so long ago, Steve, when you asked why another of my childhood friends wasn't married, I mentioned that I wasn't either, but that was because I was a bitch, you said, "Yeah, but you're our bitch."
I so totally am.
I love you and miss you both with all my heart - happy anniversary, and I promise not to embarrass you like this until your golden wedding anniversary.
Then, I'm really going to town.
She has always been stunning - thin, great bone structure, gorgeous hair. She would look amazing in a bin bag, whilst the rest of us needed to do considerable work to look even half as good as she ever did. Whilst I would heavily mortgage/consider selling my soul to look like Kajol, I'd also have negotiated a mortgage to look like Nageen. I'd have been more than happy with that.
Nageen was always the glam elder cousin with a touch of the rebel about her: self-assured, never an awkward physical phase, always ready with a quick answer, popular, daring to do things that I couldn't even imagine getting away with. (I daresay that though I may not have equalled her in looks, I've probably wrested the rebel crown from her.) We all wanted to be around her and we all wanted to BE her.
She met Steve whilst still in uni - one of her friends met him on the beach, then later cajoled Nageen into going with her to meet him later. Steve hadn't wanted to go to the beach; Nageen hadn't wanted to go out that evening. But when things are meant, they're meant, and go they both did. It was love at first sight.
I suppose I could say 'and the rest is history', but it isn't. What they've done to be together is awe-inspiring, life-affirming and all those things we say about films and books - except their story is real. It's not mine to tell, so I won't share it here, though I've mentioned one part of it to the odd close friend to illustrate the phrase made famous by Meatloaf - I would do anything for love.
I met Steve a while after they'd married and the dust had settled; the first time I was able to travel on my own to visit them in Virginia Beach. We got on like a house on fire from the minute we met; our kinship was cemented the day he was making fajitas and Nageen's brothers were coming over and he said, "I don't know what's wrong with those boys, why one of them doesn't marry you. You're *gorgeous*," said in the way only a straight man can say it when he means it, the first such compliment I ever received. It wasn't the last, but it will always be one of the ones that means the most; one that I remember during those dark, deeply insecure times that all women (and men, I guess) go through.
I've always known I could believe in what Steve said - he'll tell you what you don't want to hear as well as what you do in that no-nonsense midwestern way most Americans are familiar with. He's also one of the most supportive, loving and funny men I've ever met (you can pay me later, babe, I'll send you my bank details) - a real anchor.
As a couple? Fantastic. Their love for each other is palpable, and not in those icky, tonsil-hockey PDA ways that make you want to get a gun licence. It's in the constant flow of support and reassurance, the excuses to touch, the laughter, in the way they stand when they're together, the warmth that flows from their love to everyone around them. Have I seen Steve roll his eyes? Yup. Have I heard Nageen be snippy with him? Yup. Have I even heard the odd row? Yup.
But the love is constant; it's always there, no matter what - best exemplified by the time Steve and I were flipping through old albums and arguing over whether we liked Nageen's hair long (me) or short (him), and in the end he just said, "It doesn't matter - she's still the most beautiful woman I've ever met" - 11 years after they first met. That love is not just obvious in them, but in their three sons, every single one of whom I held as either a babe or a toddler, now on their way to becoming gorgeous young men - and like Sasha and Malia Obama, with the self-assurance and knowledge that they are loved by parents who love each other.
Thank you. Thank you for showing the world that real love exists; that it's supposed to get better as you go on, not fade away; that commitment is worth it; that there's hope out there for all of us; that we need to hold out rather than settle. And even if I didn't remember the lesson, thank you for showing me what a relationship is supposed to look like, and why I've waited.
Above all, thank you for loving me. Thank you for loving me when my parents didn't or couldn't; for loving me when I couldn't love myself. You were the family that I never lost, no matter how far I roamed - my refuge and strength in ways you will never know. And so it was, not so long ago, Steve, when you asked why another of my childhood friends wasn't married, I mentioned that I wasn't either, but that was because I was a bitch, you said, "Yeah, but you're our bitch."
I so totally am.
I love you and miss you both with all my heart - happy anniversary, and I promise not to embarrass you like this until your golden wedding anniversary.
Then, I'm really going to town.
Monday, 23 February 2009
Snogging Satan, Facebook style
I get no respect from my Southern Hemisphere male friends. None. Whether they're from Australia, New Zealand, Zim or South Africa, every last one of them has the nerve to give me some form of backchat. Even Saffapriest (formerly Saffadeacon), usually the most mild-mannered and even-keeled of men.
The *cheek* of it.
And I wouldn't have them any other way.
