Just past the main Summertown shops, and just before the medical centres and Marston Ferry Road, is a small parade of shops that include an internet cafe, a bridal boutique and a corner shop.
I first walked into that corner shop years ago - to pick up a Pepsi or chocolate on my way in to person the Lodge at the O on a Saturday. I remember the woman behind the counter - mid 50s, face lined with care, shalwar qamiz. She smiled at me - one, I'm ashamed to admit, I didn't return, because I've grown up hating people who assume we're going to get on because we look alike. You're South Asian, I'm South Asian. BFD.
But I thought of her long after I left, even as I turned into the Oratory forecourt. Something about the...weariness, the sense of dreams and hope lost in a dreary existence, but the real warmth and kindness that had survived. Something that kept her smiling at someone who reminded her of home when she was thousands of miles away.
So I kept going back - not often, but if I needed to grab something on my way down - e.g., a Pepsi, chocolate or (most often) a synthetic blueberry muffin for breakfast - that's where I'll go - the supermarket chains don't need my business. She, who works from 7.30-9 with her husband, does.
And so, over time, I started smiling back and asking her how she was. "Fine, just another day" she'd say, in her accent that reminded me so much of baking summer days, the smell of freshly pressed shalwars and goat cooking in the kitchen, the dust of Bahawalpur, Sahiwal and Lahore on my feet. Slowly, but surely, she'd ask questions - about me, where my family was from, work, would even occasionally tell me I looked tired.
She looks so like my dhadhi's colourful neighbours in Sahiwal, how could I not unbend and respond?
She would light up when I came in wearing shalwar qamiz (or qamiz jeans) - in fact, on Easter morning, she was totally in love with my red and gold kurta, which I felt made me look like a tent that could have held a harem for an Arabian monarch and required me slapping a sign across my ass reading: "Caution: wide load".
About 10 days ago, I came in for my usual, and handed her a £10 note for a £1 transaction, which meant that I got a £5 note and 4 £1 coins - yes, slightly unwieldy for a second, but nothing I haven't done a thousand times before.
She placed her hand underneath mine in a gesture repeated by countless mothers everywhere when a three year old hand is struggling to hold currency too big for it.
I looked down to see that her hand was smaller than mine.
But it was the meaning of the gesture that made me choke up - the "I've got you, it's ok if you can't handle it alone." My own mother would have let me drop those coins out of my tiny three-year-old hand and then yelled at me for being clumsy. My entire childhood felt like it was about these things I was supposed to know how to do, but was never taught how - then got yelled at for being clumsy, stupid, a deliberate bane to my parents' existence.
Yes, that support was decades too late. But that it came from someone who could have been my mother mattered. A lot.
And of course, it got me thinking about one of my favourite body parts - hands.
I am in awe of hands. Hands do so much more than we ever think about: punctuate, comfort, bless, hold, express affection, communicate far more than our words ever will, love in ways naughty and nice, nourish, pull people away from danger, and so much more - in addition to the standard picking up, putting away, carrying, giving, receiving, opening, closing, making things, catching us when we fall, covering our mouths when we yawn - we begin using them the moment we're born and don't stop until the moment we die.
And yes, they can abuse.
Hands - with opposable thumbs getting a special mention - rock. No engineer could create such a marvel.
God, I love watching them - petite hands; large hands; long, elegant hands; square, practical hands and everything in between. Old hands with so many stories to tell; baby hands with stories yet to be created.
Bliss.
I love watching hands DO things - cook, make furniture, sew, knit, pick up a child, play an instrument, handle a camera, gesture - anything, though, perhaps, most shamefully, light up. I know I should tell my male friends to quit smoking, or offer them hypnotherapy to quit smoking, but I'm so entranced by watching their hands (and, as noted before, their expressions) as they light up, I hesitate, telling myself they'd get annoyed by my nagging.
So secretly, in guilty pleasure, I watch out of the corner of my eye.
Every so often, I even stop, amazed, by what my own hands are doing. Weirdly, because my parents kept telling me I was clumsy - I keep thinking of my hands as those of an 8-year-old, when I remember watching my parents DO things that I thought, "I'll never be able to do that - ever." My mother cooking, my father doing his tie (that one still needs practice - I can undo them well enough...), my mother using a blood pressure cuff, either one fixing something - anything I considered 'adult'. Suddenly, I'll find myself in the middle of making hamburgers the way my mother used to, or holding a child easily, or doing something reasonably skilled and stop and stare at my adult hands like they belong to a complete stranger. Then offer up gratitude for having them.
Hands are about rites of passage too, in so many ways. Mine came earlier than it should, because my father took beta blockers for years and lost strength more quickly than he should. One day, more years ago than I care to count, I was over at their new house. My father was struggling to open a jar, and I said, in a voice far too reminiscent of his, "Here, give it to me."
He did. I promptly opened it and handed it back to him. He wasn't even 60 then, but we both understood what it meant.
Hands do so much - is it any wonder then, that the tale of the maiden who loses her hands, leaves the kingdom with her babe and watches them grow back is a tale of initiation? Or that a woman who is beyond tired dreams of herself with her arms crossed at the wrists in front of her, with bloody stumps where her hands should be, in a classic pose of "I give up"?
I think not.
I love hands, but what I love most about them is that they heal us and eachother in ways far deeper than words ever could.
And so, to quote a favourite song:
"Reach out for her healing hands (2x)
There's a light where the darkness ends -
Touch me now and let me see again
Rock me now in your gentle healing hands."
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
I wonder...
...if I stay in the Catholic Church - and particularly in a *conservative* church - to take out w***ers like Mitch Bond (quote below) one at a time.
God knows, there isn't much else, other than a few good friends, keeping me in it at the moment. Far too often, I look up at the pulpit or the sanctuary, feeling utterly detached from the proceedings, and think what a friend once thought about the 39 Articles, "I don't believe a word of this."
But for now, those friends are worth staying for, and I'm not going to beat myself up about it.
Every so often, though, I wonder if there's more to it.
This morning, I noticed that a friend had joined the Cardinal Pell Appreciation Society. I know I shouldn't have gone there - Jack Butler will kindly point this out to me in his oh-so-tactful (appropriately) Antipodean manner - but it was car crash material. I HAD to see just how fulsome and lacy the picture was (very) and I had to see just how offensive the members were (even more so, judging from the wall).
Now we come to how I came to label someone I have never met (and never plan to) a wanker. Unfortunately, his comment was the most recent on the wall:
"HIV is the result of sin, since all corruptability on the part of nature is a result of mankind's fall from grace, Q.E.D. sin. It is neither backward. medieval, primitive, immoral, unscientific, unchristian, nor completely reprehensible to believe that the corruption of matter is the result of original sin."
I read no further.
Unfuckingbelievable. If that utter filth came out of someone's mouth in a sermon, I'd get out of my seat, walk UP to the pulpit and strangle the SOB from behind. Or shove him down the steps headfirst. I trust I don't need to go into why and the countless number of people who have caught HIV through NO FAULT OF THEIR OWN. It's an odd feeling to hate a Catholic as much as I hate a Bible-Belter or the Taliban.
Well, Mitch, I'm sure Cardinal Pell is PROUD to have a fan such as you. Darn proud of your orthodox faith.
I'm far less sure about Jesus. I think you and your ilk might make him consider taking up his cross to beat you over the head with it. When you say horrific, damaging stuff like that, 70x7 doesn't apply.
The irony, of course, is that the vast majority of men in that group are probably practising unsafe gay sex because they're incapable of admitting their homosexuality and are 'just falling into bed with men, oops, didn't mean for that to happen' and are at a much higher risk for HIV infection and passing it on than most of the rest of the population.
I wonder if I stay so someone is in those places - and shamefully, I can hear that line coming out of the mouth of almost anyone who sits in the Social Club on Sunday at 12.30, in their braying attempt at RP - to say to people like Mitch, "How dare you." To say, "What a load of crap." To walk out of sermons. To make people uncomfortable.
And to pray that every single person like Mitch has to face what he so casually, so easily condemns: for him, that he finds himself face to face with someone he cares for who has HIV; perhaps through volunteering, comes across an HIV positive baby or child. For the 'abortion is martyrdom' crowd, that someone they love has to face that decision. For the 'euthanasia is always wrong crowd' - yeah, you guessed it. That they have to face the decision to remove life support or be really close to someone who does, and suffer with them.
Because for those who have hearts that closed, only catastrophic, life-changing suffering is going to crack them wide open.
WHAT am I doing here, amongst people who can believe...THAT? I feel sick just re-reading what he has written and replaying in my head what I've heard in church and from the institution over the years.
More than one of my friends has noted my penchant for balance: I've chosen a church whose unspoken values are diametrically opposed to my own. Whilst orthodoxy is the overlay for most of those who attend the higher masses, it's really about people seeking approval, both from the institution and the secular world, thus lying about who they are and being what's expected of them. There's a sense of people *grasping* for something, an acquisitiveness, indicative of desperation to fill a void no one wants to face.
So why stay? I'm picturing Jack B. across the table from me, ready with the hard questions - so I'll answer him.
Mate, I can't give you a straight answer - I can't say it's this or that. I can tell you that there are people in the Church (and in the church, or I'd have left it years ago) that I love fiercely - people who are my pack, my karass - and I have always been a relationship person. I'll stay in hard places for my peops. I know, I know, it's not doing them any good if it's driving me crazy, but maybe it's about knocking my corners off too.
But having written this - and I think you'll appreciate this, J - I wonder if it's about being a thorn in the side, about being the one who can say, "What a load of crap," who can be angry, who can act out and say what no one else will in that place. No, I won't always do it well, it won't change the institution, and it won't change most of the people -they're still going to be avoiding who they are, thinking that being sweet to the priests and vicious to the laity is the way forward - but maybe I'm still there for a reason I can't yet fathom.
What I - and you - need to trust is that I'll know when to go. I woke up one morning knowing when it was time to leave home and I woke up one morning knowing my last relationship (which you nursed me through, with the occasional smack across the head, for which I am forever grateful) was over.
One day, I'll wake up knowing it's time to leave the church and the Church, because the vast majority aren't my people and I'm beginning to realise more and more, that's not my God. It's coming, I know. It's just not now.
Until then, I'll walk the labyrinth and trust that when I reach the centre, it'll all make sense.
God knows, there isn't much else, other than a few good friends, keeping me in it at the moment. Far too often, I look up at the pulpit or the sanctuary, feeling utterly detached from the proceedings, and think what a friend once thought about the 39 Articles, "I don't believe a word of this."
But for now, those friends are worth staying for, and I'm not going to beat myself up about it.
Every so often, though, I wonder if there's more to it.
This morning, I noticed that a friend had joined the Cardinal Pell Appreciation Society. I know I shouldn't have gone there - Jack Butler will kindly point this out to me in his oh-so-tactful (appropriately) Antipodean manner - but it was car crash material. I HAD to see just how fulsome and lacy the picture was (very) and I had to see just how offensive the members were (even more so, judging from the wall).
Now we come to how I came to label someone I have never met (and never plan to) a wanker. Unfortunately, his comment was the most recent on the wall:
"HIV is the result of sin, since all corruptability on the part of nature is a result of mankind's fall from grace, Q.E.D. sin. It is neither backward. medieval, primitive, immoral, unscientific, unchristian, nor completely reprehensible to believe that the corruption of matter is the result of original sin."
I read no further.
Unfuckingbelievable. If that utter filth came out of someone's mouth in a sermon, I'd get out of my seat, walk UP to the pulpit and strangle the SOB from behind. Or shove him down the steps headfirst. I trust I don't need to go into why and the countless number of people who have caught HIV through NO FAULT OF THEIR OWN. It's an odd feeling to hate a Catholic as much as I hate a Bible-Belter or the Taliban.
Well, Mitch, I'm sure Cardinal Pell is PROUD to have a fan such as you. Darn proud of your orthodox faith.
I'm far less sure about Jesus. I think you and your ilk might make him consider taking up his cross to beat you over the head with it. When you say horrific, damaging stuff like that, 70x7 doesn't apply.
The irony, of course, is that the vast majority of men in that group are probably practising unsafe gay sex because they're incapable of admitting their homosexuality and are 'just falling into bed with men, oops, didn't mean for that to happen' and are at a much higher risk for HIV infection and passing it on than most of the rest of the population.
I wonder if I stay so someone is in those places - and shamefully, I can hear that line coming out of the mouth of almost anyone who sits in the Social Club on Sunday at 12.30, in their braying attempt at RP - to say to people like Mitch, "How dare you." To say, "What a load of crap." To walk out of sermons. To make people uncomfortable.
And to pray that every single person like Mitch has to face what he so casually, so easily condemns: for him, that he finds himself face to face with someone he cares for who has HIV; perhaps through volunteering, comes across an HIV positive baby or child. For the 'abortion is martyrdom' crowd, that someone they love has to face that decision. For the 'euthanasia is always wrong crowd' - yeah, you guessed it. That they have to face the decision to remove life support or be really close to someone who does, and suffer with them.
Because for those who have hearts that closed, only catastrophic, life-changing suffering is going to crack them wide open.
WHAT am I doing here, amongst people who can believe...THAT? I feel sick just re-reading what he has written and replaying in my head what I've heard in church and from the institution over the years.
More than one of my friends has noted my penchant for balance: I've chosen a church whose unspoken values are diametrically opposed to my own. Whilst orthodoxy is the overlay for most of those who attend the higher masses, it's really about people seeking approval, both from the institution and the secular world, thus lying about who they are and being what's expected of them. There's a sense of people *grasping* for something, an acquisitiveness, indicative of desperation to fill a void no one wants to face.
So why stay? I'm picturing Jack B. across the table from me, ready with the hard questions - so I'll answer him.
Mate, I can't give you a straight answer - I can't say it's this or that. I can tell you that there are people in the Church (and in the church, or I'd have left it years ago) that I love fiercely - people who are my pack, my karass - and I have always been a relationship person. I'll stay in hard places for my peops. I know, I know, it's not doing them any good if it's driving me crazy, but maybe it's about knocking my corners off too.
But having written this - and I think you'll appreciate this, J - I wonder if it's about being a thorn in the side, about being the one who can say, "What a load of crap," who can be angry, who can act out and say what no one else will in that place. No, I won't always do it well, it won't change the institution, and it won't change most of the people -they're still going to be avoiding who they are, thinking that being sweet to the priests and vicious to the laity is the way forward - but maybe I'm still there for a reason I can't yet fathom.
What I - and you - need to trust is that I'll know when to go. I woke up one morning knowing when it was time to leave home and I woke up one morning knowing my last relationship (which you nursed me through, with the occasional smack across the head, for which I am forever grateful) was over.
One day, I'll wake up knowing it's time to leave the church and the Church, because the vast majority aren't my people and I'm beginning to realise more and more, that's not my God. It's coming, I know. It's just not now.
Until then, I'll walk the labyrinth and trust that when I reach the centre, it'll all make sense.
Monday, 17 August 2009
Why I walked out of yesterday's sermon
Yesterday, not 5 minutes into a sermon, I got up, exited my pew, and walked out the back door of the church. In my 12 years at this church, despite the many sermons that have made me want to backhand a cleric or ask them "WTF? If you hold the laity in such contempt, why the f*** did you decide to become a priest and not a lawyer or politician," yesterday was only the second time I have stood up and walked out.
Most people who go to the 11am mass that have interacted with me, clerical and lay, would have thought I found that easy; that for me, it was a throwaway gesture.
