Reflections on August at the O and the Missa de Angelis

1 August - Lughnasadh, the beginning of the old autumn...and, if it's a Sunday, the beginning of a choir-free month at the Oratory.

Pure and utter bliss.

I'd forgotten how much my blood pressure drops when the choir leaves and we get to sing the Missa de Angelis. Normally, I'd dismiss it as being because of a mediocre choir and an annoying choir director. Today, for the first time, I finally went deeper: what is it about that first Sunday in August that makes my heart lift when the single priest, the MC and a minimum number of servers come out of the sacristy during the first hymn?

First of all, it's the sheer simplicity: there's space on the sanctuary; there's space in the liturgy. During the year, there's NEVER silence: either the choir is singing the mass setting or a motet. It's never STILL; the choir, though not present on the sanctuary, crowds it more than the 12-13 altar servers who can sit on it in addition to the MC and clergy at any one time.

That lack of stillness and space inhibits the natural movement of the mass, since liturgical flow - indeed any flow - needs an ebb. The extra music stops movement on the sanctuary dead, making it hard to start up again. E.g., at the end of the Gloria, it's difficult for the MC to know when to bring the collect up. My preference is that it is in front of the celebrant on the last note, so there's no pause, no kerfuffling, just a smooth transition. This is a dance; any break in it is jarring. Most of the year, the MC is late, which has everything to do with not knowing when the interminable 'Amen' is going to finish. Today, it was perfect - on the last note of the 'Amen', the missal was there, and liturgical flow was as it should be.

If we talk about the liturgy as flow, pattern and dance, then we cannot ignore the fact that there are partners: this is not something happening in isolation. And it's also important that the partners be fully engaged in the dance; fully present. The mass is a dance between sanctuary and nave. When the choir dominates, as it does 11 months of the year, the people aren't engaged and the dance falters.

Today, you could feel the shift in energy as the people remained standing to sing the Kyrie and the Gloria. I couldn't stop smiling: you could feel something click into place, an emotional engagement, a real dance partner, a presence. And the whole was more than the sum of the parts. For the first time in a long time, it felt *real*.

As you can tell from what I've written above, I resent the choir's domination of our service: I am coming to this mass to be a part of the worship, not a bystander. The Kyrie is OURS to say; the Gloria, OUR praise to God. It is NOT for anyone else to sing it for us. It's OURS - and singing it with those in the sanctuary creates the prayer, the mass, that rises like incense to its destination.

And then...and then, there's the Missa de Angelis. I'm sure the Oratorians will roll their eyes when (if) they read this, but I absolutely adore it.

The Missa takes me back to my pre-Catholic days, when I would visit my (soon-to-be sponsor) friend, Anni, at Catholic University on a Sunday. At 13.00 in the crypt church (don't waste your time looking at the basilica, go straight down to the lushly dark crypt), there was a Latin mass, most often sung by the ponytailed Fr Marc-Daniel Kirby, O.Cist. Not only did he sing beautifully, but he was absolutely on fire with the love of God - his sermons were passionate pleas for love of God and neighbour, for compassion, for mercy towards one another. And it didn't hurt that I often saw him in his biker leathers around campus, which just made him utterly cool.

If it wasn't Fr Kirby, it was often Msgr Renato Volante. OH. MY. GOD. OH. MY. GOD. There is nothing, NOTHING so sensual as Latin spoken by an Italian. Every time he said mass, I went weak in the knees. And I'll tell you, I peeked through my hands during the Eucharistic Prayer just to watch those Italian gestures. His sermons were almost always wistful ones about loneliness; more often than not, as I passed him on my way out, I just wanted to wrap my arms around him and tell him I was sorry and that I wish I could make it okay.

So, occasionally in August, the church seems to dim and there seems to be a black marble overlay over the late Victorian interior with which I am so familiar.

Then, there's the Kyrie. For me, it will always be THE Kyrie - no other will stick in my head. My first brush with the phrase 'Kyrie eleison' came with Mr Mister's haunting, emotional, opening cry of their song of the same name. I remember having to go look it up, loving the meaning and loving the fact that it made sense in their chorus. I used it as a prayer years before I converted. Even now, when I'm lost for words in prayer, their chorus comes back to mind:

Kyrie eleison - down the road that I must travel,
Kyrie eleison - through the darkness of the night,
Kyrie eleison - where I'm going, will you follow?
Kyrie eleison - on a highway in the light.

Only the Kyrie in the Missa de Angelis approaches this for me: plaintive, yearning, reaching. Maybe it's because it's stripped right down, like the mass in August; maybe because it's the first liturgical Kyrie I ever heard; maybe because it's the one I get to sing. But I put my whole heart and soul into it when I get to sing it, and it's the one that will move me to tears every time.

And the moment I do that, I'm there. At mass. Totally and completely - which allows me to be part of the whole mass, even my little idiosyncrasies, like watching the MC - which today left me in fits of giggles as I watched him use 'Achmed the Dead Terrorist' eyebrows in an attempt to get hapless servers to perform the most basic of tasks. At one point, when he was trying to get them off the sanctuary after communion, the expression was so pronounced, I could hear 'SILENCE! I KHEEL YOU!' - which just made me completely useless. I also engage with the sermon, rather than shutting it out, because I can't afford to be irimtated by one more thing, since the choir has used up my irimtation quota. Good thing today, as the sermon was well worth engaging with.

That engagement and that laughter is part of the holy experience - because you have to be fully present, fully engaged, to worship and be in relationship with God. That is the gift of August at the O for me.

I'm thinking of suggesting an Indian summer, and extending August till the equinox - at least.

Rock on.

On choosing a title

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
--William Butler Yeats

When I decided not to break from this blog completely, I knew it needed to be completely redesigned to fit me. A good friend had just created a new blogger site, so I knew there were more options. I didn't expect to find one that made me go 'YES', as there weren't a lot of options. Then I found the antique maps. Fabulous. And the fact that a deep burgundy was an option (though the other colours were gorgeous), made it even more fabulous. The 'About me' was nearly four years old. That was easily sorted with some minor editing.

Easy enough. But now, the tough part - the title. 'Out of the frying pan...into the friary?' referred to my last job with the Dominicans.

Lose the title, clearly. But WHAT?

I'm training to be a psychotherapist, so I wanted that to get that angle in. Love Jung, so he needed a nod. Definitely want to discuss sex in this blog, so 'sensual', check. Want to discuss my path to God - so 'spiritual'. Loving the juxtaposition of those two. And I'm terribly sensible. So...

Sensible, spiritual, sensual psycho...therapist?

Mmmmmmmmm. Missing something. I'm a twilight girl, I love the night, the underworld, the world of intuition. I almost never pay attention to shiny surfaces or the shallows - I move into the dark and the deep quickly.

HOW to bring that into it? I was going to give it up, until Cloister and I ended up discussing it on facebook:

Hey! It looks great! I LOVE the colour! What you thinking in terms of title? ARe you going to keep it will religious musings? Could you have something that sums up the thought, 'If SHE didn't say YES, you lot would be *********'? Go for something cheeky anyhow! xx

I want to change the title, definitely. I would LOVE to have that idea, but I'll be talking about psychotherapy, dreams, etc. too. Ideas? What suits me?

Jungian thought? Musings of an INFJ? (what are you?) Or literary ref. Yeats: 'Had I the heavens embroidered cloths, enwrought with golden silver light, the blue and the dim and the dark cloths, of night and light and the half-light, I would spread the cloths under your dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet, tread softly because you tread on my dreams.' Yeats - My favourite, and it suits you. Would inspire the title 'Tread Softly', or 'the night and half light of dreams' or dreaming night and half light' or, to combine religion and dreams, perhaps, 'The half light of the cloths of heaven', 'Heaven's Night', etc - you play with words! xxxx

And there it was - that electric 'yes' - when I saw the second title suggestion in her last sentence. A title that was home. My twilight title, that allowed for a subtitle about sensuality, spirituality and psycho...therapy.

