Dream Log - Church

Restless, disturbing dreams - and powerful ones. I remember snippets of many, but only a few whole ones, which run along the same theme.


1.  I was at church, which now had a 'second half' to it. Not where the real-life construction is happening, but with the church and the presbytery to the right as you're facing it, and a new glass building to the left. I worked in the glass building, which was some kind of government organisation or agency, and was going in and out quite a lot with a woman I don't know in real life, but who was either my equivalent in another department or perhaps slightly above me, but not my direct supervisor. We were animatedly discussing an important problem coming down the steps and out the front door one day when I stopped in the forecourt. Something was wrong - I'd sensed it for a while, but now it felt critical, dangerous. I 'felt' the area around me and knew there was an explosive in the presbytery tied to the electrical wiring; anything one did to defuse it would only set it off. I had no sense of when it would go off, though I sensed 'near future', not immediate. 


Right. Time to let people know.


I spotted J out front, spreading salt on the pavement outside the gate. I had mixed feelings about approaching him: if he believed me, he'd move quickly; but since it was me, I worried that he would simply dismiss me and do nothing.  As I stepped out, I noticed he had spread salt across the gate entrance itself and was now spreading it in lines perpendicular to the original one across the gate. I stepped out of the forecourt, careful not to disturb his lines, and stood facing him.


'J, what are you doing?'


'Need to create a way to contain the explosion.' 


Suffice it to say, one of the things J is known for is his precise, clear English. His leaving out the subject nearly gave me whiplash. I looked at him sharply.


'J, wait, you KNOW about the explosion?' 


In the same, slow, deliberate manner, continuing to spread salt, 'Yes. Don't know when though.'


He appeared to be sleepwalking or in a fugue. I desperately tried to break through.


'J, listen. Spreading salt isn't going to help. We need to get everyone out and we need to find a way to contain it. We're going to have to work out what kind of explosion it's going to be and build something, create something to minimise the damage and casualties to surrounding areas. It's too late for here. Can you hear me?'


No response. 'J, WAKE UP. We need to get moving.' I was on the verge of shaking him.


Unfortunately, that's the moment I listened to my own directive and opened my eyes.


2.  It was pitch dark, and I was flying. I was held from behind by what felt like a...presence more than a man, though he felt solid enough. I'm pretty sure we were on a Pegasus or some other flying creature. From behind me, his voice, raspy as if his vocal cords had been damaged in a fire, said, 'I have to fight for my love. My brothers wouldn't come.' I felt his profound sadness and leaned back slightly, trying to comfort him saying, 'I'm sure they'll change their minds and come.'


He remained silent, but I sensed his disagreement and his sorrow mixed with love - for his brothers and for me. Below me, the ground was suddenly lit up by a series of stadiums, and somehow I knew they were for gladiatorial contests - ones in which he was going to participate. My heart ached for the blood he would have to spill in the fight for his love. I hoped his love knew how blessed she was. 


Then we descended onto what looked like a college/university quadrangle. There were some security lights on, and some windows were lit as well, but we stood in total darkness. As he put me down, I turned to him, this shadow twice my height, and he said, 


'Now go. And:

Bereshit bara Elohim et hashamayim ve'et ha'arets.

Veha'arets hayetah tohu vavohu vechoshech al-peney tehom veruach Elohim merachefet al-peney hamayim.

G-d will come. Remember.'


After that, he spoke in something akin to Hebrew - I don't know how I knew it wasn't Hebrew; all I can say is that it was a profound blessing - not one of the 'given' ones, e.g., 'May the Lord bless you and keep you', but something...deeper, almost as if it was woven out of the fabric of creation itself. I felt it around me like a blanket of benison and protection.


I went...


...and found myself sitting with Steve, my cousin's husband, who I haven't seen in ages. We were sitting at a computer, working something through, when some sixth sense made me turn around. 


I saw, sitting on a brick wall, swinging his legs, in khaki trousers, tackies and a t-shirt, a clerical friend. 'Surely not HERE,' I thought, peering closely at the familiar profile. Then his head turned, and sure enough, it was he. He nodded and raised his eyebrows - in surprise, curiosity and greeting, which I returned similarly. I decided to allow him to come over if he wanted to - after all, even good clerical friends need complete breaks from those back in their church circle.


Steve asked me a question, I turned back to the screen for 30 seconds, then turned around again - he had disappeared completely, not even to be seen walking away in the surrounding crowd.


Steve asked, 'What's wrong?'


'Nothing. Thought I saw a friend from back home.'


'Well, go find him and say 'hi'!'


'No, if he'd wanted to talk, he'd have come over. I'm not going to bother him while he's on holiday.'


Then there was a weird, half-remembered segue about going into kitchens with Steve and friends, then I said, 'I'm going to mass; I'll see you guys later.'


We parted ways and I chose the cathedral, best to keep out of my friend's way, I figured. The cathedral looked like an opera house: brightly lit, white, blue plush theatre seats, in the semi-round, rather baroque and very beautiful. Suddenly, I turned to see clerical friend coming up the aisle two away from me (NOT central) to get ready to say mass and moved to an alcove where I was at a distance and hidden from view from the sanctuary. 'At least then he doesn't have to see me till at least communion,' I thought.


Oddly enough, at communion, he was dispensing at our aisle and the one next to it (I thought he'd be up at the sanctuary aisle; we were the one behind). I was about three away from him on my side of the double queue when the doors burst open and monsters of all descriptions came in, claws and teeth bared, ready for the kill. Thank G-d our teamwork in the dream was as seamless as it is in real life, or it would have been carnage. I don't remember any dead, but there must have been in that first entry, before we moved. As it was, we got everyone else out safely, then tore to the sacristy.


In the sacristy stood a cow. Somehow, we had an invocation/prayer that would turn it into a creature that would help us against the onslaught of demonic animals. I had begun to recite the prayer when a huge, lizard-like monster passed by, paused and grinned at us, then went up the steps behind the sacristy. I knew I couldn't stop reciting, and it moved so quickly, we couldn't grab it to either kill or hold it to transform it. My heart broke. I finished as quickly as possible and we waited, breathless. Suddenly, the cow started to change, growing fangs. 


'Kill it, Irim. We have to kill it!'


I could see a golden glow around it. 'No, wait, it's fine. This is the middle.'


I could sense his tension, but he trusted me. Suddenly, the transformation was complete, and a stunning red, yellow and blue feathered creature sat in front of us on one of the sacristy tables. We moved towards it. Somehow, I knew it was meant to be a phoenix, though it was currently flattened in the middle, looking more like a feathered serpent (and yes, it was only as I typed this that I got the Quetzlcoatl reference and looked him up - had no idea he was associated with Venus, whose transit was visible today).


I resisted stroking its gorgeous plumage and simply said, 'We need to go upstairs and save the others. Something like a basilisk passed as we were calling you...'


It looked at me and said, 'It's too late for those upstairs. Go, save yourselves and the others down here and outside that you can.'


Every fibre of my being protested, and I knew his did too. But then I knew - I knew that the Quetzl phoenix was going upstairs to save those that it could and that we would only be in the way. At that moment, I went to stroke it in thanks...


and woke up.

On dealing with the death of a good friend - some thoughts

This morning, a good friend on facebook asked for thoughts on dealing with the death of a good friend/loved one. I didn't know what I was going to write, and I don't know if she'll use this in the article she was going to write, but once I started, it flowed. And it felt like it belonged here for anyone passing who might run across it. So here it is:

FIRST AND FOREMOST, THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO WRONG HERE. NO WAY YOU ‘SHOULD’ FEEL; NO WAY YOU ‘SHOULD’ BE.  Grief is a very unique, personal journey – and yours won’t go down the same path as another’s, no matter how close you are. And THAT’S OK.

