What if the question is not why am I so infrequently the person I really want to be, but why do I so infrequently want to be the person I really am? --Oriah, Prelude to The Invitation
I am doing a Holy Week post - no, really. (Sorry, Dom, I know I promised! By Maundy Thursday...)
It just seems to be further down my muse's list than I think it should be. Or maybe there's just a certain way I think it has to happen, how I picture it unfolding - and that's not the way it's meant to. So I'm going to do something I find very hard - let it go. When it wants to be written, it will be.
This morning, as I scrolled down the 250-odd news items in my fb feed (I have busy friends), I noticed that one of my friends from high school had joined the fb group for our class. "Wow," I thought. "I didn't know my class had an FB group!" I went across to see who was there, and saw 20 members, including my 7th grade geography teacher, Mr Caussin, whom I've now friended.
Join? Not join? I was a year younger than the girls in my group, and my close friends - Nicole, Larisa, Sue, Lauren, Lauri - were all in the year below. I never really felt *part* of my class. In no way was this a fault of the class I was a member of: I had overprotective, controlling parents who wanted to push me as hard as possible academically without making sure I had a solid social life and support network to balance that - so I stood out in all the wrong ways, vacillating between lashing out, being standoffish and unbearably know-it-all. I didn't know how to connect, to have fun, to revel in the carefree time it should have been, with mingled apprehension and expectation of the life to unfold ahead, aware of the possibilities and potential I carried within me. So I never bonded with them over boys, parties, class activities, sports - so it never really gelled, despite the 7 years I was a member. I suspect life in that class would have been exactly the same had I gone to Springbrook, my local state school.
Nonetheless, I joined the fb group. No matter our past, we share a history. Outsider or no, they are my peops, those I grew up with, went through classes with, shared a school culture with. It was time to step into my past and own it - to make it mine.
Of course, the first thing I did was go to the photograph tab - expecting to feel what I felt in high school...or at best, nothing. But as soon as the first picture popped up, I was stunned. As I looked at these faces that I knew so well - yet didn't - frozen in a moment of time from our shared history, I was overcome by a fierce protectiveness and love for the girls they once were.
And for the women they've become, though I know them not. Such are the ties that bind.
The profile picture is of all 75+ of us at our graduation. Me in a white sari, the others in white dresses, looking out at the photographer on what was to be one of the most important days of our lives. Happy faces, apprehensive ones, sad ones, hopeful... did any of us, I wonder, as we stepped out on our paths, have an idea of how much possibility and potential lay before us? The choices we could make, including the one of stepping off the expected path of parents, society, school? Choosing our own success, creating out own paintings, defining success for ourselves? Knowing we could start again every day.
I doubt it. But maybe we have more of an inkling now.
What would I say if I could step through that photographer's lens and speak to those girls, to those expectant, happy, sad faces, with Senator Danforth's wonderful commencement speech on applauding for others yet to come? I'd ask them the question at the start of this piece, and then I'd ask them the following, also from the Prelude to Oriah's The Invitation:
What if the task is simply to unfold, to become who you already are in your essential nature- gentle, compassionate and capable of living fully and passionately present?
How would this change what you think you have to learn?
How would this shape the choices you have to make about how to spend today?
What if you knew that the impulse to move in a way that creates beauty in the world will arise from deep within and guide you every time you simply pay attention and wait?
How would this shape your stillness, your movement, your willingness to follow this impulse, to just let go and dance?
To understand, they might need the experience that was the gift of their lives yet to come: the joys, the sorrows, the losses, the heartbreak, the epiphanies, the everyday moments that were the threads that would form the tapestry of their lives. I'd give that girl in the sari an extra look of encouragement and try to let her know just how strong she really was. And to let her know, through the emotions struggling with each other on her face, that one day, she would understand.
Because I love her too. And I find myself rather fond of the woman she's become - I like to flatter myself that I know her very well, though sometimes she surprises me.
To my girls going to our reunion in a few weeks' time: I may not have been with you then, but I'm with you now. I wish you all the love and joy in the world, and may each year find you happier than the last. I can't be with you in body, but I'll be with you in heart and spirit. I wish I were there to hear your stories - but I hope to hear at least some of them here on facebook. Know that my love is with you.
Celebrate your lives and be proud. After all...
...we've come a long way, baby.
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Monday, 15 March 2010
On why I hate the prodigal son, Mary & Martha and Sunday's sermon
I *HATE* the parable of the prodigal son. And I will NOT be told that I'm supposed to like it, how it's about 'forgiveness', or how mean-spirited I'm being.
Sorry, folks, but the tale of the prodigal son SUCKS ROCKS. It sucks as much as Jesus rebuking Martha, who is going through all this work so HE can get fed and feel at home, whilst Mary is sitting on her comely Palestinian ass not lifting a finger. You know, Big J, I love you, really, I do. But this was the time to say, "Mary, stop gazing up at me lovingly and go help your sister with the cooking. In fact, *I'll* come help cook - and we'll do that party thing of TALKING IN THE KITCHEN!"
Deal done. They both get to listen to Big J and Martha gets some help. I so love my problem-solving skills. *Preen* And the thought of Jesus in an apron, elbow deep in flour, really does it for me.
The prodigal son. Where to start? Asks dad for his half of the inheritance. Fine. Goes off to shag, drink, go crazy, fine. Goes broke - irresponsible, not fine.
Decides he'd eat the husks the pigs would. Fine, go for it. Actions, consequences.
After years of not giving a toss (rather than having a terrible relationship and cutting ties), "Oh, I'll go to Dad, he'll at least give me what he gives the servants! I'll go say, 'Dad, I suck and don't deserve to be your son, that should do the trick!'''
Dude, WTF?
Every priest I've asked about this has told me that this is about real repentance. This isn't real repentance; this is 'how do I get food in my stomach because I was enough of a dumbass not to set some money aside to earn interest?' If it were real repentance, occasioned when he was rich and in the midst of bounty, I'd have sympathy.
But well, erm, let's read my paraphrase of the Jerusalem Bible, shall we? That's one of the most pre-planned emotionally manipulative pieces of dialogue I've ever seen. For me, the emotional tenor is utterly fake.
As Daniel said in his sermon, the younger son is selfish (he said it about the elder too, but I disagree with him there, and we'll come to that in a moment).
To my priests: If I presented THAT to you in the confessional, you'd kick my ass (Dom would, anyway, he can spot fake repentance at a distance that would put a sniper to shame).
So there's problem number 1: younger son's selfishness.
Problem #2: Dad's reaction. Fine, run towards him and hug him, he's your boy.
But FFS, THE FATTED CALF?????????????????????????? INVITE EVERYONE IN TOWN?
YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!
Maybe this is my sympathy as a fellow eldest, I don't know - but I think it's more than that. Here's the dutiful son - the one who has worked alongside his father, quietly, dependably, constantly for years. He doesn't even get an animal for a dinner with his friend.
But his father kills the fatted calf for this emotionally manipulative little BRAT who hasn't even really said, from the heart, 'I'm sorry'?
Damn right, he's angry. I'm angry for him.
Why? Because time after time, I see people like the eldest son get taken for granted - the people who are quiet, dependable, always there. The father can claim that 'what's mine is yours', blah blah, but he appears to have a very poor understanding of human nature. His eldest, the steady, dependable one, needs OVERT appreciation as much as the younger wayward son needs to be welcomed back to the family. And what does the younger son learn by this huge feast? Go squander your life and come back home - not only will Dad welcome you back, he'll kill the most valuable animal for you.
Hmmmmmmmmm. Tanya Byron wouldn't be impressed. Neither am I.
Welcome him back with a low-key family dinner, let his brother have a go, really bring him home. Then set him to work the next morning. He's home and is always welcome there, but being high-maintenance and high-drama will get him no more attention than that.
So let this be a lesson to us all: turn and thank those who are always there for you - dependable, strong, those you almost take for granted. They're your real treasures, the ones who will always be there when you need them.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Today's sermon:
1. Pro-life as first principle.
Response: Yes, if that isn't equated with 'anti-abortion'. They're not the same thing. To be pro-life is to maximize the ability of every human being to live their life to the fullest: that's anti-war, anti-death penalty, dealing with refugees in a humane way, being anti-discrimination, making sure all have access to the same education/opportunities, creating a vocational track that's as good and as respected as the university track, continuing adult education, health insurance for all, the best health care, being allowed to be yourself, and so on.
But you can be pro-choice and all that.