One example of this was my Saturday am facebook status and my Aussie friend Jack's [NOT ex-housemate Jack] response, which made yet another of my statuses blogworthy:
Irim wonders what her dream about snogging Satan means. 12:06
VN at 12:11 on 21 February
It means opposites attract, my angel. ;-)
VN at 12:11 on 21 February
*cheeky* LOL
Irim at 12:18 on 21 February
Right, folks, so here's the whole deal:
I dreamt that I was in the guest room in the house I grew up in (it doubled as a study room for me; for some reason my parents thought it was a good idea) and Satan walked in.
I was myself now, and the house was empty - no parents, no brother, and I turned around to see Satan enter the room. I was unafraid and asked him what he wanted. I'm really cross that I can't remember his response, but I do remember that it was a completely civil conversation. It was very normal.
Then he turned to go, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by his loneliness and exile, and just ached for him and for all he had lost. Suddenly, his eternal fall, his punishment, seemed so terribly, terribly unfair and wrong.
"Wait," I said, and he turned. And I leaned in to kiss him. I think he was a bit surprised.
Irim at 12:19 on 21 February
Oh V, I should have known you'd get in there before I could finish the narration! *Grin* Well, the whole dream is over to you now. xx
Jack B at 18:55 on 21 February
Bad Boy Syndrome, Catholic style...
Irim at 20:02 on 21 February
LOL! Jack, you know me wayyyyyy too well. And you're probably even more right than you realised, considering the rest of the dream had him chaining me to a wall in a place that could easily have been any one of a gazillion Catholic churches/religious buildings - to talk, of course, I hasten to add... xx
Jack at 19:40 on 23 February
Yep...uh huh....he ("You can call me 'Meph'..." ) isn't really bad, mom, he just needs lerve....and he just needs to chain you to the wall for your own safety....hold still, this won't hurt a bit.....
You know, that dream SO explains my last emotionally unavailable addict...
The *cheek* of it.
And I wouldn't have them any other way.
One example of this was my Saturday am facebook status and my Aussie friend Jack's [NOT ex-housemate Jack] response, which made yet another of my statuses blogworthy:
Irim wonders what her dream about snogging Satan means. 12:06
VN at 12:11 on 21 February
It means opposites attract, my angel. ;-)
VN at 12:11 on 21 February
*cheeky* LOL
Irim at 12:18 on 21 February
Right, folks, so here's the whole deal:
I dreamt that I was in the guest room in the house I grew up in (it doubled as a study room for me; for some reason my parents thought it was a good idea) and Satan walked in.
I was myself now, and the house was empty - no parents, no brother, and I turned around to see Satan enter the room. I was unafraid and asked him what he wanted. I'm really cross that I can't remember his response, but I do remember that it was a completely civil conversation. It was very normal.
Then he turned to go, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by his loneliness and exile, and just ached for him and for all he had lost. Suddenly, his eternal fall, his punishment, seemed so terribly, terribly unfair and wrong.
"Wait," I said, and he turned. And I leaned in to kiss him. I think he was a bit surprised.
Irim at 12:19 on 21 February
Oh V, I should have known you'd get in there before I could finish the narration! *Grin* Well, the whole dream is over to you now. xx
Jack B at 18:55 on 21 February
Bad Boy Syndrome, Catholic style...
Irim at 20:02 on 21 February
LOL! Jack, you know me wayyyyyy too well. And you're probably even more right than you realised, considering the rest of the dream had him chaining me to a wall in a place that could easily have been any one of a gazillion Catholic churches/religious buildings - to talk, of course, I hasten to add... xx
Jack at 19:40 on 23 February
Yep...uh huh....he ("You can call me 'Meph'..." ) isn't really bad, mom, he just needs lerve....and he just needs to chain you to the wall for your own safety....hold still, this won't hurt a bit.....
You know, that dream SO explains my last emotionally unavailable addict...
Saturday, 21 February 2009
Dream journal 20/02/09
I was reading in bed last night when I drifted off sometime around midnight and had the following dream:
I dreamt that I was in the guest room in the house I grew up in (it doubled as a study room for me; for some reason my parents thought it was a good idea).
I was myself now, and the house was empty - no parents, no brother, and I turned around to see Satan enter the room. I was unafraid... Read more and asked him what he wanted. I'm really cross that I can't remember his response, but I do remember that it was a completely civil conversation. It was very normal.
Then he turned to go, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by his loneliness and exile, and just ached for him and for all he had lost. Suddenly, his eternal fall, his punishment, seemed so terribly, terribly unfair and wrong.
"Wait," I said, and he turned. And I leaned in to kiss him. I think he was a bit surprised.
This was where I ended the explanation on my facebook status, mostly because there just wasn't going to be room to go on.
After I kissed him, Satan asked me to come with him, which I did, and we entered a very cool, dark building with high ceilings and smooth brick walls, lit by torches in brackets. He chained my wrists to the wall (for those who think how might make a difference to analysis, above my head), but I didn't feel trapped. Again, I can't remember the conversation or what he was showing me, but I remember feeling completely in control and calm, responding as necessary.