I look at my blog now and I love it - I've played with the name for comments, links, rating buttons...and it's completely and utterly mine.

Also, I learned a valuable lesson: I don't have to struggle through it all - even something as simple as finding a blog name - alone.

Sometimes, even I need to get by with a little help from my friends.

New beginnings

...and it's about time.

I'm sure my (few) readers sensed the energy ebbing from this blog as much as I did. Part of it was that I was writing a lot of facebook notes that then got copied here, so there was never any fresh, creative energy at the blog, because nothing started here.

But most of it was that I was - and am - going through some big changes. I love writing; it's my catharsis - but I haven't been in an emotional space to really write for a very long time.

It was once pointed out to me that after being through a dark night of the soul, one has to recommit oneself to one's life: not just carry on with it, but renew one's vows with life and the world above passionately and deeply. Sometimes it takes longer than we think; often, each time we go to the underworld, the pull gets stronger and recommitting becomes harder.

Always, we are profoundly changed.

This has been a long, intense trip down under for me, beginning almost a year ago - and I'm a nighttime/underworld girl by nature. Resurfacing, recommitting, deciding to be here with my whole heart and soul, when there was a huge part of me that just wanted a 'do over' (I believe in reincarnation) took a very, very long time.

But here I am - and instead of leaving the twilight behind, ever yearning for it, I bring it with me. Hence the title (thanks to Elaine) from Yeats.

And so, I write again. I thought about a new blog, but the Jungian in me wouldn't let me create that false division: even though I feel light years away from the person who started this blog, I am still she - MORE she, not less. Older, deeper, more authentic. To distance myself from her would have been wrong - for without her, I wouldn't be here now.

Same blog, but a new design and a title that is truly me. I can see Jung nodding his approval - not, of course, that I need it ;-).

And so, my friends, here we go: after life, death, then life again. It will ever be so.

Join me, if you will, as I cast off on this new voyage - but bear in mind that it will not be certain, tame or safe, for, like George Eliot:

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

Oh - and I have no idea where I'm going.

Still interested?

Then grab your sextant, a bottle of wine and...all aboard!

Food for thought

It's a blessedly lazy Saturday. I try to keep all Saturdays free so I can hide in my room and read, think and sleep to my own cycles, no one else's. Eventually, I'll wander down and check fb and my email, write on my blogs if so inclined, make myself some coffee, and just *be*. And much as I love my housemates, it's even better if I have the house to myself.

So I find myself on the sofa today, slanketed with my hands around a steaming mug of coffee, writing this.

It all started a couple of days ago, as I was awaiting the arrival of the latest instalment of the Matthew Shardlake series, Revelation. (I'm not sure Heartstone is out yet.) In the interim, I picked up an old favourite, Exile's Honour by Mercedes Lackey, part of her Valdemar series that I fell in love with many moons ago. Definitely a universe I would want to live in.

It tells the story of how Alberich of Karse, Weaponsmaster for most of the series, comes to live in and serve Valdemar, his old enemy. Demanding, incredibly tough, intimidating, challenging, relentlessly hard on his students, yet fair and even gentle, a man of action, honour and a moral code that would place him amongst the saints. Not perfect, of course - there's a darkness in him that means he spoils for fights when he can't act, he broods, he's terribly impatient and fools don't last long around him. He's one of my absolute favourite characters in the series, and as I told one of my friends who would get it, "If I ran a seminary, let me tell you, I'd run it like Alberich. You'd be doing pastoral work within a month, including midnight phone calls/callouts - being able to handle that has to be reflex, like good sword work. And the discipline - you'd be seriously f***ed if I found out you were in places I knew you shouldn't be, on websites you shouldn't be, doing things you shouldn't do. And ja, you'd better believe I'd find out."

I expected it to be a pleasurable re-read. What I didn't expect was how it would help me with my current struggle between what I believe and the organisation I've chosen to belong to. This morning, I hit a passage I'd completely forgotten, between Alberich and his Sunpriest, Geri. And it's really helping me get to grips with things:

[Alberich] "I'm hunting for answers."

Geri regarded him with a somber gaze. "You, of all people, ought to know that you aren't going to find many of those here. Questions, certainly, but precious few answers. Ours is a faith, Alberich, not a map or a guide, and certainly not a set of certitudes. At least, that is the way it should be -"

"Not what it has become...We are the mirror of Valdemar-"

"More like the twin. Or we were, before things disintegrated." Geri sighed. "I've had this discussion with Henrick, actually. He is of the opinion that the long slide began with a will to power. I think it's more complicated than that. I think that the priesthood was corrupted by the congregation."

Alberich blinked. "How, exactly?"

"The laity wanted absolutes, answers, and the priests finally elected to give them answers, the simpler the better," Geri replied. "The Writ took second place to the Rule, and a poor second at that. The answers took away all uncertainty, and what is more, took away the need to think."

Alberich frowned; not for nothing had he spent so much of his childhood under the tutelage of a priest who knew - and lived - the old ways. "Above all, the Writ demands that a man - or a woman, for that matter - learn how to think."

Geri nodded. "You see? The old ways require that each person come to the Sunlord having thought through everything for himself. The current rule requires that men become sheep herded in one direction, following one path, pastured in one field, ever and always, so will it be."

"Sheep." It occurred to Alberich that it was no coincidence that the Sunpriests of Karse had taken to calling their congregations by the name of 'flock'.

"Sheep don't have to think for themselves, do they?" Geri made a face. "The Sunlord was reshaped from the Unknowable into the remote but predictable Patriarch, from the Whirlwind into the windmill that grinds - exceedingly small. Do this - you are gathered unto His bosom. Do that - you are cast into the outermost Hells." Geri shook his head. "Answers are terribly seductive. The simpler they are, the more seductive they become."

Alberich turned that over in his mind, and found it certainly matched some of his own experience. "But that isn't the whole of it," he objected.

"Of course not. I just suggest that this was where the corruption started," Geri replied. "Then came the will to power, power that came from giving people what they wanted instead of what they needed, and power is just as seductive and even more addictive than any drug. Now - I don't know, Alberich. I don't know how it can be fixed. Or even if it can. It would take the Sunlord Himself in manifestation, perhaps. And someone as the Son of the Sun who is willing to hold the hard course and be disliked. Even hated."

"And loved." --Exile's honour, pp. 239-241

And not hold the hard course by protecting the status quo, or blaming non-believers for the state of the world, by insisting that those who will not follow the easy answers offered them are guilty of heresy and should be ostracised.

That is the easy course, and has been followed for far too long.

The hard course is insisting that the laity learn to think for themselves; that they come to the temple to find more questions that will help them grow in their faith and come to their own decisions, not easy answers or dependence on a priest; develop their own relationship with the Creator - one that changes, ebbs and flows as all relationships do. That they develop an organic faith capable of growth and able to deal with all situations - from the mundane to the life-changing.

As my current status says, The Truth is not afraid to be questioned. The Truth wants you to question it, so it can remove all your doubts. Only then can you be free. ~Stephen Edwards

Absolutely. So if someone has issues with you asking questions or challenging them, then you know one thing: no matter what they claim, they do not have - or are not sure they have - the truth.

But even if they do, they should offer you only these instructions:

To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield. --Alfred, Lord Tennyson

About Election Day - and Life

If you’re someone who only reads the editorial page of The New York Times, try glancing at the page of The Wall Street Journal once in awhile. If you’re a fan of Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh, try reading a few columns on the Huffington Post website. It may make your blood boil; your mind may not often be changed. But the practice of listening to opposing views is essential for effective citizenship. So too is the practice of engaging in different experiences with different kinds of people.

For four years at Michigan, you have been exposed to diverse thinkers and scholars; professors and students. Do not narrow that broad intellectual exposure just because you’re leaving here. Instead, seek to expand it. If you grew up in a big city, spend some time with some who grew up in a rural town. If you find yourself only hanging around with people of your race or your ethnicity or your religion, broaden your circle to include people who’ve had different backgrounds and life experiences. You’ll learn what it’s like to walk in someone else’s shoes, and in the process, you’ll help make this democracy work.