I did not and it never is. To walk out when someone is speaking is a way of saying, "I can no longer listen to you: there is now no room for communication, no room for discussion; I will no longer engage." It closes the door in a relationship, something that I am loathe to do, especially as an INFJ. It can, of course, be worked through and healed, but there are no two ways about it: to walk out on someone as they speak, to shut them out, is to perform a deliberate injury to a relationship. Even if you are going to attempt to heal it, even if you're betting on the relationship coming out stronger, that is NEVER an act undertaken lightly.
The priest who gave yesterday's sermon is one I hold in the greatest respect - one of the truly rare high liturgy priests who feels his religion, really believes in liturgy as a vehicle to God (rather than an end in itself & a disguise for avarice/need to dress up and feel important, which is what drives too many high liturgists) - whose mass you can feel. He is a man whose integrity I would never question, someone I like and trust immensely, despite the fact that our similar underlying values have driven us in opposite directions: him to almost extreme orthodoxy and rigidity; me to flexibility and what my friend John would refer to as 'liberality' - a generosity in application of principles rather than rules.
His sermons lean towards the overwhelmingly catechetical; they are always a densely packed lesson in what the Church teaches. Though I often disagree and find them a bit heavy, I have great sympathy and understanding for what he's trying to do: offer a firm foundation for the faith, one he feels isn't given the laity in this day and age. Here, his rigidity becomes an asset: for a foundation needs to be rigid, whilst the structure built on it must be flexible.
But. Yes, but. Sometimes, I wonder if he remembers that he is building that foundation with people, not bricks - and that people are vulnerable, their lives infinitely complex, and you can't handle them in the same way, that they need to be handled with care.
So. Yesterday's sermon. He began by noting that Pope Pius XII linked the infallible declaration of the Assumption to the horror of the Nazi concentration camps not a decade earlier, and that it was a deliberate link.
"Offensive," I thought. "But not YOUR fault, Padre. Where ARE you going with this?"
He moved on to how in the Garden of Eden, all was light, no shadows, no death, etc. etc.
I'm an unshakeable believer in the Life/Death/Rebirth cycle; Shiva and Kali together as Creator and Destroyer, that light and dark are inseparable. I'm always deeply uncomfortable with those who need to believe in a fall from a perfect beginning, a deathless world of all light and no change. I always wonder why they need to deny darkness and death, seeing light and eternal life as the ideal. I'm not sure changelessness is ideal; God created a dynamic, evolving universe - surely that says something about the nature of the Creator?
Then, on to how Adam and Eve had been given the gift of integrity in body and soul, that body and soul would come to God as a single unit.
"Ah, the origin of the Assumption. Ok."
Then he went on to speak about how, since death was not natural and was a consequence of the fall...
"There is no such thing as dignity in death. Or [and this was spat out with no little contempt and considerable venom] *dignitas*."
I inhaled sharply. For those of you who don't know the reference, Dignitas is a Swiss assisted-dying group. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dignitas_(euthanasia_group) ]
"[Since death isn't natural/wasn't part of God's plan] Therefore, taking one's own life or assisting someone in taking their own life is always wrong."
I couldn't listen to another word.
I stood up, stepped out of my pew, and walked out. Fortunately, my friend's daughter was out there, playing with her pencil in the big pot of dirt outside the front door, helping me to calm down before I re-entered church after the sermon and faced the celebrant over the gifts.
Many of you will wonder why. After all, it is orthodox Catholic teaching; the orthodox teaching of most religions, in fact. Isn't one of the commandments, "Thou shalt not kill?"
Indeed. But that teaching can be offered with compassion. To state it so baldly, so forcefully, indicates an utter lack of compassion and awareness of the complexities of the issues surrounding euthanasia and suicide - a lack that doesn't exist in this pastor, but may well now be perceived to.
I once quoted what a friend suggested a truly traditional priest would say about suicide and mortal sin: "Grave matter? Yes. Full knowledge? I doubt it. Full consent? In that state of mind, no. Not a mortal sin."
THAT is teaching with compassion.
Had he so much as prefaced it with, "I understand how painful, complex and difficult these situations are - however..." I would have stayed. All it needed was an acknowledgment of the pain people face in these situations and that euthanasia has become a problem because we, as a society, are so desperate to live that we have forgotten how to let go when it is time and die. I have been both suicidal and the friend of someone who has committed suicide; it was of Lou I was thinking as I walked down that side aisle to the back.
Did he KNOW what the people in the congregation were going through? What he was saying to them - to the relatives and friends of those who in despair or in desiring not to be a burden through terminal illness, took their own lives? To those who might be struggling with someone who WANTS to die because they are so ill and in so much pain? How, after a statement so judgmental, can they even come and talk to him about what they're going through? What wounds did he unwittingly tear open? What fears did he implant: "OMG, my friend/child/parent/relative committed suicide - from what he's saying, they're in hell."
Who, of those sitting there, will now believe his 'I'm so sorry,' when they tell him that a loved one has committed suicide? Won't they think, "Oh, he's judging them and/or us?" What about the classic clerical statement that someone has 'made a good death' (Lady, I HATE that phrase)? If there is no dignity in death, how can you make a good one? Who will trust him enough come to him over issues surrounding a terminally ill relative begging to be allowed to die?
The sad thing is, they could have done, because he is a good pastor. But now, because of yesterday's sermon, they may never know that.
As a good friend and astute cleric noted, "When you speak from the pulpit, it HAS to be absolute. You DON'T know what the people in the congregation have been through. Sensitive things like this are best dealt with in confession, one-to-one..."
Often, preachers would do best to remember that what is said cannot be unsaid, and that you don't know what pain, what grief, what darkness are hidden amongst those sitting in front of you. That doesn't mean you have to give a bland sermon or one that soft-pedals, but it does mean that you need to be aware of how what you're about to say is going to affect those you're preaching to - and that the authority you carry can make what's a throwaway comment to you feel like a freight train to an earnest, struggling Catholic in the pews. And it may mean that uncertain Catholic who might have approached one of you asking for help instead walks out of the forecourt, speaking to no one, suffering even more than they were when they first walked in.
And that would count as a sheep lost.
Am I sorry I walked? No. I couldn't have listened to any more, and I hoped that my act, if noticed, would make him think about what he was saying and what it sounded like. I also wanted to stand up for anyone who wanted to make the statement I was making but couldn't speak for themselves - for every friend and loved one of a suicide victim; for those struggling with the issue of 'just a little more morphine and...'; for those being begged by their dying loved ones to let them go...for those wondering if it's the right thing.
In walking, I stood by my integrity. In speaking, he kept his.
One day, I hope we'll be able to talk about it.
Most people who go to the 11am mass that have interacted with me, clerical and lay, would have thought I found that easy; that for me, it was a throwaway gesture.
I did not and it never is. To walk out when someone is speaking is a way of saying, "I can no longer listen to you: there is now no room for communication, no room for discussion; I will no longer engage." It closes the door in a relationship, something that I am loathe to do, especially as an INFJ. It can, of course, be worked through and healed, but there are no two ways about it: to walk out on someone as they speak, to shut them out, is to perform a deliberate injury to a relationship. Even if you are going to attempt to heal it, even if you're betting on the relationship coming out stronger, that is NEVER an act undertaken lightly.
The priest who gave yesterday's sermon is one I hold in the greatest respect - one of the truly rare high liturgy priests who feels his religion, really believes in liturgy as a vehicle to God (rather than an end in itself & a disguise for avarice/need to dress up and feel important, which is what drives too many high liturgists) - whose mass you can feel. He is a man whose integrity I would never question, someone I like and trust immensely, despite the fact that our similar underlying values have driven us in opposite directions: him to almost extreme orthodoxy and rigidity; me to flexibility and what my friend John would refer to as 'liberality' - a generosity in application of principles rather than rules.
His sermons lean towards the overwhelmingly catechetical; they are always a densely packed lesson in what the Church teaches. Though I often disagree and find them a bit heavy, I have great sympathy and understanding for what he's trying to do: offer a firm foundation for the faith, one he feels isn't given the laity in this day and age. Here, his rigidity becomes an asset: for a foundation needs to be rigid, whilst the structure built on it must be flexible.
But. Yes, but. Sometimes, I wonder if he remembers that he is building that foundation with people, not bricks - and that people are vulnerable, their lives infinitely complex, and you can't handle them in the same way, that they need to be handled with care.
So. Yesterday's sermon. He began by noting that Pope Pius XII linked the infallible declaration of the Assumption to the horror of the Nazi concentration camps not a decade earlier, and that it was a deliberate link.
"Offensive," I thought. "But not YOUR fault, Padre. Where ARE you going with this?"
He moved on to how in the Garden of Eden, all was light, no shadows, no death, etc. etc.
I'm an unshakeable believer in the Life/Death/Rebirth cycle; Shiva and Kali together as Creator and Destroyer, that light and dark are inseparable. I'm always deeply uncomfortable with those who need to believe in a fall from a perfect beginning, a deathless world of all light and no change. I always wonder why they need to deny darkness and death, seeing light and eternal life as the ideal. I'm not sure changelessness is ideal; God created a dynamic, evolving universe - surely that says something about the nature of the Creator?
Then, on to how Adam and Eve had been given the gift of integrity in body and soul, that body and soul would come to God as a single unit.
"Ah, the origin of the Assumption. Ok."
Then he went on to speak about how, since death was not natural and was a consequence of the fall...
"There is no such thing as dignity in death. Or [and this was spat out with no little contempt and considerable venom] *dignitas*."
I inhaled sharply. For those of you who don't know the reference, Dignitas is a Swiss assisted-dying group. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wi
"[Since death isn't natural/wasn't part of God's plan] Therefore, taking one's own life or assisting someone in taking their own life is always wrong."
I couldn't listen to another word.
I stood up, stepped out of my pew, and walked out. Fortunately, my friend's daughter was out there, playing with her pencil in the big pot of dirt outside the front door, helping me to calm down before I re-entered church after the sermon and faced the celebrant over the gifts.
Many of you will wonder why. After all, it is orthodox Catholic teaching; the orthodox teaching of most religions, in fact. Isn't one of the commandments, "Thou shalt not kill?"
Indeed. But that teaching can be offered with compassion. To state it so baldly, so forcefully, indicates an utter lack of compassion and awareness of the complexities of the issues surrounding euthanasia and suicide - a lack that doesn't exist in this pastor, but may well now be perceived to.
I once quoted what a friend suggested a truly traditional priest would say about suicide and mortal sin: "Grave matter? Yes. Full knowledge? I doubt it. Full consent? In that state of mind, no. Not a mortal sin."
THAT is teaching with compassion.
Had he so much as prefaced it with, "I understand how painful, complex and difficult these situations are - however..." I would have stayed. All it needed was an acknowledgment of the pain people face in these situations and that euthanasia has become a problem because we, as a society, are so desperate to live that we have forgotten how to let go when it is time and die. I have been both suicidal and the friend of someone who has committed suicide; it was of Lou I was thinking as I walked down that side aisle to the back.
Did he KNOW what the people in the congregation were going through? What he was saying to them - to the relatives and friends of those who in despair or in desiring not to be a burden through terminal illness, took their own lives? To those who might be struggling with someone who WANTS to die because they are so ill and in so much pain? How, after a statement so judgmental, can they even come and talk to him about what they're going through? What wounds did he unwittingly tear open? What fears did he implant: "OMG, my friend/child/parent/relati
Who, of those sitting there, will now believe his 'I'm so sorry,' when they tell him that a loved one has committed suicide? Won't they think, "Oh, he's judging them and/or us?" What about the classic clerical statement that someone has 'made a good death' (Lady, I HATE that phrase)? If there is no dignity in death, how can you make a good one? Who will trust him enough come to him over issues surrounding a terminally ill relative begging to be allowed to die?
The sad thing is, they could have done, because he is a good pastor. But now, because of yesterday's sermon, they may never know that.
As a good friend and astute cleric noted, "When you speak from the pulpit, it HAS to be absolute. You DON'T know what the people in the congregation have been through. Sensitive things like this are best dealt with in confession, one-to-one..."
Often, preachers would do best to remember that what is said cannot be unsaid, and that you don't know what pain, what grief, what darkness are hidden amongst those sitting in front of you. That doesn't mean you have to give a bland sermon or one that soft-pedals, but it does mean that you need to be aware of how what you're about to say is going to affect those you're preaching to - and that the authority you carry can make what's a throwaway comment to you feel like a freight train to an earnest, struggling Catholic in the pews. And it may mean that uncertain Catholic who might have approached one of you asking for help instead walks out of the forecourt, speaking to no one, suffering even more than they were when they first walked in.
And that would count as a sheep lost.
Am I sorry I walked? No. I couldn't have listened to any more, and I hoped that my act, if noticed, would make him think about what he was saying and what it sounded like. I also wanted to stand up for anyone who wanted to make the statement I was making but couldn't speak for themselves - for every friend and loved one of a suicide victim; for those struggling with the issue of 'just a little more morphine and...'; for those being begged by their dying loved ones to let them go...for those wondering if it's the right thing.
In walking, I stood by my integrity. In speaking, he kept his.
One day, I hope we'll be able to talk about it.
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Dark men in dreams...
"There is a strong physical aspect to having a dream of the dark man...We could say the dream-maker has dispensed with subtle messages to the dreamer and now sends images which shake the neurological and autonomic nervous system of the dreamer, thereby communicating the urgency of the matter.
"The antagonist(s)of the dark dream are usually, in women's own words, 'terrorists, rapists, thugs..." There are several levels to the interpretation of such a dream , depending on the life circumstances and interior dramas surrounding the dreamer." -Clarissa Pinkola-Estes, "Women who run with the wolves"
Ok, I've been having uneasy dreams, but the last REAL dark man dream set I remember is from a long while ago. One involving a police officer who was a serial killer; one involving a 'pillar of the church' who (in the dream) was a wife-beater; one involving a head of a Catholic girls' school who drugged the girls to make them do what he wanted. The theme for me in those dreams was that I KNEW where to look, that I could see what was going on within institutions that people usually trust, but that no one would listen - but that *I* needed to pay attention and know the truth for what it was.
This afternoon's was much more primitive and much closer to the dream prototype.
I was walking at night, in the area of Silver Spring I grew up in, White Oak. I was walking along New Hampshire Ave, talking to my friend Ari on my mobile. It was late twilight, heading towards full darkness. I was aware, but relaxed, and as I passed White Oak Jr High, I saw a man sitting under a street light, eating his dinner. He was clearly a body builder - or to quote Fr X on the kind of man I'm supposed to fancy, "Tall, dark, butch and brutal."
[WTF? I don't find that attractive and, even more importantly, I'm FAR too aware of what a man like that would be capable of doing to me and I'd never, EVER relax.]
Our eyes met; the hate that flashed across his face was palpable. I could see his muscles tense. I ran.
Suddenly, it was much darker and I was much further along New Hampshire Ave, near the White Oak shopping centre - weirdly, I'd dialled 999 (UK emergency) rather than 911, said what I needed to say and kept the phone on so they could find me via GPS. It was odd - I was terrified, running hard, but there was a calm river as well - I thought "Irim, put your hair up so he doesn't have anything to grab." "Cross the road (all SIX lanes) and buy yourself some time."
I made it back to the house I grew up in, up the stairs and into the bathroom, backing into far wall against the window. There was nowhere to go as his hand reached for my throat - when suddenly, the master bedroom door opened, and there were two female SWAT team members with their guns trained on him - "Let her go," said the one closest to me, as she grabbed him, cuffed him and took him down the steps.
The other officer came over to me and asked me if I was ok, what had happened, and so on. I told her that whilst I felt shaken (I did), I was ok, and that I was going to ring a good male friend (someone I know IRL), because I needed to be ok with being around men and being touched by them, and I'd be ok.