It was where I was supposed to be, when I was supposed to be. It was absolutely fine - I was completely unafraid, completely in control, and relishing the exchange.
I was sorry I had to wake up when I did to turn out the lights.
Thursday, 12 February 2009
On Darwin's birthday...
I simply MUST post the discussion on my facebook status, which is just breathtakingly wonderful in its thoughtfulness, respect and depth. I'll update it through the evening till I change my status. And it's coming here so my non-fb friends/readers can add to it. All times are GMT.
In case I haven't said it enough:
I LOVE MY FRIENDS. THEY ARE FUCKING BRILLIANT. YOU GUYS TOTALLY, TOTALLY ROCK.
Irim celebrates Charles Darwin's 200th birthday with joy - she ♥ s him and wishes she could watch Dawkins clean the floor with the Bish of Oxford tonight.
Irim
In case I haven't said it enough:
I LOVE MY FRIENDS. THEY ARE FUCKING BRILLIANT. YOU GUYS TOTALLY, TOTALLY ROCK.
Irim celebrates Charles Darwin's 200th birthday with joy - she ♥ s him and wishes she could watch Dawkins clean the floor with the Bish of Oxford tonight.
Seriously?
Seriously. I've loved Darwin's work forever, despite its misappropriation for a lot of racist science. As for Dawkins, his manner annoys the hell out of me, but I am sick of people knee-jerk hating him b/c they're 'religious'. And scientifically illiterate religion doesn't get a 'pass' from me. It's so obvious to me that Dawkins is the way he is because religion hurt him at some point or he felt that God let him down - otherwise he wouldn't be so angry. I'm tired of the supposedly charitable religious joining groups like "Richard Dawkins can go fuck off" without really listening to him. xx
Love Dawkins!
Irim
Hon, as I've said, Dawkins' manner annoys the hell out of me, but he is an *excellent* scientist. I may not agree with a lot of what he says, but his arguments are often elegant & beautifully laid out, unlike many religious arguments - e.g., a recent article we discussed was an example of much of the very poor, unchallenged argumentation that happens in religion all the time - because they are only writing for the converted and never examine/challenge their assumptions, and borrow arguments/evidence from the 'correct source' (read: the Pope) without examining it.
I want Dawkins to win because he's BETTER, not b/c I like him.
You've read the "God Delusion", hate him with abandon-but the worst thing you can do is want him to disappear. Theology needs men like Dawkins because theology is stagnant, and needs the challenge of men like him to really pull its finger out and do some REAL work, move forward and...well, evolve, to borrow a word today's birthday boy might appreciate. xx
I want Dawkins to win because he's BETTER, not b/c I like him.
You've read the "God Delusion", hate him with abandon-but the worst thing you can do is want him to disappear. Theology needs men like Dawkins because theology is stagnant, and needs the challenge of men like him to really pull its finger out and do some REAL work, move forward and...well, evolve, to borrow a word today's birthday boy might appreciate. xx
T
Dawkins speaks the truth and people don't like that. He is confrontational because he has to be. The world needs a few more skeptics like him.
I don't think religion and science have to be mutually exclusive. If religion argues that God created everything, in its final form we see today, then God created humans to have a frontal cortex.
It is this cerebral creation that gives us the ability as man, to question the world around us with science.
To deny people like Dawkins a voice and to ignore scientific discoveries, means to deny and ignore the humanity God himself has created!
Go Dawkins! :-)
It is this cerebral creation that gives us the ability as man, to question the world around us with science.
To deny people like Dawkins a voice and to ignore scientific discoveries, means to deny and ignore the humanity God himself has created!
Go Dawkins! :-)
I agree that Dawkins must have been hurt by religion at some point, and that is his one of his weaknesses. His knowledge of theology and especially philosophy is also poor, and that means he is out of his depth. He was much better in his 'The Selfish Gene' phase, which is beautifully written. On religious matters he doesn't offer arguments, but rather seeks to ridicule, something which he is rather good at. As a result 'The God Delusion' is entertaining, but he does not present any good arguments against the existence of God. It rather counts against him that he doesn't employ the same kind of academic rigour in religious matters as he would for science. God - what a load of dangerous rubbish -simply isn't good enough. As for the other side of the debate - it is sad when religious people who respond fall in to the trap of ridiculing Dawkins, employing the same kind of rhetoric that he does. Speaking as a scientist and someone who believes in God, I know that we can do better than that.
Ah, my fellow biologist, the friar, weighs in :-)! Hey, hon.
[His knowledge of theology and especially philosophy is also poor, and that means he is out of his depth... It rather counts against him that he doesn't employ the same kind of academic rigour in religious matters as he would for science.]