– President Obama

And if you're a conservative Catholic who defends the institution, listen to those of us who won't. We drive you crazy, but it's how you engage. And yes, that means those of us who are pro-choice, pro-women priests, pro-married priests need to hear you out.

True engagement and real empathy are the only ways to grow, learn and move forward.

I know I'm in trouble when I won't let myself be challenged on a point of view: it means I think it's weak, or deep down, I know I'm just holding onto it b/c it's what I know. That's where I most need to be challenged. The views I put out to be challenged, I test, I make sure have a strong line of argument and that feel right - those views are rock solid. The ones I keep back - well, they're the ones that need to be at the front of the line.

I'll never forget my friend Catherine wanting to discuss the death penalty when I didn't. I was pro, she was anti, and that was it. But I made myself open it up, discuss it with her.

Halfway through, I looked at her and said...

"I don't actually believe this."

She smiled - she'd already guessed.

That's why engagement with those who are not like us, who don't believe what we believe, whose beliefs make us go "WHAT THE FUCK?" is so important. Comfort generated by surrounding ourselves with those like us, who mirror our beliefs, who hang on our every word, is a dangerous place to be - perhaps the most dangerous.

As Kahlil Gibran once said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop. And listen. And remember that being uncomfortable is a very good thing to be. Growth needs resistance - they're not called 'growing pains' without reason.

And so - crouch. Touch. Pause...

And engage.

To Bob Tupper on his 40th anniversary teaching at Holton

We were asked to send in memories of Bob Tupper, chairman of the History Department and "It's Academic" coach, by 3 May. Trust me to struggle through it at the last minute.

It's not much, but here we go...

Dear Mr T.,

There's so much to say, so much of it beyond words, and so little space to say it. But here goes - and as you taught me to, I'll start at the very beginning.

We first met when I was a 13 year old freshman, when I tried out for the "It's Academic" team - and to my utter shock, made it. Evening and Saturday practices meant that despite the fact that I was a year away from having you for MEH (Modern European History), you quickly became a huge part of my life at Holton.

Like so many good coaches - and you were a phenomenal one - you became more surrogate father than coach. My relationship with my own father was difficult and fraught, to say the least, so it was in those four years with you that I learned that no matter how difficult I was (and yes, I KNOW I was, and still am, to some extent!), I learned that I could still be safe and cared for; that an argument didn't mean the end of a relationship - that it was a chance to work things through; that 'failing' was an opportunity to learn and do better next time, not a catastrophe.

I look around me now and I see that all the men I trust implicitly, different as they are, all have the qualities you taught me to value in those four years: integrity, honesty, an ability to challenge and be challenged, a wonderful sense of humour (most especially being able to laugh at themselves), warmth, a love of teaching, a passion to make the world a better place.

So when friends say how remarkable it is that my friendships with men are as strong as they are, I tell them I had a fantastic teacher at the right time.

Luck isn't ALWAYS the residue of design.

After that first year came MEH. Having thought I was totally a science/math girl, with the odd tendency towards literature, I found otherwise. I know I didn't work as hard as I should have done, especially on those essays that had lots of red stamps on them - I can still hear your frustrated "Yes, but HOW did you get to those conclusions?" - but everyone from Cromwell to the Habsburgs to Winston Churchill came alive in that class. I will say, though, I've never used anything I learned in "The Prince".

I developed a lifelong love of history in MEH - the snapshots; the big picture; understanding how where we came from tells us so much about where we are; discovering the complex interplay of factors; knowing that things weren't always what they seemed. To this day, I visit the memorials for WWI dead in every town I visit. I'm not sure whether my historian friends dread or relish my endless questions on their specialist areas, but I do know that my friend Asta was bewildered by my enthusiastic reaction when she started talking about her childhood in wartime Berlin: "OH MY GOD. YOU HAVE TO TELL ME ABOUT IT - WE NEED TO WRITE THAT DOWN - that's SO important. Those of us who grew up in the Allied Countries have NO idea - it isn't in any of our history books!" I'll tell her to blame you and Jack Caussin for that.

Hard as I may have seemed to resist it, I learned to develop a proper argument, to challenge and be challenged - and, much to the chagrin of many of my acquaintances, to be able to tell when an argument has more holes than a fishnet. Unfortunately, I've never been able to develop the tact you showed: I've been known to gleefully say, "Wow, you could drive a lorrie/Mack truck through THAT argument!" Ok, maybe I'm slightly more tactful than THAT stamp of yours...

And that's just the tip of the iceberg of how you made a difference to me.

So, when you told me at the end of my senior year how much I'd grown, it was because you had made it safe for me and offered me the tools to do so.

You started teaching during Nixon's first term - a year after the moon landing, 2 years before he opened the door with China, during Vietnam, before Watergate, the bicentennial, Khomeini, Reagan, 9/11 - a time of psychedelic colours, flares, wide ties and a sense we could change the world. The computers we use today, mobile phones, ipods, the internet - none of these were even on the radar screen where Super Pong was developed several years later.

To quote the Virginia Slims advert of the time: we've come a long way, baby.

But I bet you still have that typewriter and those library file cards with "It's Ac" questions. Because history and tradition matter. They're the foundation on which our future possibilities are built. And that's what you and the other teachers at Holton gave us - a foundation on which to build anything we wanted.

I can only speak for myself about what a difference you made to me. But I know you made a difference to so many around me - and thus, I can imagine what a difference you made to the thousands of girls who have walked into your classroom door from the age of flares and flowers and punk, through the age of shoulder pads and big hair, through the age of hip hop and today.

There aren't words to express how incredible that is - and how your single classroom has made a difference around the world.

Oh, and one last thing: I finally understood why it was such a big deal to follow my argument through properly; why HOW I got there mattered. It was never really about the exams, was it?

It's about integrity: about what is right; what is true; what is real. It's about listening to and looking at all sides, thinking it all through, considering all possible factors, understanding your biases - and knowing that only then can you trust your conclusion. Even then, you have to be open to new information and be able to change your mind. Because once we've drawn a conclusion, we act. And when we act on the wrong conclusion, it's not just that we can fail exams; we can destroy lives - ours and others'.

In the end, like everything else you taught us and the example you gave us, it was about how to live. I'm sorry I didn't get it then - but I do now.

And so, from across the pond and with all the love and gratitude in the world, congratulations on your 40th anniversary at Holton: long may you continue to teach and know just how much you've changed our world for the better - thank you, thank you, thank you.

Love,
Irim

Reflections on re-joining my HS class

What if the question is not why am I so infrequently the person I really want to be, but why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am? --Oriah, Prelude to The Invitation

I am doing a Holy Week post - no, really. (Sorry, Dom, I know I promised! By Maundy Thursday...)

It just seems to be further down my muse's list than I think it should be. Or maybe there's just a certain way I think it has to happen, how I picture it unfolding - and that's not the way it's meant to. So I'm going to do something I find very hard - let it go. When it wants to be written, it will be.

This morning, as I scrolled down the 250-odd news items in my fb feed (I have busy friends), I noticed that one of my friends from high school had joined the fb group for our class. "Wow," I thought. "I didn't know my class had an FB group!" I went across to see who was there, and saw 20 members, including my 7th grade geography teacher, Mr Caussin, whom I've now friended.

Join? Not join? I was a year younger than the girls in my group, and my close friends - Nicole, Larisa, Sue, Lauren, Lauri - were all in the year below. I never really felt *part* of my class. In no way was this a fault of the class I was a member of: I had overprotective, controlling parents who wanted to push me as hard as possible academically without making sure I had a solid social life and support network to balance that - so I stood out in all the wrong ways, vacillating between lashing out, being standoffish and unbearably know-it-all. I didn't know how to connect, to have fun, to revel in the carefree time it should have been, with mingled apprehension and expectation of the life to unfold ahead, aware of the possibilities and potential I carried within me. So I never bonded with them over boys, parties, class activities, sports - so it never really gelled, despite the 7 years I was a member. I suspect life in that class would have been exactly the same had I gone to Springbrook, my local state school.