As if THAT wasn't enough, the dream that followed entailed my sitting in the lounge and having a GIANT spider climb on my back from behind the sofa - I could feel the end of each one of the 8 legs in my back and screaming at Mark (Anna's boyfriend - we were waiting for her to arrive) to get it the FUCK OFF ME (I'd trapped it between my back and the sofa). As he approached to try to grab it by a leg, it leapt off and completely disappeared behind the sofa.
Dark man - and arachnid - dreams indeed.
Pinkola-Estes says that dark man dreams tend to be about initiation - from the young woman to through old age, as there is always another initiation into a different way of knowing and being. And this felt like that.
In the first dream, I did EVERYTHING I could whilst I was running - I knew where he was, I put my hair up, I did what I could as I could. And that's very different from the ones where I feel helpless - where I know and no one is listening, or where I'm passive.
And so, nightmare it may have been, but I'm with Clarissa on this:
"Dreams are portales, entrances, preparations and practices for the next step in a woman's consciousness, the next day in her individuation process. So, a woman might have a dream of the predator when her psychic circumstances are too quiescent or complacent... But also a dream like this affirms that the woman's life needs to change, that the woman dreamer has gotten caught in some hiatus or ennui as regards a difficult choice, that she is reluctant to take the next step, to go the next distance, that she is shying away from wresting her own power away from the predator, that she is not used to being/acting/striving at full bore, in all-out capacity."
Yeah, things are a bit slow, and I've gotten a bit lazy. And I DO hesitate about taking the next step and leaving the devil I know.
So I guess it's time for me - and anyone else having dark man dreams - throw heart and soul into the next step - not in knowing, but in faith.
And at full tilt, heart and soul, even if they look like windmills - because even that has a purpose on the journey.
"The antagonist(s)of the dark dream are usually, in women's own words, 'terrorists, rapists, thugs..." There are several levels to the interpretation of such a dream , depending on the life circumstances and interior dramas surrounding the dreamer." -Clarissa Pinkola-Estes, "Women who run with the wolves"
Ok, I've been having uneasy dreams, but the last REAL dark man dream set I remember is from a long while ago. One involving a police officer who was a serial killer; one involving a 'pillar of the church' who (in the dream) was a wife-beater; one involving a head of a Catholic girls' school who drugged the girls to make them do what he wanted. The theme for me in those dreams was that I KNEW where to look, that I could see what was going on within institutions that people usually trust, but that no one would listen - but that *I* needed to pay attention and know the truth for what it was.
This afternoon's was much more primitive and much closer to the dream prototype.
I was walking at night, in the area of Silver Spring I grew up in, White Oak. I was walking along New Hampshire Ave, talking to my friend Ari on my mobile. It was late twilight, heading towards full darkness. I was aware, but relaxed, and as I passed White Oak Jr High, I saw a man sitting under a street light, eating his dinner. He was clearly a body builder - or to quote Fr X on the kind of man I'm supposed to fancy, "Tall, dark, butch and brutal."
[WTF? I don't find that attractive and, even more importantly, I'm FAR too aware of what a man like that would be capable of doing to me and I'd never, EVER relax.]
Our eyes met; the hate that flashed across his face was palpable. I could see his muscles tense. I ran.
Suddenly, it was much darker and I was much further along New Hampshire Ave, near the White Oak shopping centre - weirdly, I'd dialled 999 (UK emergency) rather than 911, said what I needed to say and kept the phone on so they could find me via GPS. It was odd - I was terrified, running hard, but there was a calm river as well - I thought "Irim, put your hair up so he doesn't have anything to grab." "Cross the road (all SIX lanes) and buy yourself some time."
I made it back to the house I grew up in, up the stairs and into the bathroom, backing into far wall against the window. There was nowhere to go as his hand reached for my throat - when suddenly, the master bedroom door opened, and there were two female SWAT team members with their guns trained on him - "Let her go," said the one closest to me, as she grabbed him, cuffed him and took him down the steps.
The other officer came over to me and asked me if I was ok, what had happened, and so on. I told her that whilst I felt shaken (I did), I was ok, and that I was going to ring a good male friend (someone I know IRL), because I needed to be ok with being around men and being touched by them, and I'd be ok.
As if THAT wasn't enough, the dream that followed entailed my sitting in the lounge and having a GIANT spider climb on my back from behind the sofa - I could feel the end of each one of the 8 legs in my back and screaming at Mark (Anna's boyfriend - we were waiting for her to arrive) to get it the FUCK OFF ME (I'd trapped it between my back and the sofa). As he approached to try to grab it by a leg, it leapt off and completely disappeared behind the sofa.
Dark man - and arachnid - dreams indeed.
Pinkola-Estes says that dark man dreams tend to be about initiation - from the young woman to through old age, as there is always another initiation into a different way of knowing and being. And this felt like that.
In the first dream, I did EVERYTHING I could whilst I was running - I knew where he was, I put my hair up, I did what I could as I could. And that's very different from the ones where I feel helpless - where I know and no one is listening, or where I'm passive.
And so, nightmare it may have been, but I'm with Clarissa on this:
"Dreams are portales, entrances, preparations and practices for the next step in a woman's consciousness, the next day in her individuation process. So, a woman might have a dream of the predator when her psychic circumstances are too quiescent or complacent... But also a dream like this affirms that the woman's life needs to change, that the woman dreamer has gotten caught in some hiatus or ennui as regards a difficult choice, that she is reluctant to take the next step, to go the next distance, that she is shying away from wresting her own power away from the predator, that she is not used to being/acting/striving at full bore, in all-out capacity."
Yeah, things are a bit slow, and I've gotten a bit lazy. And I DO hesitate about taking the next step and leaving the devil I know.
So I guess it's time for me - and anyone else having dark man dreams - throw heart and soul into the next step - not in knowing, but in faith.
And at full tilt, heart and soul, even if they look like windmills - because even that has a purpose on the journey.
Friday, 31 July 2009
Sometimes...
...IM really is the way to go. I have friends who hate IM with a passion - those who will groan the moment an IM window pops up and pretend they haven't seen it. I totally hear that - sometimes playing around on the computer in your room is the ONLY time you get to be on your own, you don't want to have to talk to someone else; you just want the downtime.
But I love it. I love the combination of writing and real-time communication - it allows me the medium in which I am most articulate, especially when I'm upset and instant gratification. It also means that misunderstandings that explode via email can be corrected within minutes rather than days.
I also love the stream of consciousness, the way you can begin in London but end up in Perth, Australia, figuratively speaking. You can also layer conversations - with one friend, there are often three conversations happening simultaneously - one as you'd expect, one in square brackets [] and one in curly brackets {}. Fabulous.
But I think my favourite moments are those where the conversation becomes real - whether you're honestly saying to eachother, "Hey, look, we need to sort this out,"; laughing hysterically b/c you're being yourself, wickedly planning...oops, I can't say anymore; or when you're opening up and being vulnerable - and a friend just virtually wraps you up in their affection for you and reminds you, in the midst of everything that seems to be coming at you from all directions, that they think - no matter how crabby you get, despite your high-maintenance moments, your prickliness in certain situations, your need to organise everyone from your friends down to the nearest duck, whatever - that they think you're the bee's knees, whilst saying, "Hey, babe, take a hard look." That to them, it's about who you are, not what you do.
My last entry was, to some extent, about friends who get it wrong - well now, let me take the time to say that more than 90% of the time, mine get it RIGHT. And over the last few weeks, some of you have gotten it SO right - those who have simply said, I'm sorry it's a crap time; those who PM, IM and weigh in on 'Irim is going to kill someone/go crazy or postal/quit/become a permanently bitter and twisted human being' statuses; the one of you that popped up on IM last night and made me laugh so hard I thought I was going to die; the one who just knows to come up and say, "Are you ok? Are you sure?" and who, when I said I needed to see you, was there in no time to just let me fall apart in a way that almost no one sees, able to hold the space calmly, solidly and easily, not freaking out or trying to fill it, just letting me cry. Thank you all. Love you.
But today, it was Anna who popped up when one more thing cropped up, something that necessitated me leaving work in North Oxford to go to work in Iffley and back again. When she asked what was up, I just spilled and, with her permission, I reprint her virtual wisdom, which was, as usual, expressed as a huge hug with a gentle smack round the head.
Anna
look at what you have just told me
12:33pmIrim
people who need an ear
12:33pmAnna
there are 3 things there you cannot sort out
12:33pmIrim
do I stay at church or go
12:33pmAnna
brother, friends
12:33pmIrim
true
12:33pmAnna
your course work isthe most important thing for now
12:34pmIrim
with my brother, it's just knowing that family ties are over
that even he doesn't want to be in touch.
12:35pmAnna
instead of writing it on here write it on paper and burn it and let it go, you have done all you can do without changing yourself into what they want you to be
12:35pmIrim
yeah
12:35pmAnna
be nice to you Irim
12:35pmIrim
I did good, didn't I?
12:36pmAnna
yeah
you did
and you have been true to yourself
I think you are amazing
12:38pmAnna
you are a strong beautiful woman who has the strength to stand against her entire culture to be who she is meant to be
family is blood and love, and is nothing without the love,
blood ties are very over rated xxx
12:40pmIrim
Thank you. HUGE HUG
Do you mind if I quote you on that?
Anna
yeah thats fine by me lol just so long as you credit me withthe profound wisdom lol
But I love it. I love the combination of writing and real-time communication - it allows me the medium in which I am most articulate, especially when I'm upset and instant gratification. It also means that misunderstandings that explode via email can be corrected within minutes rather than days.
I also love the stream of consciousness, the way you can begin in London but end up in Perth, Australia, figuratively speaking. You can also layer conversations - with one friend, there are often three conversations happening simultaneously - one as you'd expect, one in square brackets [] and one in curly brackets {}. Fabulous.
But I think my favourite moments are those where the conversation becomes real - whether you're honestly saying to eachother, "Hey, look, we need to sort this out,"; laughing hysterically b/c you're being yourself, wickedly planning...oops, I can't say anymore; or when you're opening up and being vulnerable - and a friend just virtually wraps you up in their affection for you and reminds you, in the midst of everything that seems to be coming at you from all directions, that they think - no matter how crabby you get, despite your high-maintenance moments, your prickliness in certain situations, your need to organise everyone from your friends down to the nearest duck, whatever - that they think you're the bee's knees, whilst saying, "Hey, babe, take a hard look." That to them, it's about who you are, not what you do.
My last entry was, to some extent, about friends who get it wrong - well now, let me take the time to say that more than 90% of the time, mine get it RIGHT. And over the last few weeks, some of you have gotten it SO right - those who have simply said, I'm sorry it's a crap time; those who PM, IM and weigh in on 'Irim is going to kill someone/go crazy or postal/quit/become a permanently bitter and twisted human being' statuses; the one of you that popped up on IM last night and made me laugh so hard I thought I was going to die; the one who just knows to come up and say, "Are you ok? Are you sure?" and who, when I said I needed to see you, was there in no time to just let me fall apart in a way that almost no one sees, able to hold the space calmly, solidly and easily, not freaking out or trying to fill it, just letting me cry. Thank you all. Love you.
But today, it was Anna who popped up when one more thing cropped up, something that necessitated me leaving work in North Oxford to go to work in Iffley and back again. When she asked what was up, I just spilled and, with her permission, I reprint her virtual wisdom, which was, as usual, expressed as a huge hug with a gentle smack round the head.
Anna
look at what you have just told me
12:33pmIrim
people who need an ear
12:33pmAnna
there are 3 things there you cannot sort out
12:33pmIrim
do I stay at church or go
12:33pmAnna
brother, friends
12:33pmIrim
true
12:33pmAnna
your course work isthe most important thing for now
12:34pmIrim
with my brother, it's just knowing that family ties are over
that even he doesn't want to be in touch.
12:35pmAnna
instead of writing it on here write it on paper and burn it and let it go, you have done all you can do without changing yourself into what they want you to be
12:35pmIrim
yeah
12:35pmAnna
be nice to you Irim
12:35pmIrim
I did good, didn't I?
12:36pmAnna
yeah
you did
and you have been true to yourself
I think you are amazing
12:38pmAnna
you are a strong beautiful woman who has the strength to stand against her entire culture to be who she is meant to be
family is blood and love, and is nothing without the love,
blood ties are very over rated xxx
12:40pmIrim
Thank you. HUGE HUG
Do you mind if I quote you on that?
Anna
yeah thats fine by me lol just so long as you credit me withthe profound wisdom lol
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Accommodation
I'm tired of being accommodating.
I don't mind having flexible boundaries, not at all. I think there needs to be some give.
But I'm tired of being the one to make things 'all better' in a relationship, the first one to move towards some kind of resolution; the social secretary; the one who bites her tongue making allowances for others' moods; the one whose particular tendencies are first wanted, then excoriated when they no longer suit.
Do I set myself up? Yes. Do I get irritable? Yes. Can I be blunt? Guilty as charged. Do I love problem solving a little too much? Erm...ok, yeah. Can I be a bossyboots? HELL, yes. Do I make mistakes/errors in judgment? All. the. damn. time.
But is my heart in the right place? Pretty much.
People judge me all the time. I judge them; turnabout is fair play. It's not a problem if you don't know me; I don't really give a f*** that C or E from church think I look pissed off when I'm there. I generally am when I'm with OX2 'rah rah' types who kiss up to priests and treat everyone else like crap.
But if you KNOW me and make judgments without taking into account my personality, strengths, weaknesses, what you know is going on - if you don't make the allowances I generally make for you; if you treat me as some generic psychological specimen in a vacuum - problem. And it's even worse if you speak to me as if I were someone you don't know. I only do that when I'm coldly angry to the point of doing something irrevocable. Even then, I usually manage something friendly, unless I feel betrayed.
Taking personality and context into account when applying principles is the only way to make an approximation of someone's motives. Even then, you need to get around to asking them eventually.
But back to accommodation. Why do I do it? Because people are important. Far more important than things will ever be. If I'm measuring things up, people will always come in light-years ahead of things, and people are what I will bend over backwards to save. When I'm stressed, if I drop something, fine. If I drop someone, especially someone in crisis, there's no coming back from that. Bottom line.
I think one of the things that has really gotten to me over the last while or so is feeling like a commodity in various relationships: "I want this from you now, but if you fall into it here, it's an unforgiveable sin - God forbid you should be yourself when I don't want you to be"; "Hi, you're the one person who won't get upset, do you mind if I move *you*" (that has to be a pattern for me to get upset); or even those who think, "Irim can wait. She'll be there."
You'd be surprised. I'll bend over backwards for good reasons. But when it becomes a habit, that's something entirely different.
It has always been my feeling that one can unilaterally make a decision that involves something; that is just you and... a book. Or a cooking pot. Whatever.
But the moment that someone else is involved, you lose that right to make the decision on your own.
Of course, if you can't make something, you can't make it. Fine. But have the grace to be the one who takes the initiative to sort something out, so it's clear that you value the friendship, that spending time with this person matters to you. In fact, if they're the one who always sorts it - initiate every so often anyway, so they KNOW you want to be spending time with them and not dental flossing cats instead.
I'm gobsmacked at the number of people who think they can make unilateral decisions that have an impact on other people's lives, schedules, emotions. To quote a good friend, "Dude, WTF?" How dare anyone make a decision that involves another adult (obviously, children are another matter), especially a friend, present it as a fait accompli - and then expect it to be OK? What kind of chutzpah is it that they then get offended because the other person doesn't react in a way that suits them? It's a weird kind of lack of awareness - almost like the person is an object, without feelings, without a life, without their own ideas about the situation.