Let yourself feel it.  ALL of it. Yes, it might feel like you will never, ever be able to climb out of that dark abyss, so you don’t want to go in, but trust me, it’s better to jump than fall – which is what you’ll eventually do if you don’t let yourself feel it – because it’ll jump you at the most unexpected times in ways you can’t control. Better to make the choice to feel it than have it made for you – and the sooner you go all the way into it, no matter how intense it feels, the sooner it will start to heal.

Talk about them.  Share the memories. Share your relationship. This is about how they changed their little corner of the world by being in it.

Do what you need to do, even if it seems silly. Need to go and have that milkshake you used to share with them every week on Wednesday at McD’s? Go to town. Need to not even darken the door of McD’s? That’s fine too.  Need to talk? Need to hide? Need to hold a conversation with them in your diary or in your head before you go to bed? That’s ok.  Need to wear that shirt they gave you at least once a week? Cool. Need to give it to charity so you never see it again? Ok.  (As long as what you’re doing hurts no one, including yourself, obviously.)

If you believe in G-d, keep talking to him: weep, rail, scream, ask, do all that you need to do. A relationship with G-d needs to be a full relationship, not just ‘G-d, thank you, you’re so amazing, may I have, you’re so powerful…’  Give it all over – the dark as well as the light. G-d wants all of you, not just your company manners – that’s what being in real relationship is all about: think of your closest relationships - you go through the good, the bad, and the ugly, right? He knows where you are and He WANTS it all - the pain, the anger, the doubt - just the way you want to be there when someone you love is hurting. Just the way you and your friend/loved one were there for each other.


[And a clerics 'heads up': if someone comes to you and says that they're furious with G-d, don't be horrified by it (or let on that you are in any way uncomfortable with it) - affirm that. A 'That's absolutely fine,' or 'That's normal,' is good. Find your way/style of acknowledging that. One of my favourites is 'He can take it and He wants to hear it. As long as you're still talking to Him, it's all good.']

LET YOURSELF BE ANGRY. THAT’S OK.  IT’S HUMAN. Even if the death was a natural one, an expected one, anger is absolutely normal – we feel abandoned by them, feel the unfairness of it all.  If it wasn’t?  Then anger is going to be an even bigger part of this, and probably more complicated.  The anger will be complicated if the relationship was.  It’s not betraying your friend, it’s being real – and that’s what they’d want you to be.  Talk, talk, talk – but to people who can handle it and won’t dismiss you – so talk to the friends who are as angry as you are.  Cleric. To good friends who can give you the space. If you need to, find a therapist. 

You may dream about them. You may think you see them on the street. That's normal. You'll feel like you were punched in the solar plexus/diaphragm and may not be able to breathe. Take a moment. Acknowledge it: close your eyes; cry; breathe deeply; say 'hi' in your head. Feel the pain, breathe into it, let it be. It's OK.

It’s worse after the funeral. TRUST ME. Up to the funeral, there’s so much to do, so many people are around, it’s actually EASIER. The emptiness after the funeral , when the realisation hits that they’re never EVER actually going to be there again – in all the little ways that you were used to having them there – the everyday things, the in jokes, the way they used to do that thing that embarrassed you in public, what you laughed at when you had that weekly dinner down at the pub – is like having someone crack open your chest, grab your heart and just twist it in the most torturous ways possible.  And everyone has dispersed – or expects you to get over it.  You’re allowed to think ‘Bite me.’ You’re allowed to say, ‘Thank you for your concern, but bite me I’m dealing with this in my way and my time.’ Then go talk to someone who knows how to listen and that grief takes time.

Watch a sad film that makes you cry. Read a book. Go to the gym. Cocoon. Basically, do whatever helps you get through and process, process, process in your way, not anyone else’s.  Grief isn’t linear, it’s cyclical. The year anniversary will be a killer. Then maybe it’s bad for a couple of years, or ok till the 5 year, which hits you like a tonne of bricks, b/c you want them to be at your wedding/40^th/whatever.

When it starts to heal a bit,  when you begin really living without them - don’t feel guilty about laughing at that joke with someone else; having that weekly lunch with someone else;  feeling better; moving on. They loved you – it’s what they’d want for you.

Remember: grief isn't a sign of weakness. Grief is a sign that you have loved deeply - which is the ultimate sign of strength.

Finally, don’t close your heart – stay wide open.  The best tribute you can give them is to live and love fully – the way you lived with and loved them. 

Demon dream

As I've often said in this blog, I'm a prolific, vivid dreamer.  I dream in colour; I can often remember 3 dreams a night; I often wake up unsure of what is real.

I took him into myself But even with those parameters, last night's dream was a doozy, bringing a whole new definition to 'real'. 


It was a dark and stormy night in the dream, as it was here last night. I was in my room - same dimensions, but completely uncluttered with my bed facing the other way. No curtains, the window was much bigger, and instead of looking out onto a development,it looked out onto a city street. 

I was half-awake from a nightmare, when the Nightmare Nemesis comes in - HUGE yellow eyes, humanoid, reptile skin. We started struggling. But instead of pushing him away so I could run or try to destroy him, I pulled him to me, with the intention of drawing him into me, much as Ged does with the shadow at the end of the Wizard of Earthsea.

The sense of groundedness and sudden rush of power was intense,  and I sensed a second gremlin was out front, so I ran down the steps, onto the pavement in the rain  - and I also caught and integrated him. Knowing there were more out there, I yelled at the night, 'Come here! BRING IT ON!' But there was silence, and I woke.

It took several minutes to realise that I was actually back in my own room and fully awake - recently I've had what I call 'Russian doll' dreams, or a dream within a dream, and I've thought I'm fully back when I'm not. 

But this one really felt like I'd dropped into a parallel universe overnight, it was that real - and something HAS shifted. I'm not sure what and how much yet, or how it will manifest, but it feels profound.

Bring it on. 

Taking refuge in unholiness

It’s no secret that I relish announcing my privileged position as the driver of the Bus to Hell every chance I get.  I gleefully  – and regularly – pronounce myself irredeemable, heretical, unholy, unorthodox, a fiend, a bad influence… 

It might seem an unusual pastime for someone who identifies as religious/believing in God – after all, shouldn’t one be PURSUING holiness and eschewing unholiness? Well, that depends. You see, I don’t think that holiness is something that can be pursued, and I think that’s the reason that those who do chase it do so grimly, joylessly, unable to ever catch it. Even more fundamentally, I wonder if they even KNOW what it is they’re chasing. How does one define ‘holiness’? What does it look like? When will you know you’re there? From the answers – ‘Always calm, no anxiety, perpetual peace, always good and charitable’ and variations thereof – I’ve become more convinced that this chasing ‘holiness’ lark is less about a relationship with God and more about an opiate, via instructions given by others, rather than thinking for oneself, to numb pain they don’t want to face and reach a place where they no longer have to be in process and deal with darkness – they can just sit and enjoy the destination, effortlessly perfect in every action and reaction, emotion and thought, word and deed. 

But to quote a Gestalt therapist colleague, “There is ONLY process.” 

And to quote me: “BOR-ING.”

This stasis of perceived ‘holiness’ is petrification, not freedom. And therefore, I argue, it cannot be of God. 

Why? The evidence is all around us. The universe is in equilibrium, but not static. It is ever dynamic, ever in motion, often elegantly simple. Our blood is kept in the narrowest range of pH (7.38-7.42) through the back and forth of the simplest of chemical equations. Even at the end of lives - star, planet, human - what we are made of is taken back into the universe to return in another form. 

We are stardust.


And we are dynamic equilibrium, not static. We are the swinging of the pendulum, not the momentary stillness at the bottom of the swing, or the pause between figures of a dance. We are the rhythm; we are the dance. 


Living the creation, one finds it nearly impossible to imagine a static, monolithic creator. Such diversity, constant motion, the embedded drive towards growth and evolution - surely these things are reflections of the Creator. 