Nonetheless, I joined the fb group. No matter our past, we share a history. Outsider or no, they are my peops, those I grew up with, went through classes with, shared a school culture with. It was time to step into my past and own it - to make it mine.

Of course, the first thing I did was go to the photograph tab - expecting to feel what I felt in high school...or at best, nothing. But as soon as the first picture popped up, I was stunned. As I looked at these faces that I knew so well - yet didn't - frozen in a moment of time from our shared history, I was overcome by a fierce protectiveness and love for the girls they once were.

And for the women they've become, though I know them not. Such are the ties that bind.

The profile picture is of all 75+ of us at our graduation. Me in a white sari, the others in white dresses, looking out at the photographer on what was to be one of the most important days of our lives. Happy faces, apprehensive ones, sad ones, hopeful... did any of us, I wonder, as we stepped out on our paths, have an idea of how much possibility and potential lay before us? The choices we could make, including the one of stepping off the expected path of parents, society, school? Choosing our own success, creating out own paintings, defining success for ourselves? Knowing we could start again every day.

I doubt it. But maybe we have more of an inkling now.

What would I say if I could step through that photographer's lens and speak to those girls, to those expectant, happy, sad faces, with Senator Danforth's wonderful commencement speech on applauding for others yet to come? I'd ask them the question at the start of this piece, and then I'd ask them the following, also from the Prelude to Oriah's The Invitation:

What if the task is simply to unfold, to become who you already are in your essential nature- gentle, compassionate and capable of living fully and passionately present?

How would this change what you think you have to learn?

How would this shape the choices you have to make about how to spend today?

What if you knew that the impulse to move in a way that creates beauty in the world will arise from deep within and guide you every time you simply pay attention and wait?

How would this shape your stillness, your movement, your willingness to follow this impulse, to just let go and dance?

To understand, they might need the experience that was the gift of their lives yet to come: the joys, the sorrows, the losses, the heartbreak, the epiphanies, the everyday moments that were the threads that would form the tapestry of their lives. I'd give that girl in the sari an extra look of encouragement and try to let her know just how strong she really was. And to let her know, through the emotions struggling with each other on her face, that one day, she would understand.

Because I love her too. And I find myself rather fond of the woman she's become - I like to flatter myself that I know her very well, though sometimes she surprises me.

To my girls going to our reunion in a few weeks' time: I may not have been with you then, but I'm with you now. I wish you all the love and joy in the world, and may each year find you happier than the last. I can't be with you in body, but I'll be with you in heart and spirit. I wish I were there to hear your stories - but I hope to hear at least some of them here on facebook. Know that my love is with you.

Celebrate your lives and be proud. After all...

...we've come a long way, baby.

On why I hate the prodigal son, Mary & Martha and Sunday's sermon

I *HATE* the parable of the prodigal son. And I will NOT be told that I'm supposed to like it, how it's about 'forgiveness', or how mean-spirited I'm being.

Sorry, folks, but the tale of the prodigal son SUCKS ROCKS. It sucks as much as Jesus rebuking Martha, who is going through all this work so HE can get fed and feel at home, whilst Mary is sitting on her comely Palestinian ass not lifting a finger. You know, Big J, I love you, really, I do. But this was the time to say, "Mary, stop gazing up at me lovingly and go help your sister with the cooking. In fact, *I'll* come help cook - and we'll do that party thing of TALKING IN THE KITCHEN!"

Deal done. They both get to listen to Big J and Martha gets some help. I so love my problem-solving skills. *Preen* And the thought of Jesus in an apron, elbow deep in flour, really does it for me.

The prodigal son. Where to start? Asks dad for his half of the inheritance. Fine. Goes off to shag, drink, go crazy, fine. Goes broke - irresponsible, not fine.

Decides he'd eat the husks the pigs would. Fine, go for it. Actions, consequences.

After years of not giving a toss (rather than having a terrible relationship and cutting ties), "Oh, I'll go to Dad, he'll at least give me what he gives the servants! I'll go say, 'Dad, I suck and don't deserve to be your son, that should do the trick!'''

Dude, WTF?

Every priest I've asked about this has told me that this is about real repentance. This isn't real repentance; this is 'how do I get food in my stomach because I was enough of a dumbass not to set some money aside to earn interest?' If it were real repentance, occasioned when he was rich and in the midst of bounty, I'd have sympathy.

But well, erm, let's read my paraphrase of the Jerusalem Bible, shall we? That's one of the most pre-planned emotionally manipulative pieces of dialogue I've ever seen. For me, the emotional tenor is utterly fake.

As Daniel said in his sermon, the younger son is selfish (he said it about the elder too, but I disagree with him there, and we'll come to that in a moment).

To my priests: If I presented THAT to you in the confessional, you'd kick my ass (Dom would, anyway, he can spot fake repentance at a distance that would put a sniper to shame).

So there's problem number 1: younger son's selfishness.

Problem #2: Dad's reaction. Fine, run towards him and hug him, he's your boy.

But FFS, THE FATTED CALF?????????????????????????? INVITE EVERYONE IN TOWN?

YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!

Maybe this is my sympathy as a fellow eldest, I don't know - but I think it's more than that. Here's the dutiful son - the one who has worked alongside his father, quietly, dependably, constantly for years. He doesn't even get an animal for a dinner with his friend.

But his father kills the fatted calf for this emotionally manipulative little BRAT who hasn't even really said, from the heart, 'I'm sorry'?

Damn right, he's angry. I'm angry for him.

Why? Because time after time, I see people like the eldest son get taken for granted - the people who are quiet, dependable, always there. The father can claim that 'what's mine is yours', blah blah, but he appears to have a very poor understanding of human nature. His eldest, the steady, dependable one, needs OVERT appreciation as much as the younger wayward son needs to be welcomed back to the family. And what does the younger son learn by this huge feast? Go squander your life and come back home - not only will Dad welcome you back, he'll kill the most valuable animal for you.

Hmmmmmmmmm. Tanya Byron wouldn't be impressed. Neither am I.

Welcome him back with a low-key family dinner, let his brother have a go, really bring him home. Then set him to work the next morning. He's home and is always welcome there, but being high-maintenance and high-drama will get him no more attention than that.

So let this be a lesson to us all: turn and thank those who are always there for you - dependable, strong, those you almost take for granted. They're your real treasures, the ones who will always be there when you need them.

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

Today's sermon:

1. Pro-life as first principle.

Response: Yes, if that isn't equated with 'anti-abortion'. They're not the same thing. To be pro-life is to maximize the ability of every human being to live their life to the fullest: that's anti-war, anti-death penalty, dealing with refugees in a humane way, being anti-discrimination, making sure all have access to the same education/opportunities, creating a vocational track that's as good and as respected as the university track, continuing adult education, health insurance for all, the best health care, being allowed to be yourself, and so on.

But you can be pro-choice and all that.

2. No Catholic can vote pro-choice.

Here, we will respectfully disagree. I have thought out my pro-choice position, am aware that I am in opposition with the Church and have made my peace with that - but I don't feel it is in opposition to my Catholicism, which is about loving God and loving my neighbour; compassion; being pushed to be what I am meant to be.

Keeping abortion safe and legal is part of that.

3. 'Value free education' is to be avoided.

Agreed - though we disagree on the problem here: my argument is that there is NO SUCH THING as 'value-free education' - whether or not you claim to be teaching values, you ARE. Far better to have them explicit than implicit so you can choose, challenge, consider them.

4. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks rocks.

Yup.

5. Secular society is at fault for... [fill in the blank]

Mmmmmm. Don't think we can go there till we examine ourselves first - and I mean saying 'The Catholic Church isn't perfect; it has a long way to go.'