Now, that's not saying things can't change - they do and they should. But when you're making a decision that involves someone else - TALK TO THEM. Say, "Hey, this is what's going on with me, and I think it might involve you. This is what I've been thinking - what are your thoughts on this?" THAT shows respect, care and awareness of the other person as an individual, as someone you value.
A unilateral decision shows a lack of awareness at best, but more often, it shows a lack of care. (Obviously, there are times when it is appropriate - abuse, breakups, and so on. But hopefully in many of those cases (except abuse - RUN), one has tried to communicate, has tried those bilateral avenues.)
Clearly, a unilateral decision can only be accepted by the person to whom it is presented. But even the most accommodating person files it away with a sense of having not been considered as part of the decision.
Eventually, even the most flexible of boundaries can snap back like a rubber band. That can sting. But unlike rubber bands, they may never flex again for a particular person. Someone who had been a good friend for 13 years wrote a letter that was so awful that to this day, I will only refer to her by a pragmatic relationship - never as a friend. And I will never initiate contact with her again.
I don't believe in giving someone the other cheek to slap. It's just plain stupid to let yourself be abused again.
So yeah, I'm done accommodating. Except in appropriate circumstances and except with people who accommodate me and let me be who I am, warts and all.
I don't mind having flexible boundaries, not at all. I think there needs to be some give.
But I'm tired of being the one to make things 'all better' in a relationship, the first one to move towards some kind of resolution; the social secretary; the one who bites her tongue making allowances for others' moods; the one whose particular tendencies are first wanted, then excoriated when they no longer suit.
Do I set myself up? Yes. Do I get irritable? Yes. Can I be blunt? Guilty as charged. Do I love problem solving a little too much? Erm...ok, yeah. Can I be a bossyboots? HELL, yes. Do I make mistakes/errors in judgment? All. the. damn. time.
But is my heart in the right place? Pretty much.
People judge me all the time. I judge them; turnabout is fair play. It's not a problem if you don't know me; I don't really give a f*** that C or E from church think I look pissed off when I'm there. I generally am when I'm with OX2 'rah rah' types who kiss up to priests and treat everyone else like crap.
But if you KNOW me and make judgments without taking into account my personality, strengths, weaknesses, what you know is going on - if you don't make the allowances I generally make for you; if you treat me as some generic psychological specimen in a vacuum - problem. And it's even worse if you speak to me as if I were someone you don't know. I only do that when I'm coldly angry to the point of doing something irrevocable. Even then, I usually manage something friendly, unless I feel betrayed.
Taking personality and context into account when applying principles is the only way to make an approximation of someone's motives. Even then, you need to get around to asking them eventually.
But back to accommodation. Why do I do it? Because people are important. Far more important than things will ever be. If I'm measuring things up, people will always come in light-years ahead of things, and people are what I will bend over backwards to save. When I'm stressed, if I drop something, fine. If I drop someone, especially someone in crisis, there's no coming back from that. Bottom line.
I think one of the things that has really gotten to me over the last while or so is feeling like a commodity in various relationships: "I want this from you now, but if you fall into it here, it's an unforgiveable sin - God forbid you should be yourself when I don't want you to be"; "Hi, you're the one person who won't get upset, do you mind if I move *you*" (that has to be a pattern for me to get upset); or even those who think, "Irim can wait. She'll be there."
You'd be surprised. I'll bend over backwards for good reasons. But when it becomes a habit, that's something entirely different.
It has always been my feeling that one can unilaterally make a decision that involves something; that is just you and... a book. Or a cooking pot. Whatever.
But the moment that someone else is involved, you lose that right to make the decision on your own.
Of course, if you can't make something, you can't make it. Fine. But have the grace to be the one who takes the initiative to sort something out, so it's clear that you value the friendship, that spending time with this person matters to you. In fact, if they're the one who always sorts it - initiate every so often anyway, so they KNOW you want to be spending time with them and not dental flossing cats instead.
I'm gobsmacked at the number of people who think they can make unilateral decisions that have an impact on other people's lives, schedules, emotions. To quote a good friend, "Dude, WTF?" How dare anyone make a decision that involves another adult (obviously, children are another matter), especially a friend, present it as a fait accompli - and then expect it to be OK? What kind of chutzpah is it that they then get offended because the other person doesn't react in a way that suits them? It's a weird kind of lack of awareness - almost like the person is an object, without feelings, without a life, without their own ideas about the situation.
Now, that's not saying things can't change - they do and they should. But when you're making a decision that involves someone else - TALK TO THEM. Say, "Hey, this is what's going on with me, and I think it might involve you. This is what I've been thinking - what are your thoughts on this?" THAT shows respect, care and awareness of the other person as an individual, as someone you value.
A unilateral decision shows a lack of awareness at best, but more often, it shows a lack of care. (Obviously, there are times when it is appropriate - abuse, breakups, and so on. But hopefully in many of those cases (except abuse - RUN), one has tried to communicate, has tried those bilateral avenues.)
Clearly, a unilateral decision can only be accepted by the person to whom it is presented. But even the most accommodating person files it away with a sense of having not been considered as part of the decision.
Eventually, even the most flexible of boundaries can snap back like a rubber band. That can sting. But unlike rubber bands, they may never flex again for a particular person. Someone who had been a good friend for 13 years wrote a letter that was so awful that to this day, I will only refer to her by a pragmatic relationship - never as a friend. And I will never initiate contact with her again.
I don't believe in giving someone the other cheek to slap. It's just plain stupid to let yourself be abused again.
So yeah, I'm done accommodating. Except in appropriate circumstances and except with people who accommodate me and let me be who I am, warts and all.
And on a more serious note...
I have several 'Quote of the days' that find themselves into my inbox. One of my favourites is "Oneness" from Rasha, and the last two quotes have been particularly apropos:
"Allow the episodes of greatest intensity to play out unimpeded, for your judgment of the depth of your feelings could serve to inhibit the authenticity of your response. The objective here is not restraint, but rather, release."
"Trust that there are levels of consciousness within you that understand precisely what is happening and why it is necessary that you be subject to this period of upheaval."
And intense episodes and upheaval it has been indeed, from December with very little let-up over the last seven months. Bottom line? I'm absolutely shattered.
But faith keeps me putting one foot in front of the other.
"Allow the episodes of greatest intensity to play out unimpeded, for your judgment of the depth of your feelings could serve to inhibit the authenticity of your response. The objective here is not restraint, but rather, release."
"Trust that there are levels of consciousness within you that understand precisely what is happening and why it is necessary that you be subject to this period of upheaval."
And intense episodes and upheaval it has been indeed, from December with very little let-up over the last seven months. Bottom line? I'm absolutely shattered.
But faith keeps me putting one foot in front of the other.
"They are very small ducks"
I know, I know, I need to get round to writing some proper entries.
Meanwhile, love this, of which THIS is the BEST example. I was laughing so hard I needed supplemental oxygen afterwards.
Alongside the 'no pets', Mr Thorne's 'seven-legged spider' puts him in the premier league of 'crazy like a fox' emailers.
Fucking brilliant. Now I just need to get him to email the Vatican...
Meanwhile, love this, of which THIS is the BEST example. I was laughing so hard I needed supplemental oxygen afterwards.
Alongside the 'no pets', Mr Thorne's 'seven-legged spider' puts him in the premier league of 'crazy like a fox' emailers.
Fucking brilliant. Now I just need to get him to email the Vatican...
Friday, 17 July 2009
Candles, cathedrals and dreams
It must be a mark of how shattered I am that if I'm home before 6, like as not, I'll tumble into bed for a 45-60 min nap. And that in that short period, I dream. Vividly. And I'll still sleep like a baby at night. Well, maybe not my friends' babies, but...
This evening was no exception. I arrived home at 5.55 pm, went upstairs and fell into bed, falling asleep almost immediately. And suddenly, I was in a huge cathedral.
It reminded me very much of the National Shrine of the ImmaculateConfection Conception in Washington, but without the angry Zeus Jesus on the ceiling and the pastiche of styles that make it truly ugly. High, white ceilings, HUGE, open, basilica - and it was a sunny day. I was standing at the back whilst a number of my clerical friends milled about and mixed further into the cathedral, grinning with pleasure watching them, but remaining behind the last row of pews, near a large pillar candle.
Suddenly, they decided to play around and have a mock procession through the cathedral, with Robert OP leading. It was a huge procession, and with the exception of my friends, the figures were shadowy. I thought, 'that looks like fun', and suddenly Krzysztof, hands shaking, came out of the procession and wordlessly handed me what looked like a menorah, but far more rectangular/angular than the ones that I'm used to (and fond of: I tend to prefer the classically round shape or some of the more antique looking ones).
It looked a lot like this, but gold, and I think there was only ONE branch downwards to the base:
http://www.keeneshops.com/ChanukahGuide/menorah.gif
For those of you who know the Oratory, it looked a lot like one of the rows at the candelabrum of Our Lady of Oxford.
There was only one white candle lit, and as I started to move to join the procession it blew out because of a strong wind from behind me that I had just noticed.
"Damn," I thought, "I'll light it again from the pillar and shield it, then I'll be able to keep it lit and get it out of the wind." No chance. That time or the several that followed it.
Finally, Robert and Nick came out of the procession to find out what was going on and why I hadn't joined them. As the others gathered, I explained and they tried, Nick reaching over to straighten the candle in its holder, whilst Robert took over trying to light it. But the wind at my back grew ever more insistent, and suddenly I looked down at the menorah/candelabrum and there were four white candles tumbled onto the base, slightly melted with the black residue that was the result of repeated attempted lighting.
At this point we paused briefly, as Robert talked out what might work and Nick stood back, brow furrowed, chin on hand, looking at me and the candelabra thoughtfully, trying to work out what was going on. And then it struck me. Not a breeze ruffled their hair or their cassock/habit. The pillar candle burned cheerfully, unwavering. The back doors weren't open.
I was the only one affected by the zephyr at my back that I now realised felt sentient.
I tuned back into Robert, who was saying, "We could do what we do with the Easter vigil candles and put plastic cups over them - you know, with the holes cut out of the bottom."
The words tumbled out of my mouth: "No, Robert, you can't. It'll keep them lit, but it'll shelter them too much - they're not meant to be sheltered, closed in like that."
I sensed the agreement as the wind blew harder at my back whispering, "No, no, no."
I woke, my eyes falling on the clock - 6.55.
My first thought was, "You can never light a menorah in a cathedral. It doesn't belong there."
Over to you - all thoughts welcome.
This evening was no exception. I arrived home at 5.55 pm, went upstairs and fell into bed, falling asleep almost immediately. And suddenly, I was in a huge cathedral.
It reminded me very much of the National Shrine of the Immaculate
Suddenly, they decided to play around and have a mock procession through the cathedral, with Robert OP leading. It was a huge procession, and with the exception of my friends, the figures were shadowy. I thought, 'that looks like fun', and suddenly Krzysztof, hands shaking, came out of the procession and wordlessly handed me what looked like a menorah, but far more rectangular/angular than the ones that I'm used to (and fond of: I tend to prefer the classically round shape or some of the more antique looking ones).
It looked a lot like this, but gold, and I think there was only ONE branch downwards to the base:
http://www.keeneshops.com/
For those of you who know the Oratory, it looked a lot like one of the rows at the candelabrum of Our Lady of Oxford.
There was only one white candle lit, and as I started to move to join the procession it blew out because of a strong wind from behind me that I had just noticed.
"Damn," I thought, "I'll light it again from the pillar and shield it, then I'll be able to keep it lit and get it out of the wind." No chance. That time or the several that followed it.
Finally, Robert and Nick came out of the procession to find out what was going on and why I hadn't joined them. As the others gathered, I explained and they tried, Nick reaching over to straighten the candle in its holder, whilst Robert took over trying to light it. But the wind at my back grew ever more insistent, and suddenly I looked down at the menorah/candelabrum and there were four white candles tumbled onto the base, slightly melted with the black residue that was the result of repeated attempted lighting.
At this point we paused briefly, as Robert talked out what might work and Nick stood back, brow furrowed, chin on hand, looking at me and the candelabra thoughtfully, trying to work out what was going on. And then it struck me. Not a breeze ruffled their hair or their cassock/habit. The pillar candle burned cheerfully, unwavering. The back doors weren't open.
I was the only one affected by the zephyr at my back that I now realised felt sentient.
I tuned back into Robert, who was saying, "We could do what we do with the Easter vigil candles and put plastic cups over them - you know, with the holes cut out of the bottom."
The words tumbled out of my mouth: "No, Robert, you can't. It'll keep them lit, but it'll shelter them too much - they're not meant to be sheltered, closed in like that."
I sensed the agreement as the wind blew harder at my back whispering, "No, no, no."
I woke, my eyes falling on the clock - 6.55.
My first thought was, "You can never light a menorah in a cathedral. It doesn't belong there."
Over to you - all thoughts welcome.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
How do you solve a problem like Maria (Goretti)?
There are millions of Catholic saints, many named, but most not.
Of those that are named, everyone has those that they have an affinity for and those that repel them. Whilst I adore Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross, I couldn't dislike Therese of Lisieux, Padre Pio or Jose Escriva de Balaguer more. Different strokes for different folks.
But Maria Goretti is something else entirely.
For those who do not know the story of Maria Goretti, here it is in short: born in 1890, it is claimed (with all the smell of a justifying backstory) that she was a particularly God-fearing, pious little girl. On 5 July 1902, her neighbour, Alessandro Serenelli, came upon her sewing and said he would kill her if she didn't let him rape her, at which point she told him it was a mortal sin and that he would go to Hell if he carried on. He choked her, she refused, he stabbed her 17 times. She died later in hospital, supposedly having forgiven her attacker.
She then became the patron saint of those who had been raped and sexually abused.
Do we see a problem here?
Let me sum Saint Maria Goretti up for you in four words: better dead than deflowered.
Several years ago, I sat in church on her feast day, open-mouthed in absolute shock as the priest stood up and waxed lyrical over how Maria had died to protect her purity, how amazing that was, and how she was an example for everyone to follow. My rather politically incorrect thought, and the only one that is vaguely printable, was, "WTF does a woman's purity matter to YOU, you aging queen?"
When I confronted one of his colleagues, who happens to be a good friend, about it, he responded that Maria Goretti's sainthood was about forgiveness, not her chastity. I know he believes that, but I think he's wrong - and here's why:
From Pope Pius XII:
"The value of Christian virtue is so great, so overwhelming, so imperative, that it is worth more than life. Purity is not just a separate part of our being. It belongs to our existence as a whole, it is essential for our life. Purity brings us in harmony of body and soul."
From JP II:
"Maria Goretti, so illuminating with her spiritual beauty, challenges us to a firm and secure faith in the Word of God, as the only source of truth, to remain firm against the temptations of this world."
"Young people, look at Maria Goretti, don’t be tempted by the tempting atmosphere of our permissive society, which declares, everything is possible. Look to Maria Goretti, love, live, defend your chastity."
Oh, and let's not forget the Maria Goretti Society which has cute pink t-shirts that say 'Maria Goretti Society: Purity is worth dying for'. Is it, fuck.
Of course, we all know that being threatened by rape is the same as being tempted by 'permissive society'. It's the same as choosing to remain chaste. I mean, after all, what's the difference between being a child, helpless in the face of someone twice your size or a woman threatened at gunpoint and saying 'No' to your boyfriend because you want to wait?
Obviously, none in the eyes of the above popes, and thus, none in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church.
So, let's look at virginity/purity. Worth dying for?