2. No Catholic can vote pro-choice.
Here, we will respectfully disagree. I have thought out my pro-choice position, am aware that I am in opposition with the Church and have made my peace with that - but I don't feel it is in opposition to my Catholicism, which is about loving God and loving my neighbour; compassion; being pushed to be what I am meant to be.
Keeping abortion safe and legal is part of that.
3. 'Value free education' is to be avoided.
Agreed - though we disagree on the problem here: my argument is that there is NO SUCH THING as 'value-free education' - whether or not you claim to be teaching values, you ARE. Far better to have them explicit than implicit so you can choose, challenge, consider them.
4. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks rocks.
Yup.
5. Secular society is at fault for... [fill in the blank]
Mmmmmm. Don't think we can go there till we examine ourselves first - and I mean saying 'The Catholic Church isn't perfect; it has a long way to go.'
One of my friends, when I pointed this out after mass, said, "But the secular world isn't easy on us."
Perhaps, but stop and think. How does secular society perceive you? As an institution that sees itself as having 'the truth' and as being better than it is. When is it hard on you? When it becomes blatantly clear that the institution ISN'T - that people are just the same inside as out.
I think they have an excuse, and I think secular society can be one of your greatest gifts if you pay attention to the mirror it holds up.
6. Sex education bill - wrong.
Need to read it first. But if the 'teaching sex at 5' hysteria is as blown out of proportion as I suspect it is, and is really only about telling kids NOT to let anyone touch them in certain places, talk to an adult if they feel uncomfortable, etc., I have to be all for that. It might have made all the difference to me. Not with my parents, but with someone else.
7. If someone is left out, we're all left out.
*HIGH FIVE* Absofuckinglutely.
8. Society is more than an aggregate of individuals.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! FTW! I'll happily see any of Maggie Thatcher's quotes dismantled any day...
Sorry, folks, but the tale of the prodigal son SUCKS ROCKS. It sucks as much as Jesus rebuking Martha, who is going through all this work so HE can get fed and feel at home, whilst Mary is sitting on her comely Palestinian ass not lifting a finger. You know, Big J, I love you, really, I do. But this was the time to say, "Mary, stop gazing up at me lovingly and go help your sister with the cooking. In fact, *I'll* come help cook - and we'll do that party thing of TALKING IN THE KITCHEN!"
Deal done. They both get to listen to Big J and Martha gets some help. I so love my problem-solving skills. *Preen* And the thought of Jesus in an apron, elbow deep in flour, really does it for me.
The prodigal son. Where to start? Asks dad for his half of the inheritance. Fine. Goes off to shag, drink, go crazy, fine. Goes broke - irresponsible, not fine.
Decides he'd eat the husks the pigs would. Fine, go for it. Actions, consequences.
After years of not giving a toss (rather than having a terrible relationship and cutting ties), "Oh, I'll go to Dad, he'll at least give me what he gives the servants! I'll go say, 'Dad, I suck and don't deserve to be your son, that should do the trick!'''
Dude, WTF?
Every priest I've asked about this has told me that this is about real repentance. This isn't real repentance; this is 'how do I get food in my stomach because I was enough of a dumbass not to set some money aside to earn interest?' If it were real repentance, occasioned when he was rich and in the midst of bounty, I'd have sympathy.
But well, erm, let's read my paraphrase of the Jerusalem Bible, shall we? That's one of the most pre-planned emotionally manipulative pieces of dialogue I've ever seen. For me, the emotional tenor is utterly fake.
As Daniel said in his sermon, the younger son is selfish (he said it about the elder too, but I disagree with him there, and we'll come to that in a moment).
To my priests: If I presented THAT to you in the confessional, you'd kick my ass (Dom would, anyway, he can spot fake repentance at a distance that would put a sniper to shame).
So there's problem number 1: younger son's selfishness.
Problem #2: Dad's reaction. Fine, run towards him and hug him, he's your boy.
But FFS, THE FATTED CALF?????????????????????????? INVITE EVERYONE IN TOWN?
YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!
Maybe this is my sympathy as a fellow eldest, I don't know - but I think it's more than that. Here's the dutiful son - the one who has worked alongside his father, quietly, dependably, constantly for years. He doesn't even get an animal for a dinner with his friend.
But his father kills the fatted calf for this emotionally manipulative little BRAT who hasn't even really said, from the heart, 'I'm sorry'?
Damn right, he's angry. I'm angry for him.
Why? Because time after time, I see people like the eldest son get taken for granted - the people who are quiet, dependable, always there. The father can claim that 'what's mine is yours', blah blah, but he appears to have a very poor understanding of human nature. His eldest, the steady, dependable one, needs OVERT appreciation as much as the younger wayward son needs to be welcomed back to the family. And what does the younger son learn by this huge feast? Go squander your life and come back home - not only will Dad welcome you back, he'll kill the most valuable animal for you.
Hmmmmmmmmm. Tanya Byron wouldn't be impressed. Neither am I.
Welcome him back with a low-key family dinner, let his brother have a go, really bring him home. Then set him to work the next morning. He's home and is always welcome there, but being high-maintenance and high-drama will get him no more attention than that.
So let this be a lesson to us all: turn and thank those who are always there for you - dependable, strong, those you almost take for granted. They're your real treasures, the ones who will always be there when you need them.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Today's sermon:
1. Pro-life as first principle.
Response: Yes, if that isn't equated with 'anti-abortion'. They're not the same thing. To be pro-life is to maximize the ability of every human being to live their life to the fullest: that's anti-war, anti-death penalty, dealing with refugees in a humane way, being anti-discrimination, making sure all have access to the same education/opportunities, creating a vocational track that's as good and as respected as the university track, continuing adult education, health insurance for all, the best health care, being allowed to be yourself, and so on.
But you can be pro-choice and all that.
2. No Catholic can vote pro-choice.
Here, we will respectfully disagree. I have thought out my pro-choice position, am aware that I am in opposition with the Church and have made my peace with that - but I don't feel it is in opposition to my Catholicism, which is about loving God and loving my neighbour; compassion; being pushed to be what I am meant to be.
Keeping abortion safe and legal is part of that.
3. 'Value free education' is to be avoided.
Agreed - though we disagree on the problem here: my argument is that there is NO SUCH THING as 'value-free education' - whether or not you claim to be teaching values, you ARE. Far better to have them explicit than implicit so you can choose, challenge, consider them.
4. Rabbi Jonathan Sacks rocks.
Yup.
5. Secular society is at fault for... [fill in the blank]
Mmmmmm. Don't think we can go there till we examine ourselves first - and I mean saying 'The Catholic Church isn't perfect; it has a long way to go.'
One of my friends, when I pointed this out after mass, said, "But the secular world isn't easy on us."
Perhaps, but stop and think. How does secular society perceive you? As an institution that sees itself as having 'the truth' and as being better than it is. When is it hard on you? When it becomes blatantly clear that the institution ISN'T - that people are just the same inside as out.
I think they have an excuse, and I think secular society can be one of your greatest gifts if you pay attention to the mirror it holds up.
6. Sex education bill - wrong.
Need to read it first. But if the 'teaching sex at 5' hysteria is as blown out of proportion as I suspect it is, and is really only about telling kids NOT to let anyone touch them in certain places, talk to an adult if they feel uncomfortable, etc., I have to be all for that. It might have made all the difference to me. Not with my parents, but with someone else.
7. If someone is left out, we're all left out.
*HIGH FIVE* Absofuckinglutely.
8. Society is more than an aggregate of individuals.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! FTW! I'll happily see any of Maggie Thatcher's quotes dismantled any day...
Pandas will rule the world...
How do I get into conversations like these? This doesn't just happen to me on FB chat, btw.
What you need to know here is that the part of Dani is being played by James, and that (^^^) = a shark in fb chat. <(") is a penguin.
The shark appears to have evolved into a friendship totem for James and me, as we were pretty cross during a chat recently and wanted to sic (^^^) on various people.
Dani
The role of Dani has been temporarily assumed by her awesome, great, and relatively handsome husband *bow*
Good evening, Miss Irim. I was forced to make my lovely wife eat her dinner
8:48pmIrim
(^^^)(^^^)
8:48pmDani
(^^^)(^^^)
8:48pmIrim
Greetings Mr Jensey
8:48pmDani
Our forces are in alignment. That's good to know. (^^^)(^^^)
(^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^)
8:49pmIrim
(^^^)(^^^) Indeed
(^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^)
8:49pmDani
I need to make certain you've had your (^^^)(^^^) quota of the day.