I haven't read "God Delusion" in full yet, but if that is indeed the case, it is a strike against him as an academic: if you are making an argument, you should know your field, your opponents' field and every building block of your argument backwards and forwards, otherwise you're the one who's guilty of using selective evidence to prove your pet theory rather generate one - cardinal sin for a scientist.
Oh no, I accused a scientist of a religious crime...see, they do mix ;-)
Well said, C - creation may be true, but science and maths are the languages God used to create the universe, and we should learn them to the full. xx
[His knowledge of theology and especially philosophy is also poor, and that means he is out of his depth... It rather counts against him that he doesn't employ the same kind of academic rigour in religious matters as he would for science.]
I haven't read "God Delusion" in full yet, but if that is indeed the case, it is a strike against him as an academic: if you are making an argument, you should know your field, your opponents' field and every building block of your argument backwards and forwards, otherwise you're the one who's guilty of using selective evidence to prove your pet theory rather generate one - cardinal sin for a scientist.
Oh no, I accused a scientist of a religious crime...see, they do mix ;-)
Well said, C - creation may be true, but science and maths are the languages God used to create the universe, and we should learn them to the full. xx
I still cling to my belief in "God" (for lack of a better term) despite Dawkins's arguments; I'm not a scientist so maybe I didn't expect the same rigor that a scientist would--but he convinced me, really, on many levels. I still believe in God because my idea of God has always been the God of Einstein, the God of e.e. cummings, "when God decided to invent everything/he took one big breath bigger than a circustent/and everything began" and the idea of an interfering, manipulating God has no meaning to me anyway.
For an argument in favor of atheism, though, I found Julia Sweeney's "Letting Go of God" much more powerful.
Darwin's the man. Happy birthday to him.
For an argument in favor of atheism, though, I found Julia Sweeney's "Letting Go of God" much more powerful.
Darwin's the man. Happy birthday to him.
Frankly, I take exception to the idea that one has to be "damaged" by religion to hold the kinds of beliefs that Dawkins does. I grew up in a proper Catholic household and I hold pretty much the same beliefs. While I disagree strongly with most of the Catholic Church's positions, I wasn't damaged in any way. Indeed, I acknowledge those aspects of my religious upbringing that were positve. Yet on the very same day that the Church finally comes to terms with Darwin, it refuses to denounce a church leader who denies the Holocaust. Is that progress? Not by my definition.
Hiya, hon, good to see you & thanks for friending me :). I hear you, though I suppose I've always been more of a panentheist: God is in everything but is also beyond everything (in line with some Qabbalists, I think, which puts me in good company) and I really must make a 2009 resolution to read the book - I've seen some of his telly work.
I googled Julia Sweeney and read an interview with her - and I found it incredibly powerful as well, esp as I read the Bible a lot and go, "WTF? Would I want a God who did THAT to his creation, even if they don't agree with/recognise him? That sounds human, not divine, to me."
To everyone so far - thank you...am loving the comments/discussion. Darwin would be proud, I think :-). xx
I googled Julia Sweeney and read an interview with her - and I found it incredibly powerful as well, esp as I read the Bible a lot and go, "WTF? Would I want a God who did THAT to his creation, even if they don't agree with/recognise him? That sounds human, not divine, to me."
To everyone so far - thank you...am loving the comments/discussion. Darwin would be proud, I think :-). xx
Irim
Tom, we're not saying that someone has to be damaged by religion to hold those beliefs: one of my closest friends is an atheist and grew up happily and well-balanced, never knew anything else. But she rests much more easily in it than Dawkins does and is very happy for people to believe what they want. If you're a theist, she doesn't give a damn; she loves listening to your arguments and putting forward hers.
What Robert and I are saying is that Dawkins' *behaviour*/emotional affect - his rage, his scorn, his lack of calm - when the subject comes up, as well as his need to convert everyone - seems to point to a sense of betrayal. We could be totally wrong; we're just speculating. But in my experience, that kind of intense anger nearly always points to unresolved issues.
Remember, I said I want him to win tonight!
And FYI, I make the EXACT same extrapolation about friends who are Catholic converts from Anglicanism and do nothing but pour scorn and hate on their old religion. xx
What Robert and I are saying is that Dawkins' *behaviour*/emotional affect - his rage, his scorn, his lack of calm - when the subject comes up, as well as his need to convert everyone - seems to point to a sense of betrayal. We could be totally wrong; we're just speculating. But in my experience, that kind of intense anger nearly always points to unresolved issues.
Remember, I said I want him to win tonight!