Virginity is simply the state of not having had sex - nothing more and nothing less. In and of itself, it is neutral. Value is placed on it by a patriarchy incapable of getting past its animal nature: a virgin bride/woman ensures that any children belong to the man who's sleeping with her (also the reason that a woman's faithfulness is more important than a man's, of course). Perpetual virginity, robbing a woman of her sexuality, makes a woman the eternal girl, meaning that she is non-threatening to the men who idealise her - making it impossible for any living woman to measure up.
I'm sure as hell not dying to protect that. And there is NO way I'd want a daughter of mine to, either.
I'm not saying, 'Wey-hey, everyone, go out and shag mindlessly' - unless that's your thing. You should never give up anything that is uniquely yours - and your body and the way you have sex is that - to win approval, to buy love, to manipulate, to fill an emptiness you can't face. You should give it because you WANT to, because you LOVE what you are about to do. And in that case, when you give it and to whom is no one else's business (unless you're doing it where I and everyone else have to watch).
The problem with Maria Goretti is the message she, and the priests & faithful who idolise her, sends - that those of us who were sexually abused or raped and lived aren't worth a hell of a lot. At the very least, we're worth less than Maria Goretti and those who chose to die.
Read my lips: Bullshit.
Whilst I absolutely respect and mourn those who have died, the courage and power of the survivors never ceases to humble me. Does some sheltered celibate REALLY believe that I would rather have a daughter of mine DIE a virgin than LIVE, having survived a horrific crime? How can you POSSIBLY even THINK that I would rather bury a child than hold her, help her make it through her darkness, teach her to trust, help her to take the steps she needs to heal?
Whilst we mourn and honour the women who chose to fight their attackers and died, we celebrate those who survived. Those who take those baby steps back towards trust, love, being able to be touched. Those who cheer every milestone: the moment a lover can touch you there; the first time you don't freeze or check out during a makeout session or sex; the first time a man coming up behind you doesn't freak you out; the first time you can sit in the middle of a row at the movies; the first time a man can touch your hair without your tensing up and oh-so-many-more things most people take for granted. Those who breathe through the flashbacks; through the two steps forward, one step back; those who wake up from the nightmares.
Survivors become rape counsellors. Survivors learn immense compassion. Survivors can enter almost any emotional landscape. Survivors make a disproportionate difference. And eventually, survivors thrive.
Don't you DARE tell me dying takes more courage. Unless you've been there or been beside someone who has, you know NOTHING. Speak not of what you know not - especially from the pulpit, where your words have immense effect - for good and for ill.
Worshipping a 12-year-old and glorifying what one of my priest friends sneeringly called 'infant chastity' is just *sick*. And making her the patron saint of women who have been sexually abused and raped reeks of contempt. Find us someone who has actually survived, suffered and overcome.
Go on. I dare you.
Maria Goretti's feast day is Monday, 6 July. A day that I can make it to mass. Will I go?
You bet. Why?
Because if one of the four priests most likely to go into raptures over how wonderful it was that Maria died protecting her chastity is up there and opens his mouth, I want him to have to LOOK at me when he says that.
And then, I want him to have to answer to me on behalf of every amazing survivor - man or woman - who has suffered rape or sexual abuse. I want him to understand exactly what his words could have done to someone in his congregation who has been violated in ways he can't even begin to imagine, or to impressionable children. I want him to remember that his vocation is to heal, not expound some twisted ideal - after all, he wouldn't suggest that someone who was mugged should have died instead, would he? No rape/sexual abuse victim bears ANY responsibility for the crime perpetrated on them. The responsibility - EVERY LAST IOTA OF IT - lies with the person who chose to attack and violate.
A small thing - one person, one statement. But a small difference is better than none at all.
And this one's for everyone who has the courage to survive - and find their way back to living, loving and laughing. One step at a time.
Of those that are named, everyone has those that they have an affinity for and those that repel them. Whilst I adore Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross, I couldn't dislike Therese of Lisieux, Padre Pio or Jose Escriva de Balaguer more. Different strokes for different folks.
But Maria Goretti is something else entirely.
For those who do not know the story of Maria Goretti, here it is in short: born in 1890, it is claimed (with all the smell of a justifying backstory) that she was a particularly God-fearing, pious little girl. On 5 July 1902, her neighbour, Alessandro Serenelli, came upon her sewing and said he would kill her if she didn't let him rape her, at which point she told him it was a mortal sin and that he would go to Hell if he carried on. He choked her, she refused, he stabbed her 17 times. She died later in hospital, supposedly having forgiven her attacker.
She then became the patron saint of those who had been raped and sexually abused.
Do we see a problem here?
Let me sum Saint Maria Goretti up for you in four words: better dead than deflowered.
Several years ago, I sat in church on her feast day, open-mouthed in absolute shock as the priest stood up and waxed lyrical over how Maria had died to protect her purity, how amazing that was, and how she was an example for everyone to follow. My rather politically incorrect thought, and the only one that is vaguely printable, was, "WTF does a woman's purity matter to YOU, you aging queen?"
When I confronted one of his colleagues, who happens to be a good friend, about it, he responded that Maria Goretti's sainthood was about forgiveness, not her chastity. I know he believes that, but I think he's wrong - and here's why:
From Pope Pius XII:
"The value of Christian virtue is so great, so overwhelming, so imperative, that it is worth more than life. Purity is not just a separate part of our being. It belongs to our existence as a whole, it is essential for our life. Purity brings us in harmony of body and soul."
From JP II:
"Maria Goretti, so illuminating with her spiritual beauty, challenges us to a firm and secure faith in the Word of God, as the only source of truth, to remain firm against the temptations of this world."
"Young people, look at Maria Goretti, don’t be tempted by the tempting atmosphere of our permissive society, which declares, everything is possible. Look to Maria Goretti, love, live, defend your chastity."
Oh, and let's not forget the Maria Goretti Society which has cute pink t-shirts that say 'Maria Goretti Society: Purity is worth dying for'. Is it, fuck.
Of course, we all know that being threatened by rape is the same as being tempted by 'permissive society'. It's the same as choosing to remain chaste. I mean, after all, what's the difference between being a child, helpless in the face of someone twice your size or a woman threatened at gunpoint and saying 'No' to your boyfriend because you want to wait?
Obviously, none in the eyes of the above popes, and thus, none in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church.
So, let's look at virginity/purity. Worth dying for?
Virginity is simply the state of not having had sex - nothing more and nothing less. In and of itself, it is neutral. Value is placed on it by a patriarchy incapable of getting past its animal nature: a virgin bride/woman ensures that any children belong to the man who's sleeping with her (also the reason that a woman's faithfulness is more important than a man's, of course). Perpetual virginity, robbing a woman of her sexuality, makes a woman the eternal girl, meaning that she is non-threatening to the men who idealise her - making it impossible for any living woman to measure up.
I'm sure as hell not dying to protect that. And there is NO way I'd want a daughter of mine to, either.
I'm not saying, 'Wey-hey, everyone, go out and shag mindlessly' - unless that's your thing. You should never give up anything that is uniquely yours - and your body and the way you have sex is that - to win approval, to buy love, to manipulate, to fill an emptiness you can't face. You should give it because you WANT to, because you LOVE what you are about to do. And in that case, when you give it and to whom is no one else's business (unless you're doing it where I and everyone else have to watch).
The problem with Maria Goretti is the message she, and the priests & faithful who idolise her, sends - that those of us who were sexually abused or raped and lived aren't worth a hell of a lot. At the very least, we're worth less than Maria Goretti and those who chose to die.
Read my lips: Bullshit.
Whilst I absolutely respect and mourn those who have died, the courage and power of the survivors never ceases to humble me. Does some sheltered celibate REALLY believe that I would rather have a daughter of mine DIE a virgin than LIVE, having survived a horrific crime? How can you POSSIBLY even THINK that I would rather bury a child than hold her, help her make it through her darkness, teach her to trust, help her to take the steps she needs to heal?
Whilst we mourn and honour the women who chose to fight their attackers and died, we celebrate those who survived. Those who take those baby steps back towards trust, love, being able to be touched. Those who cheer every milestone: the moment a lover can touch you there; the first time you don't freeze or check out during a makeout session or sex; the first time a man coming up behind you doesn't freak you out; the first time you can sit in the middle of a row at the movies; the first time a man can touch your hair without your tensing up and oh-so-many-more things most people take for granted. Those who breathe through the flashbacks; through the two steps forward, one step back; those who wake up from the nightmares.
Survivors become rape counsellors. Survivors learn immense compassion. Survivors can enter almost any emotional landscape. Survivors make a disproportionate difference. And eventually, survivors thrive.
Don't you DARE tell me dying takes more courage. Unless you've been there or been beside someone who has, you know NOTHING. Speak not of what you know not - especially from the pulpit, where your words have immense effect - for good and for ill.
Worshipping a 12-year-old and glorifying what one of my priest friends sneeringly called 'infant chastity' is just *sick*. And making her the patron saint of women who have been sexually abused and raped reeks of contempt. Find us someone who has actually survived, suffered and overcome.
Go on. I dare you.
Maria Goretti's feast day is Monday, 6 July. A day that I can make it to mass. Will I go?
You bet. Why?
Because if one of the four priests most likely to go into raptures over how wonderful it was that Maria died protecting her chastity is up there and opens his mouth, I want him to have to LOOK at me when he says that.
And then, I want him to have to answer to me on behalf of every amazing survivor - man or woman - who has suffered rape or sexual abuse. I want him to understand exactly what his words could have done to someone in his congregation who has been violated in ways he can't even begin to imagine, or to impressionable children. I want him to remember that his vocation is to heal, not expound some twisted ideal - after all, he wouldn't suggest that someone who was mugged should have died instead, would he? No rape/sexual abuse victim bears ANY responsibility for the crime perpetrated on them. The responsibility - EVERY LAST IOTA OF IT - lies with the person who chose to attack and violate.
A small thing - one person, one statement. But a small difference is better than none at all.
And this one's for everyone who has the courage to survive - and find their way back to living, loving and laughing. One step at a time.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Thoughts on the priesthood
The year of priests began on Friday, and after a lovely, unfussy mass and an excellent sermon by Fr Daniel, I've spent the last few days reflecting on my complex feelings about the Catholic priesthood.
That reflection was further complicated by the discovery yesterday that someone whose behaviour shows him to be utterly unfit for the priesthood is a seminarian.
A story to illustrate the point: 18 months ago, I was having dinner with a friend. Seminarian X knew this; he'd been told. During the course of the evening, he rang my friend NO LESS than 7 times over the course of the evening to ask if he could come over or if my friend could come out. I wondered who the hell this person and his group were, and unfortunately, I later had occasion to find out as, even after having been told "NO, I HAVE A GUEST THIS EVENING," ad nauseam, Seminarian X showed up, sat down and promptly started eating the candy bar my host had just unwrapped.
The utter selfishness, violation of personal boundaries, lack of respect for others, immaturity and the lack of genuine friendship was...staggering. More trivially, since my host and I spent the rest of the evening trying to get away, it totally ruined what had been a lovely evening.
There is no way this was hidden in the interview or in any recommendations he received - he's too unaware of self to KNOW to hide it. No way he could have hidden the split between what he professes and how he behaves. But the seminary accepted him anyway.
The most likely reaction from the people at my church? A "So what?" and a limp wrist wave.
I'll tell you 'so what' - that boy will be dealing with people at their most vulnerable, from birth to death. He will be their SHEPHERD. This is NOT a LIVE ACTION ROLE PLAYING GAME (LARP) so he can ponce about in lace, pretty vestments, with a thurible. Nor is it a way to put off growing up and becoming responsible - something both religious communities and the training for the priesthood do far too often these days.
These are people's lives, hearts and souls on the line. So, yeah, I think character, maturity and people skills are important. Deal.
That doesn't make me anti-clerical. It makes me demanding; it makes me tough; it means I have high expectations from those of you shepherding God's flock.Yes, I allow for imperfection. But ONLY where you are committed to growth - emotional and spiritual. Where you can admit that you are wrong. Where you are committed to learning. But where you're using imperfection as an excuse to be lazy and not change, I will give no quarter.
This is where I step up and say: part of this is because I'm sick of cleaning up after the bad ones. I've lost count of the hours where I've sat down to talk down someone in tears because some boy said something in the confessional that made me cover my mouth in horror - things I wouldn't even say to the uncle who sexually abused me. We won't discuss the things that have been said outside the confessional, in the public domain, things priests thought were funny or clever, but were only passive-aggressive and hurtful. Let's not even go into the ways problems - big problems, obvious unhappiness, clear unsuitability - are ignored until it is way, way too late. And sometimes, that costs lives.
One instance I remember most sharply is where a cleric came to me one day, hugged me and just put his head on my shoulder. I let him be there and then we talked. Absolutely the simplest thing in the world. Later, one of his colleagues said, "I'm so glad he came to you. The rest of us didn't really know what to say."
Erm, what? Excuse me, BUT ISN'T THAT THE ESSENCE OF YOUR VOCATION?
He was lucky he didn't get what was on the tip of my tongue to say: "Well, God forbid any of you should have displayed some pastoral ability. Wouldn't want that."
I sound pretty unambivalent, don't I?
But I'm not. Because frankly, I lay a LOT of this at the door of their training. Those who should never be accepted ARE; those who should be weeded out in seminary are not; those who have the skills to be good priests aren't properly trained. I'm not sure I actually believe that seminary is much more than a place for Borg assimilation and some intellectual work, with the barest nod to real pastoral work or moral training. Essentially, you've put a young man in a group of people who look like him, who agree with him, who will apply peer pressure to think the accepted groupthink and don't require much responsibility or knock the corners off. Put them in a place where they're taught that they're 'special' or 'more important' or, in the one Vianney quote I don't like, 'everything' - and you lose the man, don't you? He becomes a boy again. To become a man - let's use the gender neutral adult - you need to be able to see other points of view without being threatened, you need to think through your speech and actions, you need to take responsibility - and you need to realise that you are not, and will never be, more special than any other of God's children.
You cannot call yourself a man if you live in ways, places or with people that are invested in keeping you a boy. And unfortunately, in its odd mix of attempting to hammer down the nail that sticks up yet inculcating a sense of 'specialness', of 'entitlement', priestly training does exactly that - creates a boy to do man's job, setting far too many up for failure.
Good priests only seem to happen by accident or grace, not by design of the Church. And that's just plain wrong.
There's the other reason I'm ambivalent - I know some absolutely amazing priests. The ones who make me want to hug them as they struggle their way out loud through a difficult pastoral situation and I can hear the emotion in their voice. The ones who can call situations 'tough and tragic' and apply orthodox teaching compassionately - and by orthodox teaching, I don't mean pretty liturgy. I mean the priests who can say that suicide is not a mortal sin because even though it is grave matter, full knowledge and consent can't have been present. The ones who call me on saying 'forgive but not forget' because they KNOW I really mean 'I don't forgive' - and make me admit and deal with it. THAT is true orthodoxy. The ones who choke up (and that DOES get a hug for as long as needed) when they talk about the gratefulness of the parents of a stillborn child after the funeral or any of the countless situations where they share, even as they try to comfort, someone's pain or darkness. The ones who undo the damage of their colleagues as only they can.
THEY are my many clerical friends. THEY are the good priests, the good men who, as one of them beautifully put it, pour their lives out as a libation. The WORLD, not just the Church, is a better place for them. (Though I think they ought to be able to marry, but that's another discussion.)
Those of you I know and those of you I don't - THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
They are, quite simply, God's vessels. But there aren't enough of them. They don't get nearly enough support - from the laity or the institution. And God knows, they certainly don't get the initial or continuing training they need. They get worn down by the disproportionate number of parishioners who come to them and by those who aren't priests in the true sense of the word. That balance needs to shift dramatically in the other direction. They need and deserve all the support they can get.