8:49pmIrim
May the force be with you
thank you. And I you
8:50pmDani
And also with you
8:50pmIrim
(^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^)
8:50pmDani
jump the (^^^)(^^^)
hehehe
hohoho
hahaha
8:50pmIrim
:D:D
8:51pmDani
I have way too much fun with those guys
8:51pmIrim
Me too
Does this make me violent, I wonder?
<(")
(^^^)
[my attempt to have shark eat penguin]
8:52pmDani
I don't believe so. Not unless you're ordering your (^^^)(^^^) minions out into the masses to unleash destruction
8:52pmIrim
I like them as guards
8:52pmDani
That's what they're best for.
8:52pmIrim
I try to feed them a controlled amount of <(") or fish
8:53pmDani
Yes, those penguins are rather shifty creatures
8:53pmIrim
I'm glad to know someone else doesn't quite trust them
8:53pmDani
<(") (^^^)(^^^)
Penguins are just well disguised aquatic pandas
It's rather sad that people find them so adorable and cute... No one believes me about the pandas either. :(:(
But when our furry overlords rule with an iron paw, then they'll know.
so sad...
humanity in the grips of pandas
8:56pmDani
And now as I try and spread word of their evil deeds, I am being pulled away... sigh
8:57pmIrim
sigh
8:57pmDani
We're off to the eye doctor's in a few.
8:57pmIrim
Later my friend. We'll start an fb group
8:57pmDani
Dani will pop back on and try and tell it's all nonsense, but she's part panda, so...
Maybe we should start a group
8:57pmIrim
you married a panda? That was brave.
8:58pmDani
(^^^)(^^^) A few more for the road. (^^^)(^^^) It was a ploy on their part. I found out too late. Take care Miss Irim! (^^^)(^^^)
8:58pmIrim
I think this conversation might have to become an fb note
That way, I can start to get the word out.
Dani
Oh Irim... you can't betray me like that! ;);) (We now return you to Dani)
9:00pmIrim
Is it Dani who will feel betrayed??? By telling that you're part panda???
9:01pmDani
Considering I am part Panda... and you'd spread those horrible lies my husband has told you! The horror! ;)
And our children... what will become of them... they've Panda in their blood too... ;);)
9:02pmIrim
An fb note it is then...
Dani
I find the whole thing totally hilarious.
Besides, it's only a matter of time before we rule the world.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
As Dani's last comment proved, pandas are simply using their cute cuddliness to bring down our guard so they can use our vulnerability to rule the world. I'll be putting my guard back up with Chris Bear.
You've been warned. Join our group and spread the word before it's too late...
What you need to know here is that the part of Dani is being played by James, and that (^^^) = a shark in fb chat. <(") is a penguin.
The shark appears to have evolved into a friendship totem for James and me, as we were pretty cross during a chat recently and wanted to sic (^^^) on various people.
Dani
The role of Dani has been temporarily assumed by her awesome, great, and relatively handsome husband *bow*
Good evening, Miss Irim. I was forced to make my lovely wife eat her dinner
8:48pmIrim
(^^^)(^^^)
8:48pmDani
(^^^)(^^^)
8:48pmIrim
Greetings Mr Jensey
8:48pmDani
Our forces are in alignment. That's good to know. (^^^)(^^^)
(^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^)
8:49pmIrim
(^^^)(^^^) Indeed
(^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^)
8:49pmDani
I need to make certain you've had your (^^^)(^^^) quota of the day.
8:49pmIrim
May the force be with you
thank you. And I you
8:50pmDani
And also with you
8:50pmIrim
(^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^) (^^^)(^^^)
8:50pmDani
jump the (^^^)(^^^)
hehehe
hohoho
hahaha
8:50pmIrim
:D:D
8:51pmDani
I have way too much fun with those guys
8:51pmIrim
Me too
Does this make me violent, I wonder?
<(")
(^^^)
[my attempt to have shark eat penguin]
8:52pmDani
I don't believe so. Not unless you're ordering your (^^^)(^^^) minions out into the masses to unleash destruction
8:52pmIrim
I like them as guards
8:52pmDani
That's what they're best for.
8:52pmIrim
I try to feed them a controlled amount of <(") or fish
8:53pmDani
Yes, those penguins are rather shifty creatures
8:53pmIrim
I'm glad to know someone else doesn't quite trust them
8:53pmDani
<(") (^^^)(^^^)
Penguins are just well disguised aquatic pandas
It's rather sad that people find them so adorable and cute... No one believes me about the pandas either. :(:(
But when our furry overlords rule with an iron paw, then they'll know.
so sad...
humanity in the grips of pandas
8:56pmDani
And now as I try and spread word of their evil deeds, I am being pulled away... sigh
8:57pmIrim
sigh
8:57pmDani
We're off to the eye doctor's in a few.
8:57pmIrim
Later my friend. We'll start an fb group
8:57pmDani
Dani will pop back on and try and tell it's all nonsense, but she's part panda, so...
Maybe we should start a group
8:57pmIrim
you married a panda? That was brave.
8:58pmDani
(^^^)(^^^) A few more for the road. (^^^)(^^^) It was a ploy on their part. I found out too late. Take care Miss Irim! (^^^)(^^^)
8:58pmIrim
I think this conversation might have to become an fb note
That way, I can start to get the word out.
Dani
Oh Irim... you can't betray me like that! ;);) (We now return you to Dani)
9:00pmIrim
Is it Dani who will feel betrayed??? By telling that you're part panda???
9:01pmDani
Considering I am part Panda... and you'd spread those horrible lies my husband has told you! The horror! ;)
And our children... what will become of them... they've Panda in their blood too... ;);)
9:02pmIrim
An fb note it is then...
Dani
I find the whole thing totally hilarious.
Besides, it's only a matter of time before we rule the world.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
As Dani's last comment proved, pandas are simply using their cute cuddliness to bring down our guard so they can use our vulnerability to rule the world. I'll be putting my guard back up with Chris Bear.
You've been warned. Join our group and spread the word before it's too late...
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
Ash Wednesday
Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
I tend to refer to myself as a 'Catholick Loki' - generally the rebel, but with odd snaps into complete orthodoxy that often make my clerical friends' heads snap right back.
Ash Wednesday is one of those days. I will always insist, as today’s psalm and reading from Joel do, that one’s internal world must be in order before the external can hope for any kind of meaning. On Ash Wednesday, however, I will insist on ritual, with its rich symbolism, to frame and outwardly express what is happening in my internal life and to mark the entry of Catholics, as a community, into the Lenten twilight.
Weeks before, the hunger for life in the Lenten desert begins. I feel the itch I imagine a snake must feel when the time comes to shed – this place feels a bit dry, now where’s a good tree to rub my back up against? Oh damn, now it’s THAT spot. In me, it shows up a restlessness that my nearest friends recognise – perhaps I’m not listening as well; or I’m less present; my faults are in clearer relief – especially my more pugilistic tendencies, as I try to keep all but those closest to me at bay, so I can withdraw to my desert and wrestle with my demons – so I can strip right back to the basics, dropping everything that comes between me and creation; between me and the Creator.
Because I know that time is always time/And place is always and only place/And what is actual is actual only for one time/And only for one place/I rejoice that things are as they are and/I renounce the blessèd face
On Ash Wednesday morning, the alarm is set for somewhere between 5.45 and 6am, so that I can get to the 07.30 mass. My day will begin and end with mass – the first as initiation (I see no point in being ashed lightly or at the end of the day – it is a mark, a reminder of the undertaking); the second, more formal Latin mass to end the day and begin the season. Yes, for some reason, I see Ash Wednesday as a day out of time, belonging to neither Ordinary Time nor Lent, but a day like Yom Kippur or Laila-tul-Qadr – a day that transcends time, space and liturgical season.
Without fail, my eyes open at the end of the REM cycle concluding after 5am, somewhere around 05.25. I lie awake as black lightens to grey (the shade depending on February or March), probing the symbolism of the last dream, slowly moving towards the meaning of Ash Wednesday and the entry into desert time, ruminating on what this season’s struggle might be.
After the stillness, movement as the alarm resounds through the room. Shower, a touch of reading, dressing and out the door for the bus stop, with either T.S. Eliot’s ‘Ash Wednesday’ or ‘Remember that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return’ echoing in my head.
And after the noise, stillness again, as I enter the dark, pre-7.30 mass hush of the Oratory, so still that the rustling as the brethren’s thin breviary pages turn can be heard through the church. The confessional door opens and shuts, doing a brisk trade for this time of the morning, and the church slowly fills as people ready for work in this world make time for the other.