And FYI, I make the EXACT same extrapolation about friends who are Catholic converts from Anglicanism and do nothing but pour scorn and hate on their old religion. xx
Tom, I second what Irim just said - atheistic views are held calmly and rationally by many people. But unlike Irim, I hope that Dawkins does 'loose' tonight, and continues to do so until such time as he starts to fill the gaps in his knowledge and provide good arguments that enhance the debate. It is not enough to be a good rhetorician - look how often in history good orators and rhetoricians are later judged as misguided, even dangerous. I don't want to over exaggerate Dawkins' influence too much, and what I say about him also goes for the religious side of the debate too. But with any important issue we might care to mention, the consequences of an aggressive irrational line being allowed to substitute for proper reasoning can be grave. It takes courage and integrity to do it properly, but the struggle is worth it. Not to do so can lead to an unthinking fractured society with little mutual understanding and respect.
Good grief! I went to class, came back, turned on facebook and found that the response I'd been drafting all through my lecture this morning had already been made.
I don't know whether to be grateful you saved me the effort or annoyed that you got there first (twice), R!
T at 16.34 on 12 February
I've had a 2 hour flight and a 1 hour drive to formulate a response. And part of me very much wants to let loose with both barrels how much I disagree. To address, point by point, why the characterizations of Dawkins are wrong. But I won't. I prefer not to get into these debates, and I'm going to do the prudent thing and bow out now.
Irim at 16:50 on 12 February
I'll admit that I'm sorry not to hear your response, hon, though I understand & respect why you won't, and that's cool. I freely admit that what I have of Dawkins is only *an impression*, and I'm extrapolating from that - I'll be the first to put my hands up and say that how I perceive Dawkins' manner is subjective; he *feels* angry & overzealous to me.
As I said, I haven't read "God Delusion" in full, just excerpts, so I can't answer to what Robert said about philosophy and theology - they're not my areas. Again, I will say that his science is brilliant, his arguments tend to be exceptionally elegant, and I DO have a lot of time for him. There's some serious substance in his arguments, as I said above, theology could use the challenge, and we DO need sceptics like him to keep pointing out inconsistencies, discrepancies - men like him will force us to search for the truth and not sit on our asses.
BTW, this has been so fantastic, I've blogged it - sans names or pics but mine. xx
I don't know whether to be grateful you saved me the effort or annoyed that you got there first (twice), R!
T at 16.34 on 12 February
I've had a 2 hour flight and a 1 hour drive to formulate a response. And part of me very much wants to let loose with both barrels how much I disagree. To address, point by point, why the characterizations of Dawkins are wrong. But I won't. I prefer not to get into these debates, and I'm going to do the prudent thing and bow out now.
Irim at 16:50 on 12 February
I'll admit that I'm sorry not to hear your response, hon, though I understand & respect why you won't, and that's cool. I freely admit that what I have of Dawkins is only *an impression*, and I'm extrapolating from that - I'll be the first to put my hands up and say that how I perceive Dawkins' manner is subjective; he *feels* angry & overzealous to me.
As I said, I haven't read "God Delusion" in full, just excerpts, so I can't answer to what Robert said about philosophy and theology - they're not my areas. Again, I will say that his science is brilliant, his arguments tend to be exceptionally elegant, and I DO have a lot of time for him. There's some serious substance in his arguments, as I said above, theology could use the challenge, and we DO need sceptics like him to keep pointing out inconsistencies, discrepancies - men like him will force us to search for the truth and not sit on our asses.
BTW, this has been so fantastic, I've blogged it - sans names or pics but mine. xx
Sunday, 8 February 2009
Congratulations, but...
Warm congratulations to Jennifer Figge, an American woman who has swum from the Cape Verde Islands off the coast of Africa to Trinidad in 24 days.
You note that I refuse to give her the title the BBC has given her, which is that of first woman to cross the Atlantic.
That's because, if you look at the map, she hasn't.
It is an awesome feat, no question, but it is not trans-Atlantic. When she started at Cape Verde, she got a 375 mile head start. Trinidad is only 7 miles off the Venezuelan coast; I'm not going to quibble about that right now.
But 375 miles, or 625 km, is a pretty big omission. So, not a winner in my book.
And of course, as a feminist, I wanted her to do the same distance as the man, Benoit Lecomte, who swam land point (Hyannis) to land point (Quiberon) - or 3,716 miles.
Now I understand that 'transatlantic' distances will differ, depending on your points of departure and arrival, but I really believe that if someone has already done it, to qualify for the same title, you have to do at least the same distance. Whatever your gender.
Just like if you're a woman who wants to be a fireman - if the boys have to carry 100 lbs on their backs during the physical test, so do you.
And that means that swimming 2,100 miles to Benoit's 3,716 - a shortfall of 1,616 miles, and not even major landmass to major landmass - is a huge accomplishment, but doesn't give you the right to be called first woman to swim the Atlantic.
Women have been told often enough that they get more for less: Wimbledon champ for 2/3 sets rather than 3/5 and so on. We're already seen as falling short. And that's unfair, because most of us run twice as far to be considered half as good.
Swimming 56.5% of the distance a man did, then wanting the same title, is just going to make it worse for the rest of us.
It is however, a huge accomplishment and for that, many congratulations and all the best for the future.