The Church needs to recognise, nurture and support them. The dead weight needs to go.
So where does this all lead us? To how Irim would set up and run a Catholic seminary, of course.
What was that sound? Oh, that would be the sound of my clerical friends groaning in despair ;-).
Sorry, boys, you'll have to wait for the next installment - I've got an essay to finish...but watch this space.
That reflection was further complicated by the discovery yesterday that someone whose behaviour shows him to be utterly unfit for the priesthood is a seminarian.
A story to illustrate the point: 18 months ago, I was having dinner with a friend. Seminarian X knew this; he'd been told. During the course of the evening, he rang my friend NO LESS than 7 times over the course of the evening to ask if he could come over or if my friend could come out. I wondered who the hell this person and his group were, and unfortunately, I later had occasion to find out as, even after having been told "NO, I HAVE A GUEST THIS EVENING," ad nauseam, Seminarian X showed up, sat down and promptly started eating the candy bar my host had just unwrapped.
The utter selfishness, violation of personal boundaries, lack of respect for others, immaturity and the lack of genuine friendship was...staggering. More trivially, since my host and I spent the rest of the evening trying to get away, it totally ruined what had been a lovely evening.
There is no way this was hidden in the interview or in any recommendations he received - he's too unaware of self to KNOW to hide it. No way he could have hidden the split between what he professes and how he behaves. But the seminary accepted him anyway.
The most likely reaction from the people at my church? A "So what?" and a limp wrist wave.
I'll tell you 'so what' - that boy will be dealing with people at their most vulnerable, from birth to death. He will be their SHEPHERD. This is NOT a LIVE ACTION ROLE PLAYING GAME (LARP) so he can ponce about in lace, pretty vestments, with a thurible. Nor is it a way to put off growing up and becoming responsible - something both religious communities and the training for the priesthood do far too often these days.
These are people's lives, hearts and souls on the line. So, yeah, I think character, maturity and people skills are important. Deal.
That doesn't make me anti-clerical. It makes me demanding; it makes me tough; it means I have high expectations from those of you shepherding God's flock.Yes, I allow for imperfection. But ONLY where you are committed to growth - emotional and spiritual. Where you can admit that you are wrong. Where you are committed to learning. But where you're using imperfection as an excuse to be lazy and not change, I will give no quarter.
This is where I step up and say: part of this is because I'm sick of cleaning up after the bad ones. I've lost count of the hours where I've sat down to talk down someone in tears because some boy said something in the confessional that made me cover my mouth in horror - things I wouldn't even say to the uncle who sexually abused me. We won't discuss the things that have been said outside the confessional, in the public domain, things priests thought were funny or clever, but were only passive-aggressive and hurtful. Let's not even go into the ways problems - big problems, obvious unhappiness, clear unsuitability - are ignored until it is way, way too late. And sometimes, that costs lives.
One instance I remember most sharply is where a cleric came to me one day, hugged me and just put his head on my shoulder. I let him be there and then we talked. Absolutely the simplest thing in the world. Later, one of his colleagues said, "I'm so glad he came to you. The rest of us didn't really know what to say."
Erm, what? Excuse me, BUT ISN'T THAT THE ESSENCE OF YOUR VOCATION?
He was lucky he didn't get what was on the tip of my tongue to say: "Well, God forbid any of you should have displayed some pastoral ability. Wouldn't want that."
I sound pretty unambivalent, don't I?
But I'm not. Because frankly, I lay a LOT of this at the door of their training. Those who should never be accepted ARE; those who should be weeded out in seminary are not; those who have the skills to be good priests aren't properly trained. I'm not sure I actually believe that seminary is much more than a place for Borg assimilation and some intellectual work, with the barest nod to real pastoral work or moral training. Essentially, you've put a young man in a group of people who look like him, who agree with him, who will apply peer pressure to think the accepted groupthink and don't require much responsibility or knock the corners off. Put them in a place where they're taught that they're 'special' or 'more important' or, in the one Vianney quote I don't like, 'everything' - and you lose the man, don't you? He becomes a boy again. To become a man - let's use the gender neutral adult - you need to be able to see other points of view without being threatened, you need to think through your speech and actions, you need to take responsibility - and you need to realise that you are not, and will never be, more special than any other of God's children.
You cannot call yourself a man if you live in ways, places or with people that are invested in keeping you a boy. And unfortunately, in its odd mix of attempting to hammer down the nail that sticks up yet inculcating a sense of 'specialness', of 'entitlement', priestly training does exactly that - creates a boy to do man's job, setting far too many up for failure.
Good priests only seem to happen by accident or grace, not by design of the Church. And that's just plain wrong.
There's the other reason I'm ambivalent - I know some absolutely amazing priests. The ones who make me want to hug them as they struggle their way out loud through a difficult pastoral situation and I can hear the emotion in their voice. The ones who can call situations 'tough and tragic' and apply orthodox teaching compassionately - and by orthodox teaching, I don't mean pretty liturgy. I mean the priests who can say that suicide is not a mortal sin because even though it is grave matter, full knowledge and consent can't have been present. The ones who call me on saying 'forgive but not forget' because they KNOW I really mean 'I don't forgive' - and make me admit and deal with it. THAT is true orthodoxy. The ones who choke up (and that DOES get a hug for as long as needed) when they talk about the gratefulness of the parents of a stillborn child after the funeral or any of the countless situations where they share, even as they try to comfort, someone's pain or darkness. The ones who undo the damage of their colleagues as only they can.
THEY are my many clerical friends. THEY are the good priests, the good men who, as one of them beautifully put it, pour their lives out as a libation. The WORLD, not just the Church, is a better place for them. (Though I think they ought to be able to marry, but that's another discussion.)
Those of you I know and those of you I don't - THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
They are, quite simply, God's vessels. But there aren't enough of them. They don't get nearly enough support - from the laity or the institution. And God knows, they certainly don't get the initial or continuing training they need. They get worn down by the disproportionate number of parishioners who come to them and by those who aren't priests in the true sense of the word. That balance needs to shift dramatically in the other direction. They need and deserve all the support they can get.
The Church needs to recognise, nurture and support them. The dead weight needs to go.
So where does this all lead us? To how Irim would set up and run a Catholic seminary, of course.
What was that sound? Oh, that would be the sound of my clerical friends groaning in despair ;-).
Sorry, boys, you'll have to wait for the next installment - I've got an essay to finish...but watch this space.
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Cardiff Singer of the World disappointment
I only caught the first 'semifinal' this week, but was pleased to note that my ability to gauge singers, despite my inability to sing, was sharp as ever - the commentary running in my head was almost word for word what the experts said after, and I chose the winner of the heat within a single phrase.
Marvelous. I was ready. For various reasons, I missed the other heats, but I caught the last three of tonight's final. The bass was lovely, but not out of this world.
Next up was the counter tenor. I sat up straight...a COUNTER TENOR? IN THE CARDIFF SINGER OF THE WORLD FINAL?????????????? OMG. *BRILLIANT*
Now, any of my friends who know my musical preferences will be sitting back in shock. I'm a baritone/bass, alto/mezzo girl. I tend to dislike the higher ranges because so many who claim to sing them CAN'T, and sound like strangled cats at the top of the range. I'm going to get a lot of grief for this, but I HATED Luciano Pavarotti's voice. HATED it. Love Placido, but realised why when I learned he had been a zarzuela baritone. He has the richness of the baritone and the proper range of a tenor, and musicianship FAR superior to anything Pavarotti displayed - and was always undeservingly seen as second best, I felt.
Sopranos start off with an 'UGH' from me and really have to prove themselves. I hate what I call the 'light Mozart' sops - all air, no substance. Anya Harteros, the 1999 winner of Cardiff singer, is that rare, rare soprano that I love - one whose voice is like liquid gold, with depth, texture and range. When I like sopranos, they tend to be Wagnerian.
So, what I like in voices - texture, depth, darkness - I most often find in the lower ranges, so I gravitate towards them.
It's either that or crystal clarity - found in the trebles that are the staple of the English choir, NOT in light Mozart sopranos - or in that rare tenor like Fr Dom, whose voice a friend once described as 'ethereal, fragile, like Venice - you turn around and you're not quite sure he'll be there'. The most magical moment of the liturgical year is in a candlelit Oratory, the moment he sings the first note of the Exsultet - and then it's really a place out of time. Interestingly, listening closely this year, I caught some of the texture that I'd missed before.
Back to Cardiff singer. That was all a long diversion to explain why it would be such a surprise for my musical friends to discover that I was thrilled to find a countertenor in the final.
Yuriy Mynenko proved me right. His repertoire was one never heard in a Cardiff Singer final before :
Ombra fedele anch'io (Idaspe) - Broschi
Crude furie degl'orridi abissi (Serse) - Handel
Oh patria! ... Di tanti palpiti (Tancredi) - Rossini
His voice was divine; his phrasing, incredible; his emotion, electric. The vocal runs were jaw-dropping. I didn't look away for his entire repertoire, and the audience clearly felt the same. "He HAS to win," I thought.
When I heard who the next performer was, my heart sank. A pretty, Russian soprano who had 'blown the jury away' at her semifinal - Ekaterina Shcherbachenko. Aw, crap.
Yeah, go on, guess how often it was mentioned that she was 'pretty', or 'looked elegant' and how that made her 'the whole package'.
Mmmmmm.
Her repertoire:
Je voudrais bien savoir ... Ah! je ris (Faust) - Gounod
Signore, ascolta! (Turandot) - Puccini
No word from Tom (The Rake's Progress) - Stravinsky
Already, she was at a disadvantage with me - I don't like hearing French *spoken* (sorry, Christelle), let alone being sung - its nasality is like nails on a chalkboard for me. Give me Spanish any day. And Stravinsky 'The Rake's Progress'? *CRINGE* Puccini? Meh.
She sang it creditably - she's a lovely soprano, but no Anya Harteros, and I was perfectly capable of answering FB messages during her singing, even the Puccini didn't move me, though I could appreciate her technical ability. She felt OVERemotional to me.
THIS was where the experts and I diverged. They couldn't praise her enough, and how 'from the heart, it has to be Ekaterina".
Pass me a bucket.
So, of course, it was.
I can't tell you how disappointed I am in the jury. Of course, they know more about music than I will in several lifetimes, but I can't believe that the difference was more than a whisker.
The jury missed a chance to do something that would change the history of the competition forever: award the prize to the first countertenor ever.
A prize that would not only have legitimised the countertenor as a male voice, but would have gone a long way to striking a blow against the unease most audiences have with a male singing in a female range - and therefore, would have struck a blow for widening the range of what qualifies as acceptably masculine, which is frighteningly narrow.
Leaving aside the fact that 'gay' should not be a pejorative term and that being gay doesn't make you any less a man - it would be a good thing if what is acceptable in the heterosexual male repertoire was far wider than it is now. A man should be able to dance well, sing countertenor, hate sports, have heart to hearts with his male friends, participate in high liturgy and not have his sexuality questioned.
I've had far too many male friends ask why people assume they're gay - read 'not really male' - simply because they didn't like sports or because they were quiet. Enough.
As a friend once said to me, 'Why do we DO this to men? It's not fair.'
She's right.
The Cardiff jury had a chance to reach out beyond their usual preferences and strike a blow for something far bigger than the opera world.
They missed the boat.
And I, for one, am deeply disappointed.
Marvelous. I was ready. For various reasons, I missed the other heats, but I caught the last three of tonight's final. The bass was lovely, but not out of this world.
Next up was the counter tenor. I sat up straight...a COUNTER TENOR? IN THE CARDIFF SINGER OF THE WORLD FINAL?????????????? OMG. *BRILLIANT*
Now, any of my friends who know my musical preferences will be sitting back in shock. I'm a baritone/bass, alto/mezzo girl. I tend to dislike the higher ranges because so many who claim to sing them CAN'T, and sound like strangled cats at the top of the range. I'm going to get a lot of grief for this, but I HATED Luciano Pavarotti's voice. HATED it. Love Placido, but realised why when I learned he had been a zarzuela baritone. He has the richness of the baritone and the proper range of a tenor, and musicianship FAR superior to anything Pavarotti displayed - and was always undeservingly seen as second best, I felt.
Sopranos start off with an 'UGH' from me and really have to prove themselves. I hate what I call the 'light Mozart' sops - all air, no substance. Anya Harteros, the 1999 winner of Cardiff singer, is that rare, rare soprano that I love - one whose voice is like liquid gold, with depth, texture and range. When I like sopranos, they tend to be Wagnerian.
So, what I like in voices - texture, depth, darkness - I most often find in the lower ranges, so I gravitate towards them.
It's either that or crystal clarity - found in the trebles that are the staple of the English choir, NOT in light Mozart sopranos - or in that rare tenor like Fr Dom, whose voice a friend once described as 'ethereal, fragile, like Venice - you turn around and you're not quite sure he'll be there'. The most magical moment of the liturgical year is in a candlelit Oratory, the moment he sings the first note of the Exsultet - and then it's really a place out of time. Interestingly, listening closely this year, I caught some of the texture that I'd missed before.
Back to Cardiff singer. That was all a long diversion to explain why it would be such a surprise for my musical friends to discover that I was thrilled to find a countertenor in the final.
Yuriy Mynenko proved me right. His repertoire was one never heard in a Cardiff Singer final before :
Ombra fedele anch'io (Idaspe) - Broschi
Crude furie degl'orridi abissi (Serse) - Handel
Oh patria! ... Di tanti palpiti (Tancredi) - Rossini
His voice was divine; his phrasing, incredible; his emotion, electric. The vocal runs were jaw-dropping. I didn't look away for his entire repertoire, and the audience clearly felt the same. "He HAS to win," I thought.
When I heard who the next performer was, my heart sank. A pretty, Russian soprano who had 'blown the jury away' at her semifinal - Ekaterina Shcherbachenko. Aw, crap.
Yeah, go on, guess how often it was mentioned that she was 'pretty', or 'looked elegant' and how that made her 'the whole package'.
Mmmmmm.
Her repertoire:
Je voudrais bien savoir ... Ah! je ris (Faust) - Gounod
Signore, ascolta! (Turandot) - Puccini
No word from Tom (The Rake's Progress) - Stravinsky
Already, she was at a disadvantage with me - I don't like hearing French *spoken* (sorry, Christelle), let alone being sung - its nasality is like nails on a chalkboard for me. Give me Spanish any day. And Stravinsky 'The Rake's Progress'? *CRINGE* Puccini? Meh.
She sang it creditably - she's a lovely soprano, but no Anya Harteros, and I was perfectly capable of answering FB messages during her singing, even the Puccini didn't move me, though I could appreciate her technical ability. She felt OVERemotional to me.
THIS was where the experts and I diverged. They couldn't praise her enough, and how 'from the heart, it has to be Ekaterina".
Pass me a bucket.
So, of course, it was.
I can't tell you how disappointed I am in the jury. Of course, they know more about music than I will in several lifetimes, but I can't believe that the difference was more than a whisker.
The jury missed a chance to do something that would change the history of the competition forever: award the prize to the first countertenor ever.
A prize that would not only have legitimised the countertenor as a male voice, but would have gone a long way to striking a blow against the unease most audiences have with a male singing in a female range - and therefore, would have struck a blow for widening the range of what qualifies as acceptably masculine, which is frighteningly narrow.
Leaving aside the fact that 'gay' should not be a pejorative term and that being gay doesn't make you any less a man - it would be a good thing if what is acceptable in the heterosexual male repertoire was far wider than it is now. A man should be able to dance well, sing countertenor, hate sports, have heart to hearts with his male friends, participate in high liturgy and not have his sexuality questioned.