No need to look at the clock, just listen for or look at the brethren, as their distinctive treads converge on the sacristy from their favoured pew positions in church.
The bell, then mass begins with Fr Robert, the provost, presiding as he has almost every 07.30 Ash Wednesday mass since I’ve been here. Collects, readings, gospel, ashing (hopefully heavy and dark, though not so this year) with the stark words, ‘Remember that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return’, communion and then thrust into the outside world where Ash Wednesday is just another day, a world which insists on one poking one’s head out of the desert recently entered. If one could, one would spend the whole day in church or in retreat to solidify that presence in the desert, so that one could reach out more easily during the 40 days, maintaining the balance, rather than getting jarred out almost immediately on entry.
Will the veiled sister pray for/Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee/Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,time and time, between/Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait/In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray/For children at the gate/Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose…
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Though Ash Wednesday is a time for ritual, there is room to bend: though I may prefer my main meal to be after sunset, since we have a community meal at work, I will make lunch my main meal; if I go to a house where meat is offered, I will not refuse, though I will take less. After all, it is only as an aid to and mark of inner change that rules make any sense at all.
And despite the need for ritual, there must also be time for critical thought and introspection: I disagree with the sentence, “We are striving for God’s love,” knowing that it has always been given freely to me, though I put barriers between it and myself, afraid of what it offers if it touches me. I disagree with ‘sin’ as the problem, believing that the real root is fear, for I know that it is fear, and the experience that gave rise to it, which prevents me from knowing and feeling the love of my friends and sometimes means I assume that they will choose to hurt me. If I feel so with my friends - those I can see, touch and exchange conversation with - how much more so God, with whom I can do none of these things? My sense is that this is not about overcoming sin, but of aiming for that perfect love to cast out fear – and that our best chance is to strip down in the desert, like layers of varnish removed to reveal the beauty of the wood beneath.
Perhaps this need to keep one’s feet in the desert, yet reach out of it, is the reason for the second longer, more formal mass – it allows for full re-entry into the stark beauty, feet on hot sand once again; a chance to unwind and re-collect ourselves after a day spent in a non-Ash Wednesday world. A chance to ground properly and put deep roots into the desert – roots that remain long after Lent is over and Easter has begun, because we must re-enter the desert in the rhythm of our own cycles, not just the liturgical ones offered us.
And so, I set foot in the desert this Lent – set foot to find I know not what, but to follow the only theology I know, best espoused in this passage by Guy Gavriel Kay in his book The Summer Tree:
And he understood then, finally: understood that it had to be naked, truly so, that one went to the God. It was the Tree, stripping him down, layer by layer, down to what he was hiding from...
He was the Arrow now. The Arrow on the Tree, of Mornir, and he was to be given naked or not at all.
And so, on the third night, Paul Schafer came to the last test, the one that was always failed, the opening. Where the Kings of Brennin or those coming in their name, found that the courage to be there, the strength to endure, even love of their land were none of them enough. On the Tree, one could no longer hide from the living or the dead, from one's own soul. Naked or not at all, one went to Mornir. And oh, that was too much for them, too hard to be forced to go into the darkest places then, so weak, so impossibly vulnerable.
And they would let go, brave Kings of the sword, wise ones, gallant Princes, all would turn away from so much nakedness and die too soon.
But not that night. Because of pride, of pure stubbornness, and because, most surely, of the dog, Paul Schafer found the courage not to turn. Down he went. Arrow of the God. So open the wind could pass, light shine through him. Last door.
And so, though I may not turn again, may I have the courage to face the last door, and come before God fully stripped, vulnerable, so open that the wind may pass and light shine through me.
Amen.
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
I tend to refer to myself as a 'Catholick Loki' - generally the rebel, but with odd snaps into complete orthodoxy that often make my clerical friends' heads snap right back.
Ash Wednesday is one of those days. I will always insist, as today’s psalm and reading from Joel do, that one’s internal world must be in order before the external can hope for any kind of meaning. On Ash Wednesday, however, I will insist on ritual, with its rich symbolism, to frame and outwardly express what is happening in my internal life and to mark the entry of Catholics, as a community, into the Lenten twilight.
Weeks before, the hunger for life in the Lenten desert begins. I feel the itch I imagine a snake must feel when the time comes to shed – this place feels a bit dry, now where’s a good tree to rub my back up against? Oh damn, now it’s THAT spot. In me, it shows up a restlessness that my nearest friends recognise – perhaps I’m not listening as well; or I’m less present; my faults are in clearer relief – especially my more pugilistic tendencies, as I try to keep all but those closest to me at bay, so I can withdraw to my desert and wrestle with my demons – so I can strip right back to the basics, dropping everything that comes between me and creation; between me and the Creator.
Because I know that time is always time/And place is always and only place/And what is actual is actual only for one time/And only for one place/I rejoice that things are as they are and/I renounce the blessèd face
On Ash Wednesday morning, the alarm is set for somewhere between 5.45 and 6am, so that I can get to the 07.30 mass. My day will begin and end with mass – the first as initiation (I see no point in being ashed lightly or at the end of the day – it is a mark, a reminder of the undertaking); the second, more formal Latin mass to end the day and begin the season. Yes, for some reason, I see Ash Wednesday as a day out of time, belonging to neither Ordinary Time nor Lent, but a day like Yom Kippur or Laila-tul-Qadr – a day that transcends time, space and liturgical season.
Without fail, my eyes open at the end of the REM cycle concluding after 5am, somewhere around 05.25. I lie awake as black lightens to grey (the shade depending on February or March), probing the symbolism of the last dream, slowly moving towards the meaning of Ash Wednesday and the entry into desert time, ruminating on what this season’s struggle might be.
After the stillness, movement as the alarm resounds through the room. Shower, a touch of reading, dressing and out the door for the bus stop, with either T.S. Eliot’s ‘Ash Wednesday’ or ‘Remember that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return’ echoing in my head.
And after the noise, stillness again, as I enter the dark, pre-7.30 mass hush of the Oratory, so still that the rustling as the brethren’s thin breviary pages turn can be heard through the church. The confessional door opens and shuts, doing a brisk trade for this time of the morning, and the church slowly fills as people ready for work in this world make time for the other.
No need to look at the clock, just listen for or look at the brethren, as their distinctive treads converge on the sacristy from their favoured pew positions in church.
The bell, then mass begins with Fr Robert, the provost, presiding as he has almost every 07.30 Ash Wednesday mass since I’ve been here. Collects, readings, gospel, ashing (hopefully heavy and dark, though not so this year) with the stark words, ‘Remember that thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return’, communion and then thrust into the outside world where Ash Wednesday is just another day, a world which insists on one poking one’s head out of the desert recently entered. If one could, one would spend the whole day in church or in retreat to solidify that presence in the desert, so that one could reach out more easily during the 40 days, maintaining the balance, rather than getting jarred out almost immediately on entry.
Will the veiled sister pray for/Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee/Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,time and time, between/Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait/In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray/For children at the gate/Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose…
O my people, what have I done unto thee.
Though Ash Wednesday is a time for ritual, there is room to bend: though I may prefer my main meal to be after sunset, since we have a community meal at work, I will make lunch my main meal; if I go to a house where meat is offered, I will not refuse, though I will take less. After all, it is only as an aid to and mark of inner change that rules make any sense at all.
And despite the need for ritual, there must also be time for critical thought and introspection: I disagree with the sentence, “We are striving for God’s love,” knowing that it has always been given freely to me, though I put barriers between it and myself, afraid of what it offers if it touches me. I disagree with ‘sin’ as the problem, believing that the real root is fear, for I know that it is fear, and the experience that gave rise to it, which prevents me from knowing and feeling the love of my friends and sometimes means I assume that they will choose to hurt me. If I feel so with my friends - those I can see, touch and exchange conversation with - how much more so God, with whom I can do none of these things? My sense is that this is not about overcoming sin, but of aiming for that perfect love to cast out fear – and that our best chance is to strip down in the desert, like layers of varnish removed to reveal the beauty of the wood beneath.
Perhaps this need to keep one’s feet in the desert, yet reach out of it, is the reason for the second longer, more formal mass – it allows for full re-entry into the stark beauty, feet on hot sand once again; a chance to unwind and re-collect ourselves after a day spent in a non-Ash Wednesday world. A chance to ground properly and put deep roots into the desert – roots that remain long after Lent is over and Easter has begun, because we must re-enter the desert in the rhythm of our own cycles, not just the liturgical ones offered us.
