Got this quiz result from a facebook quiz, and for once, I think it's absolutely perfect:
Irim took the quiz "What Kind of Spirit Are You?" and got the result ► Night Spirit
You are the elusive Night Spirit. Your season is Winter, when the stars are bright and frost crystallizes the fallen leaves. You are introspective, deep-thinking, and mysterious. Everyone is intrigued and a little intimidated by you because you have an aura of otherworldliness. You work in extremes, sometime happy, other times sad, but always creative and philosophical. You are more concerned with the unseen, mystical, and metaphysical than the real world. Night Spirits have a tendency to get lost in themselves and must be careful not to forget reality, but their imagination is limitless.
Yes.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Sunday, 8 November 2009
On synchronicity and finding answers
The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In the Third Age, an Age of Prophecy, when the World and Time themselves hang in the balance, a wind rises in the mountains of mist...What was, and what will be, and what is, may yet fall under the Shadow. --Robert Jordan
As anyone who has known me for any length of time knows, I'm a Jungian, and so synchronicity is an important part of my conceptual framework. For a working definition:
"Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events that are causally unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner."
So, for example, a priest, my boss at work and a good friend talking about Darth Vader (sans prompting from me, of course) might qualify as a synchronicity, though I'd probably shake my head and laugh rather than cogitate on the Dark One's (not you Richard, m'dear) presence in my conversations.
However, I've been noticing them a lot more since my friend Jenna had me start keeping a synchronicity journal.
In contrast to Darth Vader, a conversation with a friend where we both discovered that we had details for Dignitas, a discussion about a news item re: suicide b/c of the fear of physical deterioration, and completely randomly turning over to a 'Without a Trace' episode about - you guessed it, assisted suicide - make up a trio that makes me sit up and notice.
That, to me, is a synchronicity - for some reason, I look for sets of 3. More often than not, they hold important keys for me. I just need to find the doors.
Yesterday, I wondered if I'd found the first 2 parts of another synchronicity. A book that crossed my desk for cataloguing had a passage discussing judo and doing the unexpected. The author used the example of being a woman and facing down a rugby international. If she pushed, he'd push back harder, and he'd win. But *what if she pulled him towards her, using his momentum, and then moved her foot to the side*? Who hit the ground then?
I sat up and paid attention.
On its own, it would have been thought-provoking enough. But later, as I popped into Borders before going off to meet Br Martin at 7 for dinner, I couldn't resist picking up the latest volume from the "Wheel of Time" series by Robert Jordan, an old favourite that I left when it hit Book 4 with no end in sight. Wonderful depth of characterisation, a complete universe, but I couldn't continue ad infinitum.
I thought I'd look in the glossary to see if my suspicion about my favourite character, Moiraine Damodred, was true. Could it be that she hadn't died falling through the ter'angreal with Lanfear, a Forsaken?
What I read made me smile. It seemed likely that after an interminable absence, Moiraine might yet be back. Even better was a copy of her letter to another character I had yet to read; it reminded me of another reason I loved the series - the language of a time and place long gone; the language of magic and prophecy.
Then one line sent that familiar tingle along my spine - that tingle that tells me, 'This is for you':
A final point. Remember what you know about the game of Snakes and Foxes. Remember, and heed.
It is time, and I must do what must be done.
Snakes and foxes...could I remember? I didn't, so I flipped through the glossary, hoping against hope it would be there.
Snakes and Foxes is a children's game that cannot be won without breaking the rules.
Doing the unexpected. Pulling instead of pushing. Breaking the rules.
And sometimes, that means going with the momentum rather than against it. Sometimes, being a rebel is falling into an expected role and obeying the rules, when what you really need to do is break them.
Hmmm. I think I should be on the lookout for the third piece.
And as for the door that key is going to fit, I don't know yet. But I look forward to the search.
In the meantime, I will remember.
Remember, and heed.
As anyone who has known me for any length of time knows, I'm a Jungian, and so synchronicity is an important part of my conceptual framework. For a working definition:
"Synchronicity is the experience of two or more events that are causally unrelated occurring together in a meaningful manner."
So, for example, a priest, my boss at work and a good friend talking about Darth Vader (sans prompting from me, of course) might qualify as a synchronicity, though I'd probably shake my head and laugh rather than cogitate on the Dark One's (not you Richard, m'dear) presence in my conversations.
However, I've been noticing them a lot more since my friend Jenna had me start keeping a synchronicity journal.
In contrast to Darth Vader, a conversation with a friend where we both discovered that we had details for Dignitas, a discussion about a news item re: suicide b/c of the fear of physical deterioration, and completely randomly turning over to a 'Without a Trace' episode about - you guessed it, assisted suicide - make up a trio that makes me sit up and notice.
That, to me, is a synchronicity - for some reason, I look for sets of 3. More often than not, they hold important keys for me. I just need to find the doors.
Yesterday, I wondered if I'd found the first 2 parts of another synchronicity. A book that crossed my desk for cataloguing had a passage discussing judo and doing the unexpected. The author used the example of being a woman and facing down a rugby international. If she pushed, he'd push back harder, and he'd win. But *what if she pulled him towards her, using his momentum, and then moved her foot to the side*? Who hit the ground then?
I sat up and paid attention.
On its own, it would have been thought-provoking enough. But later, as I popped into Borders before going off to meet Br Martin at 7 for dinner, I couldn't resist picking up the latest volume from the "Wheel of Time" series by Robert Jordan, an old favourite that I left when it hit Book 4 with no end in sight. Wonderful depth of characterisation, a complete universe, but I couldn't continue ad infinitum.
I thought I'd look in the glossary to see if my suspicion about my favourite character, Moiraine Damodred, was true. Could it be that she hadn't died falling through the ter'angreal with Lanfear, a Forsaken?
What I read made me smile. It seemed likely that after an interminable absence, Moiraine might yet be back. Even better was a copy of her letter to another character I had yet to read; it reminded me of another reason I loved the series - the language of a time and place long gone; the language of magic and prophecy.
Then one line sent that familiar tingle along my spine - that tingle that tells me, 'This is for you':
A final point. Remember what you know about the game of Snakes and Foxes. Remember, and heed.
It is time, and I must do what must be done.
Snakes and foxes...could I remember? I didn't, so I flipped through the glossary, hoping against hope it would be there.
Snakes and Foxes is a children's game that cannot be won without breaking the rules.
Doing the unexpected. Pulling instead of pushing. Breaking the rules.
And sometimes, that means going with the momentum rather than against it. Sometimes, being a rebel is falling into an expected role and obeying the rules, when what you really need to do is break them.
Hmmm. I think I should be on the lookout for the third piece.
And as for the door that key is going to fit, I don't know yet. But I look forward to the search.
In the meantime, I will remember.
Remember, and heed.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
Remember, remember the 4th of November...
...not gunpowder, treason and plot.
A friend's suicide. A landmark anniversary.
Even now, some years are better than others - last year, I was so excited and emotional about the impending American election - it's not often I get up to go to the 7.30am mass - that whilst I remembered Lou's anniversary, it wasn't so hard. Other years have brought an emptiness or a gentle grief. Some years, it feels like the day she died. Last year was easy enough that I thought I might actually be past the worst of it.
How wrong I was. This year, I started crying on Halloween night and didn't stop till I fell asleep. The last couple of days have been better, but I even cried at the end of the All Souls' mass - and as much as that mass takes me to the depths that I love and moves me to sorrow touched with hope - I don't cry in public.
Last year may have been the easiest, but this year has been the worst since the year she died. And because 11 November is tied into her anniversary, I expect I've got at least a week to go.
Why?
It all began Thursday, in an Alexander Technique lesson with Sumi.
"You know, breathing IS an option, even over here," came the supportive, yet somewhat tart, comment as Sumi checked my head, neck, shoulders and back, before giving me a sharp look and saying, "You hold yourself very tightly, don't you? You really need to let go."
"Busted," I thought.
Then, on Saturday, I walked into Unique Creations when I saw a friend with one of the kids she babysits, making a plate for the parental anniversary. I admired the design, then my eyes fell on the date. I felt like I'd been hit.
"Oh, is THAT their anniversary? 4 November?" I semi-squeaked.
I gasped, realising suddenly that it had been a day of happiness and normalcy, as well as one of incredible pain. And that was the start.
In her book, "My grandfather's blessings", Rachel Remen posits that when we experience a sudden shock, we hold our breath, just as we do when plunged into cold water, and we need to breathe again to move forward and release the energy of the event and attendant emotions.
I believe that, and I think that most of us have some areas in our lives where we are holding our breath: a death, a breakup, a loss that we perceive to be catastrophic. We may be moving on in others, but until we breathe in all areas of our lives, we'll leave some part of us behind, or it will die of asphyxiation.
That gasp was my first breath in the part of my heart that had been Lou's since that 4 November.
She was working at the Child Protection Line; I was working the Crisis Hotline. Four hour shifts they may be, but they're intense hours - you discuss the tough calls, deal with some of the most difficult issues. Small talk isn't an option. Friendships become intense pretty quickly in an environment like that. Lou and I were no exception.
Lou was the first older woman I could pour my heart out to - my doubts, my fears, my 'I don't WANT to be a doctor; it's what my parents want,' 'I'm not sure I want to do this.' She was one of the first women to listen; the first woman whose love didn't waver when I didn't want to do what she wanted me to do. Well, there wasn't anything she wanted me to do, except be me. She trusted in my ability, she had faith in me. It was an immense gift, the first such I'd received.
She often stayed beyond her hours, as she had grown children and was on her own - she had done the whole of the three day Columbus Day Weekend because no one else showed up. Last time I saw her, her back was to me as she cut out patterns. I didn't want to bother her since she was busy, so I didn't give her my usual hug. It was the last chance I ever had.
The next time I heard her name, the word suicide was part of the sentence - and I held my breath. That part of my heart froze in that moment.
A month later, after a biochem exam, I could hear her Carolina drawl in my head: "You did really well, hon, I'm so proud of you." I shrugged it off, but I got an 88% on that exam, one of the highest grades in the class.
She, who had loved me for who I was, would never, ever have wanted me to freeze in that moment for an instant longer than the announcement.
So why?
Growing up in a family where emotions were held in contempt - by the time I got home after the shift I'd heard about Lou's death, I was so normal, my parents didn't notice - would be the easy answer. But things are never that simple.
I loved her, but I was so angry I couldn't go to her Maryland memorial service before she was buried in NC. I never forgave myself for that. But I was angrier at myself. FFS, I worked at a CRISIS HOTLINE. I dealt with suicidal people almost every goddamned shift. HOW DID I MISS IT IN MY FRIEND?
And so, I could never breathe; I could never let it thaw. I could never forget the intensity of that pain; never be that blind again. I had to be there for everyone whose loved one committed suicide; for everyone who was suicidal or self-harmed; I had to keep getting better. No one else in my circle was committing suicide on my watch. NO. ONE. One of the demons that would drive me - still does, more often than it should - was born. And when it was too painful for me to bear alone, I made him drive others - no one was good enough, no one did enough for anyone else, nothing.
What I forgot was that if you can't let go of what you're carrying, you can never receive or hold anything else.
When I gasped Saturday, I couldn't hold my breath any longer - I kept breathing...and started crying as what was frozen thawed and started hurting like f***. I had an inkling of how bad Saturday night was going to be, having been that deep before. Deep breath. When the only way out is through, you just batten down the hatches and go. Each day since has been a bit easier, with All Souls' mass offering the space to breathe and grieve, allowing me to drop the mask I had worn at work. Today is 8.45-7 - I'm not looking forward to it. C'est la vie - I've been through much worse. I'll live.
With every breath, I'm letting go a little bit more.
But I'm afraid. I'm afraid I'll forget her; forget how deeply it hurt; I'll forget how to be with those in that much pain; I'll no longer WANT to be with people in that much pain; I'll lose my edge, my vocation, something.
The truth is, that's just not true - I'll never forget how much that hurt and I'll never want to stop easing that pain for others. I just won't have that intensity of pain right under the surface. I won't drive myself and others to impossible lengths - as one of my friends said, "Do you believe that no one will kill themselves if you're around?" If I'm honest, I think some part of me thought the answer was 'Yes.' Without that pain, that impossible drive, I'm more able to be there, more able to help - more flexible and agile in my responses. I'll have a greater variety of responses too if I'm not so driven by my pain. Pain tends to blind us.
And my arms will be empty and open to hold something new. It's what Rachel Remen might call an endbeginning. And the thought of standing there with empty arms, not holding anything, is terrifying. But I need to stand there in faith and trust - because beginnings always come.
I will get there one day - but I can't force it and I can't predict how it will come. I need to breathe through it, find my way by the light in the darkness - sometimes alone, sometimes with others by my side.
But for right now, let's just say it hurts like hell. Coming out of numbness into feeling always does.
And I like to think that somewhere, Lou is looking down at me, saying, in that North Carolina drawl, "You did really well, hon. I'm so proud of you."
Thanks, hon. Me too - and I'll see you on the other side. Till then, miss you, love you.
A friend's suicide. A landmark anniversary.
Even now, some years are better than others - last year, I was so excited and emotional about the impending American election - it's not often I get up to go to the 7.30am mass - that whilst I remembered Lou's anniversary, it wasn't so hard. Other years have brought an emptiness or a gentle grief. Some years, it feels like the day she died. Last year was easy enough that I thought I might actually be past the worst of it.
How wrong I was. This year, I started crying on Halloween night and didn't stop till I fell asleep. The last couple of days have been better, but I even cried at the end of the All Souls' mass - and as much as that mass takes me to the depths that I love and moves me to sorrow touched with hope - I don't cry in public.
Last year may have been the easiest, but this year has been the worst since the year she died. And because 11 November is tied into her anniversary, I expect I've got at least a week to go.
Why?
It all began Thursday, in an Alexander Technique lesson with Sumi.
"You know, breathing IS an option, even over here," came the supportive, yet somewhat tart, comment as Sumi checked my head, neck, shoulders and back, before giving me a sharp look and saying, "You hold yourself very tightly, don't you? You really need to let go."
"Busted," I thought.
Then, on Saturday, I walked into Unique Creations when I saw a friend with one of the kids she babysits, making a plate for the parental anniversary. I admired the design, then my eyes fell on the date. I felt like I'd been hit.
"Oh, is THAT their anniversary? 4 November?" I semi-squeaked.
I gasped, realising suddenly that it had been a day of happiness and normalcy, as well as one of incredible pain. And that was the start.
In her book, "My grandfather's blessings", Rachel Remen posits that when we experience a sudden shock, we hold our breath, just as we do when plunged into cold water, and we need to breathe again to move forward and release the energy of the event and attendant emotions.
I believe that, and I think that most of us have some areas in our lives where we are holding our breath: a death, a breakup, a loss that we perceive to be catastrophic. We may be moving on in others, but until we breathe in all areas of our lives, we'll leave some part of us behind, or it will die of asphyxiation.
That gasp was my first breath in the part of my heart that had been Lou's since that 4 November.
She was working at the Child Protection Line; I was working the Crisis Hotline. Four hour shifts they may be, but they're intense hours - you discuss the tough calls, deal with some of the most difficult issues. Small talk isn't an option. Friendships become intense pretty quickly in an environment like that. Lou and I were no exception.
Lou was the first older woman I could pour my heart out to - my doubts, my fears, my 'I don't WANT to be a doctor; it's what my parents want,' 'I'm not sure I want to do this.' She was one of the first women to listen; the first woman whose love didn't waver when I didn't want to do what she wanted me to do. Well, there wasn't anything she wanted me to do, except be me. She trusted in my ability, she had faith in me. It was an immense gift, the first such I'd received.
She often stayed beyond her hours, as she had grown children and was on her own - she had done the whole of the three day Columbus Day Weekend because no one else showed up. Last time I saw her, her back was to me as she cut out patterns. I didn't want to bother her since she was busy, so I didn't give her my usual hug. It was the last chance I ever had.
The next time I heard her name, the word suicide was part of the sentence - and I held my breath. That part of my heart froze in that moment.