I've had far too many male friends ask why people assume they're gay - read 'not really male' - simply because they didn't like sports or because they were quiet. Enough.
As a friend once said to me, 'Why do we DO this to men? It's not fair.'
She's right.
The Cardiff jury had a chance to reach out beyond their usual preferences and strike a blow for something far bigger than the opera world.
They missed the boat.
And I, for one, am deeply disappointed.
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
A familial exchange
On Monday, 8 June - a full 12 days after my birthday - an email popped up in my OCMS inbox.
"Dear Irim,
I had sent you a note using your Yahoo e:mail address. But did not get a reply. Hope all is well. Anyway Happy Birthday again.
Love ,
Uncle"
On first glance, nice, right? I'm less sure. Over the last 16 months, since he's been in touch, he has claimed to have emailed to my yahoo adress several times without getting a response. For some reason, his emails never get through.
I don't buy it. Everyone else emails me at my yahoo address and has no problem; how is it that he's the only one that does? And if he KNOWS there has been a problem with Yahoo in the past, then why KEEP EMAILING ME THERE? Or, at the very least, if it's time sensitive, as birthdays are, why not email BOTH addresses to make sure it gets there on the day?
And when you KNOW I will reply to you with 24-48 hours, WHY didn't you email my other address earlier?
Sounds like somebody is:
a. Fishing for information
b. Laying on the guilt
c. Maybe more than a bit angry that since he got in touch, I haven't exactly jumped back into the family with great joy - I wonder if he thought I was pining for them or something and would be eternally, cringeingly grateful that he had deigned, as the patriarch in my father's family, to bring me back into the fold.
Why would I return to the fold?
This wasn't the place I was going to write about it, but I will now. I haven't had a big celebration for my birthday - instead, I'm going to treat myself by catching up with everyone in ones and twos over time, so I can talk to them properly and actually BE with them, which I couldn't do last year. Did that make me feel - less loved on the day? Less cared about?
Blessed Mother, no way. My birthday morning started with my logging into facebook and picking up an early morning, heartfelt message from a friend in South Africa that choked me up for the rest of the day, not least because I could see his expression and hear his voice as I read it.
And it went on from there - as message after message popped up on my facebook wall, on my phone, in my various inboxes, I couldn't have felt more loved as I saw the faces and heard the voices of everyone from high school friends to new friends; friends from Australia to South Africa to Stateside to Oxford - MY family. I grinned as I imagined what they were doing: juggling a baby on a lap (several of you!); walking purposefully up St Giles, drawing deeply on a cigarette and texting; furtively facebooking at lunch; taking a day off in my honour - to feed gerbils ;-).
I got cards in the post, a bottle of Cava from the boss I was with on the day and when I finally made it to OCMS the following week, the entire contingent of staff and students surprised me in my carrel with a rousing round of 'Happy birthday' and a card.
No matter how near or far you were, I felt your affection, love and friendship. I spent my birthday feeling absolutely adored and supported, and ended it with one of the heart-to-hearts I'm planning as my gifts to myself over the summer. It couldn't have been more perfect - thank you.
Back to my uncle.
So I responded, trying to give a little more news than usual, but I'll acknowledge that the bit about not having a sig other might have been too much of a swipe at the unhappy marriages of my parents and so many others in my family:
"Dear Uncle,
And yet again, I didn't receive it, or I would have replied :). It's irimsarwar@yahoo.co.uk - not .com - does that help? If you don't receive a reply, always assume I didn't receive your email - I'll always reply when I do.
Many thanks - had a lovely one on the 27th with lots of messages from friends and am spreading out the celebrations so I actually have TIME to talk to my friends this year: I had a party with 35 people last year - fabulous, but didn't really get to chat to anyone.
All good here; the training to become a psychotherapist proceeds apace and should have done it years ago; still no man in the picture, but that leaves me free to do my own things and I'm not trapped in an unhappy relationship for the sake of being in one or b/c of what people will think. If the right man comes along, he comes along. If not, I have a great life. Not worried.
And you? What news at your end? Oh, and does [family friend] have an email address? xx"
Ja, I could have done a bit better. There's a tightness, defensiveness and anger beneath the forced lightness that didn't really need to be there. I can see the 'Don't tread on me' and 'don't come any closer' stamped all over it.
And yes, the bit about being single stands out as defensive, no question about that. But as a South Asian woman, your success IS judged, at least partly, on whether or not you're married, so in some ways, that was a pre-emptive strike. But too much of one, I think.
Next time.
And the response reflects that tightness, I think:
"Dear Irim,
Glad to know that you are well and good. All is well here.
N has come here to do his Fellowship in Cardiology at Walter Read [sic, should be Reed] Hospital. [Family friend] does not have an email address;however her telephone is xxx-xxx-xxxx. I gave her your email address and she is going to write you from her friend's computer.
She was asking for your telephone number which I did not have.
Your mother does talk about you a lot and miss you.
Well : stay happy and enjoy your life. Our prayers are always with you."
One of the reasons I like to write is that it helps me think things through, and sometimes my feelings and my point of view shift from beginning to end.
Do I think this response is manipulative? Terse, certainly. Tense, without question. The not having my number is a 'misremembrance', because I gave it to him last year and have the email to prove it.
The line about my mother IS manipulative, but doesn't hit home, because frankly, if she wanted to be in touch with me, she could be. Her excuses about not being in touch with me hold no more water than her excuse about having to be at work and being unable to drive to Dulles the day I left to come to England. If she really wanted to get around my dad, she could.
Miss *me*? Unlikely. She doesn't really know me and spent my childhood weaselling information about how I really felt to hand over to my father as a weapon and to use as one herself. She was never worried about me as a person, but worried about how I would reflect on her as an extension of herself, someone through whom she could live vicariously.
What she really misses is someone she can live through and the appearance of the perfect family.
She can talk about missing me as much as she likes. I'll believe her when she acts.
Hard? Yes. But if I were a mother, I'd be even harder on myself.
As for my uncle, what strikes me is my friend Ari's comment that his prose is 'stiffly formal'. So, yes, I think a, b and c may well hold, but there's something else here: an awkwardness, an uncertainty about how to act with...a stranger.
A stranger who used to be a bright, pliable child. The one child who WAS going to be a doctor or a lawyer for sure, but ended up not being so. The good child, the child who was going to be IN the family, no matter what, because she'd never have the guts to leave. The child who would keep the culture more than the wayward others. The child who would always NEED them. Who had all the spirit beaten out of her. The quiet, studious one.
Amazing how wrong we can be when we don't know someone's inner world, isn't it?
Always watch out for the quiet, still ones. More often than you think, you're looking at a backdraft waiting to happen.
"Well : stay happy and enjoy your life. Our prayers are always with you."
A dismissal? Maybe. I think he just didn't know what to say, and I think he doesn't understand; it's like a foreign language. I'm touched by his prayers and grateful for them.
And for once in my adult life, he can count on my obeying that command. Enjoying my life is exactly what I plan to do - and if he wants to open up and be a part of that, he will be welcome.
If not, my prayers go with him.
"Dear Irim,
I had sent you a note using your Yahoo e:mail address. But did not get a reply. Hope all is well. Anyway Happy Birthday again.
Love ,
Uncle"
On first glance, nice, right? I'm less sure. Over the last 16 months, since he's been in touch, he has claimed to have emailed to my yahoo adress several times without getting a response. For some reason, his emails never get through.
I don't buy it. Everyone else emails me at my yahoo address and has no problem; how is it that he's the only one that does? And if he KNOWS there has been a problem with Yahoo in the past, then why KEEP EMAILING ME THERE? Or, at the very least, if it's time sensitive, as birthdays are, why not email BOTH addresses to make sure it gets there on the day?
And when you KNOW I will reply to you with 24-48 hours, WHY didn't you email my other address earlier?
Sounds like somebody is:
a. Fishing for information
b. Laying on the guilt
c. Maybe more than a bit angry that since he got in touch, I haven't exactly jumped back into the family with great joy - I wonder if he thought I was pining for them or something and would be eternally, cringeingly grateful that he had deigned, as the patriarch in my father's family, to bring me back into the fold.
Why would I return to the fold?
This wasn't the place I was going to write about it, but I will now. I haven't had a big celebration for my birthday - instead, I'm going to treat myself by catching up with everyone in ones and twos over time, so I can talk to them properly and actually BE with them, which I couldn't do last year. Did that make me feel - less loved on the day? Less cared about?
Blessed Mother, no way. My birthday morning started with my logging into facebook and picking up an early morning, heartfelt message from a friend in South Africa that choked me up for the rest of the day, not least because I could see his expression and hear his voice as I read it.
And it went on from there - as message after message popped up on my facebook wall, on my phone, in my various inboxes, I couldn't have felt more loved as I saw the faces and heard the voices of everyone from high school friends to new friends; friends from Australia to South Africa to Stateside to Oxford - MY family. I grinned as I imagined what they were doing: juggling a baby on a lap (several of you!); walking purposefully up St Giles, drawing deeply on a cigarette and texting; furtively facebooking at lunch; taking a day off in my honour - to feed gerbils ;-).
I got cards in the post, a bottle of Cava from the boss I was with on the day and when I finally made it to OCMS the following week, the entire contingent of staff and students surprised me in my carrel with a rousing round of 'Happy birthday' and a card.
No matter how near or far you were, I felt your affection, love and friendship. I spent my birthday feeling absolutely adored and supported, and ended it with one of the heart-to-hearts I'm planning as my gifts to myself over the summer. It couldn't have been more perfect - thank you.
Back to my uncle.
So I responded, trying to give a little more news than usual, but I'll acknowledge that the bit about not having a sig other might have been too much of a swipe at the unhappy marriages of my parents and so many others in my family:
"Dear Uncle,
And yet again, I didn't receive it, or I would have replied :). It's irimsarwar@yahoo.co.uk - not .com - does that help? If you don't receive a reply, always assume I didn't receive your email - I'll always reply when I do.
Many thanks - had a lovely one on the 27th with lots of messages from friends and am spreading out the celebrations so I actually have TIME to talk to my friends this year: I had a party with 35 people last year - fabulous, but didn't really get to chat to anyone.
All good here; the training to become a psychotherapist proceeds apace and should have done it years ago; still no man in the picture, but that leaves me free to do my own things and I'm not trapped in an unhappy relationship for the sake of being in one or b/c of what people will think. If the right man comes along, he comes along. If not, I have a great life. Not worried.
And you? What news at your end? Oh, and does [family friend] have an email address? xx"
Ja, I could have done a bit better. There's a tightness, defensiveness and anger beneath the forced lightness that didn't really need to be there. I can see the 'Don't tread on me' and 'don't come any closer' stamped all over it.
And yes, the bit about being single stands out as defensive, no question about that. But as a South Asian woman, your success IS judged, at least partly, on whether or not you're married, so in some ways, that was a pre-emptive strike. But too much of one, I think.
Next time.
And the response reflects that tightness, I think:
"Dear Irim,
Glad to know that you are well and good. All is well here.
N has come here to do his Fellowship in Cardiology at Walter Read [sic, should be Reed] Hospital. [Family friend] does not have an email address;however her telephone is xxx-xxx-xxxx. I gave her your email address and she is going to write you from her friend's computer.
She was asking for your telephone number which I did not have.
Your mother does talk about you a lot and miss you.
Well : stay happy and enjoy your life. Our prayers are always with you."
One of the reasons I like to write is that it helps me think things through, and sometimes my feelings and my point of view shift from beginning to end.
Do I think this response is manipulative? Terse, certainly. Tense, without question. The not having my number is a 'misremembrance', because I gave it to him last year and have the email to prove it.
The line about my mother IS manipulative, but doesn't hit home, because frankly, if she wanted to be in touch with me, she could be. Her excuses about not being in touch with me hold no more water than her excuse about having to be at work and being unable to drive to Dulles the day I left to come to England. If she really wanted to get around my dad, she could.
Miss *me*? Unlikely. She doesn't really know me and spent my childhood weaselling information about how I really felt to hand over to my father as a weapon and to use as one herself. She was never worried about me as a person, but worried about how I would reflect on her as an extension of herself, someone through whom she could live vicariously.
What she really misses is someone she can live through and the appearance of the perfect family.
She can talk about missing me as much as she likes. I'll believe her when she acts.
Hard? Yes. But if I were a mother, I'd be even harder on myself.
As for my uncle, what strikes me is my friend Ari's comment that his prose is 'stiffly formal'. So, yes, I think a, b and c may well hold, but there's something else here: an awkwardness, an uncertainty about how to act with...a stranger.
A stranger who used to be a bright, pliable child. The one child who WAS going to be a doctor or a lawyer for sure, but ended up not being so. The good child, the child who was going to be IN the family, no matter what, because she'd never have the guts to leave. The child who would keep the culture more than the wayward others. The child who would always NEED them. Who had all the spirit beaten out of her. The quiet, studious one.
Amazing how wrong we can be when we don't know someone's inner world, isn't it?
Always watch out for the quiet, still ones. More often than you think, you're looking at a backdraft waiting to happen.
"Well : stay happy and enjoy your life. Our prayers are always with you."
A dismissal? Maybe. I think he just didn't know what to say, and I think he doesn't understand; it's like a foreign language. I'm touched by his prayers and grateful for them.
And for once in my adult life, he can count on my obeying that command. Enjoying my life is exactly what I plan to do - and if he wants to open up and be a part of that, he will be welcome.
If not, my prayers go with him.
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Geekiness, divisibility rules and fractals
Most of my old friends know, from Nicole, Larisa, Susan and Lauri to Doug, Tom and Lauren. My current friends suspect it, but they don't know the depth...
Hi, my name is Irim and I'm a geek.
I was gutted when the UK got new registration plates. Why? Because there are no longer 3-digit numbers. (They used to go M345 KLW; now it's VK07 MMJ - 07=the car was bought in the first part of 2007)
So, you ask, looking at me like I've gone mad (which is not untrue), why do those 3 digit numbers matter?
Because I run divisibility rules on them as I'm walking into work.
Ja. Now you KNOW I'm crazy.
Look, I love numbers. I grew up playing with numbers the way I now play with words - I had to be able to figure out the total and the tax on purchases we were making at the supermarket before we ended up at the cashier. I recited my multiplication tables in front of my father more times than I care to count - and I remember that 3s were particularly difficult, because for the longest time, I'd only recite those to my father in order. And yes, I can do long division and find square roots by hand.
Numbers were at first familiar, then they became friends. Unlike many people today, I never found them scary or indecipherable. As one should with friends, I try to understand their limits as well as their strengths.
I fell in love with algebra. Solving for an unknown, the elegance of the dance towards a solution, quadratic equations...bliss. Geometry grew on me, and now I love the concept of angles, right triangles and shapes almost as much as I love quadratic equations. Almost, but not quite.
So, back to registration plates. Why divisibility rules?
Because what do you do with your friends? You PLAY.
So here are the divisibility rules:
2 The last digit is even (0,2,4,6,8)
3 The sum of the digits is divisible by 3
4 The last 2 digits are divisible by 4
5 The last digit is 0 or 5
6 The number is divisible by both 2 and 3 114 (it is even, and 1+1+4=6 and 6÷3 = 2) Yes
7 If you double the last digit and subtract it from the rest of the number and the answer is:
* 0, or
* divisible by 7
Repeat as necessary until you GET to a number that you know is or isn't divisible by 7.
8 The last three digits are divisible by 8
9 The sum of the digits is divisible by 9
10 The number ends in 0
11 If you sum every second digit and then subtract all other digits and the answer is:
* 0, or
* divisible by 11
See? Simple and doable in 5 min or less. And just plain old cool. My favourite discoveries are numbers divisible by 7 and 11. Make of that what you will.