One of my friends, when I pointed this out after mass, said, "But the secular world isn't easy on us."

Perhaps, but stop and think. How does secular society perceive you? As an institution that sees itself as having 'the truth' and as being better than it is. When is it hard on you? When it becomes blatantly clear that the institution ISN'T - that people are just the same inside as out.

I think they have an excuse, and I think secular society can be one of your greatest gifts if you pay attention to the mirror it holds up.

6. Sex education bill - wrong.

Need to read it first. But if the 'teaching sex at 5' hysteria is as blown out of proportion as I suspect it is, and is really only about telling kids NOT to let anyone touch them in certain places, talk to an adult if they feel uncomfortable, etc., I have to be all for that. It might have made all the difference to me. Not with my parents, but with someone else.

7. If someone is left out, we're all left out.

*HIGH FIVE* Absofuckinglutely.

8. Society is more than an aggregate of individuals.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! FTW! I'll happily see any of Maggie Thatcher's quotes dismantled any day...

Pandas will rule the world...

How do I get into conversations like these? This doesn't just happen to me on FB chat, btw.

What you need to know here is that the part of Dani is being played by James, and that (^^^) = a shark in fb chat. <(") is a penguin.

The shark appears to have evolved into a friendship totem for James and me, as we were pretty cross during a chat recently and wanted to sic (^^^) on various people.

Dani

The role of Dani has been temporarily assumed by her awesome, great, and relatively handsome husband *bow*

Good evening, Miss Irim. I was forced to make my lovely wife eat her dinner

8:48pmIrim

(^^^)(^^^)

8:48pmDani

(^^^)(^^^)

8:48pmIrim

Greetings Mr Jensey

8:48pmDani

Our forces are in alignment. That's good to know. (^^^)(^^^)

(^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^)

8:49pmIrim

(^^^)(^^^) Indeed

(^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^)

8:49pmDani

I need to make certain you've had your (^^^)(^^^) quota of the day.

8:49pmIrim

May the force be with you

thank you. And I you

8:50pmDani

And also with you

8:50pmIrim

(^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^)

8:50pmDani

jump the (^^^)(^^^)

hehehe

hohoho

hahaha

8:50pmIrim

:D:D

8:51pmDani

I have way too much fun with those guys

8:51pmIrim

Me too

Does this make me violent, I wonder?

<(")

(^^^)

[my attempt to have shark eat penguin]

8:52pmDani

I don't believe so. Not unless you're ordering your (^^^)(^^^) minions out into the masses to unleash destruction

8:52pmIrim

I like them as guards

8:52pmDani

That's what they're best for.

8:52pmIrim

I try to feed them a controlled amount of <(") or fish


8:53pmDani

Yes, those penguins are rather shifty creatures

8:53pmIrim

I'm glad to know someone else doesn't quite trust them

8:53pmDani

<(") (^^^)(^^^)

Penguins are just well disguised aquatic pandas

It's rather sad that people find them so adorable and cute... No one believes me about the pandas either. :(:(

But when our furry overlords rule with an iron paw, then they'll know.

so sad...

humanity in the grips of pandas

8:56pmDani

And now as I try and spread word of their evil deeds, I am being pulled away... sigh

8:57pmIrim

sigh

8:57pmDani

We're off to the eye doctor's in a few.

8:57pmIrim

Later my friend. We'll start an fb group

8:57pmDani

Dani will pop back on and try and tell it's all nonsense, but she's part panda, so...

Maybe we should start a group

8:57pmIrim

you married a panda? That was brave.

8:58pmDani

(^^^)(^^^) A few more for the road. (^^^)(^^^) It was a ploy on their part. I found out too late. Take care Miss Irim! (^^^)(^^^)

8:58pmIrim

I think this conversation might have to become an fb note

That way, I can start to get the word out.

Dani

Oh Irim... you can't betray me like that! ;);) (We now return you to Dani)

9:00pmIrim

Is it Dani who will feel betrayed??? By telling that you're part panda???

9:01pmDani

Considering I am part Panda... and you'd spread those horrible lies my husband has told you! The horror! ;)

And our children... what will become of them... they've Panda in their blood too... ;);)

9:02pmIrim

An fb note it is then...

Dani

I find the whole thing totally hilarious.

Besides, it's only a matter of time before we rule the world.

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

As Dani's last comment proved, pandas are simply using their cute cuddliness to bring down our guard so they can use our vulnerability to rule the world. I'll be putting my guard back up with Chris Bear.

You've been warned. Join our group and spread the word before it's too late...

Ash Wednesday

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things

I tend to refer to myself as a 'Catholick Loki' - generally the rebel, but with odd snaps into complete orthodoxy that often make my clerical friends' heads snap right back.

Ash Wednesday is one of those days. I will always insist, as today’s psalm and reading from Joel do, that one’s internal world must be in order before the external can hope for any kind of meaning. On Ash Wednesday, however, I will insist on ritual, with its rich symbolism, to frame and outwardly express what is happening in my internal life and to mark the entry of Catholics, as a community, into the Lenten twilight.

Weeks before, the hunger for life in the Lenten desert begins. I feel the itch I imagine a snake must feel when the time comes to shed – this place feels a bit dry, now where’s a good tree to rub my back up against? Oh damn, now it’s THAT spot. In me, it shows up a restlessness that my nearest friends recognise – perhaps I’m not listening as well; or I’m less present; my faults are in clearer relief – especially my more pugilistic tendencies, as I try to keep all but those closest to me at bay, so I can withdraw to my desert and wrestle with my demons – so I can strip right back to the basics, dropping everything that comes between me and creation; between me and the Creator.

Because I know that time is always time/And place is always and only place/And what is actual is actual only for one time/And only for one place/I rejoice that things are as they are and/I renounce the blessèd face

On Ash Wednesday morning, the alarm is set for somewhere between 5.45 and 6am, so that I can get to the 07.30 mass. My day will begin and end with mass – the first as initiation (I see no point in being ashed lightly or at the end of the day – it is a mark, a reminder of the undertaking); the second, more formal Latin mass to end the day and begin the season. Yes, for some reason, I see Ash Wednesday as a day out of time, belonging to neither Ordinary Time nor Lent, but a day like Yom Kippur or Laila-tul-Qadr – a day that transcends time, space and liturgical season.

Without fail, my eyes open at the end of the REM cycle concluding after 5am, somewhere around 05.25. I lie awake as black lightens to grey (the shade depending on February or March), probing the symbolism of the last dream, slowly moving towards the meaning of Ash Wednesday and the entry into desert time, ruminating on what this season’s struggle might be.

After the stillness, movement as the alarm resounds through the room. Shower, a touch of reading, dressing and out the door for the bus stop, with either T.S. Eliot’s ‘Ash Wednesday’ or ‘Remember that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return’ echoing in my head.

And after the noise, stillness again, as I enter the dark, pre-7.30 mass hush of the Oratory, so still that the rustling as the brethren’s thin breviary pages turn can be heard through the church. The confessional door opens and shuts, doing a brisk trade for this time of the morning, and the church slowly fills as people ready for work in this world make time for the other.

No need to look at the clock, just listen for or look at the brethren, as their distinctive treads converge on the sacristy from their favoured pew positions in church.

The bell, then mass begins with Fr Robert, the provost, presiding as he has almost every 07.30 Ash Wednesday mass since I’ve been here. Collects, readings, gospel, ashing (hopefully heavy and dark, though not so this year) with the stark words, ‘Remember that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return’, communion and then thrust into the outside world where Ash Wednesday is just another day, a world which insists on one poking one’s head out of the desert recently entered. If one could, one would spend the whole day in church or in retreat to solidify that presence in the desert, so that one could reach out more easily during the 40 days, maintaining the balance, rather than getting jarred out almost immediately on entry.