A month later, after a biochem exam, I could hear her Carolina drawl in my head: "You did really well, hon, I'm so proud of you." I shrugged it off, but I got an 88% on that exam, one of the highest grades in the class.
She, who had loved me for who I was, would never, ever have wanted me to freeze in that moment for an instant longer than the announcement.
So why?
Growing up in a family where emotions were held in contempt - by the time I got home after the shift I'd heard about Lou's death, I was so normal, my parents didn't notice - would be the easy answer. But things are never that simple.
I loved her, but I was so angry I couldn't go to her Maryland memorial service before she was buried in NC. I never forgave myself for that. But I was angrier at myself. FFS, I worked at a CRISIS HOTLINE. I dealt with suicidal people almost every goddamned shift. HOW DID I MISS IT IN MY FRIEND?
And so, I could never breathe; I could never let it thaw. I could never forget the intensity of that pain; never be that blind again. I had to be there for everyone whose loved one committed suicide; for everyone who was suicidal or self-harmed; I had to keep getting better. No one else in my circle was committing suicide on my watch. NO. ONE. One of the demons that would drive me - still does, more often than it should - was born. And when it was too painful for me to bear alone, I made him drive others - no one was good enough, no one did enough for anyone else, nothing.
What I forgot was that if you can't let go of what you're carrying, you can never receive or hold anything else.
When I gasped Saturday, I couldn't hold my breath any longer - I kept breathing...and started crying as what was frozen thawed and started hurting like f***. I had an inkling of how bad Saturday night was going to be, having been that deep before. Deep breath. When the only way out is through, you just batten down the hatches and go. Each day since has been a bit easier, with All Souls' mass offering the space to breathe and grieve, allowing me to drop the mask I had worn at work. Today is 8.45-7 - I'm not looking forward to it. C'est la vie - I've been through much worse. I'll live.
With every breath, I'm letting go a little bit more.
But I'm afraid. I'm afraid I'll forget her; forget how deeply it hurt; I'll forget how to be with those in that much pain; I'll no longer WANT to be with people in that much pain; I'll lose my edge, my vocation, something.
The truth is, that's just not true - I'll never forget how much that hurt and I'll never want to stop easing that pain for others. I just won't have that intensity of pain right under the surface. I won't drive myself and others to impossible lengths - as one of my friends said, "Do you believe that no one will kill themselves if you're around?" If I'm honest, I think some part of me thought the answer was 'Yes.' Without that pain, that impossible drive, I'm more able to be there, more able to help - more flexible and agile in my responses. I'll have a greater variety of responses too if I'm not so driven by my pain. Pain tends to blind us.
And my arms will be empty and open to hold something new. It's what Rachel Remen might call an endbeginning. And the thought of standing there with empty arms, not holding anything, is terrifying. But I need to stand there in faith and trust - because beginnings always come.
I will get there one day - but I can't force it and I can't predict how it will come. I need to breathe through it, find my way by the light in the darkness - sometimes alone, sometimes with others by my side.
But for right now, let's just say it hurts like hell. Coming out of numbness into feeling always does.
And I like to think that somewhere, Lou is looking down at me, saying, in that North Carolina drawl, "You did really well, hon. I'm so proud of you."
Thanks, hon. Me too - and I'll see you on the other side. Till then, miss you, love you.
Thursday, 24 September 2009
Reflections on an autumn night
It's 20.48 on the Thursday night before the final class of my first year. I should be home, but when Rob texted me earlier this week and asked me to babysit, how could I say no? One needs one's baby fix, after all.
Well, I've had some of Rob's amazing vegetarian Moroccan stew with couscous, Ell and Rob have left for Brown's, and Master Golden Curls is fast asleep in his cot.
The only thing missing is Bentley the Cat standing on the chair behind me, rubbing his face against mine and purring. However, after far too many times waking Master Golden Curls up, he has been locked downstairs. *Sigh* Well, one can't have it all.
Having brought the baby monitor upstairs, I am in Rob's office using his Mac (you're forgiven, chuck - I'm finding switching from app to app and working within apps far more cumbersome than on an IBM), having told him I needed to work tonight, which is true. My case studies are all written, they just need tweaking; I need to look up references for some of my assertions (no internal referencing apparently, go figure); I need to type out my hypnosis screeds; I need to sort out my practice log.
But an autumn night has fallen, every morning the leaves get more beautiful and the light more ethereal, and I haven't written for fun in sooooooo long...
The moon is about a third full, waxing. The stars are out. There's a nip in the air and it is truly dark. And I might get a baby cuddle out of it.
Bliss.
It has been quite the week for discussing night and darkness of all sorts. I've simply melted into it, revelled in it, loving the season in which - as the pagan prayer goes - the Dark Mother teaches us to dance.
Even the snake dream in my morning status could have a meaning relating to death - it is said that those dying often dream of snakes, since they are a symbol of healing and transition. And to be honest, there is a part of me that believes the Buddhist axiom "We die not because we are ill, but because we are whole. Illness may be the method of our dying, but it is not the cause." I know that may generate a lot of anger, and I'm sorry. But it did make me think when I heard it, and it resonated with something deep inside.
When I looked up 'snake symbolism dreams' and saw that possibility, I simply nodded thoughtfully and wondered 'What if? What if that's what it means? How do I feel about that?'
And the answer is "Absolutely at peace with that - though hopefully with time to say goodbye and remind those I love just how much and how fiercely they ARE loved."
How else do I feel? Curious. Eager to see those taken too early and too long gone. And perhaps the sense of a burden falling from one's shoulders.
Rachel Remen, in her wonderful book, "My Grandfather's Blessings", tells the story of a woman at a retreat who said that she never, even when she was young, understood why people fought so hard to live, why they wanted to prolong life. It may sound like she was suicidal, but she wasn't. She felt the suffering of the world so keenly, she felt like her heart was always broken, and she couldn't understand why someone would stay when they didn't have to.
I get that. Totally, totally get that.
It doesn't make me suicidal, and it doesn't make me less aware of just how amazing and wonderful it is to be in a body - the pleasure of silk against skin; of nuzzling a baby's newborn head; of being naked with your beloved; of the autumn smell of woodsmoke and the summer smell of roses; of endless dinners and laughter with friends; of the starry sky; of being snuggled up under a duvet watching snow fall to the ground; of the sharp taste of a just green enough mango; of so much more. Life is wonderful.
But I completely understand her bewilderment. And blessed Lady, I totally understand and share her weariness. There are times when I don't want to carry this anymore.
But paradoxically, that feeling is what gives me the awareness of just how precious life is and the infinite value given it by its finite nature. Though I wouldn't necessarily prolong mine, except for those I loved, such as a husband and children, I do understand why so many fight so hard to hold on to it.
On a lighter note, I also want to check out if Anni and I got it right on the afterlife - a series of rooms with pool tables, where you gather with your group to chat about your last life and plan your next one. As people pass, you'll hear a cheery, 'Come on down, mate, you joining us this time?' or 'No, no, no, I dated him THREE times, I am SO done, keep walking, keep walking...'
As I was walking to catch the bus home after dinner with a friend a few weeks ago, beneath a gorgeous, starry, autumn night, I presented him with the afterlife pool hall scenario, and said that I really wanted to know what we had said over our last game of pool just before this life began. I magnanimously allowed that he had probably kicked my ass, at which point he magnanimously replied that he was crap at pool.
Hmmm. I want to know those conversations, have them. Know and see so much more than I do now, instead of catching just a hint at the edge of my line of vision. To borrow a beautiful metaphor, I'm tired of standing on the wrong side of the tapestry, looking at the loose threads. I want to walk around and see the pattern.
Ag, Master Golden Curls is grizzling and I do believe that I must away - and I need a kitty cuddle, so I think I'll go nuzzle Bentley.
*Grins ruefully*
Yeah, thinking of those little joys - a baby cuddle and a kitty cuddle - I expect I'll be holding on to this life for dear life. My pool table friends already playing will just have to wait.
Oh and as for you, Mr Crap-at-pool, true or not, that next game's mine.
But I wouldn't worry about it *just* yet.
Well, I've had some of Rob's amazing vegetarian Moroccan stew with couscous, Ell and Rob have left for Brown's, and Master Golden Curls is fast asleep in his cot.
The only thing missing is Bentley the Cat standing on the chair behind me, rubbing his face against mine and purring. However, after far too many times waking Master Golden Curls up, he has been locked downstairs. *Sigh* Well, one can't have it all.
Having brought the baby monitor upstairs, I am in Rob's office using his Mac (you're forgiven, chuck - I'm finding switching from app to app and working within apps far more cumbersome than on an IBM), having told him I needed to work tonight, which is true. My case studies are all written, they just need tweaking; I need to look up references for some of my assertions (no internal referencing apparently, go figure); I need to type out my hypnosis screeds; I need to sort out my practice log.
But an autumn night has fallen, every morning the leaves get more beautiful and the light more ethereal, and I haven't written for fun in sooooooo long...
The moon is about a third full, waxing. The stars are out. There's a nip in the air and it is truly dark. And I might get a baby cuddle out of it.
Bliss.
It has been quite the week for discussing night and darkness of all sorts. I've simply melted into it, revelled in it, loving the season in which - as the pagan prayer goes - the Dark Mother teaches us to dance.
Even the snake dream in my morning status could have a meaning relating to death - it is said that those dying often dream of snakes, since they are a symbol of healing and transition. And to be honest, there is a part of me that believes the Buddhist axiom "We die not because we are ill, but because we are whole. Illness may be the method of our dying, but it is not the cause." I know that may generate a lot of anger, and I'm sorry. But it did make me think when I heard it, and it resonated with something deep inside.
When I looked up 'snake symbolism dreams' and saw that possibility, I simply nodded thoughtfully and wondered 'What if? What if that's what it means? How do I feel about that?'
And the answer is "Absolutely at peace with that - though hopefully with time to say goodbye and remind those I love just how much and how fiercely they ARE loved."
How else do I feel? Curious. Eager to see those taken too early and too long gone. And perhaps the sense of a burden falling from one's shoulders.
Rachel Remen, in her wonderful book, "My Grandfather's Blessings", tells the story of a woman at a retreat who said that she never, even when she was young, understood why people fought so hard to live, why they wanted to prolong life. It may sound like she was suicidal, but she wasn't. She felt the suffering of the world so keenly, she felt like her heart was always broken, and she couldn't understand why someone would stay when they didn't have to.
I get that. Totally, totally get that.
It doesn't make me suicidal, and it doesn't make me less aware of just how amazing and wonderful it is to be in a body - the pleasure of silk against skin; of nuzzling a baby's newborn head; of being naked with your beloved; of the autumn smell of woodsmoke and the summer smell of roses; of endless dinners and laughter with friends; of the starry sky; of being snuggled up under a duvet watching snow fall to the ground; of the sharp taste of a just green enough mango; of so much more. Life is wonderful.
But I completely understand her bewilderment. And blessed Lady, I totally understand and share her weariness. There are times when I don't want to carry this anymore.
But paradoxically, that feeling is what gives me the awareness of just how precious life is and the infinite value given it by its finite nature. Though I wouldn't necessarily prolong mine, except for those I loved, such as a husband and children, I do understand why so many fight so hard to hold on to it.
On a lighter note, I also want to check out if Anni and I got it right on the afterlife - a series of rooms with pool tables, where you gather with your group to chat about your last life and plan your next one. As people pass, you'll hear a cheery, 'Come on down, mate, you joining us this time?' or 'No, no, no, I dated him THREE times, I am SO done, keep walking, keep walking...'
As I was walking to catch the bus home after dinner with a friend a few weeks ago, beneath a gorgeous, starry, autumn night, I presented him with the afterlife pool hall scenario, and said that I really wanted to know what we had said over our last game of pool just before this life began. I magnanimously allowed that he had probably kicked my ass, at which point he magnanimously replied that he was crap at pool.
Hmmm. I want to know those conversations, have them. Know and see so much more than I do now, instead of catching just a hint at the edge of my line of vision. To borrow a beautiful metaphor, I'm tired of standing on the wrong side of the tapestry, looking at the loose threads. I want to walk around and see the pattern.
Ag, Master Golden Curls is grizzling and I do believe that I must away - and I need a kitty cuddle, so I think I'll go nuzzle Bentley.
*Grins ruefully*
Yeah, thinking of those little joys - a baby cuddle and a kitty cuddle - I expect I'll be holding on to this life for dear life. My pool table friends already playing will just have to wait.
Oh and as for you, Mr Crap-at-pool, true or not, that next game's mine.
But I wouldn't worry about it *just* yet.
Tuesday, 8 September 2009
The picture
Sometimes, we recognise the big moments in our lives since the universe hangs a big neon sign over them - falling in love, baptism, weddings, finding out we're critically ill.
Other times, we don't recognise the big moments until they're long past -"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." (R. Frost)
Then, there are the little moments, the little questions that you know are big moments.
My cousin had been scanning in uncle's photos before they faded and asked if I wanted one of baby me with my parents.
I knew my answer mattered in more ways than I could understand at that moment, maybe even for months or years. And I knew the answer was yes. It had to be yes, and not just for me. Easy to say, because I really wanted that photo.
I admit to refreshing my email very regularly until it arrived two hours later - and I found it very fitting that it arrived on the birthday of Our Lady, whom I've always seen as a mother, and a day of new beginnings - as Fr Robert pointed out in his sermon.
At 16.35 my time, this arrived in my inbox:
I tried to do my usual photo reading - looking for dynamics, for clues to what was going to happen later, why things are the way they are. I think I can see a number of things in that one snapshot, but because I'm so close to it, I can't be certain.
But somehow, that matters less than the feelings that took me by surprise: that little girl that I desperately tried to forget and put behind me? When I looked at that picture, I found that I loved her fiercely; that I would do anything to keep her safe.
And the young couple? I was taken aback by the mixture of sadness and protectiveness I felt for them. I wanted to go into the photo and talk to them, to tell them that if they let go a little bit, let the little one be who she needed to be, not an extension of them, not a measure of their success or failure, they'd keep her. That she was bright enough to do well at school without them breathing down her neck and with them allowing her to do extracurricular activities. That she didn't need to be a doctor or mathematician or a scientist to be successful. That they could let her be with her friends, with others, without fearing that she loved them less.
I wanted to remind them of what Kahlil Gibran said about children:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
I would say to them, "She is with you, but she does not belong to you. Seek not to make her like yourself, for her soul belongs to tomorrow - be stable, be a compass - point North, but only to allow her to take her own direction from it. Above all, just *love* her."
But I can't do that, any more than I can go hug that little girl and tell her it's going to be ok.
If I could say something to them right now? I'd have to borrow words again, but this time from Don Henley:
The more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I knew, I'm learning again -
I've been trying to get down
To the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think its about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don't love me anymore
Yes, little one. It's going to be just fine.
I promise.
Other times, we don't recognise the big moments until they're long past -"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." (R. Frost)
Then, there are the little moments, the little questions that you know are big moments.
My cousin had been scanning in uncle's photos before they faded and asked if I wanted one of baby me with my parents.
I knew my answer mattered in more ways than I could understand at that moment, maybe even for months or years. And I knew the answer was yes. It had to be yes, and not just for me. Easy to say, because I really wanted that photo.
I admit to refreshing my email very regularly until it arrived two hours later - and I found it very fitting that it arrived on the birthday of Our Lady, whom I've always seen as a mother, and a day of new beginnings - as Fr Robert pointed out in his sermon.
At 16.35 my time, this arrived in my inbox:
I tried to do my usual photo reading - looking for dynamics, for clues to what was going to happen later, why things are the way they are. I think I can see a number of things in that one snapshot, but because I'm so close to it, I can't be certain.
But somehow, that matters less than the feelings that took me by surprise: that little girl that I desperately tried to forget and put behind me? When I looked at that picture, I found that I loved her fiercely; that I would do anything to keep her safe.