And so, I set foot in the desert this Lent – set foot to find I know not what, but to follow the only theology I know, best espoused in this passage by Guy Gavriel Kay in his book The Summer Tree:
And he understood then, finally: understood that it had to be naked, truly so, that one went to the God. It was the Tree, stripping him down, layer by layer, down to what he was hiding from...
He was the Arrow now. The Arrow on the Tree, of Mornir, and he was to be given naked or not at all.
And so, on the third night, Paul Schafer came to the last test, the one that was always failed, the opening. Where the Kings of Brennin or those coming in their name, found that the courage to be there, the strength to endure, even love of their land were none of them enough. On the Tree, one could no longer hide from the living or the dead, from one's own soul. Naked or not at all, one went to Mornir. And oh, that was too much for them, too hard to be forced to go into the darkest places then, so weak, so impossibly vulnerable.
And they would let go, brave Kings of the sword, wise ones, gallant Princes, all would turn away from so much nakedness and die too soon.
But not that night. Because of pride, of pure stubbornness, and because, most surely, of the dog, Paul Schafer found the courage not to turn. Down he went. Arrow of the God. So open the wind could pass, light shine through him. Last door.
And so, though I may not turn again, may I have the courage to face the last door, and come before God fully stripped, vulnerable, so open that the wind may pass and light shine through me.
Amen.
Thursday, 21 January 2010
On reconnecting and being told like it is
My friend Rema got back in touch a few weeks ago, and over the last couple of days, we've...exchanged opinions on burqas, not necessarily in the calmest of fashion on my part, to be fair. Suddenly, after I made Rema's status, a familiar name from the era of maxis and big collars popped up and I HAD to answer. My heart leapt: "OMG, it's Aunty Farida!"
Aunty Farida is related to Rema by blood, but was a friend of my family. I remember her being glam and hip - she still looks it - envying her long hair, her freedom, her utter coolness - ooh, and that RICH alto voice. And her husband, Uncle Akhtar, used to draw for me, and that totally rocked my world. I was spellbound - I was amazed someone could do that so...easily.
Aunty friended me whilst I was dealing with some 'she's crazy' (true)/'she should know some real Muslims' (I do) comments on Rema's status, with a 'Irim, I don't know if you remember me...'
Oh please. Like I could forget.
As I was typing on her wall, a chat window popped up, and off we went. Immediately, I felt surrounded by her love and warmth, totally safe, and the edge that everyone but those closest to me see just disappeared. I felt like a hedgehog whose prickles just flattened.
Finally, we got to the parent thing. And as proof that you can take the girls out of the Punjab, but not the Punjab out of the girls, it went a bit like this:
Farida: Yeh! it is good advice. Nothing can be so wrong to warrant this. You do need to talk to your mom. God forbid, if something happened to her, you will regret it for the rest of your life. So "fix it before it's too late".
Irim: *Grins* I so knew it wouldn't take you long to call it like you saw it.
If you're not Punjabi, I make you an honorary one - that was worthy of someone from Okara... ;) Ja, I know - and your kids are so lucky to have you
Farida: I am Punjabi. The guilt trip always works. [future status update]
Irim: AUNTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Darn it, I fell for it again
Farida: Next time I talk to you, I hope you will tell me you have already spoken to your mom. I love you XXXX
Irim: My mother is a travel agent for them! Love you too xxxxxxxxxxx
Farida: For the guilt trip? HA HA HA. We all mothers are alike. When you become one, you'll be the same, don't worry. [Also future status update with previous few lines] Have to go now. Hope to hear the good news soon. Love you xxxxxxx
And she does, pure and simple. When she later said, "You are like my daughter," I believed every one of those five words.
Was she blunt? Yes. But the love and support that held me as she said it, the 'I am here for you as you are' allowed me to hear it without prejudice.
She reminded me that the truth told in love is more powerful than almost anything else.
I can't even begin to know how much will change yet, but change it will.
Love changes everything.
Aunty Farida is related to Rema by blood, but was a friend of my family. I remember her being glam and hip - she still looks it - envying her long hair, her freedom, her utter coolness - ooh, and that RICH alto voice. And her husband, Uncle Akhtar, used to draw for me, and that totally rocked my world. I was spellbound - I was amazed someone could do that so...easily.
Aunty friended me whilst I was dealing with some 'she's crazy' (true)/'she should know some real Muslims' (I do) comments on Rema's status, with a 'Irim, I don't know if you remember me...'
Oh please. Like I could forget.
As I was typing on her wall, a chat window popped up, and off we went. Immediately, I felt surrounded by her love and warmth, totally safe, and the edge that everyone but those closest to me see just disappeared. I felt like a hedgehog whose prickles just flattened.
Finally, we got to the parent thing. And as proof that you can take the girls out of the Punjab, but not the Punjab out of the girls, it went a bit like this:
Farida: Yeh! it is good advice. Nothing can be so wrong to warrant this. You do need to talk to your mom. God forbid, if something happened to her, you will regret it for the rest of your life. So "fix it before it's too late".
Irim: *Grins* I so knew it wouldn't take you long to call it like you saw it.
If you're not Punjabi, I make you an honorary one - that was worthy of someone from Okara... ;) Ja, I know - and your kids are so lucky to have you
Farida: I am Punjabi. The guilt trip always works. [future status update]
Irim: AUNTY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Darn it, I fell for it again
Farida: Next time I talk to you, I hope you will tell me you have already spoken to your mom. I love you XXXX
Irim: My mother is a travel agent for them! Love you too xxxxxxxxxxx
Farida: For the guilt trip? HA HA HA. We all mothers are alike. When you become one, you'll be the same, don't worry. [Also future status update with previous few lines] Have to go now. Hope to hear the good news soon. Love you xxxxxxx
And she does, pure and simple. When she later said, "You are like my daughter," I believed every one of those five words.
Was she blunt? Yes. But the love and support that held me as she said it, the 'I am here for you as you are' allowed me to hear it without prejudice.
She reminded me that the truth told in love is more powerful than almost anything else.
I can't even begin to know how much will change yet, but change it will.
Love changes everything.
Monday, 4 January 2010
My 2010 resolution - Living consciously
There was a man back in '95
Whose heart ran out of summers
But before he died, I asked him
Wait, what's the sense in life
Come over me, Come over me
He said,
Son why you got to sing that tune
Catch a Dylan song or some eclipse of the moon
Let an angel swing and make you swoon
Then you will see... You will see
I was waiting for one of my favourite programmes - "Criminal Minds" - to come on. Paul McKenna's "I can make you thin" is on beforehand, so I figured I'd watch it.
I'm hooked.
Now, I'm not in the market for losing TOO much weight - I love my cleavage - but I do need to lose some, and I do want to tone up. I'd like to be able to wear a sari unselfconsciously. It'll take work, but I'm not one for putting a huge amount of work into it.
Paul McKenna had four simple rules:
1. Eat when you're hungry. Physically hungry - and bear in mind that 75% of the time that you think you're hungry, you're probably dehydrated - so try drinking water first.
2. Eat what you want - No argument there :-).
3. Eat consciously. Put your fork down. Eat slowly. Savour what you eat. He did a fascinating experiment where he blindfolded people eating breakfast in a cafe, so they really had to focus on what they were eating - and they ate considerably less. Ditto the people he asked to sit down and eat at a quarter of their usual speed. They don't miss the 'I'm full' signal and go over into 'I'm sick'. And note that your tastes may change...are you really going to want McD's if you're really TASTING it?
4. Stop when you're full. And remember it can take 15 minutes or so to know that.
Love the rules - will definitely be trying them with food this week and will be ditching the 'Must empty plate' rule.
But I'm going to go further. I'm not just going to eat consciously, I'm going to LIVE consciously.
Try, anyway.
And I started with "Criminal Minds" - I've seen the "Fisher King" double episode once (episode 1 at least twice), but this time, I decided to REALLY watch it. Not fb through it, not talk through it, none of it.
And I LOVED it. I saw things I hadn't seen before, caught nuances of character, snatches of dialogue and El's conversation with her father during her near-death experience was more touching, had more depth. I found myself watching with the wonder of a child, at a level I hadn't experienced before.
If I'm honest, the universe has been really nudging me in this direction - my study partner's ability to nudge unexpected answers out of me; Vivian saying, "Don't assume it's the obvious answer,"; discovering the unexpected when I thought I knew the pattern; being told over and over again to sit with raw emotions and events rather than trying to make sense of things too soon.