Should you actually swim coast to coast across the Atlantic in the future, in a comparable distance to Mr Lecomte, no one will be happier than I to crown you first woman to cross the Atlantic.
You note that I refuse to give her the title the BBC has given her, which is that of first woman to cross the Atlantic.
That's because, if you look at the map, she hasn't.
It is an awesome feat, no question, but it is not trans-Atlantic. When she started at Cape Verde, she got a 375 mile head start. Trinidad is only 7 miles off the Venezuelan coast; I'm not going to quibble about that right now.
But 375 miles, or 625 km, is a pretty big omission. So, not a winner in my book.
And of course, as a feminist, I wanted her to do the same distance as the man, Benoit Lecomte, who swam land point (Hyannis) to land point (Quiberon) - or 3,716 miles.
Now I understand that 'transatlantic' distances will differ, depending on your points of departure and arrival, but I really believe that if someone has already done it, to qualify for the same title, you have to do at least the same distance. Whatever your gender.
Just like if you're a woman who wants to be a fireman - if the boys have to carry 100 lbs on their backs during the physical test, so do you.
And that means that swimming 2,100 miles to Benoit's 3,716 - a shortfall of 1,616 miles, and not even major landmass to major landmass - is a huge accomplishment, but doesn't give you the right to be called first woman to swim the Atlantic.
Women have been told often enough that they get more for less: Wimbledon champ for 2/3 sets rather than 3/5 and so on. We're already seen as falling short. And that's unfair, because most of us run twice as far to be considered half as good.
Swimming 56.5% of the distance a man did, then wanting the same title, is just going to make it worse for the rest of us.
It is however, a huge accomplishment and for that, many congratulations and all the best for the future.
Should you actually swim coast to coast across the Atlantic in the future, in a comparable distance to Mr Lecomte, no one will be happier than I to crown you first woman to cross the Atlantic.
Friday, 6 February 2009
And yet another personality test...
Understanding
You are willing to take the time to find out what's going on with other people, especially if they're in distress. You're a good listener, you don't criticize, and you offer unbiased, respectful, honest advice when it's requested.You don't feel the need to impose your standards on others or say things that, even though true, cause pain.
With a high score on the "understanding" trait, it is likely that you are enthusiastic about charitable work, helping others, and making the world a better place.
Aesthetic
You appreciate art, beauty, and design; you know that they are not superficial but absolutely crucial to living the good life. You have good taste, and you're proud of it.You don't think it's pretentious to be moved by art and beauty. You're not one of those who believe it doesn't matter what something looks like as long as it does its job.
Those with a high score on the "aesthetic" trait are often employed in literary or artistic professions, enjoy domestic activities — doing things around the house — and are enthusiastic about the arts, reading, and travel.
Intellectual
You are thoughtful, rational, and comfortable in the world of ideas. People find you interesting to talk to. You're the living embodiment of the saying "You learn something new every day."You do not avoid abstract conversation, experimenting with new ideas, or studying new things. It bores you to stick to the straight and narrow of what you already know.
In general, those with a high score on the "intellectual" trait are employed in such fields as teaching and research, and are enthusiastic about reading, foreign films, and classical music.
Sympathetic
You have a knack for knowing what's going on in the hearts and minds of those around you, without their having to tell you explicitly. People tend to turn to you with their problems because they know you care, and that you will likely offer good advice and a helping hand.You do not feel that people with sad stories are just looking for attention, or have brought their problems upon themselves.
Curious
You like to get to the bottom of things. You're not content knowing what someone did; you want to know why they did it.You don't simply take things as they are and move on; you're not content skimming along on the surface; you don't feel you're wasting time by digging for the meaning of things.
Warm
You have a genuine interest in other people. You're a natural host, and are always thinking about how you can increase the happiness of those around you. When friends have problems or are in trouble, you're usually the first person they turn to for aid and comfort.You don't always say exactly what you're thinking; you don't like the idea of causing anyone pain because of your criticism.
Scoring high on the "warm" trait suggests that you are among those who enjoy domestic activities — doing things around the house — and are enthusiastic about charitable work, helping others, and making the world a better place.
Empathetic
You are in touch with your own feelings, which helps put you in touch with the feelings of others.You don't buy the logic that your happiness comes ahead of everyone else's because unless you're happy you're incapable of making anyone else happy.
Passionate
You are in touch with your emotions, and sometimes you react before you think. The good news: you don't tamp down your feelings. The bad news: you sometimes say or do things that you later wish you could take back.You do not live your life on an even keel; you do not go for long periods without experiencing some mood swings.
Creative
You are good at solving problems, coming up with original ideas, and seeing connections between things, connections that most other people miss.You do not shun abstractions and concepts in favor of the concrete and tangible.