Will the veiled sister pray for/Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee/Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,time and time, between/Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait/In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray/For children at the gate/Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose…

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Though Ash Wednesday is a time for ritual, there is room to bend: though I may prefer my main meal to be after sunset, since we have a community meal at work, I will make lunch my main meal; if I go to a house where meat is offered, I will not refuse, though I will take less. After all, it is only as an aid to and mark of inner change that rules make any sense at all.

And despite the need for ritual, there must also be time for critical thought and introspection: I disagree with the sentence, “We are striving for God’s love,” knowing that it has always been given freely to me, though I put barriers between it and myself, afraid of what it offers if it touches me. I disagree with ‘sin’ as the problem, believing that the real root is fear, for I know that it is fear, and the experience that gave rise to it, which prevents me from knowing and feeling the love of my friends and sometimes means I assume that they will choose to hurt me. If I feel so with my friends - those I can see, touch and exchange conversation with - how much more so God, with whom I can do none of these things? My sense is that this is not about overcoming sin, but of aiming for that perfect love to cast out fear – and that our best chance is to strip down in the desert, like layers of varnish removed to reveal the beauty of the wood beneath.

Perhaps this need to keep one’s feet in the desert, yet reach out of it, is the reason for the second longer, more formal mass – it allows for full re-entry into the stark beauty, feet on hot sand once again; a chance to unwind and re-collect ourselves after a day spent in a non-Ash Wednesday world. A chance to ground properly and put deep roots into the desert – roots that remain long after Lent is over and Easter has begun, because we must re-enter the desert in the rhythm of our own cycles, not just the liturgical ones offered us.

And so, I set foot in the desert this Lent – set foot to find I know not what, but to follow the only theology I know, best espoused in this passage by Guy Gavriel Kay in his book The Summer Tree:

And he understood then, finally: understood that it had to be naked, truly so, that one went to the God. It was the Tree, stripping him down, layer by layer, down to what he was hiding from...

He was the Arrow now. The Arrow on the Tree, of Mornir, and he was to be given naked or not at all.

And so, on the third night, Paul Schafer came to the last test, the one that was always failed, the opening. Where the Kings of Brennin or those coming in their name, found that the courage to be there, the strength to endure, even love of their land were none of them enough. On the Tree, one could no longer hide from the living or the dead, from one's own soul. Naked or not at all, one went to Mornir. And oh, that was too much for them, too hard to be forced to go into the darkest places then, so weak, so impossibly vulnerable.

And they would let go, brave Kings of the sword, wise ones, gallant Princes, all would turn away from so much nakedness and die too soon.

But not that night. Because of pride, of pure stubbornness, and because, most surely, of the dog, Paul Schafer found the courage not to turn. Down he went. Arrow of the God. So open the wind could pass, light shine through him. Last door.

And so, though I may not turn again, may I have the courage to face the last door, and come before God fully stripped, vulnerable, so open that the wind may pass and light shine through me.

Amen.

On reconnecting and being told like it is

My friend Rema got back in touch a few weeks ago, and over the last couple of days, we've...exchanged opinions on burqas, not necessarily in the calmest of fashion on my part, to be fair. Suddenly, after I made Rema's status, a familiar name from the era of maxis and big collars popped up and I HAD to answer. My heart leapt: "OMG, it's Aunty Farida!"

Aunty Farida is related to Rema by blood, but was a friend of my family. I remember her being glam and hip - she still looks it - envying her long hair, her freedom, her utter coolness - ooh, and that RICH alto voice. And her husband, Uncle Akhtar, used to draw for me, and that totally rocked my world. I was spellbound - I was amazed someone could do that so...easily.

Aunty friended me whilst I was dealing with some 'she's crazy' (true)/'she should know some real Muslims' (I do) comments on Rema's status, with a 'Irim, I don't know if you remember me...'

Oh please. Like I could forget.

As I was typing on her wall, a chat window popped up, and off we went. Immediately, I felt surrounded by her love and warmth, totally safe, and the edge that everyone but those closest to me see just disappeared. I felt like a hedgehog whose prickles just flattened.

Finally, we got to the parent thing. And as proof that you can take the girls out of the Punjab, but not the Punjab out of the girls, it went a bit like this:


Farida: Yeh! it is good advice. Nothing can be so wrong to warrant this. You do need to talk to your mom. God forbid, if something happened to her, you will regret it for the rest of your life. So "fix it before it's too late".

Irim: *Grins* I so knew it wouldn't take you long to call it like you saw it.
If you're not Punjabi, I make you an honorary one - that was worthy of someone from Okara... ;) Ja, I know - and your kids are so lucky to have you

Farida: I am Punjabi. The guilt trip always works. [future status update]

Irim: AUNTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Darn it, I fell for it again

Farida: Next time I talk to you, I hope you will tell me you have already spoken to your mom. I love you XXXX

Irim: My mother is a travel agent for them! Love you too xxxxxxxxxxx

Farida: For the guilt trip? HA HA HA. We all mothers are alike. When you become one, you'll be the same, don't worry. [Also future status update with previous few lines] Have to go now. Hope to hear the good news soon. Love you xxxxxxx

And she does, pure and simple. When she later said, "You are like my daughter," I believed every one of those five words.

Was she blunt? Yes. But the love and support that held me as she said it, the 'I am here for you as you are' allowed me to hear it without prejudice.

She reminded me that the truth told in love is more powerful than almost anything else.

I can't even begin to know how much will change yet, but change it will.

Love changes everything.

My 2010 resolution - Living consciously

There was a man back in '95
Whose heart ran out of summers
But before he died, I asked him

Wait, what's the sense in life
Come over me, Come over me

He said,

Son why you got to sing that tune
Catch a Dylan song or some eclipse of the moon
Let an angel swing and make you swoon
Then you will see... You will see

I was waiting for one of my favourite programmes - "Criminal Minds" - to come on. Paul McKenna's "I can make you thin" is on beforehand, so I figured I'd watch it.

I'm hooked.

Now, I'm not in the market for losing TOO much weight - I love my cleavage - but I do need to lose some, and I do want to tone up. I'd like to be able to wear a sari unselfconsciously. It'll take work, but I'm not one for putting a huge amount of work into it.

Paul McKenna had four simple rules:

1. Eat when you're hungry. Physically hungry - and bear in mind that 75% of the time that you think you're hungry, you're probably dehydrated - so try drinking water first.

2. Eat what you want - No argument there :-).

3. Eat consciously. Put your fork down. Eat slowly. Savour what you eat. He did a fascinating experiment where he blindfolded people eating breakfast in a cafe, so they really had to focus on what they were eating - and they ate considerably less. Ditto the people he asked to sit down and eat at a quarter of their usual speed. They don't miss the 'I'm full' signal and go over into 'I'm sick'. And note that your tastes may change...are you really going to want McD's if you're really TASTING it?

4. Stop when you're full. And remember it can take 15 minutes or so to know that.

Love the rules - will definitely be trying them with food this week and will be ditching the 'Must empty plate' rule.

But I'm going to go further. I'm not just going to eat consciously, I'm going to LIVE consciously.

Try, anyway.

And I started with "Criminal Minds" - I've seen the "Fisher King" double episode once (episode 1 at least twice), but this time, I decided to REALLY watch it. Not fb through it, not talk through it, none of it.

And I LOVED it. I saw things I hadn't seen before, caught nuances of character, snatches of dialogue and El's conversation with her father during her near-death experience was more touching, had more depth. I found myself watching with the wonder of a child, at a level I hadn't experienced before.

If I'm honest, the universe has been really nudging me in this direction - my study partner's ability to nudge unexpected answers out of me; Vivian saying, "Don't assume it's the obvious answer,"; discovering the unexpected when I thought I knew the pattern; being told over and over again to sit with raw emotions and events rather than trying to make sense of things too soon.

Not living consciously, imposing patterns too early are ways of avoiding the unknown and life's mystery. It's a way of being certain of things - something I slam religious folk for over and over again. Hmmm, wonder why. Couldn't POSSIBLY be my shadow, could it? Yes, very often I have a right to be angry - but too often, I'm not going deeply enough to find out why I am SO angry. I cast a rather large shadow: I think it's time we got to be best friends.