And the young couple? I was taken aback by the mixture of sadness and protectiveness I felt for them. I wanted to go into the photo and talk to them, to tell them that if they let go a little bit, let the little one be who she needed to be, not an extension of them, not a measure of their success or failure, they'd keep her. That she was bright enough to do well at school without them breathing down her neck and with them allowing her to do extracurricular activities. That she didn't need to be a doctor or mathematician or a scientist to be successful. That they could let her be with her friends, with others, without fearing that she loved them less.
I wanted to remind them of what Kahlil Gibran said about children:
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
I would say to them, "She is with you, but she does not belong to you. Seek not to make her like yourself, for her soul belongs to tomorrow - be stable, be a compass - point North, but only to allow her to take her own direction from it. Above all, just *love* her."
But I can't do that, any more than I can go hug that little girl and tell her it's going to be ok.
If I could say something to them right now? I'd have to borrow words again, but this time from Don Henley:
The more I know, the less I understand
All the things I thought I knew, I'm learning again -
I've been trying to get down
To the heart of the matter
But my will gets weak
And my thoughts seem to scatter
But I think its about forgiveness
Forgiveness
Even if, even if you don't love me anymore
Yes, little one. It's going to be just fine.
I promise.
Sunday, 6 September 2009
Body balance
Well, I can still move. It's a start.
I've been thinking of going back to the gym since my last swimming session last year. I have to admit to being more of a splasher than a lap swimmer, and I definitely need a snorkel (not as in get out of the gutter, you're standing on my snorkel) because I prefer to swim underwater. I need to get back into it because I'm a total water baby.
Well, also because I'm detagging pictures at a rate unknown to man because I absolutely HATE myself in them and because I try not to look at my reflection below my cleavage - which I admit to being very fond of and which tends to be the big obstacle to any weight loss programme I consider - I never want to stop being a Bravissimo girl.
Haven't swum yet, plan on that this week, but signed up for a gym class - Body Balance - a mix of tai chi, yoga and Pilates. So this afternoon, Andrew came with me to pick out some tackies, tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. What a star.
I was being reasonably chirpy - after all, how hard could it be compared to Boxercise and Body Pump, right?
Oh, f*** me, how wrong I was.
The stretches, no problem - for some reason, I've remained fairly flexible and despite my ballet training being all of two years when I was 6 and 7, I still stretch, point my toes and place my arms reasonably well, and could take the harder options on all of those. Balance, more of a problem - must practise standing on one leg more often, that tree position is a bitch. Abs - not too bad. Upper body strength - let's not go there.
What I did find most interesting about the class was the command, "Follow your breath," and the meditation afterwards.
I breathe? What?
That tends to be one thing I forget about - I was reminded of it a month or so ago when I went to hug a friend when I was really upset and thought, "Wow, he's breathing really deeply." Then I realised he was breathing normally. I was holding mine.
Following my breath made all the difference.
I live in my soul first, my head second, and my body is a somewhat distant third. I tend to come back into it when I'm eating fabulous food, holding a newborn, snuggling in a blanket or a huge jumper, touching a lover. But for the most part, it moves me where I need to go.
I - and most people raised in the Western world, I think - have this problem. We forget what our bodies tell us, and not just about our physical health - my solar plexus tells me when a decision is wrong or when I'm being lied to; my heart tells me when it really hurts; I choke up when I grieve.
Following my breathing brings me back to all that and to an awareness of what an AMAZING creation my body really is - as a marvel of engineering and as a house for this particular soul. It reminds me to give thanks for it.
The meditation afterwards was not only an excuse to semi-collapse, but was also a source of great amusement, as I'd just hypnotised a friend earlier and used very similar words in a progressive muscle relaxation. Turnabout is fair play, lol.
Oof, my core muscles are feeling it now, and from the way my legs and shoulders are feeling, I suspect the rest of me will be feeling it tomorrow.
So what to do?
Go back Tuesday evening for more, of course.
I've been thinking of going back to the gym since my last swimming session last year. I have to admit to being more of a splasher than a lap swimmer, and I definitely need a snorkel (not as in get out of the gutter, you're standing on my snorkel) because I prefer to swim underwater. I need to get back into it because I'm a total water baby.
Well, also because I'm detagging pictures at a rate unknown to man because I absolutely HATE myself in them and because I try not to look at my reflection below my cleavage - which I admit to being very fond of and which tends to be the big obstacle to any weight loss programme I consider - I never want to stop being a Bravissimo girl.
Haven't swum yet, plan on that this week, but signed up for a gym class - Body Balance - a mix of tai chi, yoga and Pilates. So this afternoon, Andrew came with me to pick out some tackies, tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt. What a star.
I was being reasonably chirpy - after all, how hard could it be compared to Boxercise and Body Pump, right?
Oh, f*** me, how wrong I was.
The stretches, no problem - for some reason, I've remained fairly flexible and despite my ballet training being all of two years when I was 6 and 7, I still stretch, point my toes and place my arms reasonably well, and could take the harder options on all of those. Balance, more of a problem - must practise standing on one leg more often, that tree position is a bitch. Abs - not too bad. Upper body strength - let's not go there.
What I did find most interesting about the class was the command, "Follow your breath," and the meditation afterwards.
I breathe? What?
That tends to be one thing I forget about - I was reminded of it a month or so ago when I went to hug a friend when I was really upset and thought, "Wow, he's breathing really deeply." Then I realised he was breathing normally. I was holding mine.
Following my breath made all the difference.
I live in my soul first, my head second, and my body is a somewhat distant third. I tend to come back into it when I'm eating fabulous food, holding a newborn, snuggling in a blanket or a huge jumper, touching a lover. But for the most part, it moves me where I need to go.
I - and most people raised in the Western world, I think - have this problem. We forget what our bodies tell us, and not just about our physical health - my solar plexus tells me when a decision is wrong or when I'm being lied to; my heart tells me when it really hurts; I choke up when I grieve.
Following my breathing brings me back to all that and to an awareness of what an AMAZING creation my body really is - as a marvel of engineering and as a house for this particular soul. It reminds me to give thanks for it.
The meditation afterwards was not only an excuse to semi-collapse, but was also a source of great amusement, as I'd just hypnotised a friend earlier and used very similar words in a progressive muscle relaxation. Turnabout is fair play, lol.
Oof, my core muscles are feeling it now, and from the way my legs and shoulders are feeling, I suspect the rest of me will be feeling it tomorrow.
So what to do?
Go back Tuesday evening for more, of course.
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
A helping hand
Just past the main Summertown shops, and just before the medical centres and Marston Ferry Road, is a small parade of shops that include an internet cafe, a bridal boutique and a corner shop.
I first walked into that corner shop years ago - to pick up a Pepsi or chocolate on my way in to person the Lodge at the O on a Saturday. I remember the woman behind the counter - mid 50s, face lined with care, shalwar qamiz. She smiled at me - one, I'm ashamed to admit, I didn't return, because I've grown up hating people who assume we're going to get on because we look alike. You're South Asian, I'm South Asian. BFD.
But I thought of her long after I left, even as I turned into the Oratory forecourt. Something about the...weariness, the sense of dreams and hope lost in a dreary existence, but the real warmth and kindness that had survived. Something that kept her smiling at someone who reminded her of home when she was thousands of miles away.
So I kept going back - not often, but if I needed to grab something on my way down - e.g., a Pepsi, chocolate or (most often) a synthetic blueberry muffin for breakfast - that's where I'll go - the supermarket chains don't need my business. She, who works from 7.30-9 with her husband, does.
And so, over time, I started smiling back and asking her how she was. "Fine, just another day" she'd say, in her accent that reminded me so much of baking summer days, the smell of freshly pressed shalwars and goat cooking in the kitchen, the dust of Bahawalpur, Sahiwal and Lahore on my feet. Slowly, but surely, she'd ask questions - about me, where my family was from, work, would even occasionally tell me I looked tired.
She looks so like my dhadhi's colourful neighbours in Sahiwal, how could I not unbend and respond?
She would light up when I came in wearing shalwar qamiz (or qamiz jeans) - in fact, on Easter morning, she was totally in love with my red and gold kurta, which I felt made me look like a tent that could have held a harem for an Arabian monarch and required me slapping a sign across my ass reading: "Caution: wide load".
About 10 days ago, I came in for my usual, and handed her a £10 note for a £1 transaction, which meant that I got a £5 note and 4 £1 coins - yes, slightly unwieldy for a second, but nothing I haven't done a thousand times before.
She placed her hand underneath mine in a gesture repeated by countless mothers everywhere when a three year old hand is struggling to hold currency too big for it.
I looked down to see that her hand was smaller than mine.
But it was the meaning of the gesture that made me choke up - the "I've got you, it's ok if you can't handle it alone." My own mother would have let me drop those coins out of my tiny three-year-old hand and then yelled at me for being clumsy. My entire childhood felt like it was about these things I was supposed to know how to do, but was never taught how - then got yelled at for being clumsy, stupid, a deliberate bane to my parents' existence.
Yes, that support was decades too late. But that it came from someone who could have been my mother mattered. A lot.
And of course, it got me thinking about one of my favourite body parts - hands.
I am in awe of hands. Hands do so much more than we ever think about: punctuate, comfort, bless, hold, express affection, communicate far more than our words ever will, love in ways naughty and nice, nourish, pull people away from danger, and so much more - in addition to the standard picking up, putting away, carrying, giving, receiving, opening, closing, making things, catching us when we fall, covering our mouths when we yawn - we begin using them the moment we're born and don't stop until the moment we die.
And yes, they can abuse.
Hands - with opposable thumbs getting a special mention - rock. No engineer could create such a marvel.
God, I love watching them - petite hands; large hands; long, elegant hands; square, practical hands and everything in between. Old hands with so many stories to tell; baby hands with stories yet to be created.
Bliss.
I love watching hands DO things - cook, make furniture, sew, knit, pick up a child, play an instrument, handle a camera, gesture - anything, though, perhaps, most shamefully, light up. I know I should tell my male friends to quit smoking, or offer them hypnotherapy to quit smoking, but I'm so entranced by watching their hands (and, as noted before, their expressions) as they light up, I hesitate, telling myself they'd get annoyed by my nagging.
So secretly, in guilty pleasure, I watch out of the corner of my eye.
Every so often, I even stop, amazed, by what my own hands are doing. Weirdly, because my parents kept telling me I was clumsy - I keep thinking of my hands as those of an 8-year-old, when I remember watching my parents DO things that I thought, "I'll never be able to do that - ever." My mother cooking, my father doing his tie (that one still needs practice - I can undo them well enough...), my mother using a blood pressure cuff, either one fixing something - anything I considered 'adult'. Suddenly, I'll find myself in the middle of making hamburgers the way my mother used to, or holding a child easily, or doing something reasonably skilled and stop and stare at my adult hands like they belong to a complete stranger. Then offer up gratitude for having them.
Hands are about rites of passage too, in so many ways. Mine came earlier than it should, because my father took beta blockers for years and lost strength more quickly than he should. One day, more years ago than I care to count, I was over at their new house. My father was struggling to open a jar, and I said, in a voice far too reminiscent of his, "Here, give it to me."
He did. I promptly opened it and handed it back to him. He wasn't even 60 then, but we both understood what it meant.
Hands do so much - is it any wonder then, that the tale of the maiden who loses her hands, leaves the kingdom with her babe and watches them grow back is a tale of initiation? Or that a woman who is beyond tired dreams of herself with her arms crossed at the wrists in front of her, with bloody stumps where her hands should be, in a classic pose of "I give up"?
I think not.
I love hands, but what I love most about them is that they heal us and eachother in ways far deeper than words ever could.
And so, to quote a favourite song:
"Reach out for her healing hands (2x)
There's a light where the darkness ends -
Touch me now and let me see again
Rock me now in your gentle healing hands."
I first walked into that corner shop years ago - to pick up a Pepsi or chocolate on my way in to person the Lodge at the O on a Saturday. I remember the woman behind the counter - mid 50s, face lined with care, shalwar qamiz. She smiled at me - one, I'm ashamed to admit, I didn't return, because I've grown up hating people who assume we're going to get on because we look alike. You're South Asian, I'm South Asian. BFD.
But I thought of her long after I left, even as I turned into the Oratory forecourt. Something about the...weariness, the sense of dreams and hope lost in a dreary existence, but the real warmth and kindness that had survived. Something that kept her smiling at someone who reminded her of home when she was thousands of miles away.
So I kept going back - not often, but if I needed to grab something on my way down - e.g., a Pepsi, chocolate or (most often) a synthetic blueberry muffin for breakfast - that's where I'll go - the supermarket chains don't need my business. She, who works from 7.30-9 with her husband, does.
And so, over time, I started smiling back and asking her how she was. "Fine, just another day" she'd say, in her accent that reminded me so much of baking summer days, the smell of freshly pressed shalwars and goat cooking in the kitchen, the dust of Bahawalpur, Sahiwal and Lahore on my feet. Slowly, but surely, she'd ask questions - about me, where my family was from, work, would even occasionally tell me I looked tired.
She looks so like my dhadhi's colourful neighbours in Sahiwal, how could I not unbend and respond?
She would light up when I came in wearing shalwar qamiz (or qamiz jeans) - in fact, on Easter morning, she was totally in love with my red and gold kurta, which I felt made me look like a tent that could have held a harem for an Arabian monarch and required me slapping a sign across my ass reading: "Caution: wide load".
About 10 days ago, I came in for my usual, and handed her a £10 note for a £1 transaction, which meant that I got a £5 note and 4 £1 coins - yes, slightly unwieldy for a second, but nothing I haven't done a thousand times before.
She placed her hand underneath mine in a gesture repeated by countless mothers everywhere when a three year old hand is struggling to hold currency too big for it.
I looked down to see that her hand was smaller than mine.
But it was the meaning of the gesture that made me choke up - the "I've got you, it's ok if you can't handle it alone." My own mother would have let me drop those coins out of my tiny three-year-old hand and then yelled at me for being clumsy. My entire childhood felt like it was about these things I was supposed to know how to do, but was never taught how - then got yelled at for being clumsy, stupid, a deliberate bane to my parents' existence.
Yes, that support was decades too late. But that it came from someone who could have been my mother mattered. A lot.
And of course, it got me thinking about one of my favourite body parts - hands.
I am in awe of hands. Hands do so much more than we ever think about: punctuate, comfort, bless, hold, express affection, communicate far more than our words ever will, love in ways naughty and nice, nourish, pull people away from danger, and so much more - in addition to the standard picking up, putting away, carrying, giving, receiving, opening, closing, making things, catching us when we fall, covering our mouths when we yawn - we begin using them the moment we're born and don't stop until the moment we die.
And yes, they can abuse.
Hands - with opposable thumbs getting a special mention - rock. No engineer could create such a marvel.
God, I love watching them - petite hands; large hands; long, elegant hands; square, practical hands and everything in between. Old hands with so many stories to tell; baby hands with stories yet to be created.
Bliss.
I love watching hands DO things - cook, make furniture, sew, knit, pick up a child, play an instrument, handle a camera, gesture - anything, though, perhaps, most shamefully, light up. I know I should tell my male friends to quit smoking, or offer them hypnotherapy to quit smoking, but I'm so entranced by watching their hands (and, as noted before, their expressions) as they light up, I hesitate, telling myself they'd get annoyed by my nagging.
So secretly, in guilty pleasure, I watch out of the corner of my eye.
Every so often, I even stop, amazed, by what my own hands are doing. Weirdly, because my parents kept telling me I was clumsy - I keep thinking of my hands as those of an 8-year-old, when I remember watching my parents DO things that I thought, "I'll never be able to do that - ever." My mother cooking, my father doing his tie (that one still needs practice - I can undo them well enough...), my mother using a blood pressure cuff, either one fixing something - anything I considered 'adult'. Suddenly, I'll find myself in the middle of making hamburgers the way my mother used to, or holding a child easily, or doing something reasonably skilled and stop and stare at my adult hands like they belong to a complete stranger. Then offer up gratitude for having them.