People with a high score on the "creative" trait often are employed in such fields as finance and scientific research, and enjoy avant garde and classical music as well as literary fiction and scholarly non-fiction.
Original
You are constantly coming up with new ideas. For you, the world as it exists is just a jumping-off place; what's going on inside your mind is often more interesting than what's going on outside.You don't feel that the road to success is to be a realist and stick to the program; you never stop yourself from coming up with new ideas or telling the world what you're thinking about.Wednesday, 4 February 2009
Centre of the labyrinth
As most of my friends know, I'm currently training to be a psychotherapist. So all-day classes are filled with exercises ranging from answering questions about how culture affects us to doing mock consultations.
Sunday, 25 January, my mock consultation was with one of my study partners, K, who has some counselling experience. We were to have an initial consultation, do a hypnotherapy screed, and do a post-consultation, so we had to choose a fairly specific problem for the exercise.
Now I could have chosen any of a dozen - fear of spiders would have been the easiest. But the one that came out of my mouth was, "I have a real problem being in the middle of a crowd. I need to be near an exit and/or with my back to the wall. I can't be in the middle of a row or a pew, or I feel really uncomfortable. I can get *really* aggressive if I can't sit at the end. I can do small spaces, no problem. I'm not place claustrophobic; I'm people claustrophobic."
K asked a few questions, including "When do you first remember this starting?" I gave him the answers that I had worked out - being sexually abused and being backed into corners when a parent was angry.
His screed was interesting - and I found it remarkably perceptive that he incorporated the idea that everyone was positively inclined towards me: the visualisation was of a party where everyone was happy to see me. It hadn't occurred to me, obvious though it is, that part of the underlying mentality was that *my initial assumption is that people are hostile* - not neutral, not positive, but negative. That ties into other areas as well: I don't always trust people to let me know when they're upset with me and work things out; I occasionally leap to the worst (not showing up) conclusion when friends run really late.
But that wasn't the big one. That came in the mock post-consultation, when K gently probed past the pat 'why' answers. And out of my mouth came:
"I always felt so trapped in my family. I couldn't even walk out the door without one of them or without having them breathing down my neck, ringing every 5 minutes."
Oh.
It was a bit like being hit in the solar plexus - and that was when it was only attached to the people claustrophobia.
It turned out that it was more like hitting a sheet of ice along a fracture plane. Cracks are radiating out everywhere, and I'm suddenly aware that what seemed to be solid ground under my feet never was.
I felt shattered Sunday evening; the stillness of Vespers helped a bit, the Tallis Canon helped even further. Monday, I felt tender; that was to be expected. But by Monday evening, I was beginning to understand just how big those cracks were, as I mentioned the breakthrough to Ari towards the end of our conversation.
By Tuesday, my world looked like global warming had hit full force, as I felt like I was standing on a tiny piece of ice with several emperor penguins sitting on eggs on a restless ocean.
Ari and I emailed back and forth quite a lot, and by Wednesday evening, I was pretty sure I'd found the centre of my labyrinth. Follow the thread of every decision I have ever made, large or small, and it ties back to the need for freedom, the fear of being locked in.
I never make a room my own - so I can pack and leave. I go to a church like the Oratory, where I never feel at home - so the door is always ajar and I have one foot out the door, and I don't feel trapped. I fall for/get involved with emotionally unavailable men, so I never, EVER have to close the door behind me and get trapped in a life like the suffocating one my parents had - or that I had growing up. Hmmm. Wonder who the really emotionally unavailable one is there?
So in essence, my need to be free has trapped me in a life that is too small. I must always be ready to pack and leave at a moment's notice.
I may become attached to things, but I never really allow myself to become committed.
*Because it never occurs to me that once a door is closed, and a space is mine, I can OPEN AND CLOSE IT AT WILL, and come home. I'm NOT trapped.*
I've threaded myself to the centre of the labyrinth: from here, everything emanates. Every decision, every action, every fear.
Now I need to find my way out to freedom. I'm tired of living in emotional hotel rooms and out of emotional suitcases. I proved I can walk out of my parents' house with no more than 3 bin bags of clothing. I only needed to do it once; I don't need to spend the rest of my life living there.
It is often said that we become stuck because of an intense inner conflict: I am dying to put down roots, to build a family and to be still; but thinking about growing up in my family still leaves me choking for air and I'm terrified of being trapped.
I think I need to sit in the darkness for a while, holding this, honouring it, knowing it was a way for me to survive. Then, I need to thread my way out, one step at a time, intuitively and in faith.
But the time for being a spore is over; it's time to shed the hard covering and become a seed.
It's time to stop surviving and start living.
Sunday, 25 January, my mock consultation was with one of my study partners, K, who has some counselling experience. We were to have an initial consultation, do a hypnotherapy screed, and do a post-consultation, so we had to choose a fairly specific problem for the exercise.