Not living consciously, imposing patterns too early are ways of avoiding the unknown and life's mystery. It's a way of being certain of things - something I slam religious folk for over and over again. Hmmm, wonder why. Couldn't POSSIBLY be my shadow, could it? Yes, very often I have a right to be angry - but too often, I'm not going deeply enough to find out why I am SO angry. I cast a rather large shadow: I think it's time we got to be best friends.
There are secrets that we still have left to find
There have been mysteries from the beginning of time
There are answers we're not wise enough to see
To find, we must seek - which means being present - emotionally, physically, spiritually.
So this year, I'm going to try to be present, live consciously and not just react: at work, at church (that will be the hardest), with friends, at home. I've been lazy and playing out too many patterns. If a sermon bothers me, I'm going to ask why, what it's really about. If an interaction is bothering me, instead of pulling out my big guns, I'm going to try to stop and listen - to the other and to my heart. If I'm feeling raw emotion, instead of imposing order, I'm going to see what arises from the chaos.
Son for all I've told you
When you get right down to the
Reason for the world...
Who am I?
I'll see where it takes me, but I already know the sense of joy and rightness I get when I am truly present - holding a baby, listening to a friend, on my counselling course, writing, those unexpected moments of beauty the world offers us. Already, one thing that's arising from this resolution and my time in the land of the dark sun is a sense of purpose:
I guess we're big and I guess we're small
If you think about it man you know we got it all
Cause we're all we got on this bouncing ball
And I love you free
I love you freely
Here's a riddle for you
Find the Answer -
There's a reason for the world,
You and I
(song lyrics - The Riddle by Five for the fighting)
Whose heart ran out of summers
But before he died, I asked him
Wait, what's the sense in life
Come over me, Come over me
He said,
Son why you got to sing that tune
Catch a Dylan song or some eclipse of the moon
Let an angel swing and make you swoon
Then you will see... You will see
I was waiting for one of my favourite programmes - "Criminal Minds" - to come on. Paul McKenna's "I can make you thin" is on beforehand, so I figured I'd watch it.
I'm hooked.
Now, I'm not in the market for losing TOO much weight - I love my cleavage - but I do need to lose some, and I do want to tone up. I'd like to be able to wear a sari unselfconsciously. It'll take work, but I'm not one for putting a huge amount of work into it.
Paul McKenna had four simple rules:
1. Eat when you're hungry. Physically hungry - and bear in mind that 75% of the time that you think you're hungry, you're probably dehydrated - so try drinking water first.
2. Eat what you want - No argument there :-).
3. Eat consciously. Put your fork down. Eat slowly. Savour what you eat. He did a fascinating experiment where he blindfolded people eating breakfast in a cafe, so they really had to focus on what they were eating - and they ate considerably less. Ditto the people he asked to sit down and eat at a quarter of their usual speed. They don't miss the 'I'm full' signal and go over into 'I'm sick'. And note that your tastes may change...are you really going to want McD's if you're really TASTING it?
4. Stop when you're full. And remember it can take 15 minutes or so to know that.
Love the rules - will definitely be trying them with food this week and will be ditching the 'Must empty plate' rule.
But I'm going to go further. I'm not just going to eat consciously, I'm going to LIVE consciously.
Try, anyway.
And I started with "Criminal Minds" - I've seen the "Fisher King" double episode once (episode 1 at least twice), but this time, I decided to REALLY watch it. Not fb through it, not talk through it, none of it.
And I LOVED it. I saw things I hadn't seen before, caught nuances of character, snatches of dialogue and El's conversation with her father during her near-death experience was more touching, had more depth. I found myself watching with the wonder of a child, at a level I hadn't experienced before.
If I'm honest, the universe has been really nudging me in this direction - my study partner's ability to nudge unexpected answers out of me; Vivian saying, "Don't assume it's the obvious answer,"; discovering the unexpected when I thought I knew the pattern; being told over and over again to sit with raw emotions and events rather than trying to make sense of things too soon.
Not living consciously, imposing patterns too early are ways of avoiding the unknown and life's mystery. It's a way of being certain of things - something I slam religious folk for over and over again. Hmmm, wonder why. Couldn't POSSIBLY be my shadow, could it? Yes, very often I have a right to be angry - but too often, I'm not going deeply enough to find out why I am SO angry. I cast a rather large shadow: I think it's time we got to be best friends.
There are secrets that we still have left to find
There have been mysteries from the beginning of time
There are answers we're not wise enough to see
To find, we must seek - which means being present - emotionally, physically, spiritually.
So this year, I'm going to try to be present, live consciously and not just react: at work, at church (that will be the hardest), with friends, at home. I've been lazy and playing out too many patterns. If a sermon bothers me, I'm going to ask why, what it's really about. If an interaction is bothering me, instead of pulling out my big guns, I'm going to try to stop and listen - to the other and to my heart. If I'm feeling raw emotion, instead of imposing order, I'm going to see what arises from the chaos.
Son for all I've told you
When you get right down to the
Reason for the world...
Who am I?
I'll see where it takes me, but I already know the sense of joy and rightness I get when I am truly present - holding a baby, listening to a friend, on my counselling course, writing, those unexpected moments of beauty the world offers us. Already, one thing that's arising from this resolution and my time in the land of the dark sun is a sense of purpose:
I guess we're big and I guess we're small
If you think about it man you know we got it all
Cause we're all we got on this bouncing ball
And I love you free
I love you freely
Here's a riddle for you
Find the Answer -
There's a reason for the world,
You and I
(song lyrics - The Riddle by Five for the fighting)
Monday, 21 December 2009
Solstice reflections
It's the solstice where, being a twilight/night girl, I mourn the return to lengthening days - though I won't mind them until it's still light at 7.30-8pm, which just feels so wrong.
But it's also a marker of the dark night of the soul, one that I've been going through for a while now. Not always depressive, though sometimes so, but lit by what Julia Kristeva would refer to as 'the black sun', a 'dark luminosity' - something deeper, something more, than what the author of the book I'm reading, Thomas Moore, would call 'naive sunshine'.
Whilst in this land lit by the black sun - a land with which I have a deep affinity, one that offers me the kind of light by which I prefer to navigate - I 'm realising that whilst I've travelled it, I'm not sure I really KNOW it. I'm not sure I've explored it, though I know the landmarks I've passed on my way through to somewhere else.
It's a land that I love, but I fear I don't know it as well as I thought I did. This time, I'm going to wrap myself in this land of half-light and numinosity and learn it, know it by heart as I know those places I consider home. This is my home too, perhaps the one that is most real.
I'm loving my re-read of Thomas Moore's "Dark Nights of the Soul" - I didn't quite speed through it the first time, but I loved the language so much and kept thinking 'Yes!' so often, that I don't think I absorbed it properly. This time I'm relaxing into it, musing, allowing it to sink into my bones.
There will be several posts on Moore's book, I think, reflecting on different parts of this Land of the Black Sun.
Today? One of my biggest struggles: religion, spirituality, God...my inner intuition vs. my outer experience/sense and my struggle to bring the two together, to be able to follow my heart, yet walk with fellow pilgrims on the way. It's a struggle that can bring out the absolute worst in me in a way only my family can.
Which suggests, perhaps, that it is a seminal struggle and one that can and will be immensely fruitful. I'm less certain that being somewhere comfortable would be quite as good for my spiritual health.
More and more, I find I'm missing the darkness in God and religion. It's...too bright, glittering, blinding - God is all good and God is all love - but if God is THE Creator, the one from whom all other things emanate, then darkness must be a part of who God is. As must Lucifer's pride, Kali's destruction, suffering, hate, anger, vengeance - all those things we find in ourselves as images, reflections, of the Creator.
I love Holy Week, especially the Vigil, but hate Easter morning. I love the Midnight mass approaching this Thursday night/Friday morning, but shy away from Christmas morning. I'm not sure why. In the light, it's too much: the glare eliminates texture, subtlety, nuance. It never feels quite right.
Even when people talk about Jesus saving them, pulling them out of darkness, I wonder - what if that's not Jesus' purpose? What if he's simply meant to be with you whilst you explore your land of the Black Sun, not rescue you from it? Love isn't about rescue from places we find uncomfortable. Love is about being present, offering strength and holding the space whilst we discover the gifts our personal land of the Black Sun has to offer.
And maybe God's love isn't so facile as so much religious imagery makes it - there is hard compassion in failing a student when passing them would only set them up for disaster later or in a wolf mother killing her mortally wounded pup (from Pinkola-Estes); there is true love in telling someone that they are losing their integrity; there is true intimacy in the dark moments of grief and pain shared.