Hands are about rites of passage too, in so many ways. Mine came earlier than it should, because my father took beta blockers for years and lost strength more quickly than he should. One day, more years ago than I care to count, I was over at their new house. My father was struggling to open a jar, and I said, in a voice far too reminiscent of his, "Here, give it to me."
He did. I promptly opened it and handed it back to him. He wasn't even 60 then, but we both understood what it meant.
Hands do so much - is it any wonder then, that the tale of the maiden who loses her hands, leaves the kingdom with her babe and watches them grow back is a tale of initiation? Or that a woman who is beyond tired dreams of herself with her arms crossed at the wrists in front of her, with bloody stumps where her hands should be, in a classic pose of "I give up"?
I think not.
I love hands, but what I love most about them is that they heal us and eachother in ways far deeper than words ever could.
And so, to quote a favourite song:
"Reach out for her healing hands (2x)
There's a light where the darkness ends -
Touch me now and let me see again
Rock me now in your gentle healing hands."
I wonder...
...if I stay in the Catholic Church - and particularly in a *conservative* church - to take out w***ers like Mitch Bond (quote below) one at a time.
God knows, there isn't much else, other than a few good friends, keeping me in it at the moment. Far too often, I look up at the pulpit or the sanctuary, feeling utterly detached from the proceedings, and think what a friend once thought about the 39 Articles, "I don't believe a word of this."
But for now, those friends are worth staying for, and I'm not going to beat myself up about it.
Every so often, though, I wonder if there's more to it.
This morning, I noticed that a friend had joined the Cardinal Pell Appreciation Society. I know I shouldn't have gone there - Jack Butler will kindly point this out to me in his oh-so-tactful (appropriately) Antipodean manner - but it was car crash material. I HAD to see just how fulsome and lacy the picture was (very) and I had to see just how offensive the members were (even more so, judging from the wall).
Now we come to how I came to label someone I have never met (and never plan to) a wanker. Unfortunately, his comment was the most recent on the wall:
"HIV is the result of sin, since all corruptability on the part of nature is a result of mankind's fall from grace, Q.E.D. sin. It is neither backward. medieval, primitive, immoral, unscientific, unchristian, nor completely reprehensible to believe that the corruption of matter is the result of original sin."
I read no further.
Unfuckingbelievable. If that utter filth came out of someone's mouth in a sermon, I'd get out of my seat, walk UP to the pulpit and strangle the SOB from behind. Or shove him down the steps headfirst. I trust I don't need to go into why and the countless number of people who have caught HIV through NO FAULT OF THEIR OWN. It's an odd feeling to hate a Catholic as much as I hate a Bible-Belter or the Taliban.
Well, Mitch, I'm sure Cardinal Pell is PROUD to have a fan such as you. Darn proud of your orthodox faith.
I'm far less sure about Jesus. I think you and your ilk might make him consider taking up his cross to beat you over the head with it. When you say horrific, damaging stuff like that, 70x7 doesn't apply.
The irony, of course, is that the vast majority of men in that group are probably practising unsafe gay sex because they're incapable of admitting their homosexuality and are 'just falling into bed with men, oops, didn't mean for that to happen' and are at a much higher risk for HIV infection and passing it on than most of the rest of the population.
I wonder if I stay so someone is in those places - and shamefully, I can hear that line coming out of the mouth of almost anyone who sits in the Social Club on Sunday at 12.30, in their braying attempt at RP - to say to people like Mitch, "How dare you." To say, "What a load of crap." To walk out of sermons. To make people uncomfortable.
And to pray that every single person like Mitch has to face what he so casually, so easily condemns: for him, that he finds himself face to face with someone he cares for who has HIV; perhaps through volunteering, comes across an HIV positive baby or child. For the 'abortion is martyrdom' crowd, that someone they love has to face that decision. For the 'euthanasia is always wrong crowd' - yeah, you guessed it. That they have to face the decision to remove life support or be really close to someone who does, and suffer with them.
Because for those who have hearts that closed, only catastrophic, life-changing suffering is going to crack them wide open.
WHAT am I doing here, amongst people who can believe...THAT? I feel sick just re-reading what he has written and replaying in my head what I've heard in church and from the institution over the years.
More than one of my friends has noted my penchant for balance: I've chosen a church whose unspoken values are diametrically opposed to my own. Whilst orthodoxy is the overlay for most of those who attend the higher masses, it's really about people seeking approval, both from the institution and the secular world, thus lying about who they are and being what's expected of them. There's a sense of people *grasping* for something, an acquisitiveness, indicative of desperation to fill a void no one wants to face.
So why stay? I'm picturing Jack B. across the table from me, ready with the hard questions - so I'll answer him.
Mate, I can't give you a straight answer - I can't say it's this or that. I can tell you that there are people in the Church (and in the church, or I'd have left it years ago) that I love fiercely - people who are my pack, my karass - and I have always been a relationship person. I'll stay in hard places for my peops. I know, I know, it's not doing them any good if it's driving me crazy, but maybe it's about knocking my corners off too.
But having written this - and I think you'll appreciate this, J - I wonder if it's about being a thorn in the side, about being the one who can say, "What a load of crap," who can be angry, who can act out and say what no one else will in that place. No, I won't always do it well, it won't change the institution, and it won't change most of the people -they're still going to be avoiding who they are, thinking that being sweet to the priests and vicious to the laity is the way forward - but maybe I'm still there for a reason I can't yet fathom.
What I - and you - need to trust is that I'll know when to go. I woke up one morning knowing when it was time to leave home and I woke up one morning knowing my last relationship (which you nursed me through, with the occasional smack across the head, for which I am forever grateful) was over.
One day, I'll wake up knowing it's time to leave the church and the Church, because the vast majority aren't my people and I'm beginning to realise more and more, that's not my God. It's coming, I know. It's just not now.
Until then, I'll walk the labyrinth and trust that when I reach the centre, it'll all make sense.
God knows, there isn't much else, other than a few good friends, keeping me in it at the moment. Far too often, I look up at the pulpit or the sanctuary, feeling utterly detached from the proceedings, and think what a friend once thought about the 39 Articles, "I don't believe a word of this."
But for now, those friends are worth staying for, and I'm not going to beat myself up about it.
Every so often, though, I wonder if there's more to it.
This morning, I noticed that a friend had joined the Cardinal Pell Appreciation Society. I know I shouldn't have gone there - Jack Butler will kindly point this out to me in his oh-so-tactful (appropriately) Antipodean manner - but it was car crash material. I HAD to see just how fulsome and lacy the picture was (very) and I had to see just how offensive the members were (even more so, judging from the wall).
Now we come to how I came to label someone I have never met (and never plan to) a wanker. Unfortunately, his comment was the most recent on the wall:
"HIV is the result of sin, since all corruptability on the part of nature is a result of mankind's fall from grace, Q.E.D. sin. It is neither backward. medieval, primitive, immoral, unscientific, unchristian, nor completely reprehensible to believe that the corruption of matter is the result of original sin."
I read no further.
Unfuckingbelievable. If that utter filth came out of someone's mouth in a sermon, I'd get out of my seat, walk UP to the pulpit and strangle the SOB from behind. Or shove him down the steps headfirst. I trust I don't need to go into why and the countless number of people who have caught HIV through NO FAULT OF THEIR OWN. It's an odd feeling to hate a Catholic as much as I hate a Bible-Belter or the Taliban.
Well, Mitch, I'm sure Cardinal Pell is PROUD to have a fan such as you. Darn proud of your orthodox faith.
I'm far less sure about Jesus. I think you and your ilk might make him consider taking up his cross to beat you over the head with it. When you say horrific, damaging stuff like that, 70x7 doesn't apply.
The irony, of course, is that the vast majority of men in that group are probably practising unsafe gay sex because they're incapable of admitting their homosexuality and are 'just falling into bed with men, oops, didn't mean for that to happen' and are at a much higher risk for HIV infection and passing it on than most of the rest of the population.
I wonder if I stay so someone is in those places - and shamefully, I can hear that line coming out of the mouth of almost anyone who sits in the Social Club on Sunday at 12.30, in their braying attempt at RP - to say to people like Mitch, "How dare you." To say, "What a load of crap." To walk out of sermons. To make people uncomfortable.
And to pray that every single person like Mitch has to face what he so casually, so easily condemns: for him, that he finds himself face to face with someone he cares for who has HIV; perhaps through volunteering, comes across an HIV positive baby or child. For the 'abortion is martyrdom' crowd, that someone they love has to face that decision. For the 'euthanasia is always wrong crowd' - yeah, you guessed it. That they have to face the decision to remove life support or be really close to someone who does, and suffer with them.
Because for those who have hearts that closed, only catastrophic, life-changing suffering is going to crack them wide open.
WHAT am I doing here, amongst people who can believe...THAT? I feel sick just re-reading what he has written and replaying in my head what I've heard in church and from the institution over the years.
More than one of my friends has noted my penchant for balance: I've chosen a church whose unspoken values are diametrically opposed to my own. Whilst orthodoxy is the overlay for most of those who attend the higher masses, it's really about people seeking approval, both from the institution and the secular world, thus lying about who they are and being what's expected of them. There's a sense of people *grasping* for something, an acquisitiveness, indicative of desperation to fill a void no one wants to face.
So why stay? I'm picturing Jack B. across the table from me, ready with the hard questions - so I'll answer him.
Mate, I can't give you a straight answer - I can't say it's this or that. I can tell you that there are people in the Church (and in the church, or I'd have left it years ago) that I love fiercely - people who are my pack, my karass - and I have always been a relationship person. I'll stay in hard places for my peops. I know, I know, it's not doing them any good if it's driving me crazy, but maybe it's about knocking my corners off too.
But having written this - and I think you'll appreciate this, J - I wonder if it's about being a thorn in the side, about being the one who can say, "What a load of crap," who can be angry, who can act out and say what no one else will in that place. No, I won't always do it well, it won't change the institution, and it won't change most of the people -they're still going to be avoiding who they are, thinking that being sweet to the priests and vicious to the laity is the way forward - but maybe I'm still there for a reason I can't yet fathom.
What I - and you - need to trust is that I'll know when to go. I woke up one morning knowing when it was time to leave home and I woke up one morning knowing my last relationship (which you nursed me through, with the occasional smack across the head, for which I am forever grateful) was over.
One day, I'll wake up knowing it's time to leave the church and the Church, because the vast majority aren't my people and I'm beginning to realise more and more, that's not my God. It's coming, I know. It's just not now.
Until then, I'll walk the labyrinth and trust that when I reach the centre, it'll all make sense.
Monday, 17 August 2009
Why I walked out of yesterday's sermon
Yesterday, not 5 minutes into a sermon, I got up, exited my pew, and walked out the back door of the church. In my 12 years at this church, despite the many sermons that have made me want to backhand a cleric or ask them "WTF? If you hold the laity in such contempt, why the f*** did you decide to become a priest and not a lawyer or politician," yesterday was only the second time I have stood up and walked out.
Most people who go to the 11am mass that have interacted with me, clerical and lay, would have thought I found that easy; that for me, it was a throwaway gesture.
I did not and it never is. To walk out when someone is speaking is a way of saying, "I can no longer listen to you: there is now no room for communication, no room for discussion; I will no longer engage." It closes the door in a relationship, something that I am loathe to do, especially as an INFJ. It can, of course, be worked through and healed, but there are no two ways about it: to walk out on someone as they speak, to shut them out, is to perform a deliberate injury to a relationship. Even if you are going to attempt to heal it, even if you're betting on the relationship coming out stronger, that is NEVER an act undertaken lightly.
The priest who gave yesterday's sermon is one I hold in the greatest respect - one of the truly rare high liturgy priests who feels his religion, really believes in liturgy as a vehicle to God (rather than an end in itself & a disguise for avarice/need to dress up and feel important, which is what drives too many high liturgists) - whose mass you can feel. He is a man whose integrity I would never question, someone I like and trust immensely, despite the fact that our similar underlying values have driven us in opposite directions: him to almost extreme orthodoxy and rigidity; me to flexibility and what my friend John would refer to as 'liberality' - a generosity in application of principles rather than rules.
His sermons lean towards the overwhelmingly catechetical; they are always a densely packed lesson in what the Church teaches. Though I often disagree and find them a bit heavy, I have great sympathy and understanding for what he's trying to do: offer a firm foundation for the faith, one he feels isn't given the laity in this day and age. Here, his rigidity becomes an asset: for a foundation needs to be rigid, whilst the structure built on it must be flexible.
But. Yes, but. Sometimes, I wonder if he remembers that he is building that foundation with people, not bricks - and that people are vulnerable, their lives infinitely complex, and you can't handle them in the same way, that they need to be handled with care.
So. Yesterday's sermon. He began by noting that Pope Pius XII linked the infallible declaration of the Assumption to the horror of the Nazi concentration camps not a decade earlier, and that it was a deliberate link.
"Offensive," I thought. "But not YOUR fault, Padre. Where ARE you going with this?"
He moved on to how in the Garden of Eden, all was light, no shadows, no death, etc. etc.
I'm an unshakeable believer in the Life/Death/Rebirth cycle; Shiva and Kali together as Creator and Destroyer, that light and dark are inseparable. I'm always deeply uncomfortable with those who need to believe in a fall from a perfect beginning, a deathless world of all light and no change. I always wonder why they need to deny darkness and death, seeing light and eternal life as the ideal. I'm not sure changelessness is ideal; God created a dynamic, evolving universe - surely that says something about the nature of the Creator?
Then, on to how Adam and Eve had been given the gift of integrity in body and soul, that body and soul would come to God as a single unit.
"Ah, the origin of the Assumption. Ok."
Then he went on to speak about how, since death was not natural and was a consequence of the fall...
"There is no such thing as dignity in death. Or [and this was spat out with no little contempt and considerable venom] *dignitas*."
I inhaled sharply. For those of you who don't know the reference, Dignitas is a Swiss assisted-dying group. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dignitas_(euthanasia_group) ]
"[Since death isn't natural/wasn't part of God's plan] Therefore, taking one's own life or assisting someone in taking their own life is always wrong."
I couldn't listen to another word.
I stood up, stepped out of my pew, and walked out. Fortunately, my friend's daughter was out there, playing with her pencil in the big pot of dirt outside the front door, helping me to calm down before I re-entered church after the sermon and faced the celebrant over the gifts.
Many of you will wonder why. After all, it is orthodox Catholic teaching; the orthodox teaching of most religions, in fact. Isn't one of the commandments, "Thou shalt not kill?"
Indeed. But that teaching can be offered with compassion. To state it so baldly, so forcefully, indicates an utter lack of compassion and awareness of the complexities of the issues surrounding euthanasia and suicide - a lack that doesn't exist in this pastor, but may well now be perceived to.
I once quoted what a friend suggested a truly traditional priest would say about suicide and mortal sin: "Grave matter? Yes. Full knowledge? I doubt it. Full consent? In that state of mind, no. Not a mortal sin."
THAT is teaching with compassion.
Had he so much as prefaced it with, "I understand how painful, complex and difficult these situations are - however..." I would have stayed. All it needed was an acknowledgment of the pain people face in these situations and that euthanasia has become a problem because we, as a society, are so desperate to live that we have forgotten how to let go when it is time and die. I have been both suicidal and the friend of someone who has committed suicide; it was of Lou I was thinking as I walked down that side aisle to the back.
Did he KNOW what the people in the congregation were going through? What he was saying to them - to the relatives and friends of those who in despair or in desiring not to be a burden through terminal illness, took their own lives? To those who might be struggling with someone who WANTS to die because they are so ill and in so much pain? How, after a statement so judgmental, can they even come and talk to him about what they're going through? What wounds did he unwittingly tear open? What fears did he implant: "OMG, my friend/child/parent/relative committed suicide - from what he's saying, they're in hell."
Who, of those sitting there, will now believe his 'I'm so sorry,' when they tell him that a loved one has committed suicide? Won't they think, "Oh, he's judging them and/or us?" What about the classic clerical statement that someone has 'made a good death' (Lady, I HATE that phrase)? If there is no dignity in death, how can you make a good one? Who will trust him enough come to him over issues surrounding a terminally ill relative begging to be allowed to die?