There are secrets that we still have left to find
There have been mysteries from the beginning of time
There are answers we're not wise enough to see

To find, we must seek - which means being present - emotionally, physically, spiritually.

So this year, I'm going to try to be present, live consciously and not just react: at work, at church (that will be the hardest), with friends, at home. I've been lazy and playing out too many patterns. If a sermon bothers me, I'm going to ask why, what it's really about. If an interaction is bothering me, instead of pulling out my big guns, I'm going to try to stop and listen - to the other and to my heart. If I'm feeling raw emotion, instead of imposing order, I'm going to see what arises from the chaos.

Son for all I've told you
When you get right down to the
Reason for the world...
Who am I?

I'll see where it takes me, but I already know the sense of joy and rightness I get when I am truly present - holding a baby, listening to a friend, on my counselling course, writing, those unexpected moments of beauty the world offers us. Already, one thing that's arising from this resolution and my time in the land of the dark sun is a sense of purpose:

I guess we're big and I guess we're small
If you think about it man you know we got it all
Cause we're all we got on this bouncing ball
And I love you free
I love you freely

Here's a riddle for you
Find the Answer -
There's a reason for the world,
You and I

(song lyrics - The Riddle by Five for the fighting)

Solstice reflections

It's the solstice where, being a twilight/night girl, I mourn the return to lengthening days - though I won't mind them until it's still light at 7.30-8pm, which just feels so wrong.

But it's also a marker of the dark night of the soul, one that I've been going through for a while now. Not always depressive, though sometimes so, but lit by what Julia Kristeva would refer to as 'the black sun', a 'dark luminosity' - something deeper, something more, than what the author of the book I'm reading, Thomas Moore, would call 'naive sunshine'.

Whilst in this land lit by the black sun - a land with which I have a deep affinity, one that offers me the kind of light by which I prefer to navigate - I 'm realising that whilst I've travelled it, I'm not sure I really KNOW it. I'm not sure I've explored it, though I know the landmarks I've passed on my way through to somewhere else.

It's a land that I love, but I fear I don't know it as well as I thought I did. This time, I'm going to wrap myself in this land of half-light and numinosity and learn it, know it by heart as I know those places I consider home. This is my home too, perhaps the one that is most real.

I'm loving my re-read of Thomas Moore's "Dark Nights of the Soul" - I didn't quite speed through it the first time, but I loved the language so much and kept thinking 'Yes!' so often, that I don't think I absorbed it properly. This time I'm relaxing into it, musing, allowing it to sink into my bones.

There will be several posts on Moore's book, I think, reflecting on different parts of this Land of the Black Sun.

Today? One of my biggest struggles: religion, spirituality, God...my inner intuition vs. my outer experience/sense and my struggle to bring the two together, to be able to follow my heart, yet walk with fellow pilgrims on the way. It's a struggle that can bring out the absolute worst in me in a way only my family can.

Which suggests, perhaps, that it is a seminal struggle and one that can and will be immensely fruitful. I'm less certain that being somewhere comfortable would be quite as good for my spiritual health.

More and more, I find I'm missing the darkness in God and religion. It's...too bright, glittering, blinding - God is all good and God is all love - but if God is THE Creator, the one from whom all other things emanate, then darkness must be a part of who God is. As must Lucifer's pride, Kali's destruction, suffering, hate, anger, vengeance - all those things we find in ourselves as images, reflections, of the Creator.

I love Holy Week, especially the Vigil, but hate Easter morning. I love the Midnight mass approaching this Thursday night/Friday morning, but shy away from Christmas morning. I'm not sure why. In the light, it's too much: the glare eliminates texture, subtlety, nuance. It never feels quite right.

Even when people talk about Jesus saving them, pulling them out of darkness, I wonder - what if that's not Jesus' purpose? What if he's simply meant to be with you whilst you explore your land of the Black Sun, not rescue you from it? Love isn't about rescue from places we find uncomfortable. Love is about being present, offering strength and holding the space whilst we discover the gifts our personal land of the Black Sun has to offer.

And maybe God's love isn't so facile as so much religious imagery makes it - there is hard compassion in failing a student when passing them would only set them up for disaster later or in a wolf mother killing her mortally wounded pup (from Pinkola-Estes); there is true love in telling someone that they are losing their integrity; there is true intimacy in the dark moments of grief and pain shared.

Do you genuinely believe that someone who constantly tells you how utterly amazing you are and how perfect you are really *loves* you? How can they? They can't see YOU - you're not perfect, no one is. And honestly, we're not working towards perfection. We're working towards wholeness - which is what God is. Whole. It's so much more than perfect. Only someone who knows you in your darkness, someone who can sit with you in it, who can both say, "You're amazing," "You can be a REAL bitch, you know that? You were out of order," and who can hold you through the darkest nights of your soul can truly claim to love you.

But we so often believe that love is a mirror reflecting and affirming us. Agreement isn't love; it's just agreement. Fulsome praise is just fulsome praise. Fawning is just fawning - and the latter two have more to do with self-interest than love. And so often, that's what we want our God - Jesus, Allah, whoever - to give us. We make God in our image, not the other way around.

Moore's thoughts on religion during a dark night begins to articulate my struggle, my feelings:

Religion, too, often avoids the dark by hiding behind platitiudes and false assurances. NOthing is more irrelevant than feeble religious piousness in the face of stark, life-threatening darkness. Religion tends to sentimentalize the light and demonize the darkness. If you turn to spirituality to find only a positive and wholesome attitude, you are using spirituality to avoid life's dark beauty. Religion easily becomes a defense and avoidance. Of course, this is not the purpose of religion, and the religious traditions of the world, full of beautifully stated wisdom, are your best source of guidance in the dark. But there is real religion and there is the empty shell of religion. Know the difference. Your life is at stake.
--Moore, Thomas. Dark Nights of the Soul: a guide to finding your way through life's ordeals. London: Piatkus, 2004, p. 15

It is indeed. Moore goes on to say that "Flight from the dark infantilizes your spirituality, because dark nights of the soul are meant to initiate you into spiritual adulthood...[t]he spiritual life is both deep and transcendent." (p. 15)

Flight from the dark, in the end, puts your life at stake - because you never grow up, and parts of you in potential, meant to come to full growth, shrivel and die.

That's why I'm not just travelling through this time, or hoping for a divine hand to reach down and pull me out.

I'm hoping for divine presence, and occasionally, through the people who can hold me in my darkness, I'm sure I feel the brush of a wing against my cheek. Thank you for meeting me here; it means more than you'll ever know.

I know there are those who would will my emergence back into bright sunshine, believing it best, and I love you for it. But not just yet - I need to explore this part of my home. Be with me if you can - but if not, that's ok too.

Just remember that I'm not here because I want to die...

...but because I want to live.

A Catholic male on female beauty

I got involved in a discussion with the friend of a friend on said friend's plank, oops, I mean wall.

He sent me a message about something I had written, admired my profile pic and asked if it were my tattoo. When I responded I chose it b/c I'm not photogenic and no one should have to suffer a picture of me, he responded:

Thought that would make you laugh! But as for photogenic, that is in the eye of the beholder. I would have turned down Miss World for my wife, and true feminine beauty comes from within, whilst the physique or face may not be classically beautifull the whole face can light up when someone smiles, or they may have such wonderful colourful eyes, or even on older faces the lines set into the face or the silver hair can be elegant or have a warmth. God made us in his image and everyone is beautiful to him.

After having spent far too much time in circles that view women as 3rd class citizens - having to fight to prove myself as good as any man; suffering perpetual mockery; having to deal with men who struggle with my not being 'safe' (married or asexual) - this was balm to the weary soul.

And he's a heterosexual Catholic male. Who likes women. Genuinely likes us. I could weep. His wife is a lucky woman.

Where's the 'Permission to clone humans' bill? I'm ringing my MP to vote 'aye'.