Do you genuinely believe that someone who constantly tells you how utterly amazing you are and how perfect you are really *loves* you? How can they? They can't see YOU - you're not perfect, no one is. And honestly, we're not working towards perfection. We're working towards wholeness - which is what God is. Whole. It's so much more than perfect. Only someone who knows you in your darkness, someone who can sit with you in it, who can both say, "You're amazing," "You can be a REAL bitch, you know that? You were out of order," and who can hold you through the darkest nights of your soul can truly claim to love you.
But we so often believe that love is a mirror reflecting and affirming us. Agreement isn't love; it's just agreement. Fulsome praise is just fulsome praise. Fawning is just fawning - and the latter two have more to do with self-interest than love. And so often, that's what we want our God - Jesus, Allah, whoever - to give us. We make God in our image, not the other way around.
Moore's thoughts on religion during a dark night begins to articulate my struggle, my feelings:
Religion, too, often avoids the dark by hiding behind platitiudes and false assurances. NOthing is more irrelevant than feeble religious piousness in the face of stark, life-threatening darkness. Religion tends to sentimentalize the light and demonize the darkness. If you turn to spirituality to find only a positive and wholesome attitude, you are using spirituality to avoid life's dark beauty. Religion easily becomes a defense and avoidance. Of course, this is not the purpose of religion, and the religious traditions of the world, full of beautifully stated wisdom, are your best source of guidance in the dark. But there is real religion and there is the empty shell of religion. Know the difference. Your life is at stake.
--Moore, Thomas. Dark Nights of the Soul: a guide to finding your way through life's ordeals. London: Piatkus, 2004, p. 15
It is indeed. Moore goes on to say that "Flight from the dark infantilizes your spirituality, because dark nights of the soul are meant to initiate you into spiritual adulthood...[t]he spiritual life is both deep and transcendent." (p. 15)
Flight from the dark, in the end, puts your life at stake - because you never grow up, and parts of you in potential, meant to come to full growth, shrivel and die.
That's why I'm not just travelling through this time, or hoping for a divine hand to reach down and pull me out.
I'm hoping for divine presence, and occasionally, through the people who can hold me in my darkness, I'm sure I feel the brush of a wing against my cheek. Thank you for meeting me here; it means more than you'll ever know.
I know there are those who would will my emergence back into bright sunshine, believing it best, and I love you for it. But not just yet - I need to explore this part of my home. Be with me if you can - but if not, that's ok too.
Just remember that I'm not here because I want to die...
...but because I want to live.
But it's also a marker of the dark night of the soul, one that I've been going through for a while now. Not always depressive, though sometimes so, but lit by what Julia Kristeva would refer to as 'the black sun', a 'dark luminosity' - something deeper, something more, than what the author of the book I'm reading, Thomas Moore, would call 'naive sunshine'.
Whilst in this land lit by the black sun - a land with which I have a deep affinity, one that offers me the kind of light by which I prefer to navigate - I 'm realising that whilst I've travelled it, I'm not sure I really KNOW it. I'm not sure I've explored it, though I know the landmarks I've passed on my way through to somewhere else.
It's a land that I love, but I fear I don't know it as well as I thought I did. This time, I'm going to wrap myself in this land of half-light and numinosity and learn it, know it by heart as I know those places I consider home. This is my home too, perhaps the one that is most real.
I'm loving my re-read of Thomas Moore's "Dark Nights of the Soul" - I didn't quite speed through it the first time, but I loved the language so much and kept thinking 'Yes!' so often, that I don't think I absorbed it properly. This time I'm relaxing into it, musing, allowing it to sink into my bones.
There will be several posts on Moore's book, I think, reflecting on different parts of this Land of the Black Sun.
Today? One of my biggest struggles: religion, spirituality, God...my inner intuition vs. my outer experience/sense and my struggle to bring the two together, to be able to follow my heart, yet walk with fellow pilgrims on the way. It's a struggle that can bring out the absolute worst in me in a way only my family can.
Which suggests, perhaps, that it is a seminal struggle and one that can and will be immensely fruitful. I'm less certain that being somewhere comfortable would be quite as good for my spiritual health.
More and more, I find I'm missing the darkness in God and religion. It's...too bright, glittering, blinding - God is all good and God is all love - but if God is THE Creator, the one from whom all other things emanate, then darkness must be a part of who God is. As must Lucifer's pride, Kali's destruction, suffering, hate, anger, vengeance - all those things we find in ourselves as images, reflections, of the Creator.
I love Holy Week, especially the Vigil, but hate Easter morning. I love the Midnight mass approaching this Thursday night/Friday morning, but shy away from Christmas morning. I'm not sure why. In the light, it's too much: the glare eliminates texture, subtlety, nuance. It never feels quite right.
Even when people talk about Jesus saving them, pulling them out of darkness, I wonder - what if that's not Jesus' purpose? What if he's simply meant to be with you whilst you explore your land of the Black Sun, not rescue you from it? Love isn't about rescue from places we find uncomfortable. Love is about being present, offering strength and holding the space whilst we discover the gifts our personal land of the Black Sun has to offer.
And maybe God's love isn't so facile as so much religious imagery makes it - there is hard compassion in failing a student when passing them would only set them up for disaster later or in a wolf mother killing her mortally wounded pup (from Pinkola-Estes); there is true love in telling someone that they are losing their integrity; there is true intimacy in the dark moments of grief and pain shared.
Do you genuinely believe that someone who constantly tells you how utterly amazing you are and how perfect you are really *loves* you? How can they? They can't see YOU - you're not perfect, no one is. And honestly, we're not working towards perfection. We're working towards wholeness - which is what God is. Whole. It's so much more than perfect. Only someone who knows you in your darkness, someone who can sit with you in it, who can both say, "You're amazing," "You can be a REAL bitch, you know that? You were out of order," and who can hold you through the darkest nights of your soul can truly claim to love you.
But we so often believe that love is a mirror reflecting and affirming us. Agreement isn't love; it's just agreement. Fulsome praise is just fulsome praise. Fawning is just fawning - and the latter two have more to do with self-interest than love. And so often, that's what we want our God - Jesus, Allah, whoever - to give us. We make God in our image, not the other way around.
Moore's thoughts on religion during a dark night begins to articulate my struggle, my feelings:
Religion, too, often avoids the dark by hiding behind platitiudes and false assurances. NOthing is more irrelevant than feeble religious piousness in the face of stark, life-threatening darkness. Religion tends to sentimentalize the light and demonize the darkness. If you turn to spirituality to find only a positive and wholesome attitude, you are using spirituality to avoid life's dark beauty. Religion easily becomes a defense and avoidance. Of course, this is not the purpose of religion, and the religious traditions of the world, full of beautifully stated wisdom, are your best source of guidance in the dark. But there is real religion and there is the empty shell of religion. Know the difference. Your life is at stake.
--Moore, Thomas. Dark Nights of the Soul: a guide to finding your way through life's ordeals. London: Piatkus, 2004, p. 15
It is indeed. Moore goes on to say that "Flight from the dark infantilizes your spirituality, because dark nights of the soul are meant to initiate you into spiritual adulthood...[t]he spiritual life is both deep and transcendent." (p. 15)
Flight from the dark, in the end, puts your life at stake - because you never grow up, and parts of you in potential, meant to come to full growth, shrivel and die.
That's why I'm not just travelling through this time, or hoping for a divine hand to reach down and pull me out.
I'm hoping for divine presence, and occasionally, through the people who can hold me in my darkness, I'm sure I feel the brush of a wing against my cheek. Thank you for meeting me here; it means more than you'll ever know.
I know there are those who would will my emergence back into bright sunshine, believing it best, and I love you for it. But not just yet - I need to explore this part of my home. Be with me if you can - but if not, that's ok too.
Just remember that I'm not here because I want to die...
...but because I want to live.
Monday, 14 December 2009
A Catholic male on female beauty
I got involved in a discussion with the friend of a friend on said friend's plank, oops, I mean wall.
He sent me a message about something I had written, admired my profile pic and asked if it were my tattoo. When I responded I chose it b/c I'm not photogenic and no one should have to suffer a picture of me, he responded:
Thought that would make you laugh! But as for photogenic, that is in the eye of the beholder. I would have turned down Miss World for my wife, and true feminine beauty comes from within, whilst the physique or face may not be classically beautifull the whole face can light up when someone smiles, or they may have such wonderful colourful eyes, or even on older faces the lines set into the face or the silver hair can be elegant or have a warmth. God made us in his image and everyone is beautiful to him.