The sad thing is, they could have done, because he is a good pastor. But now, because of yesterday's sermon, they may never know that.
As a good friend and astute cleric noted, "When you speak from the pulpit, it HAS to be absolute. You DON'T know what the people in the congregation have been through. Sensitive things like this are best dealt with in confession, one-to-one..."
Often, preachers would do best to remember that what is said cannot be unsaid, and that you don't know what pain, what grief, what darkness are hidden amongst those sitting in front of you. That doesn't mean you have to give a bland sermon or one that soft-pedals, but it does mean that you need to be aware of how what you're about to say is going to affect those you're preaching to - and that the authority you carry can make what's a throwaway comment to you feel like a freight train to an earnest, struggling Catholic in the pews. And it may mean that uncertain Catholic who might have approached one of you asking for help instead walks out of the forecourt, speaking to no one, suffering even more than they were when they first walked in.
And that would count as a sheep lost.
Am I sorry I walked? No. I couldn't have listened to any more, and I hoped that my act, if noticed, would make him think about what he was saying and what it sounded like. I also wanted to stand up for anyone who wanted to make the statement I was making but couldn't speak for themselves - for every friend and loved one of a suicide victim; for those struggling with the issue of 'just a little more morphine and...'; for those being begged by their dying loved ones to let them go...for those wondering if it's the right thing.
In walking, I stood by my integrity. In speaking, he kept his.
One day, I hope we'll be able to talk about it.
Most people who go to the 11am mass that have interacted with me, clerical and lay, would have thought I found that easy; that for me, it was a throwaway gesture.
I did not and it never is. To walk out when someone is speaking is a way of saying, "I can no longer listen to you: there is now no room for communication, no room for discussion; I will no longer engage." It closes the door in a relationship, something that I am loathe to do, especially as an INFJ. It can, of course, be worked through and healed, but there are no two ways about it: to walk out on someone as they speak, to shut them out, is to perform a deliberate injury to a relationship. Even if you are going to attempt to heal it, even if you're betting on the relationship coming out stronger, that is NEVER an act undertaken lightly.
The priest who gave yesterday's sermon is one I hold in the greatest respect - one of the truly rare high liturgy priests who feels his religion, really believes in liturgy as a vehicle to God (rather than an end in itself & a disguise for avarice/need to dress up and feel important, which is what drives too many high liturgists) - whose mass you can feel. He is a man whose integrity I would never question, someone I like and trust immensely, despite the fact that our similar underlying values have driven us in opposite directions: him to almost extreme orthodoxy and rigidity; me to flexibility and what my friend John would refer to as 'liberality' - a generosity in application of principles rather than rules.
His sermons lean towards the overwhelmingly catechetical; they are always a densely packed lesson in what the Church teaches. Though I often disagree and find them a bit heavy, I have great sympathy and understanding for what he's trying to do: offer a firm foundation for the faith, one he feels isn't given the laity in this day and age. Here, his rigidity becomes an asset: for a foundation needs to be rigid, whilst the structure built on it must be flexible.
But. Yes, but. Sometimes, I wonder if he remembers that he is building that foundation with people, not bricks - and that people are vulnerable, their lives infinitely complex, and you can't handle them in the same way, that they need to be handled with care.
So. Yesterday's sermon. He began by noting that Pope Pius XII linked the infallible declaration of the Assumption to the horror of the Nazi concentration camps not a decade earlier, and that it was a deliberate link.
"Offensive," I thought. "But not YOUR fault, Padre. Where ARE you going with this?"
He moved on to how in the Garden of Eden, all was light, no shadows, no death, etc. etc.
I'm an unshakeable believer in the Life/Death/Rebirth cycle; Shiva and Kali together as Creator and Destroyer, that light and dark are inseparable. I'm always deeply uncomfortable with those who need to believe in a fall from a perfect beginning, a deathless world of all light and no change. I always wonder why they need to deny darkness and death, seeing light and eternal life as the ideal. I'm not sure changelessness is ideal; God created a dynamic, evolving universe - surely that says something about the nature of the Creator?
Then, on to how Adam and Eve had been given the gift of integrity in body and soul, that body and soul would come to God as a single unit.
"Ah, the origin of the Assumption. Ok."
Then he went on to speak about how, since death was not natural and was a consequence of the fall...
"There is no such thing as dignity in death. Or [and this was spat out with no little contempt and considerable venom] *dignitas*."
I inhaled sharply. For those of you who don't know the reference, Dignitas is a Swiss assisted-dying group. [http://en.wikipedia.org/wi
"[Since death isn't natural/wasn't part of God's plan] Therefore, taking one's own life or assisting someone in taking their own life is always wrong."
I couldn't listen to another word.
I stood up, stepped out of my pew, and walked out. Fortunately, my friend's daughter was out there, playing with her pencil in the big pot of dirt outside the front door, helping me to calm down before I re-entered church after the sermon and faced the celebrant over the gifts.
Many of you will wonder why. After all, it is orthodox Catholic teaching; the orthodox teaching of most religions, in fact. Isn't one of the commandments, "Thou shalt not kill?"
Indeed. But that teaching can be offered with compassion. To state it so baldly, so forcefully, indicates an utter lack of compassion and awareness of the complexities of the issues surrounding euthanasia and suicide - a lack that doesn't exist in this pastor, but may well now be perceived to.
I once quoted what a friend suggested a truly traditional priest would say about suicide and mortal sin: "Grave matter? Yes. Full knowledge? I doubt it. Full consent? In that state of mind, no. Not a mortal sin."
THAT is teaching with compassion.
Had he so much as prefaced it with, "I understand how painful, complex and difficult these situations are - however..." I would have stayed. All it needed was an acknowledgment of the pain people face in these situations and that euthanasia has become a problem because we, as a society, are so desperate to live that we have forgotten how to let go when it is time and die. I have been both suicidal and the friend of someone who has committed suicide; it was of Lou I was thinking as I walked down that side aisle to the back.
Did he KNOW what the people in the congregation were going through? What he was saying to them - to the relatives and friends of those who in despair or in desiring not to be a burden through terminal illness, took their own lives? To those who might be struggling with someone who WANTS to die because they are so ill and in so much pain? How, after a statement so judgmental, can they even come and talk to him about what they're going through? What wounds did he unwittingly tear open? What fears did he implant: "OMG, my friend/child/parent/relati
Who, of those sitting there, will now believe his 'I'm so sorry,' when they tell him that a loved one has committed suicide? Won't they think, "Oh, he's judging them and/or us?" What about the classic clerical statement that someone has 'made a good death' (Lady, I HATE that phrase)? If there is no dignity in death, how can you make a good one? Who will trust him enough come to him over issues surrounding a terminally ill relative begging to be allowed to die?
The sad thing is, they could have done, because he is a good pastor. But now, because of yesterday's sermon, they may never know that.
As a good friend and astute cleric noted, "When you speak from the pulpit, it HAS to be absolute. You DON'T know what the people in the congregation have been through. Sensitive things like this are best dealt with in confession, one-to-one..."
Often, preachers would do best to remember that what is said cannot be unsaid, and that you don't know what pain, what grief, what darkness are hidden amongst those sitting in front of you. That doesn't mean you have to give a bland sermon or one that soft-pedals, but it does mean that you need to be aware of how what you're about to say is going to affect those you're preaching to - and that the authority you carry can make what's a throwaway comment to you feel like a freight train to an earnest, struggling Catholic in the pews. And it may mean that uncertain Catholic who might have approached one of you asking for help instead walks out of the forecourt, speaking to no one, suffering even more than they were when they first walked in.
And that would count as a sheep lost.
Am I sorry I walked? No. I couldn't have listened to any more, and I hoped that my act, if noticed, would make him think about what he was saying and what it sounded like. I also wanted to stand up for anyone who wanted to make the statement I was making but couldn't speak for themselves - for every friend and loved one of a suicide victim; for those struggling with the issue of 'just a little more morphine and...'; for those being begged by their dying loved ones to let them go...for those wondering if it's the right thing.
In walking, I stood by my integrity. In speaking, he kept his.
One day, I hope we'll be able to talk about it.
Saturday, 1 August 2009
Dark men in dreams...
"There is a strong physical aspect to having a dream of the dark man...We could say the dream-maker has dispensed with subtle messages to the dreamer and now sends images which shake the neurological and autonomic nervous system of the dreamer, thereby communicating the urgency of the matter.
"The antagonist(s)of the dark dream are usually, in women's own words, 'terrorists, rapists, thugs..." There are several levels to the interpretation of such a dream , depending on the life circumstances and interior dramas surrounding the dreamer." -Clarissa Pinkola-Estes, "Women who run with the wolves"
Ok, I've been having uneasy dreams, but the last REAL dark man dream set I remember is from a long while ago. One involving a police officer who was a serial killer; one involving a 'pillar of the church' who (in the dream) was a wife-beater; one involving a head of a Catholic girls' school who drugged the girls to make them do what he wanted. The theme for me in those dreams was that I KNEW where to look, that I could see what was going on within institutions that people usually trust, but that no one would listen - but that *I* needed to pay attention and know the truth for what it was.
This afternoon's was much more primitive and much closer to the dream prototype.
I was walking at night, in the area of Silver Spring I grew up in, White Oak. I was walking along New Hampshire Ave, talking to my friend Ari on my mobile. It was late twilight, heading towards full darkness. I was aware, but relaxed, and as I passed White Oak Jr High, I saw a man sitting under a street light, eating his dinner. He was clearly a body builder - or to quote Fr X on the kind of man I'm supposed to fancy, "Tall, dark, butch and brutal."
[WTF? I don't find that attractive and, even more importantly, I'm FAR too aware of what a man like that would be capable of doing to me and I'd never, EVER relax.]
Our eyes met; the hate that flashed across his face was palpable. I could see his muscles tense. I ran.
Suddenly, it was much darker and I was much further along New Hampshire Ave, near the White Oak shopping centre - weirdly, I'd dialled 999 (UK emergency) rather than 911, said what I needed to say and kept the phone on so they could find me via GPS. It was odd - I was terrified, running hard, but there was a calm river as well - I thought "Irim, put your hair up so he doesn't have anything to grab." "Cross the road (all SIX lanes) and buy yourself some time."
I made it back to the house I grew up in, up the stairs and into the bathroom, backing into far wall against the window. There was nowhere to go as his hand reached for my throat - when suddenly, the master bedroom door opened, and there were two female SWAT team members with their guns trained on him - "Let her go," said the one closest to me, as she grabbed him, cuffed him and took him down the steps.
The other officer came over to me and asked me if I was ok, what had happened, and so on. I told her that whilst I felt shaken (I did), I was ok, and that I was going to ring a good male friend (someone I know IRL), because I needed to be ok with being around men and being touched by them, and I'd be ok.
As if THAT wasn't enough, the dream that followed entailed my sitting in the lounge and having a GIANT spider climb on my back from behind the sofa - I could feel the end of each one of the 8 legs in my back and screaming at Mark (Anna's boyfriend - we were waiting for her to arrive) to get it the FUCK OFF ME (I'd trapped it between my back and the sofa). As he approached to try to grab it by a leg, it leapt off and completely disappeared behind the sofa.
Dark man - and arachnid - dreams indeed.
Pinkola-Estes says that dark man dreams tend to be about initiation - from the young woman to through old age, as there is always another initiation into a different way of knowing and being. And this felt like that.
In the first dream, I did EVERYTHING I could whilst I was running - I knew where he was, I put my hair up, I did what I could as I could. And that's very different from the ones where I feel helpless - where I know and no one is listening, or where I'm passive.
And so, nightmare it may have been, but I'm with Clarissa on this:
"Dreams are portales, entrances, preparations and practices for the next step in a woman's consciousness, the next day in her individuation process. So, a woman might have a dream of the predator when her psychic circumstances are too quiescent or complacent... But also a dream like this affirms that the woman's life needs to change, that the woman dreamer has gotten caught in some hiatus or ennui as regards a difficult choice, that she is reluctant to take the next step, to go the next distance, that she is shying away from wresting her own power away from the predator, that she is not used to being/acting/striving at full bore, in all-out capacity."
Yeah, things are a bit slow, and I've gotten a bit lazy. And I DO hesitate about taking the next step and leaving the devil I know.
So I guess it's time for me - and anyone else having dark man dreams - throw heart and soul into the next step - not in knowing, but in faith.
And at full tilt, heart and soul, even if they look like windmills - because even that has a purpose on the journey.
"The antagonist(s)of the dark dream are usually, in women's own words, 'terrorists, rapists, thugs..." There are several levels to the interpretation of such a dream , depending on the life circumstances and interior dramas surrounding the dreamer." -Clarissa Pinkola-Estes, "Women who run with the wolves"
Ok, I've been having uneasy dreams, but the last REAL dark man dream set I remember is from a long while ago. One involving a police officer who was a serial killer; one involving a 'pillar of the church' who (in the dream) was a wife-beater; one involving a head of a Catholic girls' school who drugged the girls to make them do what he wanted. The theme for me in those dreams was that I KNEW where to look, that I could see what was going on within institutions that people usually trust, but that no one would listen - but that *I* needed to pay attention and know the truth for what it was.
This afternoon's was much more primitive and much closer to the dream prototype.
I was walking at night, in the area of Silver Spring I grew up in, White Oak. I was walking along New Hampshire Ave, talking to my friend Ari on my mobile. It was late twilight, heading towards full darkness. I was aware, but relaxed, and as I passed White Oak Jr High, I saw a man sitting under a street light, eating his dinner. He was clearly a body builder - or to quote Fr X on the kind of man I'm supposed to fancy, "Tall, dark, butch and brutal."
[WTF? I don't find that attractive and, even more importantly, I'm FAR too aware of what a man like that would be capable of doing to me and I'd never, EVER relax.]
Our eyes met; the hate that flashed across his face was palpable. I could see his muscles tense. I ran.
Suddenly, it was much darker and I was much further along New Hampshire Ave, near the White Oak shopping centre - weirdly, I'd dialled 999 (UK emergency) rather than 911, said what I needed to say and kept the phone on so they could find me via GPS. It was odd - I was terrified, running hard, but there was a calm river as well - I thought "Irim, put your hair up so he doesn't have anything to grab." "Cross the road (all SIX lanes) and buy yourself some time."
I made it back to the house I grew up in, up the stairs and into the bathroom, backing into far wall against the window. There was nowhere to go as his hand reached for my throat - when suddenly, the master bedroom door opened, and there were two female SWAT team members with their guns trained on him - "Let her go," said the one closest to me, as she grabbed him, cuffed him and took him down the steps.
The other officer came over to me and asked me if I was ok, what had happened, and so on. I told her that whilst I felt shaken (I did), I was ok, and that I was going to ring a good male friend (someone I know IRL), because I needed to be ok with being around men and being touched by them, and I'd be ok.
As if THAT wasn't enough, the dream that followed entailed my sitting in the lounge and having a GIANT spider climb on my back from behind the sofa - I could feel the end of each one of the 8 legs in my back and screaming at Mark (Anna's boyfriend - we were waiting for her to arrive) to get it the FUCK OFF ME (I'd trapped it between my back and the sofa). As he approached to try to grab it by a leg, it leapt off and completely disappeared behind the sofa.
Dark man - and arachnid - dreams indeed.
Pinkola-Estes says that dark man dreams tend to be about initiation - from the young woman to through old age, as there is always another initiation into a different way of knowing and being. And this felt like that.
In the first dream, I did EVERYTHING I could whilst I was running - I knew where he was, I put my hair up, I did what I could as I could. And that's very different from the ones where I feel helpless - where I know and no one is listening, or where I'm passive.
And so, nightmare it may have been, but I'm with Clarissa on this:
"Dreams are portales, entrances, preparations and practices for the next step in a woman's consciousness, the next day in her individuation process. So, a woman might have a dream of the predator when her psychic circumstances are too quiescent or complacent... But also a dream like this affirms that the woman's life needs to change, that the woman dreamer has gotten caught in some hiatus or ennui as regards a difficult choice, that she is reluctant to take the next step, to go the next distance, that she is shying away from wresting her own power away from the predator, that she is not used to being/acting/striving at full bore, in all-out capacity."