Now I could have chosen any of a dozen - fear of spiders would have been the easiest. But the one that came out of my mouth was, "I have a real problem being in the middle of a crowd. I need to be near an exit and/or with my back to the wall. I can't be in the middle of a row or a pew, or I feel really uncomfortable. I can get *really* aggressive if I can't sit at the end. I can do small spaces, no problem. I'm not place claustrophobic; I'm people claustrophobic."
K asked a few questions, including "When do you first remember this starting?" I gave him the answers that I had worked out - being sexually abused and being backed into corners when a parent was angry.
His screed was interesting - and I found it remarkably perceptive that he incorporated the idea that everyone was positively inclined towards me: the visualisation was of a party where everyone was happy to see me. It hadn't occurred to me, obvious though it is, that part of the underlying mentality was that *my initial assumption is that people are hostile* - not neutral, not positive, but negative. That ties into other areas as well: I don't always trust people to let me know when they're upset with me and work things out; I occasionally leap to the worst (not showing up) conclusion when friends run really late.
But that wasn't the big one. That came in the mock post-consultation, when K gently probed past the pat 'why' answers. And out of my mouth came:
"I always felt so trapped in my family. I couldn't even walk out the door without one of them or without having them breathing down my neck, ringing every 5 minutes."
Oh.
It was a bit like being hit in the solar plexus - and that was when it was only attached to the people claustrophobia.
It turned out that it was more like hitting a sheet of ice along a fracture plane. Cracks are radiating out everywhere, and I'm suddenly aware that what seemed to be solid ground under my feet never was.
I felt shattered Sunday evening; the stillness of Vespers helped a bit, the Tallis Canon helped even further. Monday, I felt tender; that was to be expected. But by Monday evening, I was beginning to understand just how big those cracks were, as I mentioned the breakthrough to Ari towards the end of our conversation.
By Tuesday, my world looked like global warming had hit full force, as I felt like I was standing on a tiny piece of ice with several emperor penguins sitting on eggs on a restless ocean.
Ari and I emailed back and forth quite a lot, and by Wednesday evening, I was pretty sure I'd found the centre of my labyrinth. Follow the thread of every decision I have ever made, large or small, and it ties back to the need for freedom, the fear of being locked in.
I never make a room my own - so I can pack and leave. I go to a church like the Oratory, where I never feel at home - so the door is always ajar and I have one foot out the door, and I don't feel trapped. I fall for/get involved with emotionally unavailable men, so I never, EVER have to close the door behind me and get trapped in a life like the suffocating one my parents had - or that I had growing up. Hmmm. Wonder who the really emotionally unavailable one is there?
So in essence, my need to be free has trapped me in a life that is too small. I must always be ready to pack and leave at a moment's notice.
I may become attached to things, but I never really allow myself to become committed.
*Because it never occurs to me that once a door is closed, and a space is mine, I can OPEN AND CLOSE IT AT WILL, and come home. I'm NOT trapped.*
I've threaded myself to the centre of the labyrinth: from here, everything emanates. Every decision, every action, every fear.
Now I need to find my way out to freedom. I'm tired of living in emotional hotel rooms and out of emotional suitcases. I proved I can walk out of my parents' house with no more than 3 bin bags of clothing. I only needed to do it once; I don't need to spend the rest of my life living there.
It is often said that we become stuck because of an intense inner conflict: I am dying to put down roots, to build a family and to be still; but thinking about growing up in my family still leaves me choking for air and I'm terrified of being trapped.
I think I need to sit in the darkness for a while, holding this, honouring it, knowing it was a way for me to survive. Then, I need to thread my way out, one step at a time, intuitively and in faith.
But the time for being a spore is over; it's time to shed the hard covering and become a seed.
It's time to stop surviving and start living.
Dr Phil's personality test
My result - to take the test, click on the graphic below:
The Loyal Friend
Others see you as sensible, cautious, careful & practical. They see you as clever, gifted, or talented, but modest. Not a person who makes friends too quickly or easily, but someone who's extremely loyal to friends you do make and who expects the same loyalty in return. Those who really get to know you realize it takes a lot to shake your trust in your friends, but equally that it takes you a long time to get over if that trust is ever broken.
The Loyal Friend
Others see you as sensible, cautious, careful & practical. They see you as clever, gifted, or talented, but modest. Not a person who makes friends too quickly or easily, but someone who's extremely loyal to friends you do make and who expects the same loyalty in return. Those who really get to know you realize it takes a lot to shake your trust in your friends, but equally that it takes you a long time to get over if that trust is ever broken.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Seriously, though, I know I do this every year, but having lost people I care about, especially my favourite aunt (way too early), I have to. And the race itself is inspirational - there are so many stories of hope, courage and learning to live again after devastating losses. So, please, if you can, sponsor me. Just follow the link and donate online, it couldn't be easier. Many thanks.