Thus, holiness, even if defined as a set of criteria, shifts with context, situation and person. Even more so if it is defined as being in right relationship with the Creator. All relationships are fluid, dancing, shifting - unless they are dead. So if an attribute of this universe, holiness would seem to most likely be fluid, dynamic, tending towards equilibrium.


Homeostasis - not static balance or holding a pose.


Holiness, when seen as a dance with the Creator, is beautiful - there can be nothing more so. Why, then, would I not seek it? Why would I take refuge in its apparent opposite, unholiness, and insist to everyone that I am irredeemable the moment the slightest intimation - even a joke - is made about my being holy?


Because as with anything that is tender, vulnerable and intimate - particularly relationship - it is often best hidden from a hostile world. 


One thing you learn very quickly in religion, no matter what the flavour, is that there is very little space for discussion of one's experience of - and relationship with - God. There is plenty of space for discussing rubrics, or academic points, or miniscule details of how duties should be performed, clothes worn, why one's label is better than another's, what other people should be doing. But try to discuss relationship with God, even with pastors, even in denominations that claim that they have dispensed with formality to be all about 'a relationship with God', and one most often hears the sound of tumbleweed.


Why, when this is ostensibly what religion is meant to be all about? Everyone should be talking about their relationship with/experience of God, the sacraments, relationship with others. Anyone should be able to bring their dry spells and their epiphanies to any of their fellow pilgrims: clergy or laity. Unfortunately, one finds that it is often more imperative to hide these from their fellow religious pilgrims than from their non-religious friends, who are often curious, open and thoughtful. 


What is going on? I would postulate that most people 'inherit' religion, though many choose it later - a conceptual framework, a structure, a security that makes sense of their world. One hears over and over again that letting God into your life will turn it upside down - v'nahafoch hu, which we should welcome and celebrate - but God is held at a comfortable distance, even by those who preach it. He is put in a box, in a comfortable place that allows our lives to continue as they are. If we come to or are brought into an unhealthy dynamic with religion, one that tells us we are evil or will never be good enough, we replicate the chase for our emotionally unavailable parents' love by creating the chase for an impossible holiness and an emotionally demanding and unavailable God alongside our chase for emotionally unavailable others. 


Instead of coming into religion to be in right relationship and intimacy with ourselves, with the Creator and with others, far too many of us come into religion to avoid real relationship and genuine intimacy - with ourselves, with our God and with others.


This creates what I call the hungry ghost effect. We compare ourselves to others; judge both ourselves and them in the harshest of terms; insist only we have the truth and that everyone must meet God in OUR way and if we feel we can't attain something that someone else has, we use them as 'friends', when they are really commodities to soothe an insatiable hunger or we grasp at everyone and everything for what we feel we need, but cannot get on our own. Our mouths are open in a Munch-like scream, desperate to be fed, but our narrow necks mean that nothing can fill us.


Sometimes, our desperation drives us even further. I remember reading a wonderful definition of evil in Mercedes Lackey's Arrow's Fall. Dirk, full-fledged Herald, and Elspeth, Queen's Heir, are musing on all things philosophical on their way to find Kris and Talia, when Elspeth asks him what evil is, and he responds: 


All right, I'll give it a try. This isn't the best answer by a long road, but I think it might be somewhere in the right direction. It seems to me that evil is a kind of ultimate greed, a greed that is so all-encompassing that it can't ever see anything lovely, rare, or precious without wanting to possess it. A greed so total that if it can't possess these things, it will destroy them rather than chance that someone else might have them. And a greed so intense that even having these things never causes it to lessen one iota—the lovely, the rare and the precious never affect it except to make it want them. 


The hunger, the desperate need, that drives so many to religion drives them to this ultimate, insatiable greed: scrabbling for approval, attempting to destroy those they feel have the approval, or worse, genuine friendship of those whose approval/'love' they desire; money; status; perfection in performance - of duties, rubrics, following the rules; all things they feel will bring them love. And when it doesn't, their rage at those they perceive to have the love they lack will lead them to acts of destruction that would not be part of their healthier nature. 


Almost everyone I know who has been part of a religious group/community - church, synagogue, mosque, temple - has at least brushed up against it - I did last autumn, when a good friend asked me a favour that was going to be in the public domain. This led to considerable sniping behind my back: Why HER? Why did she get to [do that]? How did she manage that/make that happen? Why was SHE chosen? Grab, grab, grab. I have little doubt that there are continued attempts in that same circle to chip away at the friendship via sniping, sneering and gossip - if one can't have it, then destroy it, to paraphrase Dirk. That's par for the religious course. But as for me, I will have faith - in my friend and in the strength of our friendship. 


This is why I take refuge in unholiness - irreverence, spikiness, shocking comments -  creating a thick wall of thorns around myself that most -who judge by accent, dress, wealth, status and obvious orthodoxy - will take for the real me and never attempt to penetrate. This is why, in religious groups, I cloak what I truly believe, how I truly feel, the close relationships, my faith, my compassion and my love. 


My dance with God - and those nearest to me - is private, protected.


But eventually, the wall of thorns, the private dance, make the holy relationship static. As St-Exupery once said, Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward in the same direction. Relationships need to build a joint history, but they also need to bring their love to the world, to act on it. And that cannot be done behind a wall of thorns.


So as I look past it, I know I have trapped myself in the same world as those whose chasing after holiness make them my apparent opposite.


Each other's shadows, forever bound.


Until someone chooses to break the pause and step into the next figure of the dance. In the world, not hidden from it.


Hey, Lord, is that a gap I see amongst the thorns?

But don't worry, I won't be handing over the keys to the bus.

Rescuing hostages for science....

ATTENTION, ALL READERS, ESPECIALLY GAMERS: I'M POSTING THIS ON BEHALF OF A POST-DOCTORAL FRIEND OF MINE. PLEASE, DO CONSIDER DOING THIS. /all caps Thank you! :-)

I'm working as a postdoc on a project that studies cooperative communication by having people play an online two-player computer game involving bombs and hostages and killing badguys. It's not a particularly high-tech game, but most people who have played have had fun. I've discovered the best way to do this is to get a group of interested people to meet online at a designated time and play for an hour or two - this way, no one has to wait ages for a partner (we lose a lot of players that way), and people tend to talk to each other more. If you play through Amazon Turk, you even get paid at the incredibly lucrative rate of a dollar a game, with the possibility of earning a (gasp!) fifty-cent bonus! My friends are pretty well mined out by this point (although a few of them like the game so much they apparently want to play again), so now I'm trying to find new people who might be interested in rescuing some hostages For Science.

You can find out more about the game, and the project it's part of, here:http://www.seas.upenn.edu/~muri/pragbot2.html

If you're interested in playing, email me (Irim) and I'll give you her email address so you can get in touch.

Thanks again!

Musings on anger

I have often been called 'angry', and I wouldn't deny this. Anger is often my first reaction to a number of things, usually based on underlying assumptions about what's going on: 'They're late because they don't care'/'They're not in touch because they don't give a f***' and so on. Most of my personal anger revolves around a sense of abandonment or feeling shut out without fair warning/a fair chance. My more 'public' anger revolves around others being hurt, injustice, unfairness, all the things that most people get angry about. 

What strikes me is that no matter what my anger is about, I get similar reactions: dismissed, my feelings denied, 'you are so...', used to channel other people's anger, 'It's scary when you get angry,' not listened to, not genuinely engaged with. 

But guess what? The moment you validate my anger, or just listen? It's over. And I find it's that way with most people I know. Allow them the space to be angry, acknowledge it, listen and engage, and things can get constructive very quickly. 