Yeah, things are a bit slow, and I've gotten a bit lazy. And I DO hesitate about taking the next step and leaving the devil I know.
So I guess it's time for me - and anyone else having dark man dreams - throw heart and soul into the next step - not in knowing, but in faith.
And at full tilt, heart and soul, even if they look like windmills - because even that has a purpose on the journey.
Friday, 31 July 2009
Sometimes...
...IM really is the way to go. I have friends who hate IM with a passion - those who will groan the moment an IM window pops up and pretend they haven't seen it. I totally hear that - sometimes playing around on the computer in your room is the ONLY time you get to be on your own, you don't want to have to talk to someone else; you just want the downtime.
But I love it. I love the combination of writing and real-time communication - it allows me the medium in which I am most articulate, especially when I'm upset and instant gratification. It also means that misunderstandings that explode via email can be corrected within minutes rather than days.
I also love the stream of consciousness, the way you can begin in London but end up in Perth, Australia, figuratively speaking. You can also layer conversations - with one friend, there are often three conversations happening simultaneously - one as you'd expect, one in square brackets [] and one in curly brackets {}. Fabulous.
But I think my favourite moments are those where the conversation becomes real - whether you're honestly saying to eachother, "Hey, look, we need to sort this out,"; laughing hysterically b/c you're being yourself, wickedly planning...oops, I can't say anymore; or when you're opening up and being vulnerable - and a friend just virtually wraps you up in their affection for you and reminds you, in the midst of everything that seems to be coming at you from all directions, that they think - no matter how crabby you get, despite your high-maintenance moments, your prickliness in certain situations, your need to organise everyone from your friends down to the nearest duck, whatever - that they think you're the bee's knees, whilst saying, "Hey, babe, take a hard look." That to them, it's about who you are, not what you do.
My last entry was, to some extent, about friends who get it wrong - well now, let me take the time to say that more than 90% of the time, mine get it RIGHT. And over the last few weeks, some of you have gotten it SO right - those who have simply said, I'm sorry it's a crap time; those who PM, IM and weigh in on 'Irim is going to kill someone/go crazy or postal/quit/become a permanently bitter and twisted human being' statuses; the one of you that popped up on IM last night and made me laugh so hard I thought I was going to die; the one who just knows to come up and say, "Are you ok? Are you sure?" and who, when I said I needed to see you, was there in no time to just let me fall apart in a way that almost no one sees, able to hold the space calmly, solidly and easily, not freaking out or trying to fill it, just letting me cry. Thank you all. Love you.
But today, it was Anna who popped up when one more thing cropped up, something that necessitated me leaving work in North Oxford to go to work in Iffley and back again. When she asked what was up, I just spilled and, with her permission, I reprint her virtual wisdom, which was, as usual, expressed as a huge hug with a gentle smack round the head.
Anna
look at what you have just told me
12:33pmIrim
people who need an ear
12:33pmAnna
there are 3 things there you cannot sort out
12:33pmIrim
do I stay at church or go
12:33pmAnna
brother, friends
12:33pmIrim
true
12:33pmAnna
your course work isthe most important thing for now
12:34pmIrim
with my brother, it's just knowing that family ties are over
that even he doesn't want to be in touch.
12:35pmAnna
instead of writing it on here write it on paper and burn it and let it go, you have done all you can do without changing yourself into what they want you to be
12:35pmIrim
yeah
12:35pmAnna
be nice to you Irim
12:35pmIrim
I did good, didn't I?
12:36pmAnna
yeah
you did
and you have been true to yourself
I think you are amazing
12:38pmAnna
you are a strong beautiful woman who has the strength to stand against her entire culture to be who she is meant to be
family is blood and love, and is nothing without the love,
blood ties are very over rated xxx
12:40pmIrim
Thank you. HUGE HUG
Do you mind if I quote you on that?
Anna
yeah thats fine by me lol just so long as you credit me withthe profound wisdom lol
But I love it. I love the combination of writing and real-time communication - it allows me the medium in which I am most articulate, especially when I'm upset and instant gratification. It also means that misunderstandings that explode via email can be corrected within minutes rather than days.
I also love the stream of consciousness, the way you can begin in London but end up in Perth, Australia, figuratively speaking. You can also layer conversations - with one friend, there are often three conversations happening simultaneously - one as you'd expect, one in square brackets [] and one in curly brackets {}. Fabulous.
But I think my favourite moments are those where the conversation becomes real - whether you're honestly saying to eachother, "Hey, look, we need to sort this out,"; laughing hysterically b/c you're being yourself, wickedly planning...oops, I can't say anymore; or when you're opening up and being vulnerable - and a friend just virtually wraps you up in their affection for you and reminds you, in the midst of everything that seems to be coming at you from all directions, that they think - no matter how crabby you get, despite your high-maintenance moments, your prickliness in certain situations, your need to organise everyone from your friends down to the nearest duck, whatever - that they think you're the bee's knees, whilst saying, "Hey, babe, take a hard look." That to them, it's about who you are, not what you do.
My last entry was, to some extent, about friends who get it wrong - well now, let me take the time to say that more than 90% of the time, mine get it RIGHT. And over the last few weeks, some of you have gotten it SO right - those who have simply said, I'm sorry it's a crap time; those who PM, IM and weigh in on 'Irim is going to kill someone/go crazy or postal/quit/become a permanently bitter and twisted human being' statuses; the one of you that popped up on IM last night and made me laugh so hard I thought I was going to die; the one who just knows to come up and say, "Are you ok? Are you sure?" and who, when I said I needed to see you, was there in no time to just let me fall apart in a way that almost no one sees, able to hold the space calmly, solidly and easily, not freaking out or trying to fill it, just letting me cry. Thank you all. Love you.
But today, it was Anna who popped up when one more thing cropped up, something that necessitated me leaving work in North Oxford to go to work in Iffley and back again. When she asked what was up, I just spilled and, with her permission, I reprint her virtual wisdom, which was, as usual, expressed as a huge hug with a gentle smack round the head.
Anna
look at what you have just told me
12:33pmIrim
people who need an ear
12:33pmAnna
there are 3 things there you cannot sort out
12:33pmIrim
do I stay at church or go
12:33pmAnna
brother, friends
12:33pmIrim
true
12:33pmAnna
your course work isthe most important thing for now
12:34pmIrim
with my brother, it's just knowing that family ties are over
that even he doesn't want to be in touch.
12:35pmAnna
instead of writing it on here write it on paper and burn it and let it go, you have done all you can do without changing yourself into what they want you to be
12:35pmIrim
yeah
12:35pmAnna
be nice to you Irim
12:35pmIrim
I did good, didn't I?
12:36pmAnna
yeah
you did
and you have been true to yourself
I think you are amazing
12:38pmAnna
you are a strong beautiful woman who has the strength to stand against her entire culture to be who she is meant to be
family is blood and love, and is nothing without the love,
blood ties are very over rated xxx
12:40pmIrim
Thank you. HUGE HUG
Do you mind if I quote you on that?
Anna
yeah thats fine by me lol just so long as you credit me withthe profound wisdom lol
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Accommodation
I'm tired of being accommodating.
I don't mind having flexible boundaries, not at all. I think there needs to be some give.
But I'm tired of being the one to make things 'all better' in a relationship, the first one to move towards some kind of resolution; the social secretary; the one who bites her tongue making allowances for others' moods; the one whose particular tendencies are first wanted, then excoriated when they no longer suit.
Do I set myself up? Yes. Do I get irritable? Yes. Can I be blunt? Guilty as charged. Do I love problem solving a little too much? Erm...ok, yeah. Can I be a bossyboots? HELL, yes. Do I make mistakes/errors in judgment? All. the. damn. time.
But is my heart in the right place? Pretty much.
People judge me all the time. I judge them; turnabout is fair play. It's not a problem if you don't know me; I don't really give a f*** that C or E from church think I look pissed off when I'm there. I generally am when I'm with OX2 'rah rah' types who kiss up to priests and treat everyone else like crap.
But if you KNOW me and make judgments without taking into account my personality, strengths, weaknesses, what you know is going on - if you don't make the allowances I generally make for you; if you treat me as some generic psychological specimen in a vacuum - problem. And it's even worse if you speak to me as if I were someone you don't know. I only do that when I'm coldly angry to the point of doing something irrevocable. Even then, I usually manage something friendly, unless I feel betrayed.
Taking personality and context into account when applying principles is the only way to make an approximation of someone's motives. Even then, you need to get around to asking them eventually.
But back to accommodation. Why do I do it? Because people are important. Far more important than things will ever be. If I'm measuring things up, people will always come in light-years ahead of things, and people are what I will bend over backwards to save. When I'm stressed, if I drop something, fine. If I drop someone, especially someone in crisis, there's no coming back from that. Bottom line.
I think one of the things that has really gotten to me over the last while or so is feeling like a commodity in various relationships: "I want this from you now, but if you fall into it here, it's an unforgiveable sin - God forbid you should be yourself when I don't want you to be"; "Hi, you're the one person who won't get upset, do you mind if I move *you*" (that has to be a pattern for me to get upset); or even those who think, "Irim can wait. She'll be there."
You'd be surprised. I'll bend over backwards for good reasons. But when it becomes a habit, that's something entirely different.
It has always been my feeling that one can unilaterally make a decision that involves something; that is just you and... a book. Or a cooking pot. Whatever.
But the moment that someone else is involved, you lose that right to make the decision on your own.
Of course, if you can't make something, you can't make it. Fine. But have the grace to be the one who takes the initiative to sort something out, so it's clear that you value the friendship, that spending time with this person matters to you. In fact, if they're the one who always sorts it - initiate every so often anyway, so they KNOW you want to be spending time with them and not dental flossing cats instead.
I'm gobsmacked at the number of people who think they can make unilateral decisions that have an impact on other people's lives, schedules, emotions. To quote a good friend, "Dude, WTF?" How dare anyone make a decision that involves another adult (obviously, children are another matter), especially a friend, present it as a fait accompli - and then expect it to be OK? What kind of chutzpah is it that they then get offended because the other person doesn't react in a way that suits them? It's a weird kind of lack of awareness - almost like the person is an object, without feelings, without a life, without their own ideas about the situation.
Now, that's not saying things can't change - they do and they should. But when you're making a decision that involves someone else - TALK TO THEM. Say, "Hey, this is what's going on with me, and I think it might involve you. This is what I've been thinking - what are your thoughts on this?" THAT shows respect, care and awareness of the other person as an individual, as someone you value.
A unilateral decision shows a lack of awareness at best, but more often, it shows a lack of care. (Obviously, there are times when it is appropriate - abuse, breakups, and so on. But hopefully in many of those cases (except abuse - RUN), one has tried to communicate, has tried those bilateral avenues.)
Clearly, a unilateral decision can only be accepted by the person to whom it is presented. But even the most accommodating person files it away with a sense of having not been considered as part of the decision.
Eventually, even the most flexible of boundaries can snap back like a rubber band. That can sting. But unlike rubber bands, they may never flex again for a particular person. Someone who had been a good friend for 13 years wrote a letter that was so awful that to this day, I will only refer to her by a pragmatic relationship - never as a friend. And I will never initiate contact with her again.
I don't believe in giving someone the other cheek to slap. It's just plain stupid to let yourself be abused again.
So yeah, I'm done accommodating. Except in appropriate circumstances and except with people who accommodate me and let me be who I am, warts and all.
I don't mind having flexible boundaries, not at all. I think there needs to be some give.
But I'm tired of being the one to make things 'all better' in a relationship, the first one to move towards some kind of resolution; the social secretary; the one who bites her tongue making allowances for others' moods; the one whose particular tendencies are first wanted, then excoriated when they no longer suit.
Do I set myself up? Yes. Do I get irritable? Yes. Can I be blunt? Guilty as charged. Do I love problem solving a little too much? Erm...ok, yeah. Can I be a bossyboots? HELL, yes. Do I make mistakes/errors in judgment? All. the. damn. time.
But is my heart in the right place? Pretty much.
People judge me all the time. I judge them; turnabout is fair play. It's not a problem if you don't know me; I don't really give a f*** that C or E from church think I look pissed off when I'm there. I generally am when I'm with OX2 'rah rah' types who kiss up to priests and treat everyone else like crap.
But if you KNOW me and make judgments without taking into account my personality, strengths, weaknesses, what you know is going on - if you don't make the allowances I generally make for you; if you treat me as some generic psychological specimen in a vacuum - problem. And it's even worse if you speak to me as if I were someone you don't know. I only do that when I'm coldly angry to the point of doing something irrevocable. Even then, I usually manage something friendly, unless I feel betrayed.
Taking personality and context into account when applying principles is the only way to make an approximation of someone's motives. Even then, you need to get around to asking them eventually.
But back to accommodation. Why do I do it? Because people are important. Far more important than things will ever be. If I'm measuring things up, people will always come in light-years ahead of things, and people are what I will bend over backwards to save. When I'm stressed, if I drop something, fine. If I drop someone, especially someone in crisis, there's no coming back from that. Bottom line.
I think one of the things that has really gotten to me over the last while or so is feeling like a commodity in various relationships: "I want this from you now, but if you fall into it here, it's an unforgiveable sin - God forbid you should be yourself when I don't want you to be"; "Hi, you're the one person who won't get upset, do you mind if I move *you*" (that has to be a pattern for me to get upset); or even those who think, "Irim can wait. She'll be there."
You'd be surprised. I'll bend over backwards for good reasons. But when it becomes a habit, that's something entirely different.
It has always been my feeling that one can unilaterally make a decision that involves something; that is just you and... a book. Or a cooking pot. Whatever.
But the moment that someone else is involved, you lose that right to make the decision on your own.
Of course, if you can't make something, you can't make it. Fine. But have the grace to be the one who takes the initiative to sort something out, so it's clear that you value the friendship, that spending time with this person matters to you. In fact, if they're the one who always sorts it - initiate every so often anyway, so they KNOW you want to be spending time with them and not dental flossing cats instead.
I'm gobsmacked at the number of people who think they can make unilateral decisions that have an impact on other people's lives, schedules, emotions. To quote a good friend, "Dude, WTF?" How dare anyone make a decision that involves another adult (obviously, children are another matter), especially a friend, present it as a fait accompli - and then expect it to be OK? What kind of chutzpah is it that they then get offended because the other person doesn't react in a way that suits them? It's a weird kind of lack of awareness - almost like the person is an object, without feelings, without a life, without their own ideas about the situation.
Now, that's not saying things can't change - they do and they should. But when you're making a decision that involves someone else - TALK TO THEM. Say, "Hey, this is what's going on with me, and I think it might involve you. This is what I've been thinking - what are your thoughts on this?" THAT shows respect, care and awareness of the other person as an individual, as someone you value.
A unilateral decision shows a lack of awareness at best, but more often, it shows a lack of care. (Obviously, there are times when it is appropriate - abuse, breakups, and so on. But hopefully in many of those cases (except abuse - RUN), one has tried to communicate, has tried those bilateral avenues.)
Clearly, a unilateral decision can only be accepted by the person to whom it is presented. But even the most accommodating person files it away with a sense of having not been considered as part of the decision.
Eventually, even the most flexible of boundaries can snap back like a rubber band. That can sting. But unlike rubber bands, they may never flex again for a particular person. Someone who had been a good friend for 13 years wrote a letter that was so awful that to this day, I will only refer to her by a pragmatic relationship - never as a friend. And I will never initiate contact with her again.
I don't believe in giving someone the other cheek to slap. It's just plain stupid to let yourself be abused again.
So yeah, I'm done accommodating. Except in appropriate circumstances and except with people who accommodate me and let me be who I am, warts and all.
And on a more serious note...