Ordinary moments, gifts and my grown-up Christmas list

Do you remember me
I sat upon your knee
I wrote to you with childhood fantasies

Well I'm all grown-up now
And still need help somehow
I'm not a child
But my heart still can dream

As a Muslim girl, I never sat upon Santa's knee, but I did childhood fantasies with the best of them. I wrote my angels for the things I thought I wanted: straight As, something nice to wear, the latest must-have. I poured my heart out in the letters that ended up in my father's chest of drawers - with lists that probably equalled many a Christmas list sent to the North Pole. I was desperate as any child on Christmas day for those things to arrive.

Growing up, my world was one where my parents judged people by their position and what they owned; whilst that tendency didn't manifest in me in exactly the same way, it was there: friendships were measured by whether someone remembered to give me a present; if they knew what to give me; how much thought they had given it.

So, as ashamed as I am to admit it, those shiny packages mattered.

As children we believed
The grandest sight to see
Was something lovely
Wrapped beneath our tree

It took years for me to realise that what I really wanted was the freedom to wear that skirt, the freedom to read something other than school books (one of the best pressies I ever got was a LotR set from Larisa and Nicole), the freedom to really be a member of my generation.

Well heaven surely knows
That packages and bows
Can never heal a hurting human soul

And that what I wanted that present to do was reassure me that I was cared for; that I was loved.

Over time, dinners, laughter, glasses of wine at midnight, discussions about the afterlife being a pool room in which you gather with your soul family, became far more precious than a physical gift. Memories, history woven together, time together on the pilgrimage of our lives became a far more potent measure of love and friendship than packages.

I'll always remember a piece by Stephanie Gilliam in the Washington Post on ordinary days: about her walking into the house, calling up to her son, the dog greeting her. And how it struck her in that moment that when the catastrophic happens, when we are in the depths of grief, we don't want to feel rapturous, we just want to feel NORMAL. That we come to realise the real gifts are the ordinary days - the normal interactions with those we know and love, the changes of season, and so on - miss them and you miss your life.

That's what I'd say to the cleric friend of mine who said he didn't get how couples stood the boring parts of marriage (read: ordinary days) - those ordinary days are the building of a joint history through love that isn't always inferno bright, and they are just as, if not more, true than the big moments of a proposal or wedding. They're the days that bring you to the other big moments like the birth of a child or a special anniversary. They're the bricks of the house you build with love. Just like the little touches say far more about the love between a couple than tonsil hockey does.

And the ordinary moments of my friendships are the same - the real heartbeat of our relationships.

Now don't get me wrong - I still love packages and cards, and even more, I love giving them. Yes, I still love bath stuff, etc. I'll never be an ascetic; the sensual will always be one of my pleasures. As will books. But this year, I'm really looking forward to the present of a friend's artwork and poem that I know is coming my way.

Oh, and let's not forget the pleasure of the cards that land on the doormat, with scrawls about how friends are, pictures, design choices that reflect the friend's personality.

This past Friday, I came home, poked my head in the lounge to say "Hi" to Greg, and my eye fell on the post. My heart - and I - smiled as I saw "The infamous Miss Irim Sarwar" on the envelope and the American postmark. My grin grew wider as I turned the envelope over to the side that had, to quote Hyphen, "been attacked with markers."

My laughter mixed with tears as I opened the envelope and first pulled out a drawing of four faeries with blue accents, signed by the artist in a heart: "Love, Lily". Next, I pulled out a drawing of two faeries (one in a flower, one flying) on a sunny day, signed "Love, Ellie". Finally, a water colour, by an up and coming young artist, simply signed "Bazzy".

Greg looked at me curiously, so I handed him each drawing as I pulled it out, almost as if I were a proud aunt. And finally - the card, with pics of all four wee ones, Brad and Hyphen. The message from Hyphen on the back made me well up even more.

That card and those drawings will never see the inside of a recycling bin. My dusty drawers, most certainly, but I'll always have them. As I will the card from Vanya, drawn by her stepdaughter, wishing me a Happy Kristmas.

Simple, but utterly, utterly perfect.

So what do I really want for Christmas? You. An evening or a coffee with you to build more of those moments. (Aside from the above-mentioned gift and the keychain with a picture of Hyphen's Adeline with her WTF expression) Time on IM, time via email exchange or Skype, just *you*. More giggles, tears, and heart-to-hearts - our unique blend of soul-time that weaves another thread into our tapestry.

I want more moments like recent ones: Hazel's 2.9 yr old, Daniel, saying, "Daddy, I love Irim!" on a night that he couldn't possibly have known was one that I needed it most; a 5 week old baby perfectly curled against my shoulder, settling into sleep; a heart-to-heart with Dani on Friday; being able to lean against Dom today.

Those are my greatest, dearest gifts - you - all of you. I love you.

But if you want to know what the other things on my list are, well, here you go:

So here's my lifelong wish
My grown-up Christmas list
Not for myself
But for a world in need

No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
Everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end
This is my grown-up Christmas list

Chanukkah sameach, Happy Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa and a blessed end to the noughties (damn, I loved saying that!) and start to the teens for all of us.

Every one.

Obsession

At 13.45 on Thursday, 3 December 2009, I paused in the cool, dark entryway to the house of those who once ran the Inquisition; the place I'd once worked cataloguing books old and new. A place of sanctuary from the hustle and bustle only feet away. A home away from home, and the home of some of those clerics dear to me who will be filling the sanctuary at my funeral one day.

But today wasn't about the Church, or religion, or anything to do with the clergy.

This moment was about coming home to myself.

I opened my rucksack and took out the box I knew I was going to buy the moment I walked into Boots. The plastic crinkled as I ripped it off, and I stroked the familiar, almost velvety box I hadn't owned in well over a year, before opening it and pulling out the bottle that fit perfectly into my hand.

I opened it, sprayed some on my wrist and at the base of my throat, then put the bottle away.

I rubbed my wrists together and inhaled deeply, revelling in the sharp, citrusy top notes that would soon fade into the warm, woody, spicy, rich heart notes that I identify as my signature. A scent I love even 10 hours later when only the base notes of vanilla and musk are left. And suddenly, for the first time in a long time, I was back.

Which? Calvin Klein Obsession. A classic, oriental amber scent (ironically, the same family as my mother's Estee Lauder Ciara, which I hated). For those who are interested, here's the composition:

Top notes: green, mandarin orange, peach, basil, bergamot and lemon.

Heart notes: spices, coriander, sandalwood, orange blossom, jasmine, oakmoss, cedar and rose.

Base notes: amber, musk, civet, vanilla, vetiver and incense.

In 2004, I decided I wanted a signature scent. I knew that mostly citrus would make me smell like a cat's litter box; I'm not floral by nature; I love rich, oriental scents - sandalwood was an absolute must in anything I was looking for; in fact, I wanted it as a base note, which was why I nixed Obsession when I was hunting online.

In the end, I knew I had to just go to Boots and Debenhams and run down the list. Hugo Boss Deep Red was going to be a top choice, till I realised that it reminded me of strawberry jam, with the sandalwood base note nowhere to be seen.

But I kept coming back to Obsession, which I loved when I spritzed it in the air. Finally, I gave in and sprayed it on my wrist. As the top notes faded, I fell in love with the perfect marriage of scent and skin.

On 11 September 2004, it became my scent, the one that at least one man will remember me by. I was never without a bottle until 2007, when suddenly, I just stopped buying it. I stopped wearing lippy to work too.

As a perceptive practitioner put it so well all those weeks ago, "What is someone like you doing here?" Then answered her own question: "Hiding."

The abandonment of lippy and a scent that is thoroughly me would seem to confirm that - both make me noticed and remembered; to stop using one, let alone both, is an unequivocal "Please don't look at me."

No longer. Look at me. I'm real. You, be real. And if you're one of my pack, you can bet I'll be keeping YOU real.

Look out, world, I'm back with an obsession.

For life.