We all know what we hear: that anger can be a constructive emotion; that it warns us boundaries have been crossed and is a force for action. As M pointed out on the status that kicked off this blog entry, it is pretty much understood that anger is seen as a vehicle for other emotions: fear and pain. But I would argue that it isn't just a 'carrier', as it were, and it often runs very deep indeed, embedded in every cell, because of trauma and injustice inflicted over and over. 

So, if we know these things, if we know anger is compressed pain, the way a diamond is compressed carbon; that acknowledgment will make a difference; why do we avoid those we perceive as angry, dismiss our loved one's anger, deny our own?

It is anger's intensity, power and its tendency to attack when directed outward or cause self-destruction  - intense depression, self-harm, suicide - when turned inward that causes fear in others - either of it being turned towards us or possibly even 'catching' it (and it is known to spread through populations - just watch any number of public demonstrations). It is an emotion that feels out of control - we've seen its effects and perceive it as too passionate, too violent, too MUCH. 

Perhaps even too alive? After all, our vitality, our life force, can get trapped in it. Perhaps being numb feels safer than freeing our power.

Too much, we think, too much. So though we know better, we treat anger like a frightening monolith casting frightening shadows. Rage, after all, is terrifying to witness.

But it is only out of control if we choose not to know it. If we hide it and let it build; if we believe that we can lash out or shut out as venting mechanisms without deeply affecting our relationships; if we refuse to recognise it till the dam breaks and it erupts in a form we cannot control and cannot learn from.

So, what if we do the opposite?  If when we feel it, WE acknowledge it, WE listen to it, WE feel it? Might we not find that all our anger is not, in fact, the same? That there is no monolith, but a mosaic - a pattern, a picture, telling us what we need to know?

About a year ago, I decided to try an exercise suggested by Pema Chodron, the famous Buddhist nun - whenever I was feeling something intensely, I would try to let go of the story and hold the feeling, sensing its colour/texture/feeling, getting to know it intimately. As I've noted above, I DO carry a lot of anger, so many of these feelings were anger about perceived abandonment, dismissal and so on. 

At first, I was afraid to feel it, terrified I'd discover what a horrible person I am. I put up great resistance - but I'd promised myself to give it a try, and one thing I was trying to do was not betray myself.

I had assumed that it was all part of the anger I carried from my childhood, that it all looked the same, but that was simply not true. I thought it would all be hard, sharp, dark, glassy, molecularly sharp, like obsidian. But over time, I realised that my anger was nuanced. Yes, sometimes, it had the obsidian in it - more than sometimes, maybe. But it was different every time. My episodes of anger were like snowflakes, no two the same.

Sometimes, there was more hurt; sometimes, more a sense of injustice; sometimes, it was terribly young, the archetypal anger of the babe with no one to contain her. Sometimes, more loneliness; sometimes, more fear. Well, always pain and fear in some combination. Occasionally tsunami-like, every so often spiky, like shards of glass trying to work their way out. Everchanging, and sometimes, beautiful in its terribleness.

But what surprised me was how often it was mixed with love, with compassion, with sorrow, with protectiveness - how many of what I considered 'good' feelings were often tied up in and occasionally driving the anger, so I would speak, so I would act.

So I would do what was right, even if I was standing alone. 

Once I felt it, got to know it the way I would the body of a lover, held it and listened to what was needed, it dissipated and was reabsorbed into my self, into my whole, in the way it was meant to be, bringing healing and peace in its wake - like water returning to the ocean, its home. 

To quote a well-known character, I can feel your anger. 

I'm here. I am willing to hold the space for it and listen.

Are you?

Holy Saturday

Playing with colour and sepia here, having fun the night of the Easter Vigil.

Good Friday picture essay.

Here.

The open sacristy door...

Meet the open sacristy door. 

Now, to non-Catholics reading this, it's probably just a door.  

Catholics may understand a bit more about where this is going, as the sacristy door is a definite boundary. How much of a boundary depends on the church: the higher the church, the greater the demarcation between priest and laity, and it becomes more like the door of a house than a room.

This, as you can guess, is 'my' open sacristy door at the O.

Why 'my'? Well, because... I have to confess to a relationship with the open sacristy door.

And yes, I can sense your puzzlement from here.

Now, if the sacristy door is closed, I won't touch it without reason: real need of a priest, someone has a phone call and we're checking if they're in there, that kind of thing. 

But the open sacristy door, well...it's like an emotionally unavailable boyfriend. It draws; it tantalises; it gives you a peek as to what's really going on inside; maybe even lets you in briefly, but it's never going to be a lasting relationship. You're always going to be shut out again.

Moth - flame.

I've walked through that door to clean, to play a St Philip's Day practical joke, to speak to the sacristan or the celebrant - that doorway and I know each other well. I've walked all the way in, poked my head round, even tried on one of the servers' cassocks (No Oratorians read this, so they'll never know :-D - and yes, my bum DID look big in it. I looked even hippier than any of the Oratorians do in that DIRE cotta that has lace from the waist down and ends at EXACTLY the wrong place - one day, it will disappear, oh yes it will).

In this, the sacristy door and I have a healthy relationship - no co-dependency, no attempt to make the door what it isn't, no trying to get it to commit.

No, the unhealthy part of our relationship is the peek-a-boo one.

There are few things quite so mesmerising as watching the preparation for mass through that door - the hurried conversations which give brief insight into the emotional tenor; the moving things around; the fiddling with the vestments that have been laid out. But nothing quite captures the attention like the vesting.

Watching the transformation is riveting, especially when it's someone you know well or are close to. Clericals or cassocks aren't an issue, that's how you know them - though I insist on mufti if we're stepping off the premises for coffee or dinner. But vestments - they bring a strangeness into the familiarity, even if one still feels comfortable enough to send a 'WTF' look across the sanctuary during the odd snippet of a 20th century mass setting. There's no way to quite explain what watching that strangeness settle in, layer by layer, is like.

But as John O'Donohue reminds us, that sense of strangeness, of 'other', often brings the familiarity into sharp, sometimes heart-stopping focus. Certain ways of doing things - adjusting cinctures, chasubles, amices, chalices make one think, 'Oh, that is SO you,' and grin affectionately. But the moments that make one's breath catch are the glimpses of something deeper - the moment of utter vulnerability where they're just in an alb, before the chasuble goes on; the expression as they adjust an amice in the mirror by the sacristy door; the fingers through their hair. The precious seconds when the mask slips, and for an instant, there they are.

And it is here I beg the sacristy door, 'Show me more.'

But in the way of all things emotionally unavailable, once it has found the emotional hook and drawn one in, even allowed one a glimpse of the reality within...

...the door closes.

Lenten dream

I've been so tired over the last few weeks that when I've slept, I've slept deeply, remembering only a very few in full, but many fragments. Last night I had a very full, very vivid dream about being in a castle with one of my best friends, who was dancing off on her own everywhere about the castle. There was a sense of...crossroads and chaos, with the odd person - fire-eater, juggler, and so on floating through the dream.

There was a huge suspension bridge on the grounds, one that felt so vast that it was terrifying to cross. There was always a thrill stepping onto it, an awareness that it led far beyond just another point on the castle grounds. As soon as I stepped on it, I was in conversation with an angel, one who never materialised, but was very present. I wish I could remember the conversation I was having with him when I crossed the first part of the suspension bridge one morning, carrying a package across. The bridge zigzagged across the grounds in labyrinthine fashion, in what seemed to be an infinite number of gleaming white sections.

The next thing I remember is a dark night, a new moon. I needed to cross the bridge; I knew that. The section I had crossed was no problem, and I was sure that I could cross the next one. The angel's voice was muffled now, though I could hear him questioning my need to cross it at night, my need to prove I could do it at night, at the darkest time.

I crossed the first part of the suspension bridge, came off it, and approached what looked like a darkened guard house, one that housed something that terrified me more the closer I came to it. But despite the immense resistance, I doggedly moved forward until I hit an invisible wall and I heard/thought, 'Why do you always need to push yourself too far? Maybe you need to stop.'