I have several 'Quote of the days' that find themselves into my inbox. One of my favourites is "Oneness" from Rasha, and the last two quotes have been particularly apropos:
"Allow the episodes of greatest intensity to play out unimpeded, for your judgment of the depth of your feelings could serve to inhibit the authenticity of your response. The objective here is not restraint, but rather, release."
"Trust that there are levels of consciousness within you that understand precisely what is happening and why it is necessary that you be subject to this period of upheaval."
And intense episodes and upheaval it has been indeed, from December with very little let-up over the last seven months. Bottom line? I'm absolutely shattered.
But faith keeps me putting one foot in front of the other.
"Allow the episodes of greatest intensity to play out unimpeded, for your judgment of the depth of your feelings could serve to inhibit the authenticity of your response. The objective here is not restraint, but rather, release."
"Trust that there are levels of consciousness within you that understand precisely what is happening and why it is necessary that you be subject to this period of upheaval."
And intense episodes and upheaval it has been indeed, from December with very little let-up over the last seven months. Bottom line? I'm absolutely shattered.
But faith keeps me putting one foot in front of the other.
"They are very small ducks"
I know, I know, I need to get round to writing some proper entries.
Meanwhile, love this, of which THIS is the BEST example. I was laughing so hard I needed supplemental oxygen afterwards.
Alongside the 'no pets', Mr Thorne's 'seven-legged spider' puts him in the premier league of 'crazy like a fox' emailers.
Fucking brilliant. Now I just need to get him to email the Vatican...
Meanwhile, love this, of which THIS is the BEST example. I was laughing so hard I needed supplemental oxygen afterwards.
Alongside the 'no pets', Mr Thorne's 'seven-legged spider' puts him in the premier league of 'crazy like a fox' emailers.
Fucking brilliant. Now I just need to get him to email the Vatican...
Friday, 17 July 2009
Candles, cathedrals and dreams
It must be a mark of how shattered I am that if I'm home before 6, like as not, I'll tumble into bed for a 45-60 min nap. And that in that short period, I dream. Vividly. And I'll still sleep like a baby at night. Well, maybe not my friends' babies, but...
This evening was no exception. I arrived home at 5.55 pm, went upstairs and fell into bed, falling asleep almost immediately. And suddenly, I was in a huge cathedral.
It reminded me very much of the National Shrine of the ImmaculateConfection Conception in Washington, but without the angry Zeus Jesus on the ceiling and the pastiche of styles that make it truly ugly. High, white ceilings, HUGE, open, basilica - and it was a sunny day. I was standing at the back whilst a number of my clerical friends milled about and mixed further into the cathedral, grinning with pleasure watching them, but remaining behind the last row of pews, near a large pillar candle.
Suddenly, they decided to play around and have a mock procession through the cathedral, with Robert OP leading. It was a huge procession, and with the exception of my friends, the figures were shadowy. I thought, 'that looks like fun', and suddenly Krzysztof, hands shaking, came out of the procession and wordlessly handed me what looked like a menorah, but far more rectangular/angular than the ones that I'm used to (and fond of: I tend to prefer the classically round shape or some of the more antique looking ones).
It looked a lot like this, but gold, and I think there was only ONE branch downwards to the base:
http://www.keeneshops.com/ChanukahGuide/menorah.gif
For those of you who know the Oratory, it looked a lot like one of the rows at the candelabrum of Our Lady of Oxford.
There was only one white candle lit, and as I started to move to join the procession it blew out because of a strong wind from behind me that I had just noticed.
"Damn," I thought, "I'll light it again from the pillar and shield it, then I'll be able to keep it lit and get it out of the wind." No chance. That time or the several that followed it.
Finally, Robert and Nick came out of the procession to find out what was going on and why I hadn't joined them. As the others gathered, I explained and they tried, Nick reaching over to straighten the candle in its holder, whilst Robert took over trying to light it. But the wind at my back grew ever more insistent, and suddenly I looked down at the menorah/candelabrum and there were four white candles tumbled onto the base, slightly melted with the black residue that was the result of repeated attempted lighting.
At this point we paused briefly, as Robert talked out what might work and Nick stood back, brow furrowed, chin on hand, looking at me and the candelabra thoughtfully, trying to work out what was going on. And then it struck me. Not a breeze ruffled their hair or their cassock/habit. The pillar candle burned cheerfully, unwavering. The back doors weren't open.
I was the only one affected by the zephyr at my back that I now realised felt sentient.
I tuned back into Robert, who was saying, "We could do what we do with the Easter vigil candles and put plastic cups over them - you know, with the holes cut out of the bottom."
The words tumbled out of my mouth: "No, Robert, you can't. It'll keep them lit, but it'll shelter them too much - they're not meant to be sheltered, closed in like that."
I sensed the agreement as the wind blew harder at my back whispering, "No, no, no."
I woke, my eyes falling on the clock - 6.55.
My first thought was, "You can never light a menorah in a cathedral. It doesn't belong there."
Over to you - all thoughts welcome.
This evening was no exception. I arrived home at 5.55 pm, went upstairs and fell into bed, falling asleep almost immediately. And suddenly, I was in a huge cathedral.
It reminded me very much of the National Shrine of the Immaculate
Suddenly, they decided to play around and have a mock procession through the cathedral, with Robert OP leading. It was a huge procession, and with the exception of my friends, the figures were shadowy. I thought, 'that looks like fun', and suddenly Krzysztof, hands shaking, came out of the procession and wordlessly handed me what looked like a menorah, but far more rectangular/angular than the ones that I'm used to (and fond of: I tend to prefer the classically round shape or some of the more antique looking ones).
It looked a lot like this, but gold, and I think there was only ONE branch downwards to the base:
http://www.keeneshops.com/
For those of you who know the Oratory, it looked a lot like one of the rows at the candelabrum of Our Lady of Oxford.
There was only one white candle lit, and as I started to move to join the procession it blew out because of a strong wind from behind me that I had just noticed.
"Damn," I thought, "I'll light it again from the pillar and shield it, then I'll be able to keep it lit and get it out of the wind." No chance. That time or the several that followed it.
Finally, Robert and Nick came out of the procession to find out what was going on and why I hadn't joined them. As the others gathered, I explained and they tried, Nick reaching over to straighten the candle in its holder, whilst Robert took over trying to light it. But the wind at my back grew ever more insistent, and suddenly I looked down at the menorah/candelabrum and there were four white candles tumbled onto the base, slightly melted with the black residue that was the result of repeated attempted lighting.
At this point we paused briefly, as Robert talked out what might work and Nick stood back, brow furrowed, chin on hand, looking at me and the candelabra thoughtfully, trying to work out what was going on. And then it struck me. Not a breeze ruffled their hair or their cassock/habit. The pillar candle burned cheerfully, unwavering. The back doors weren't open.
I was the only one affected by the zephyr at my back that I now realised felt sentient.
I tuned back into Robert, who was saying, "We could do what we do with the Easter vigil candles and put plastic cups over them - you know, with the holes cut out of the bottom."
The words tumbled out of my mouth: "No, Robert, you can't. It'll keep them lit, but it'll shelter them too much - they're not meant to be sheltered, closed in like that."
I sensed the agreement as the wind blew harder at my back whispering, "No, no, no."
I woke, my eyes falling on the clock - 6.55.
My first thought was, "You can never light a menorah in a cathedral. It doesn't belong there."
Over to you - all thoughts welcome.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
How do you solve a problem like Maria (Goretti)?
There are millions of Catholic saints, many named, but most not.
Of those that are named, everyone has those that they have an affinity for and those that repel them. Whilst I adore Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross, I couldn't dislike Therese of Lisieux, Padre Pio or Jose Escriva de Balaguer more. Different strokes for different folks.
But Maria Goretti is something else entirely.
For those who do not know the story of Maria Goretti, here it is in short: born in 1890, it is claimed (with all the smell of a justifying backstory) that she was a particularly God-fearing, pious little girl. On 5 July 1902, her neighbour, Alessandro Serenelli, came upon her sewing and said he would kill her if she didn't let him rape her, at which point she told him it was a mortal sin and that he would go to Hell if he carried on. He choked her, she refused, he stabbed her 17 times. She died later in hospital, supposedly having forgiven her attacker.
She then became the patron saint of those who had been raped and sexually abused.
Do we see a problem here?
Let me sum Saint Maria Goretti up for you in four words: better dead than deflowered.
Several years ago, I sat in church on her feast day, open-mouthed in absolute shock as the priest stood up and waxed lyrical over how Maria had died to protect her purity, how amazing that was, and how she was an example for everyone to follow. My rather politically incorrect thought, and the only one that is vaguely printable, was, "WTF does a woman's purity matter to YOU, you aging queen?"
When I confronted one of his colleagues, who happens to be a good friend, about it, he responded that Maria Goretti's sainthood was about forgiveness, not her chastity. I know he believes that, but I think he's wrong - and here's why:
From Pope Pius XII:
"The value of Christian virtue is so great, so overwhelming, so imperative, that it is worth more than life. Purity is not just a separate part of our being. It belongs to our existence as a whole, it is essential for our life. Purity brings us in harmony of body and soul."
From JP II:
"Maria Goretti, so illuminating with her spiritual beauty, challenges us to a firm and secure faith in the Word of God, as the only source of truth, to remain firm against the temptations of this world."
"Young people, look at Maria Goretti, don’t be tempted by the tempting atmosphere of our permissive society, which declares, everything is possible. Look to Maria Goretti, love, live, defend your chastity."
Oh, and let's not forget the Maria Goretti Society which has cute pink t-shirts that say 'Maria Goretti Society: Purity is worth dying for'. Is it, fuck.
Of course, we all know that being threatened by rape is the same as being tempted by 'permissive society'. It's the same as choosing to remain chaste. I mean, after all, what's the difference between being a child, helpless in the face of someone twice your size or a woman threatened at gunpoint and saying 'No' to your boyfriend because you want to wait?
Obviously, none in the eyes of the above popes, and thus, none in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church.
So, let's look at virginity/purity. Worth dying for?
Virginity is simply the state of not having had sex - nothing more and nothing less. In and of itself, it is neutral. Value is placed on it by a patriarchy incapable of getting past its animal nature: a virgin bride/woman ensures that any children belong to the man who's sleeping with her (also the reason that a woman's faithfulness is more important than a man's, of course). Perpetual virginity, robbing a woman of her sexuality, makes a woman the eternal girl, meaning that she is non-threatening to the men who idealise her - making it impossible for any living woman to measure up.
I'm sure as hell not dying to protect that. And there is NO way I'd want a daughter of mine to, either.
I'm not saying, 'Wey-hey, everyone, go out and shag mindlessly' - unless that's your thing. You should never give up anything that is uniquely yours - and your body and the way you have sex is that - to win approval, to buy love, to manipulate, to fill an emptiness you can't face. You should give it because you WANT to, because you LOVE what you are about to do. And in that case, when you give it and to whom is no one else's business (unless you're doing it where I and everyone else have to watch).
The problem with Maria Goretti is the message she, and the priests & faithful who idolise her, sends - that those of us who were sexually abused or raped and lived aren't worth a hell of a lot. At the very least, we're worth less than Maria Goretti and those who chose to die.
Read my lips: Bullshit.
Whilst I absolutely respect and mourn those who have died, the courage and power of the survivors never ceases to humble me. Does some sheltered celibate REALLY believe that I would rather have a daughter of mine DIE a virgin than LIVE, having survived a horrific crime? How can you POSSIBLY even THINK that I would rather bury a child than hold her, help her make it through her darkness, teach her to trust, help her to take the steps she needs to heal?
Whilst we mourn and honour the women who chose to fight their attackers and died, we celebrate those who survived. Those who take those baby steps back towards trust, love, being able to be touched. Those who cheer every milestone: the moment a lover can touch you there; the first time you don't freeze or check out during a makeout session or sex; the first time a man coming up behind you doesn't freak you out; the first time you can sit in the middle of a row at the movies; the first time a man can touch your hair without your tensing up and oh-so-many-more things most people take for granted. Those who breathe through the flashbacks; through the two steps forward, one step back; those who wake up from the nightmares.
Survivors become rape counsellors. Survivors learn immense compassion. Survivors can enter almost any emotional landscape. Survivors make a disproportionate difference. And eventually, survivors thrive.
Don't you DARE tell me dying takes more courage. Unless you've been there or been beside someone who has, you know NOTHING. Speak not of what you know not - especially from the pulpit, where your words have immense effect - for good and for ill.
Worshipping a 12-year-old and glorifying what one of my priest friends sneeringly called 'infant chastity' is just *sick*. And making her the patron saint of women who have been sexually abused and raped reeks of contempt. Find us someone who has actually survived, suffered and overcome.
Go on. I dare you.
Maria Goretti's feast day is Monday, 6 July. A day that I can make it to mass. Will I go?
You bet. Why?
Because if one of the four priests most likely to go into raptures over how wonderful it was that Maria died protecting her chastity is up there and opens his mouth, I want him to have to LOOK at me when he says that.
And then, I want him to have to answer to me on behalf of every amazing survivor - man or woman - who has suffered rape or sexual abuse. I want him to understand exactly what his words could have done to someone in his congregation who has been violated in ways he can't even begin to imagine, or to impressionable children. I want him to remember that his vocation is to heal, not expound some twisted ideal - after all, he wouldn't suggest that someone who was mugged should have died instead, would he? No rape/sexual abuse victim bears ANY responsibility for the crime perpetrated on them. The responsibility - EVERY LAST IOTA OF IT - lies with the person who chose to attack and violate.
A small thing - one person, one statement. But a small difference is better than none at all.
And this one's for everyone who has the courage to survive - and find their way back to living, loving and laughing. One step at a time.
Of those that are named, everyone has those that they have an affinity for and those that repel them. Whilst I adore Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross, I couldn't dislike Therese of Lisieux, Padre Pio or Jose Escriva de Balaguer more. Different strokes for different folks.
But Maria Goretti is something else entirely.
For those who do not know the story of Maria Goretti, here it is in short: born in 1890, it is claimed (with all the smell of a justifying backstory) that she was a particularly God-fearing, pious little girl. On 5 July 1902, her neighbour, Alessandro Serenelli, came upon her sewing and said he would kill her if she didn't let him rape her, at which point she told him it was a mortal sin and that he would go to Hell if he carried on. He choked her, she refused, he stabbed her 17 times. She died later in hospital, supposedly having forgiven her attacker.
She then became the patron saint of those who had been raped and sexually abused.
Do we see a problem here?
Let me sum Saint Maria Goretti up for you in four words: better dead than deflowered.
Several years ago, I sat in church on her feast day, open-mouthed in absolute shock as the priest stood up and waxed lyrical over how Maria had died to protect her purity, how amazing that was, and how she was an example for everyone to follow. My rather politically incorrect thought, and the only one that is vaguely printable, was, "WTF does a woman's purity matter to YOU, you aging queen?"
When I confronted one of his colleagues, who happens to be a good friend, about it, he responded that Maria Goretti's sainthood was about forgiveness, not her chastity. I know he believes that, but I think he's wrong - and here's why:
From Pope Pius XII:
"The value of Christian virtue is so great, so overwhelming, so imperative, that it is worth more than life. Purity is not just a separate part of our being. It belongs to our existence as a whole, it is essential for our life. Purity brings us in harmony of body and soul."
From JP II:
"Maria Goretti, so illuminating with her spiritual beauty, challenges us to a firm and secure faith in the Word of God, as the only source of truth, to remain firm against the temptations of this world."
"Young people, look at Maria Goretti, don’t be tempted by the tempting atmosphere of our permissive society, which declares, everything is possible. Look to Maria Goretti, love, live, defend your chastity."
Oh, and let's not forget the Maria Goretti Society which has cute pink t-shirts that say 'Maria Goretti Society: Purity is worth dying for'. Is it, fuck.
Of course, we all know that being threatened by rape is the same as being tempted by 'permissive society'. It's the same as choosing to remain chaste. I mean, after all, what's the difference between being a child, helpless in the face of someone twice your size or a woman threatened at gunpoint and saying 'No' to your boyfriend because you want to wait?
Obviously, none in the eyes of the above popes, and thus, none in the eyes of the Roman Catholic Church.