I also find factoring quadratic equations step by step fun. I can usually do it in my head quickly, by working out what factors of a*c will sum up to b (ax^2+bx+c), but I love just writing it out and watching it unfold. I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm an associative, lateral thinker, and being forced to do things sequentially is relaxing, making me slow down and unwind.
I was actually geeky enough to be cross that I hadn't started the Fibonacci sequence on Brendan's exam status.
But these small pleasures are offshoots of the large one - patterns. I LOVE patterns - finding them, dissecting them, putting them together, watching them in motion, what happens when they're disrupted.
If I love sport, it's because I love the patterns in it: a rugby team running down the pitch, the pleasure of a cricket field being set, the angles on a snooker table.
And yes, that is the biggest pleasure of the 11am mass when it goes well. A good friend couldn't help ribbing me about how I was just as bad as the altar servers I complain about, noting the *littlest* thing that went wrong up there. I couldn't get cross because he's absolutely right. I notice because when it works up there, it's a true liturgical dance (sorry, guys, couldn't resist :P!) - a pleasure to watch. However, when the choir goes on and breaks the flow, or when the collect isn't at the priest the moment he's ready to read, I notice. It's a disruption in the pattern.
And that's why I note MCs so closely. I once told Ben Earl he was an amazing MC, and he commented that he had failed because I had noticed him. Whilst I agree with his sentiment that an MC shouldn't be noticed, he certainly didn't fail. I deliberately watch MCs to see how they set patterns in motion, how they keep them there and how they deal with disruptions in the pattern. Ben's timing and direction were near perfect. Interestingly, the people that you often think would be the best MCs because of their attention to detail and perfectionism aren't, because they're too rigid and a problem can throw them off, creating bigger problems. The friend mentioned above is superb - his relaxed vigilance means he'll see problems arising and nip them in the bud and be able to deal with change on the fly.
But my favourite patterns to watch? Interpersonal dynamics. I LOVE people watching and making connections in everything from their stories to their relationships. And that means from the microcosm of individual story and relationship to the macrocosm of world history, created by the interlocking patterns of a world of individual relationships.
So, do I love patterns because I love discerning order in a world that often seems to have none? Maybe.
But the explanation that resonates most with me is the explanation offered by Sarayu, the Holy Spirit, in "The Shack", when explaining an apparently chaotic garden to Mack:
"From above, it's a fractal," Sarayu said.
"A what?"
"A fractal...something considered simple and orderly that is actually composed of repeated patterns no matter how magnified. A fractal is almost infinitely complex. I love fractals, so I put them everywhere."
"Looks like a mess to me."
"Mack! Thank you! What a wonderful compliment! That is exactly what this is - a mess. But it's still a fractal too."
Order and chaos; complexity and simplicity, hand in hand. Mmmm.
Oh, and the garden? Mack's soul.
*That* is the heart of my love for patterns - I love catching glimpses of the divine fractals scattered everywhere, from divisibility rules to people's souls.
For a fleeting instant, I feel the movement of the cosmic dance and understand the words of Senex in Madeleine L'Engle's "Swiftly Tilting Planet":
"Now I may move anywhere in the universe. I sing with the stars. I dance with the galaxies. I share in the joy--and in the grief."
And I am home.
Hi, my name is Irim and I'm a geek.
I was gutted when the UK got new registration plates. Why? Because there are no longer 3-digit numbers. (They used to go M345 KLW; now it's VK07 MMJ - 07=the car was bought in the first part of 2007)
So, you ask, looking at me like I've gone mad (which is not untrue), why do those 3 digit numbers matter?
Because I run divisibility rules on them as I'm walking into work.
Ja. Now you KNOW I'm crazy.
Look, I love numbers. I grew up playing with numbers the way I now play with words - I had to be able to figure out the total and the tax on purchases we were making at the supermarket before we ended up at the cashier. I recited my multiplication tables in front of my father more times than I care to count - and I remember that 3s were particularly difficult, because for the longest time, I'd only recite those to my father in order. And yes, I can do long division and find square roots by hand.
Numbers were at first familiar, then they became friends. Unlike many people today, I never found them scary or indecipherable. As one should with friends, I try to understand their limits as well as their strengths.
I fell in love with algebra. Solving for an unknown, the elegance of the dance towards a solution, quadratic equations...bliss. Geometry grew on me, and now I love the concept of angles, right triangles and shapes almost as much as I love quadratic equations. Almost, but not quite.
So, back to registration plates. Why divisibility rules?
Because what do you do with your friends? You PLAY.
So here are the divisibility rules:
2 The last digit is even (0,2,4,6,8)
3 The sum of the digits is divisible by 3
4 The last 2 digits are divisible by 4
5 The last digit is 0 or 5
6 The number is divisible by both 2 and 3 114 (it is even, and 1+1+4=6 and 6÷3 = 2) Yes
7 If you double the last digit and subtract it from the rest of the number and the answer is:
* 0, or
* divisible by 7
Repeat as necessary until you GET to a number that you know is or isn't divisible by 7.
8 The last three digits are divisible by 8
9 The sum of the digits is divisible by 9
10 The number ends in 0
11 If you sum every second digit and then subtract all other digits and the answer is:
* 0, or
* divisible by 11
See? Simple and doable in 5 min or less. And just plain old cool. My favourite discoveries are numbers divisible by 7 and 11. Make of that what you will.
I also find factoring quadratic equations step by step fun. I can usually do it in my head quickly, by working out what factors of a*c will sum up to b (ax^2+bx+c), but I love just writing it out and watching it unfold. I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm an associative, lateral thinker, and being forced to do things sequentially is relaxing, making me slow down and unwind.
I was actually geeky enough to be cross that I hadn't started the Fibonacci sequence on Brendan's exam status.
But these small pleasures are offshoots of the large one - patterns. I LOVE patterns - finding them, dissecting them, putting them together, watching them in motion, what happens when they're disrupted.
If I love sport, it's because I love the patterns in it: a rugby team running down the pitch, the pleasure of a cricket field being set, the angles on a snooker table.
And yes, that is the biggest pleasure of the 11am mass when it goes well. A good friend couldn't help ribbing me about how I was just as bad as the altar servers I complain about, noting the *littlest* thing that went wrong up there. I couldn't get cross because he's absolutely right. I notice because when it works up there, it's a true liturgical dance (sorry, guys, couldn't resist :P!) - a pleasure to watch. However, when the choir goes on and breaks the flow, or when the collect isn't at the priest the moment he's ready to read, I notice. It's a disruption in the pattern.
And that's why I note MCs so closely. I once told Ben Earl he was an amazing MC, and he commented that he had failed because I had noticed him. Whilst I agree with his sentiment that an MC shouldn't be noticed, he certainly didn't fail. I deliberately watch MCs to see how they set patterns in motion, how they keep them there and how they deal with disruptions in the pattern. Ben's timing and direction were near perfect. Interestingly, the people that you often think would be the best MCs because of their attention to detail and perfectionism aren't, because they're too rigid and a problem can throw them off, creating bigger problems. The friend mentioned above is superb - his relaxed vigilance means he'll see problems arising and nip them in the bud and be able to deal with change on the fly.
But my favourite patterns to watch? Interpersonal dynamics. I LOVE people watching and making connections in everything from their stories to their relationships. And that means from the microcosm of individual story and relationship to the macrocosm of world history, created by the interlocking patterns of a world of individual relationships.
So, do I love patterns because I love discerning order in a world that often seems to have none? Maybe.
But the explanation that resonates most with me is the explanation offered by Sarayu, the Holy Spirit, in "The Shack", when explaining an apparently chaotic garden to Mack:
"From above, it's a fractal," Sarayu said.
"A what?"
"A fractal...something considered simple and orderly that is actually composed of repeated patterns no matter how magnified. A fractal is almost infinitely complex. I love fractals, so I put them everywhere."
"Looks like a mess to me."
"Mack! Thank you! What a wonderful compliment! That is exactly what this is - a mess. But it's still a fractal too."
Order and chaos; complexity and simplicity, hand in hand. Mmmm.
Oh, and the garden? Mack's soul.
*That* is the heart of my love for patterns - I love catching glimpses of the divine fractals scattered everywhere, from divisibility rules to people's souls.
For a fleeting instant, I feel the movement of the cosmic dance and understand the words of Senex in Madeleine L'Engle's "Swiftly Tilting Planet":
"Now I may move anywhere in the universe. I sing with the stars. I dance with the galaxies. I share in the joy--and in the grief."
And I am home.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
Precious moments
When I come into OCMS, I walk. It's about 40 min (2.5 mi) from where I live, and even though I walk down the Banbury Road, once you're past Summertown, you can look down the road and enjoy the changing foliage.
As an introvert, my favourite season is autumn, of course: deep, rich colours, not the inappropriate gaudiness of spring blossoms; the quiet after the rowdiness of summer; misty cold mornings; nights made for introspection and intimate chats drawing in, with luminous moon and stars like ice chips in the sky; the ethereal, mellow northern light hinting at Sidhe around the next corner.
But no matter what the season, it's 40 minutes of thinking/imagining time, with loads of opportunity for people watching and precious moments.
This morning was one such morning. My walk takes me through an underpass and into a neighbourhood on the other side of the ring road, which I need to traverse to make it to the Banbury Rd, from where it's a straight shot down to work. Today, as I turned into the final street leading up to the Banbury Road, I found myself slowing down to relish an unfolding scene that was probably ordinary to those enacting it, but was endearingly precious to those of us who chose to watch.
A mother was walking her two children and the dog to the bus stop at Squitchey Lane (yes, I know the vast majority of you don't know where that is, but I LOVE THE NAME and had to slip it in). The little boy was 5-6, I'd guess, with straight brown hair, remarkable because of its juxtaposition to his 3-4 yr old sister's riot of Nicole Kidmanesque bright red curls. Mum was walking the dog, occasionally holding young hands as needed; but mostly, the wee ones wandered about 5-10 feet in front of/behind her.
Ordinary, right? Not usually something that you'd take notice of whilst walking along the street. But this scene made my heart melt straightaway.
They were holding hands.
Not because he was supposed to hold little sister's hand, either; it was clearly the most natural thing in the world for them. She absolutely adored her big brother and the feeling was clearly mutual. When she fell behind, as 3 yr olds are bound to do on their short legs, he looked round semi-anxiously to see where she was, and when I was within two feet of her, he looked at me to make sure I wasn't a threat. She immediately ran forward to him, took his hand again and they carried on.
I was behind them for about 7 minutes and couldn't stop smiling. Mum would occasionally take their hands - once she took the little girl's, brother faithfully holding the other and once took each child by the hand. As soon as she let go, they came back together to hold hands again.
I nearly laughed out loud at one point as little sis put her arm round big brother's waist and his arm went naturally around her shoulders and at another when, at her behest, he swung her round, to her great amusement.
They adored eachother and I couldn't help adoring them.
What nearly broke my heart was that Mum didn't seem to notice. She would look back, mildly irritated, chivvying at them to hurry along, or snapped for the odd minor offence (that I hadn't even noticed). I understood she was harried, that she was trying to get him to school on time AND walk the dog, that she sees them ALL the time, and the magic of who they are and what they do is something she sees every day.
But that kind of love? Everyday it may be, but it's pure magic. Had they been the usual squabbling siblings, I'd have rolled my eyes and walked by quickly, as would any number of the other pedestrians they passed. Instead, we slowed down, we smiled, and no few of us absolutely melted into a puddle worthy of the 2007 floods. Those of us who saw those little ones loved just a little bit more today.
I wanted to stop their mother and say, "LOOK. SEE your children, your little ones. SEE how amazing they are; how much they love eachother. DON'T miss this; revel in it. Too soon, they will be 16 and 13, and this will be gone forever. Hold this close, nurture this bond. Hold them even closer."
I didn't, of course. But perhaps we all need to learn to slow down and look at those we love with the fresh eyes of the passing pedestrian and remember just how amazing they are. We need to nurture those bonds, revel in every moment, stop chivvying and wanting them to be or do something else.
Otherwise, one day we'll wake up to find that we've missed the real moments that were so much more incredible than the ones we thought we wanted.
As an introvert, my favourite season is autumn, of course: deep, rich colours, not the inappropriate gaudiness of spring blossoms; the quiet after the rowdiness of summer; misty cold mornings; nights made for introspection and intimate chats drawing in, with luminous moon and stars like ice chips in the sky; the ethereal, mellow northern light hinting at Sidhe around the next corner.
But no matter what the season, it's 40 minutes of thinking/imagining time, with loads of opportunity for people watching and precious moments.
This morning was one such morning. My walk takes me through an underpass and into a neighbourhood on the other side of the ring road, which I need to traverse to make it to the Banbury Rd, from where it's a straight shot down to work. Today, as I turned into the final street leading up to the Banbury Road, I found myself slowing down to relish an unfolding scene that was probably ordinary to those enacting it, but was endearingly precious to those of us who chose to watch.
A mother was walking her two children and the dog to the bus stop at Squitchey Lane (yes, I know the vast majority of you don't know where that is, but I LOVE THE NAME and had to slip it in). The little boy was 5-6, I'd guess, with straight brown hair, remarkable because of its juxtaposition to his 3-4 yr old sister's riot of Nicole Kidmanesque bright red curls. Mum was walking the dog, occasionally holding young hands as needed; but mostly, the wee ones wandered about 5-10 feet in front of/behind her.
Ordinary, right? Not usually something that you'd take notice of whilst walking along the street. But this scene made my heart melt straightaway.
They were holding hands.
Not because he was supposed to hold little sister's hand, either; it was clearly the most natural thing in the world for them. She absolutely adored her big brother and the feeling was clearly mutual. When she fell behind, as 3 yr olds are bound to do on their short legs, he looked round semi-anxiously to see where she was, and when I was within two feet of her, he looked at me to make sure I wasn't a threat. She immediately ran forward to him, took his hand again and they carried on.
I was behind them for about 7 minutes and couldn't stop smiling. Mum would occasionally take their hands - once she took the little girl's, brother faithfully holding the other and once took each child by the hand. As soon as she let go, they came back together to hold hands again.
I nearly laughed out loud at one point as little sis put her arm round big brother's waist and his arm went naturally around her shoulders and at another when, at her behest, he swung her round, to her great amusement.
They adored eachother and I couldn't help adoring them.
What nearly broke my heart was that Mum didn't seem to notice. She would look back, mildly irritated, chivvying at them to hurry along, or snapped for the odd minor offence (that I hadn't even noticed). I understood she was harried, that she was trying to get him to school on time AND walk the dog, that she sees them ALL the time, and the magic of who they are and what they do is something she sees every day.
But that kind of love? Everyday it may be, but it's pure magic. Had they been the usual squabbling siblings, I'd have rolled my eyes and walked by quickly, as would any number of the other pedestrians they passed. Instead, we slowed down, we smiled, and no few of us absolutely melted into a puddle worthy of the 2007 floods. Those of us who saw those little ones loved just a little bit more today.
I wanted to stop their mother and say, "LOOK. SEE your children, your little ones. SEE how amazing they are; how much they love eachother. DON'T miss this; revel in it. Too soon, they will be 16 and 13, and this will be gone forever. Hold this close, nurture this bond. Hold them even closer."
I didn't, of course. But perhaps we all need to learn to slow down and look at those we love with the fresh eyes of the passing pedestrian and remember just how amazing they are. We need to nurture those bonds, revel in every moment, stop chivvying and wanting them to be or do something else.
Otherwise, one day we'll wake up to find that we've missed the real moments that were so much more incredible than the ones we thought we wanted.
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