'But I need to cross.'

'Do you need to cross now? Or can you step back and wait?'

For once, I listened.

As I walked back down the suspension bridge, I looked up to where I thought the angel should be and sobbed, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know my faith isn't great enough. I'm sorry.'

'Or maybe,' came the gentle response, 'it wasn't time - you weren't ready.'

Lent Stations of the Cross

During Lent, my church has stations of the Cross on Friday evenings at 17.30, so I hurry down after work to take my seat by the confessionals, between the station where Jesus is nailed to the cross and the one where He dies on the cross.

My experience of stations varies widely - some weeks I'm right there, others I struggle to stay focused, occasionally, I'm just stressy and angry. But no matter how I feel, I go.

Today, I felt grounded into it, enfolded in the entire experience. I particularly love the prayer:

O God, we love thee with our whole hearts and above all things, and are heartily sorry that we have offended thee. May we never offend thee any more. Oh, may we love thee without ceasing, and make it our delight to do in all things thy most holy will.

I love the emphasis on love, the prayer to 'love thee without ceasing' and to make God's will 'our delight'. Not a duty, not acquiescing to a demand, not out of obedience, but out of delight.

Yes, there will be sorrow, anger, ennui, grief, the darkest of places. But the foundation, the anchor, the source of our relationship with God is the love of our whole hearts and delight in His presence.

That whole-hearted love and delight in God, in our neighbour, in our daily life is our prayer. And as we know, the Lord our God is near us whenever we pray to him.

As I felt that love ache through the suffering of the stations as we moved towards the crucifixion and death, I looked up to see the darkening sky through the far windows and my heart sang. I finally understood why I loved the Lenten stations, why I kept coming, no matter whether I felt them or not.

Shabbat.

I know the Christian sabbath is Sunday, but growing up a Muslim and teaching at a Jewish school - which brought me into deep resonance with and love for the Jewish faith, the root of all Abrahamic faiths - means that in the depths of my being, Shabbat begins Friday, though every day belongs to God.

For me, the Lenten stations are the doorway to Shabbat - time in simple, deep prayer to God. However I feel: deeply engaged, disconnected, teary, angry - during the stations, it is being brought to God in prayer during the stations. No matter how I feel, God is holding me then, and I feel our connection. Love and delight, even through the pain.

And I step through the doorway. Baruch Hashem.

Lucifer - an epiphany

I'm currently watching 'Catholics', and the kids at the Catholic school have just had a lesson on Satan. The priest just asked them for another name for the Devil. 'Lucifer' was the answer he was looking for.

'Lucifer, light bearer,' he said when he got the answer.

I've heard it a million times before, but suddenly, it was like getting hit by a lorry.

I know the usual understanding is that the name is from his days as an angel living in God's glory. But the moment I heard the priest say that, something fell into place for me.

When Satan tempts us, when he stands in our way, when he taunts us, pushes us to the edge of what we can bear - does all those things attributed to him...

...is he not being a light bearer? Is he not shining a light in those darkest places, on those darkest impulses, forcing us to face what we try to hide from?

Is he not our ally, rather than our adversary?

Is he not still God's Lucifer?

Ash Wednesday

I know there will be plenty of pious/devotional/reflective entries on today being Ash Wednesday, and I've done any number of them myself, so I'll skip that. Instead, I'd like to address a few words to G-d:

Dear G-d,
Hope you got the letter and I pray you can make it...sorry, joke. (10 pts to those who get the reference) No, seriously, just a few things.

1. I know it's a day of fasting/abstinence - I'm cool with that, but I will still be having my full Wednesday intake of caffeine. We all have to draw our line in the sand somewhere.

2. I'm NOT giving up shamelessly indulgent hugs and hellos from folks like John Leather. THAT just made my day - and all we need is love, right? And this whole season is about learning to love more. We talk about giving things up, but this month is really about stripping back to learn to love people more, right?

3. St Paul as the first reading. SERIOUSLY? Doesn't he get enough attention the rest of the year? I'm sorry, but every year has to be Joel, ALL THE WAY. Much better call to repentance. Srsly. The Old Testament every time.

4. Speaking of St Paul, he's a bit of a whingey martyr. "Oh, I've done this ALL FOR YOU, no matter how much I'VE SUFFERED." Yo, St. Paul - it's the world's smallest violin. Surely You didn't mean for him to have the lion's share of the NT?

5. Pious people. WTF? No, really. I'm not talking about the devout, like John and Mary L.; Nahed; Terry; Asta; Maggie; any of those I know and those I don't who walk their spiritual/religious talk, showing me up for the complete hypocritical twat I really am. No, I'm talking about those who make a show of virtue: posing with claret whilst being overheard having a 'how much I know about theology' pissing contest; peddling sensationalist stories about the 'secular world' and denouncing 'secular values' whilst being utterly enslaved to them ; overly awed by status; obsessed by rules, rubrics and lace and form; those who kowtow to those with religious status whilst casting doubt on their reputation the moment their back is turned. Those who use their 'orthodoxy' as a way of being an emotional bully and clubbing people over the head with their beliefs, insisting they live by them. That lot. You know, the ones who do all that to avoid a real relationship with You.

Ok, I know they have issues and they need my compassion and understanding. But here's where I need Your help, Lord - I want to effing smash their faces into the nearest psychological mirror. That's right. I want to take Mr 'Aren't I so perfectly Catholic' and shove his face in the fact that not only is he an emotional bully, but also that he's really unhappy, though he'd claim otherwise. I want to take Miss 'Fake Piety' and expose her as the scheming bitch she is. I want show so many of them just how shallow, spiteful and narrow-minded they are. I know, I know. Jesus died for them too.

But this is what makes it horrible - I want to take the gift of psychological insight You gave me and use it to take them apart and hurt them as much as I've seen them hurt others - their spouses, their children, those around them. And that, to me, would be the ultimate sin.

Help me, Lord. Help me find compassion for them this Lent. Help me let this go, because I can't do it.

Please. Help me to heal, not destroy.

6. What were You thinking when you made platypuses? Did you just look away for a minute and did Gabriel play a practical joke?

7. I know I'm feeling really stuck right now - but thank You. Thank you for where I am right now, and for all that I have that I forget about, and what being here brings me. Thank you for the challenges, for those who knock my corners off, for everything I learn from. Help me have faith in Your plan and kick me in the ass to act when appropriate.

8. This had to be separate. THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU FOR MY FRIENDS. OH, GOD, THANK YOU. There just aren't words for the amazing people in my life. Help me be what You need me to be in their lives, and in the lives of everyone I touch - whether it's just a brush past or a lifetime commitment. (No straitjackets, though, please!)

9. Stay with me? Or rather, take down the barriers that make me forget You're always there. You know that unloved thing I blogged about? I feel it with You too - I mean, I know I love you as well as I can, but I don't often feel it coming back from You. I know I don't have to apologise for it, but...I feel like I should, you know. I know You're there, but a lot of the time, it's hard to feel and trust. Help me with that? Help me just BE with you?

So, basically, can we just work on us this Lent?

10. Small, yappy dogs. SO WRONG. Were You on...never mind. Better not ask that one.

Gah, Ash Wednesday is almost over - better post. More anon, Lord - thanks for listening.

Who loves ya, baby? That would be me.

Laters,
Irim xxxxxxxxxxx

PS - Promise not to kill any pious people during Lent. Hope that works for You. Mwah.

Spiritual growth: response to a sermon

I'd nearly forgotten how rarely Fr Robert preaches anymore, until he did today. I realised that I was no longer accustomed to seeing him in the pulpit, as I had to repeat 'Forget he looks like Richard Nixon. Forget he looks like Richard Nixon...' several times early on.