So, let's look at virginity/purity. Worth dying for?
Virginity is simply the state of not having had sex - nothing more and nothing less. In and of itself, it is neutral. Value is placed on it by a patriarchy incapable of getting past its animal nature: a virgin bride/woman ensures that any children belong to the man who's sleeping with her (also the reason that a woman's faithfulness is more important than a man's, of course). Perpetual virginity, robbing a woman of her sexuality, makes a woman the eternal girl, meaning that she is non-threatening to the men who idealise her - making it impossible for any living woman to measure up.
I'm sure as hell not dying to protect that. And there is NO way I'd want a daughter of mine to, either.
I'm not saying, 'Wey-hey, everyone, go out and shag mindlessly' - unless that's your thing. You should never give up anything that is uniquely yours - and your body and the way you have sex is that - to win approval, to buy love, to manipulate, to fill an emptiness you can't face. You should give it because you WANT to, because you LOVE what you are about to do. And in that case, when you give it and to whom is no one else's business (unless you're doing it where I and everyone else have to watch).
The problem with Maria Goretti is the message she, and the priests & faithful who idolise her, sends - that those of us who were sexually abused or raped and lived aren't worth a hell of a lot. At the very least, we're worth less than Maria Goretti and those who chose to die.
Read my lips: Bullshit.
Whilst I absolutely respect and mourn those who have died, the courage and power of the survivors never ceases to humble me. Does some sheltered celibate REALLY believe that I would rather have a daughter of mine DIE a virgin than LIVE, having survived a horrific crime? How can you POSSIBLY even THINK that I would rather bury a child than hold her, help her make it through her darkness, teach her to trust, help her to take the steps she needs to heal?
Whilst we mourn and honour the women who chose to fight their attackers and died, we celebrate those who survived. Those who take those baby steps back towards trust, love, being able to be touched. Those who cheer every milestone: the moment a lover can touch you there; the first time you don't freeze or check out during a makeout session or sex; the first time a man coming up behind you doesn't freak you out; the first time you can sit in the middle of a row at the movies; the first time a man can touch your hair without your tensing up and oh-so-many-more things most people take for granted. Those who breathe through the flashbacks; through the two steps forward, one step back; those who wake up from the nightmares.
Survivors become rape counsellors. Survivors learn immense compassion. Survivors can enter almost any emotional landscape. Survivors make a disproportionate difference. And eventually, survivors thrive.
Don't you DARE tell me dying takes more courage. Unless you've been there or been beside someone who has, you know NOTHING. Speak not of what you know not - especially from the pulpit, where your words have immense effect - for good and for ill.
Worshipping a 12-year-old and glorifying what one of my priest friends sneeringly called 'infant chastity' is just *sick*. And making her the patron saint of women who have been sexually abused and raped reeks of contempt. Find us someone who has actually survived, suffered and overcome.
Go on. I dare you.
Maria Goretti's feast day is Monday, 6 July. A day that I can make it to mass. Will I go?
You bet. Why?
Because if one of the four priests most likely to go into raptures over how wonderful it was that Maria died protecting her chastity is up there and opens his mouth, I want him to have to LOOK at me when he says that.
And then, I want him to have to answer to me on behalf of every amazing survivor - man or woman - who has suffered rape or sexual abuse. I want him to understand exactly what his words could have done to someone in his congregation who has been violated in ways he can't even begin to imagine, or to impressionable children. I want him to remember that his vocation is to heal, not expound some twisted ideal - after all, he wouldn't suggest that someone who was mugged should have died instead, would he? No rape/sexual abuse victim bears ANY responsibility for the crime perpetrated on them. The responsibility - EVERY LAST IOTA OF IT - lies with the person who chose to attack and violate.
A small thing - one person, one statement. But a small difference is better than none at all.
And this one's for everyone who has the courage to survive - and find their way back to living, loving and laughing. One step at a time.
Thursday, 25 June 2009
Thoughts on the priesthood
The year of priests began on Friday, and after a lovely, unfussy mass and an excellent sermon by Fr Daniel, I've spent the last few days reflecting on my complex feelings about the Catholic priesthood.
That reflection was further complicated by the discovery yesterday that someone whose behaviour shows him to be utterly unfit for the priesthood is a seminarian.
A story to illustrate the point: 18 months ago, I was having dinner with a friend. Seminarian X knew this; he'd been told. During the course of the evening, he rang my friend NO LESS than 7 times over the course of the evening to ask if he could come over or if my friend could come out. I wondered who the hell this person and his group were, and unfortunately, I later had occasion to find out as, even after having been told "NO, I HAVE A GUEST THIS EVENING," ad nauseam, Seminarian X showed up, sat down and promptly started eating the candy bar my host had just unwrapped.
The utter selfishness, violation of personal boundaries, lack of respect for others, immaturity and the lack of genuine friendship was...staggering. More trivially, since my host and I spent the rest of the evening trying to get away, it totally ruined what had been a lovely evening.
There is no way this was hidden in the interview or in any recommendations he received - he's too unaware of self to KNOW to hide it. No way he could have hidden the split between what he professes and how he behaves. But the seminary accepted him anyway.
The most likely reaction from the people at my church? A "So what?" and a limp wrist wave.
I'll tell you 'so what' - that boy will be dealing with people at their most vulnerable, from birth to death. He will be their SHEPHERD. This is NOT a LIVE ACTION ROLE PLAYING GAME (LARP) so he can ponce about in lace, pretty vestments, with a thurible. Nor is it a way to put off growing up and becoming responsible - something both religious communities and the training for the priesthood do far too often these days.
These are people's lives, hearts and souls on the line. So, yeah, I think character, maturity and people skills are important. Deal.
That doesn't make me anti-clerical. It makes me demanding; it makes me tough; it means I have high expectations from those of you shepherding God's flock.Yes, I allow for imperfection. But ONLY where you are committed to growth - emotional and spiritual. Where you can admit that you are wrong. Where you are committed to learning. But where you're using imperfection as an excuse to be lazy and not change, I will give no quarter.
This is where I step up and say: part of this is because I'm sick of cleaning up after the bad ones. I've lost count of the hours where I've sat down to talk down someone in tears because some boy said something in the confessional that made me cover my mouth in horror - things I wouldn't even say to the uncle who sexually abused me. We won't discuss the things that have been said outside the confessional, in the public domain, things priests thought were funny or clever, but were only passive-aggressive and hurtful. Let's not even go into the ways problems - big problems, obvious unhappiness, clear unsuitability - are ignored until it is way, way too late. And sometimes, that costs lives.
One instance I remember most sharply is where a cleric came to me one day, hugged me and just put his head on my shoulder. I let him be there and then we talked. Absolutely the simplest thing in the world. Later, one of his colleagues said, "I'm so glad he came to you. The rest of us didn't really know what to say."
Erm, what? Excuse me, BUT ISN'T THAT THE ESSENCE OF YOUR VOCATION?
He was lucky he didn't get what was on the tip of my tongue to say: "Well, God forbid any of you should have displayed some pastoral ability. Wouldn't want that."
I sound pretty unambivalent, don't I?
But I'm not. Because frankly, I lay a LOT of this at the door of their training. Those who should never be accepted ARE; those who should be weeded out in seminary are not; those who have the skills to be good priests aren't properly trained. I'm not sure I actually believe that seminary is much more than a place for Borg assimilation and some intellectual work, with the barest nod to real pastoral work or moral training. Essentially, you've put a young man in a group of people who look like him, who agree with him, who will apply peer pressure to think the accepted groupthink and don't require much responsibility or knock the corners off. Put them in a place where they're taught that they're 'special' or 'more important' or, in the one Vianney quote I don't like, 'everything' - and you lose the man, don't you? He becomes a boy again. To become a man - let's use the gender neutral adult - you need to be able to see other points of view without being threatened, you need to think through your speech and actions, you need to take responsibility - and you need to realise that you are not, and will never be, more special than any other of God's children.
You cannot call yourself a man if you live in ways, places or with people that are invested in keeping you a boy. And unfortunately, in its odd mix of attempting to hammer down the nail that sticks up yet inculcating a sense of 'specialness', of 'entitlement', priestly training does exactly that - creates a boy to do man's job, setting far too many up for failure.
Good priests only seem to happen by accident or grace, not by design of the Church. And that's just plain wrong.
There's the other reason I'm ambivalent - I know some absolutely amazing priests. The ones who make me want to hug them as they struggle their way out loud through a difficult pastoral situation and I can hear the emotion in their voice. The ones who can call situations 'tough and tragic' and apply orthodox teaching compassionately - and by orthodox teaching, I don't mean pretty liturgy. I mean the priests who can say that suicide is not a mortal sin because even though it is grave matter, full knowledge and consent can't have been present. The ones who call me on saying 'forgive but not forget' because they KNOW I really mean 'I don't forgive' - and make me admit and deal with it. THAT is true orthodoxy. The ones who choke up (and that DOES get a hug for as long as needed) when they talk about the gratefulness of the parents of a stillborn child after the funeral or any of the countless situations where they share, even as they try to comfort, someone's pain or darkness. The ones who undo the damage of their colleagues as only they can.
THEY are my many clerical friends. THEY are the good priests, the good men who, as one of them beautifully put it, pour their lives out as a libation. The WORLD, not just the Church, is a better place for them. (Though I think they ought to be able to marry, but that's another discussion.)
Those of you I know and those of you I don't - THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
They are, quite simply, God's vessels. But there aren't enough of them. They don't get nearly enough support - from the laity or the institution. And God knows, they certainly don't get the initial or continuing training they need. They get worn down by the disproportionate number of parishioners who come to them and by those who aren't priests in the true sense of the word. That balance needs to shift dramatically in the other direction. They need and deserve all the support they can get.
The Church needs to recognise, nurture and support them. The dead weight needs to go.
So where does this all lead us? To how Irim would set up and run a Catholic seminary, of course.
What was that sound? Oh, that would be the sound of my clerical friends groaning in despair ;-).
Sorry, boys, you'll have to wait for the next installment - I've got an essay to finish...but watch this space.
That reflection was further complicated by the discovery yesterday that someone whose behaviour shows him to be utterly unfit for the priesthood is a seminarian.
A story to illustrate the point: 18 months ago, I was having dinner with a friend. Seminarian X knew this; he'd been told. During the course of the evening, he rang my friend NO LESS than 7 times over the course of the evening to ask if he could come over or if my friend could come out. I wondered who the hell this person and his group were, and unfortunately, I later had occasion to find out as, even after having been told "NO, I HAVE A GUEST THIS EVENING," ad nauseam, Seminarian X showed up, sat down and promptly started eating the candy bar my host had just unwrapped.
The utter selfishness, violation of personal boundaries, lack of respect for others, immaturity and the lack of genuine friendship was...staggering. More trivially, since my host and I spent the rest of the evening trying to get away, it totally ruined what had been a lovely evening.
There is no way this was hidden in the interview or in any recommendations he received - he's too unaware of self to KNOW to hide it. No way he could have hidden the split between what he professes and how he behaves. But the seminary accepted him anyway.
The most likely reaction from the people at my church? A "So what?" and a limp wrist wave.
I'll tell you 'so what' - that boy will be dealing with people at their most vulnerable, from birth to death. He will be their SHEPHERD. This is NOT a LIVE ACTION ROLE PLAYING GAME (LARP) so he can ponce about in lace, pretty vestments, with a thurible. Nor is it a way to put off growing up and becoming responsible - something both religious communities and the training for the priesthood do far too often these days.
These are people's lives, hearts and souls on the line. So, yeah, I think character, maturity and people skills are important. Deal.
That doesn't make me anti-clerical. It makes me demanding; it makes me tough; it means I have high expectations from those of you shepherding God's flock.Yes, I allow for imperfection. But ONLY where you are committed to growth - emotional and spiritual. Where you can admit that you are wrong. Where you are committed to learning. But where you're using imperfection as an excuse to be lazy and not change, I will give no quarter.
This is where I step up and say: part of this is because I'm sick of cleaning up after the bad ones. I've lost count of the hours where I've sat down to talk down someone in tears because some boy said something in the confessional that made me cover my mouth in horror - things I wouldn't even say to the uncle who sexually abused me. We won't discuss the things that have been said outside the confessional, in the public domain, things priests thought were funny or clever, but were only passive-aggressive and hurtful. Let's not even go into the ways problems - big problems, obvious unhappiness, clear unsuitability - are ignored until it is way, way too late. And sometimes, that costs lives.
One instance I remember most sharply is where a cleric came to me one day, hugged me and just put his head on my shoulder. I let him be there and then we talked. Absolutely the simplest thing in the world. Later, one of his colleagues said, "I'm so glad he came to you. The rest of us didn't really know what to say."
Erm, what? Excuse me, BUT ISN'T THAT THE ESSENCE OF YOUR VOCATION?
He was lucky he didn't get what was on the tip of my tongue to say: "Well, God forbid any of you should have displayed some pastoral ability. Wouldn't want that."
I sound pretty unambivalent, don't I?
But I'm not. Because frankly, I lay a LOT of this at the door of their training. Those who should never be accepted ARE; those who should be weeded out in seminary are not; those who have the skills to be good priests aren't properly trained. I'm not sure I actually believe that seminary is much more than a place for Borg assimilation and some intellectual work, with the barest nod to real pastoral work or moral training. Essentially, you've put a young man in a group of people who look like him, who agree with him, who will apply peer pressure to think the accepted groupthink and don't require much responsibility or knock the corners off. Put them in a place where they're taught that they're 'special' or 'more important' or, in the one Vianney quote I don't like, 'everything' - and you lose the man, don't you? He becomes a boy again. To become a man - let's use the gender neutral adult - you need to be able to see other points of view without being threatened, you need to think through your speech and actions, you need to take responsibility - and you need to realise that you are not, and will never be, more special than any other of God's children.
You cannot call yourself a man if you live in ways, places or with people that are invested in keeping you a boy. And unfortunately, in its odd mix of attempting to hammer down the nail that sticks up yet inculcating a sense of 'specialness', of 'entitlement', priestly training does exactly that - creates a boy to do man's job, setting far too many up for failure.
Good priests only seem to happen by accident or grace, not by design of the Church. And that's just plain wrong.
There's the other reason I'm ambivalent - I know some absolutely amazing priests. The ones who make me want to hug them as they struggle their way out loud through a difficult pastoral situation and I can hear the emotion in their voice. The ones who can call situations 'tough and tragic' and apply orthodox teaching compassionately - and by orthodox teaching, I don't mean pretty liturgy. I mean the priests who can say that suicide is not a mortal sin because even though it is grave matter, full knowledge and consent can't have been present. The ones who call me on saying 'forgive but not forget' because they KNOW I really mean 'I don't forgive' - and make me admit and deal with it. THAT is true orthodoxy. The ones who choke up (and that DOES get a hug for as long as needed) when they talk about the gratefulness of the parents of a stillborn child after the funeral or any of the countless situations where they share, even as they try to comfort, someone's pain or darkness. The ones who undo the damage of their colleagues as only they can.
THEY are my many clerical friends. THEY are the good priests, the good men who, as one of them beautifully put it, pour their lives out as a libation. The WORLD, not just the Church, is a better place for them. (Though I think they ought to be able to marry, but that's another discussion.)
Those of you I know and those of you I don't - THANK YOU. THANK YOU.
They are, quite simply, God's vessels. But there aren't enough of them. They don't get nearly enough support - from the laity or the institution. And God knows, they certainly don't get the initial or continuing training they need. They get worn down by the disproportionate number of parishioners who come to them and by those who aren't priests in the true sense of the word. That balance needs to shift dramatically in the other direction. They need and deserve all the support they can get.
The Church needs to recognise, nurture and support them. The dead weight needs to go.
So where does this all lead us? To how Irim would set up and run a Catholic seminary, of course.
What was that sound? Oh, that would be the sound of my clerical friends groaning in despair ;-).
Sorry, boys, you'll have to wait for the next installment - I've got an essay to finish...but watch this space.
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