My ears pricked as he quoted JH Newman: "Growth is the only evidence of life."

Good start, I thought.

And so it was as he mentioned physical, intellectual and emotional growth and came to spiritual growth. I settled in. Then he said the one thing that distracted me from the rest of his sermon (not a direct quote):

If we stop growing spiritually, it is due to laziness or lack of education.

I baulked, but I waited.

Nothing.

That was when I moved from listening fully to listening with one ear as I took that statement apart and thought about how I wanted to discuss or blog it. Why?

Because, Fr Robert, I'm going to have to disagree.

As mentioned at the beginning of the sermon, growth is the only evidence of life. That means that living things, left to their own devices, all other things being equal/provided (food, favourable soil, friendly habitat, water, etc.), will grow. It has no choice - it simply is. Thus, if something living - including a spiritual/emotional/intellectual life - stops growing, it isn't out of lack of aegis (laziness, and I'll mention that having a deeper cause) or lack of academic information. It is out of profound injury or lack of nurture.

It IS true that people can be lazy, but garden variety laziness - e.g., I can't be bothered to do the dishes right now - which is usually overcome naturally, because it is part of a natural cycle - does not prevent growth. It may even be part of the need to rest. Persistent laziness, like its shadow, persistent busyness, is often rooted in a sense of fear, avoidance and overwhelm. For example, when I'd fallen behind on turning in my supervision forms at the place where I volunteer, 'laziness' took over because I WAS so far behind, it seemed impossible to catch up: it was a combination of all 3. In more serious cases, it is often indicative of depression.

Laziness isn't the underlying sin we take it to be - and often what looks like laziness is the gathering of resources before right action. We live in a world that believes in do, do, do and sees not acting as laziness. Nothing could be further from the truth.

So what does prevent growth? Emotional and spiritual injury through abuse, neglect, bullying, emotional disconnection, having to live in an environment where one has to hide in any variety of ways - so many things that create 'black holes' within us - those places so desperate for love (we often mistake approval for this), security and the nurture that we didn't receive as a child that they can never be filled. They turn us into 'hungry ghosts', defined in Wikipedia as beings who are driven by intense emotional needs in an animalistic way.

These holes bind us to them, they paralyse us. They prevent us from doing anything but frantically trying to fill them and stop the pain and emptiness they generate: we chase what we perceive to be love - especially those who cannot offer it, or those who abuse us as we were abused growing up; we chase approval through worldly success; we chase inanimate objects such as money, thinking that they will never betray us, and if we get enough they will fill that hole and it will be over.

But the thing about hungry ghosts is this: whilst they have wide open mouths and bellies bloated from malnutrition, they have very thin necks. Whatever goes into the mouth can never make it past the impossibly thin neck, so it can never nourish.

If it is bad for us, it cannot be expelled. If it is genuine love, genuine nurturing, genuine care, we cannot take it in. I recently had this exchange with a friend that demonstrates that:

P: You know you're very much loved by a good number of people, don't you?

Me: I grew up feeling unloved; much as I love my friends, and I feel THAT keenly, I very rarely feel love coming back at me. I sense need easily, but unconditional love not so much. It's lovely to know that I'm loved, even if I have a hard time feeling it. Thank you.

That is MY hungry ghost: I rarely feel loved, held. So I chase it - but I can't take too much of it (thin neck), so I chase it in those who can't love me profligately, passionately, fully. I take the little I'm given because it is what I can bear.

That's changing, the neck is widening, but it takes time and is still hard.

As Fr Robert said, the cause of the spiritual life's failure to thrive is sin - emotional abuse, neglect, bullying, anything that makes someone less a person. We're all guilty of some shade of that.

But I would take issue with his statement that sin is at the root of the lack of growth. If one just pulls up sin, it's like pulling up what you can see of a weed - it might be gone for a while, but another will soon grow in its place. You need to pull sin up by the root.

And that root is fear.

Fear is what drives people to sin:

Avarice: I'm afraid I'll never have enough/there's not enough to go round.
Envy: I'm afraid that what I have/who I am isn't good enough, but if I have that, maybe I will be.
Gluttony: I'm afraid there won't be enough, I have to have as much as possible now.
Lust: "I'm afraid I won't be loved."
Pride: "I'm afraid I'm not enough, so I have to tell people that I'm more. I can't ask for help/admit I can't do it/don't know."
Sloth: Cf. above "I'm afraid it's too much/I'll fail."
Wrath: "I'm afraid of being hurt/the pain underneath this/the pain that might come, it's easier to be angry than face that." "I'm afraid I won't get justice, so I must get it myself."

Those are by no means exhaustive - it is, of course, more complex than that, but I hope the point is clear. In discussing a real-life example earlier with a Saffa friend, he made the point that the great sin of apartheid came about because 'SA whites were very, very afraid.' That is brought home by one of the best songs ever written:

I knew a man who lived in fear
It was huge, it was angry it was drawing near
Behind his house, a secret place
was the shadow of the demon he could never face
He built a wall of steel and flame
And men with guns to keep it tame
Then standing back he made it plain
that the nightmare would never ever rise again
But the fear the fire and the guns remained

Perhaps personalizing it by generating our own 'I'm afraid that...' will help us move forward - and grow.

But how? So we know we're afraid and what we're afraid of? How does it help us grow? Self-awareness is the first step to emotional and spiritual growth - and to collapsing that black hole. Knowing what is true is the first step to everything.

The next step is to love it: and if it is too hard to love a black hole, let us use Donald Kalsched's imagery and love the child left behind, the child frozen in the trauma that tries to draw us back to it, tries to protect us from it again, but can only do so as the 3,5, 6 year old he/she is. That little one has done far too much for far too long, more than any child should have to do (as we probably did in real life). The time has come for us to hold it, to love it through its tantrums, its tears, its rage at us for abandoning it.

Once we can begin to love ourselves, it's time to move outwards and do so in relationship: first, in trusting God, next in loving others the way we are beginning to truly love ourselves: unconditionally. How do we do that? We hold them - figuratively and sometimes, literally. I have many friends with black holes because I have such black holes. And I have learned to hold them, sometimes imagining my arms around a younger them as they huddle silently and miserably against me or even as they flail and lash out against me. I will be there, lovingly, firmly (if necessary) and holding the space so they can find their truth, because that is what love is - so beautifully summed up in these words of Meg Murry in A Wrinkle in Time when she is desperate to save her brother:

I love you. Charles Wallace, you are my darling and my dear and the light of my life and the treasure of my heart. I love you. I love you. I love you.

And sometimes, that is what is most needed as they rage, weep, hide. I love you. I love you. I love you. And because of that, you are the treasure of my heart. You may know it, but one day, if you hear it enough, you'll feel it - even if it's just a little.

In addition to the nourishment that love provides, as we love others, we provide a safe, nurturing environment to grow spiritually: we need to be able to share our fears, our doubts, our thoughts with others who will listen, accept and respond lovingly, even as they disagree. Once we can provide that for ourselves, we can begin to provide it for others - and God can begin to use us to be His healing hands on Earth.

After all: There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment.

Love has no torment. That does not mean we are free from suffering, for loss will come, pain will come, difficulty will come. But that is not torment, which takes these things and twists them - and us - out of all recognition. Torment belongs to fear.

Here is the beginning of the end of sin, the Holy Spirit melting the frozen, and the return to spiritual growth - because where we are spiritually can now interact with love, community and experience, allowing it to meet new challenges to deepen and mature. After all, growth needs resistance.

And for most of us, some of those challenges are found in risk, in being vulnerable - for me, not saying to P, 'I'm ok,' but opening up to tell him what was really going on for me, was a huge risk, which one can see from the brief snippet I posted above.

It garnered the following response, in part:

P: Thanks so much for letting me in, for talking. You *are* loved - by me, and by many others...I'm your friend. What am I going to do? I'll always be here when you need me.

Exactly. What am I going to do? I'll always be here when you need me. For those of you who really need that but can't reach for it right now, hear it one more time and know it for the simple truth. When you can reach out, I'll come to meet you. That's a promise.

In that moment, I felt very loved indeed. And I could have sworn I felt my emotional and spiritual lives poke their heads out of love's rich soil.

Triggered

Right now, I'm triggered, so I'm going to see if blogging about it will shift it at all.

As everyone here knows, I was sexually abused when I was younger. The effects manifest in ways obvious and subtle - I hide behind big, casual clothes; I need to be under a blanket, but can't bear the weight of it on my neck, because it feels like I'm suffocating; I can react remarkably calmly to the worst news, because I'm just not there; I'm hypervigilant and extremely aware of character. For years, I thought I was overreacting when I'd be uncomfortable with certain adults when they were interacting with children - actually, I'm spot on. Conversely, if I absolutely trust someone with a child, that's absolutely spot on too.

I don't trigger often anymore, though I know some friends would argue that I'm probably constantly slightly triggered - a bit like always having a low grade fever. I consider it a baseline. I know I'm triggered when close male friends touching me makes me tense up when they approach, when I will normally totally relax into it. Or if I get far angrier with South Asian males than is warranted, that kind of thing.

You'd think that after years, I'd be used to it; I'd know when it was coming - especially now that I'm a therapist. Sometimes, I can. Often, I'll be completely blindsided, though in retrospect, I should have expected it.

Part of the problem is that I can watch shows like 'CSI' and 'Criminal Minds' back-to-back and not have a problem, even if they're about rape. Ditto 'Law and Order: SVU', though if I'm completely honest, I usually have to watch something like 'Bridezillas' to wind down from that. But it's fine. What I tend to forget is that a lot of it coming at me from various sources, especially if a couple of those things are a bit close - a friend's pain, disclosure, it happening near me - create a cumulative effect that means that anything can push me into being fine one minute, triggered the next. It's even faster if I have to hold the space for someone (or several someones) else's feelings about the topic, and to do so, I need to absolutely clamp down on my feelings.

Not a problem if I allow myself to decompress and process later. Unfortunately, I'm more than a bit of a lazy idiot about that.

This week, I should have seen it coming. I could feel myself vacillating between dissociated and irrationally annoyed by small things, especially towards the end of the week. I tensed up any time anyone came up to my desk at work, even though I can see them in my screen, my headphones were on almost all the time. This evening, during a long text exchange about the topic, I could feel myself pulling in and away. In a friend, I'd have seen it coming a mile away and called them on it - therapist, analyse thyself.

Suddenly, I hit 11pm, post NCIS and 'Criminal Minds' (and if I'd been self-aware, I'd have AVOIDED THIS 'CRIMINAL MINDS' LIKE THE PLAGUE TILL ITS REPEAT) and my normal state made a cool whooshing sound as it went by.

(Oh Lord. I'd thought back to my uncle several times this week. Only for seconds at a time - but still flashbacks. And I STILL MISSED IT.)

What does it feel like for me? I don't cry, shake or go through flashbacks for days. I just...leave. Like I used to when...well, that. I'm just dissociated, out of body - sometimes for hours, sometimes for days. Nothing can touch me - I will see things that usually move me to tears, or make me laugh till I cry, or move me to advocacy - and I just don't care. I can see people I absolutely adore and feel nothing, though I know I love them to bits. When I was younger, it manifested as losing myself in series: the Oz books, Nancy Drew, Madeleine L'Engle. I loved to read, loved new worlds, but they served a dual purpose: if I was there, no one could touch me and it was easier.

Right now, it feels like I'm writing this from realities away. I'm here, composing, reading, but not feeling it, and I suspect it's showing up in my writing, though I can't judge that now. I know it'll show up when I flinch when someone sits too close to me in the pew (right now about two people away from me) or just a lack of real response to a friend. Fortunately, tomorrow is now clear and unlike the last two Saturdays, I don't have to read at the 18.30 mass, and I can just batten down the hatches for a day, which will hopefully clear it.

What do I need to do? Listen to it. Let it be what it is, rather than fight it. See what it has to tell me. If I need to, lean. And above all, get back into my body. Let my guy friends hug me - feel the resistance, but let the touch be. Progressive muscle relaxing exercises; my new 'feel your heartbeat' exercise from Martha Beck, which is brilliant. Breathe. Go wordless (MB again), at least for a while. SLEEP. Feel that my back is really bothering me, that my right ankle is stiff. That I'm tired, even if I feel I have no right to be.

And just let tomorrow be what it needs to be and bring what it needs to bring.

I may be triggered. But that doesn't mean I have to fire.

A reflection on clerical crushes and expectations

On Tuesday, 24 January, as I was waiting for Ari to show up online, I idly flicked through Sky channels to see if there was anything worth watching, and stumbled onto The world against apartheid. Now, anyone who has known me for oh, any length of time, knows that all things South African trip over me. Seriously. I went to Orkney and the first sign I saw was in the travel agent's window: 'Fly to South Africa'. And that's just one of at least a thousand examples. I've been fascinated by South Africa since I first saw the song We are marching to Pretoria in my elementary school music book - they've had a while to accumulate.

So tripping over this excellent programme was about as much surprise as the pope being Catholic. I've been sucked into the first two parts, drinking in the oral and social history that I'd never had a chance to dive into before. After seeing Desmond Tutu appear at the end of the first part, I looked forward to the appearance of his colleague - my third clerical crush after JPI and Oscar Romero: the late Archbishop Denis Hurley.

I'd heard of Tutu first - of course, since he became a Nobel Laureate - and absolutely adored him, but somehow, it was Hurley who caught my imagination. It may have been tied to my early draw to the Catholic Church, or something pulled in I sensed in him that I didn't sense in the exuberant Tutu: a shyness, a reserve, a weight on his shoulders - something I wanted to draw out, to help carry, to support. (Yes, that tendency of mine began very young indeed.)

I was SQUEEing about the show and Archbishop Hurley to Ari - who, like the true friend she is, sent me a copy of Guardian of the Light by Paddy Kearney, which I've started reading. Of course, being one who reads character from photographs, I went straight to the 2 sets of photos in the book, and found myself completely arrested by this one:




Seriously hot is not the way one should describe a bishop in full vestments, so I shan't. (Yes, really.)

But look at that face. Look at the character. He was 31. 31, people. Today, most males in our society are still boys playing men at 31, desperate to be the eternal Peter Pan. Here, we see the face of a man - a young man with much destiny in front of him, but a man nonetheless. The character is there already: strong, firm, determined, not easily swayed - balanced with thoughtfulness, strong principle and the ability to listen. And he is aware: so aware of what has been placed on his shoulders, and in that face, one can also see the 'I'm not ready. Oh God.' But he will say 'yes', because 'yes' is what is needed. There is great power in this 31 year old - true power, not what often masquerades as power. It is this character, this true power, that makes him the two words that I said I wouldn't use about a bishop in full vestments.

The photo makes me want to weep, even as it fills me with hope - for one can sense the terrible aloneness. I find myself torn between inclining my head to acknowledge the true power present and the urge to throw my arms around his shoulders and tell him all will be well.

He, like JPI and Oscar Romero, holds such power and is so deeply human. The two are not unconnected: one can only hold true power if one is truly and fully human.

As I read, I am startled to discover that he had not always been so passionate about the equality between the races: he was once startled to see a white woman and an Indian woman speaking animatedly on the bus, not having realised that non-whites had the same needs/wants as whites. It wasn't till he came to Rome as a seminarian and counted two Sri Lankans amongst his closest friends that his views truly began to change. This surprises me (though it shouldn't, he would have been a product of his time) and I put down the book to think about how it makes me feel - on its own then, more specifically, about him.

I find, to my surprise, that I am absolutely fine with it. More than absolutely fine. Why? Because it means he was open to change. That he could be open to experience, think it through, and come to a fair conclusion. I don't need him to have been perfect: I need him to have been real; to be able to listen and care; to stand up for what he felt was right, whatever the risk to himself. What I would have found unconscionable was a resistance to growth; a need to believe he was always right, even in the face of evidence; a need for approval that meant that he said 'yes' to those above him no matter what.

What Denis Hurley did was grow up, to develop, to begin to unfold into who he really was. And that is as it should be.

These musings lead me to understand how my conversion to Catholicism was, in large part, due to these men: men of truth; men passionate about the same things I was; men who wielded the power of the organisation behind them to try to overcome corruption, oppression, injustice, no matter what it cost them. Because shepherding God's people was their vocation.

When I joined the Catholic Church, these were the men I thought were going to lead me, the men I thought I was going to be working alongside to make the whole world a better place, to serve all people, no matter what religion they identified with.

I soon learned just how special my trinity of clerical crushes were.

Thus began my inner - and outer - struggle with the Catholic clergy. On the one hand, I was drawn to many of them. On the other, I found myself wanting to slam so many clerical heads into the nearest concrete wall as I told them exactly what I thought of them. What was going on?

In part, I figured, I was playing out my relationship with my father in a place that was slightly more sane. That makes a lot of sense, and is certainly part of the truth. But it was Ari who really began to crack it a few months ago, as I vented my rage at a cleric who I felt had failed abysmally in his duty to offer some help I had asked for. It was an unexpected failure, and therefore, felt like a betrayal, though I'd given him no sign how I really felt.

Then, she said it:

You are constantly asking them [the clergy] for things you know they can't give you. You can't seriously be surprised when they fail you.

Me: I set men up to fail all the damn time, don't I?
Ari: Yes.
Me: and especially men in authority
Ari: Yes.
Me: Some part of me takes immense pleasure in that
Ari: Sometimes it's justified: you're the child with the naked emperor. But yes, a lot of it is unnecessary.

I knew, at the deepest level, that she - that WE -were absolutely right. As we unravelled it further, what became clear was that there were certain areas in which I expected perfection from Catholic priests. Or if not perfection, certainly an absolute commitment to developing the following to the best of their ability:

1. Living a life of integrity. For me, this is the biggie, because everything else flows from this. Be aware of your issues and work on sorting out your shit, rather than running to the priesthood to try to hide from your shit. Because let me tell you, a collar that gets you some kind of station, pretty vestments, obsessing about liturgy, thinking, 'Hey, I can turn wafer and wine into body and blood, I am so much better than non-clerics' and being able to promulgate your point of view to a captive audience every week may taste like ice cream - but if you're not working through your stuff and moving towards personal holiness, it's ice cream on top of shit. No matter how much you shift the ice cream, the taste of shit will always come through. Work from the inside, instead of adjusting the externals, and everything else will follow.

And no, just saying office doesn't count as personal holiness. Prayer is much more and much deeper than that. "Your daily life is your temple and your religion," remember? So how you act matters. Take responsibility for your life. For your emotions. If you truly have a vocation to the priesthood, you have a vocation to shepherd God's people. God's people have a vocation to support you - this is symbiosis, not a one way street. But what God's people do NOT have a vocation to is to contain your unconscious stuff/emotion that spills out on them, nor do they have a vocation to be your co-dependent and prop up your dysfunction or your fragile ego. That's YOUR job to sort out - through self-awareness, with God, maybe with a therapist. By the way, the stuff you're doing you think is secret? It ain't, trust me. For example, if you've been sniping about me behind my back to other clerics or laity, I know about it. Everything leaks. So don't do anything that shouldn't.

2. Think for yourself. Seriously, one more 'The Church says...and so it's right' and some dog collar wearing male is going to get kneed in the balls. THINK, man. Is IT? One of the things I love about Denis Hurley is that he called Pope Paul VI on Humanae Vitae - robustly, via written correspondence. There was NEVER any question of his loyalty to the Church or God's people - dissent is part of growth and development. But Hurley thought, came to a conclusion and spoke his truth. He didn't let anyone do his thinking for him. God gave you a mind of your own. Use it. What does your experience tell you? Your compassion? Does it make you uneasy? Then FACE IT and follow it through. Know what you TRULY believe and take it to God. Lather, rinse, repeat. See #1.

3. Grow up - eternal Peter Pans have no place in the clergy. I've seen far too many boys, particularly neocons, claim a vocation because they can't or don't want to face the real world - essentially, they want to continue living their university days around people who agree with them or will hold them in such high regard that they never have to do any real work. They can join groups that do absolutely no pastoral work whatsoever, prance about in pretty costumes and vestments, hold high ritual, swan off to various parts of the world for the rest of their lives, all supported by the Catholic laity and held up as examples by the hierarchy as 'an increase in vocations'. Sorry, boys - I'm afraid that's not what Our Lord had in mind for you. I'll tell you what I do, though - a year in the Democratic Republic of Congo, ministering to the people. You have a vocation, right?

4. Pastoral care above all else. Seriously, anyone who can follow instruction can learn to the say the mass. Not that hard, I could do it within months of becoming Catholic. And frankly, the same goes for the other rituals. Anybody can learn to say them, it's just that the Church holds that because your hands were anointed with oil, like He-Man, you have the power.

But genuine pastoral care? That's something else altogether. That requires the ability to be in genuine relationship with someone else. Now, if you can't be in relationship with yourself and with God, you can't do this (again, see #1). You're a shepherd - THIS is your raison d'etre. Your real work, your real vocation, is to be with the people. To be there when they are dying; when those they love are dying. To comfort, to hold, to witness. To be tender, yet firm, in the confessional, when people are most vulnerable. To forever hold the sanctuary and the space - and to perform the sacraments from this space, letting God work through you. To die in the middle of mass because you have spoken out for your people. To be ready to go to prison for your people. To protect your people no matter what it costs you.

God may not be calling you to martyrdom, or to pay a great price. But if He is calling you to the vocation, He is calling you to be broken - at the very least in the way Mary Oliver speaks of:

I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.

That is your vocation - and not just yours, but everyone's. That is what this pilgrim church is about - witnessing to each other's lives and helping each other break wide open: to themselves, to God, and to the rest of the world. For if your heart isn't broken open, you cannot be what God means for you to be.

Do I have the right to expect this of my clerics? I firmly believe I do - and going back to the cleric I'd ranted about to Ari, even the initial response wasn't the problem - it became a problem when he showed no awareness around it. What I needed him to do was come back to me and say, 'Hey, look, I was in a bad place - let me try again.' That was all it would have taken. That is the mark of a man with true power - a Hurley, a Romero, a Mandela, a JPI. My genuine frustration and anger is with those who willfully use the clerical vocation, which I consider to be deeply holy, as a way to resist growth, to hide, to wield power so they can take out their conscious and unconscious pain on others. That, I have a right to be angry and speak up about.

What I DON'T have the right to expect is perfection, or even, as Ari pointed out to me, that priests be BETTER than me at all those things. I can insist that they be my equals, my partners on the journey to truth, awareness, authenticity and service - and we can help each other be that. I can call them on being false and hold up a mirror to them. But I cannot despise them for not being relentlessly good or for falling on their way. They too, are human.

After all, even Denis Hurley wasn't always the champion of equality he became.

Nor would I dream of denying them laughter and play along the way - even my clerical heroes took time out:



And look at that picture closely - who's in it? So often, much more is achieved through the intensity of playfulness than through the importance of being earnest.

A lesson my clerical friends and I could all come together to learn...

...Royal Oak, next week?

See what sepia can do for you...

Colour...


...and you're cute.

Sepia...



...and you're the Lord of Hellfire.