After having spent far too much time in circles that view women as 3rd class citizens - having to fight to prove myself as good as any man; suffering perpetual mockery; having to deal with men who struggle with my not being 'safe' (married or asexual) - this was balm to the weary soul.
And he's a heterosexual Catholic male. Who likes women. Genuinely likes us. I could weep. His wife is a lucky woman.
Where's the 'Permission to clone humans' bill? I'm ringing my MP to vote 'aye'.
He sent me a message about something I had written, admired my profile pic and asked if it were my tattoo. When I responded I chose it b/c I'm not photogenic and no one should have to suffer a picture of me, he responded:
Thought that would make you laugh! But as for photogenic, that is in the eye of the beholder. I would have turned down Miss World for my wife, and true feminine beauty comes from within, whilst the physique or face may not be classically beautifull the whole face can light up when someone smiles, or they may have such wonderful colourful eyes, or even on older faces the lines set into the face or the silver hair can be elegant or have a warmth. God made us in his image and everyone is beautiful to him.
After having spent far too much time in circles that view women as 3rd class citizens - having to fight to prove myself as good as any man; suffering perpetual mockery; having to deal with men who struggle with my not being 'safe' (married or asexual) - this was balm to the weary soul.
And he's a heterosexual Catholic male. Who likes women. Genuinely likes us. I could weep. His wife is a lucky woman.
Where's the 'Permission to clone humans' bill? I'm ringing my MP to vote 'aye'.
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Ordinary moments, gifts and my grown-up Christmas list
Do you remember me
I sat upon your knee
I wrote to you with childhood fantasies
Well I'm all grown-up now
And still need help somehow
I'm not a child
But my heart still can dream
As a Muslim girl, I never sat upon Santa's knee, but I did childhood fantasies with the best of them. I wrote my angels for the things I thought I wanted: straight As, something nice to wear, the latest must-have. I poured my heart out in the letters that ended up in my father's chest of drawers - with lists that probably equalled many a Christmas list sent to the North Pole. I was desperate as any child on Christmas day for those things to arrive.
Growing up, my world was one where my parents judged people by their position and what they owned; whilst that tendency didn't manifest in me in exactly the same way, it was there: friendships were measured by whether someone remembered to give me a present; if they knew what to give me; how much thought they had given it.
So, as ashamed as I am to admit it, those shiny packages mattered.
As children we believed
The grandest sight to see
Was something lovely
Wrapped beneath our tree
It took years for me to realise that what I really wanted was the freedom to wear that skirt, the freedom to read something other than school books (one of the best pressies I ever got was a LotR set from Larisa and Nicole), the freedom to really be a member of my generation.
Well heaven surely knows
That packages and bows
Can never heal a hurting human soul
And that what I wanted that present to do was reassure me that I was cared for; that I was loved.
Over time, dinners, laughter, glasses of wine at midnight, discussions about the afterlife being a pool room in which you gather with your soul family, became far more precious than a physical gift. Memories, history woven together, time together on the pilgrimage of our lives became a far more potent measure of love and friendship than packages.
I'll always remember a piece by Stephanie Gilliam in the Washington Post on ordinary days: about her walking into the house, calling up to her son, the dog greeting her. And how it struck her in that moment that when the catastrophic happens, when we are in the depths of grief, we don't want to feel rapturous, we just want to feel NORMAL. That we come to realise the real gifts are the ordinary days - the normal interactions with those we know and love, the changes of season, and so on - miss them and you miss your life.
That's what I'd say to the cleric friend of mine who said he didn't get how couples stood the boring parts of marriage (read: ordinary days) - those ordinary days are the building of a joint history through love that isn't always inferno bright, and they are just as, if not more, true than the big moments of a proposal or wedding. They're the days that bring you to the other big moments like the birth of a child or a special anniversary. They're the bricks of the house you build with love. Just like the little touches say far more about the love between a couple than tonsil hockey does.
And the ordinary moments of my friendships are the same - the real heartbeat of our relationships.
Now don't get me wrong - I still love packages and cards, and even more, I love giving them. Yes, I still love bath stuff, etc. I'll never be an ascetic; the sensual will always be one of my pleasures. As will books. But this year, I'm really looking forward to the present of a friend's artwork and poem that I know is coming my way.
Oh, and let's not forget the pleasure of the cards that land on the doormat, with scrawls about how friends are, pictures, design choices that reflect the friend's personality.
This past Friday, I came home, poked my head in the lounge to say "Hi" to Greg, and my eye fell on the post. My heart - and I - smiled as I saw "The infamous Miss Irim Sarwar" on the envelope and the American postmark. My grin grew wider as I turned the envelope over to the side that had, to quote Hyphen, "been attacked with markers."
My laughter mixed with tears as I opened the envelope and first pulled out a drawing of four faeries with blue accents, signed by the artist in a heart: "Love, Lily". Next, I pulled out a drawing of two faeries (one in a flower, one flying) on a sunny day, signed "Love, Ellie". Finally, a water colour, by an up and coming young artist, simply signed "Bazzy".
Greg looked at me curiously, so I handed him each drawing as I pulled it out, almost as if I were a proud aunt. And finally - the card, with pics of all four wee ones, Brad and Hyphen. The message from Hyphen on the back made me well up even more.
That card and those drawings will never see the inside of a recycling bin. My dusty drawers, most certainly, but I'll always have them. As I will the card from Vanya, drawn by her stepdaughter, wishing me a Happy Kristmas.
Simple, but utterly, utterly perfect.
So what do I really want for Christmas? You. An evening or a coffee with you to build more of those moments. (Aside from the above-mentioned gift and the keychain with a picture of Hyphen's Adeline with her WTF expression) Time on IM, time via email exchange or Skype, just *you*. More giggles, tears, and heart-to-hearts - our unique blend of soul-time that weaves another thread into our tapestry.
I want more moments like recent ones: Hazel's 2.9 yr old, Daniel, saying, "Daddy, I love Irim!" on a night that he couldn't possibly have known was one that I needed it most; a 5 week old baby perfectly curled against my shoulder, settling into sleep; a heart-to-heart with Dani on Friday; being able to lean against Dom today.
Those are my greatest, dearest gifts - you - all of you. I love you.
But if you want to know what the other things on my list are, well, here you go:
So here's my lifelong wish
My grown-up Christmas list
Not for myself
But for a world in need
No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
Everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end
This is my grown-up Christmas list
Chanukkah sameach, Happy Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa and a blessed end to the noughties (damn, I loved saying that!) and start to the teens for all of us.
Every one.
I sat upon your knee
I wrote to you with childhood fantasies
Well I'm all grown-up now
And still need help somehow
I'm not a child
But my heart still can dream
As a Muslim girl, I never sat upon Santa's knee, but I did childhood fantasies with the best of them. I wrote my angels for the things I thought I wanted: straight As, something nice to wear, the latest must-have. I poured my heart out in the letters that ended up in my father's chest of drawers - with lists that probably equalled many a Christmas list sent to the North Pole. I was desperate as any child on Christmas day for those things to arrive.
Growing up, my world was one where my parents judged people by their position and what they owned; whilst that tendency didn't manifest in me in exactly the same way, it was there: friendships were measured by whether someone remembered to give me a present; if they knew what to give me; how much thought they had given it.
So, as ashamed as I am to admit it, those shiny packages mattered.
As children we believed
The grandest sight to see
Was something lovely
Wrapped beneath our tree
It took years for me to realise that what I really wanted was the freedom to wear that skirt, the freedom to read something other than school books (one of the best pressies I ever got was a LotR set from Larisa and Nicole), the freedom to really be a member of my generation.
Well heaven surely knows
That packages and bows
Can never heal a hurting human soul
And that what I wanted that present to do was reassure me that I was cared for; that I was loved.
Over time, dinners, laughter, glasses of wine at midnight, discussions about the afterlife being a pool room in which you gather with your soul family, became far more precious than a physical gift. Memories, history woven together, time together on the pilgrimage of our lives became a far more potent measure of love and friendship than packages.
I'll always remember a piece by Stephanie Gilliam in the Washington Post on ordinary days: about her walking into the house, calling up to her son, the dog greeting her. And how it struck her in that moment that when the catastrophic happens, when we are in the depths of grief, we don't want to feel rapturous, we just want to feel NORMAL. That we come to realise the real gifts are the ordinary days - the normal interactions with those we know and love, the changes of season, and so on - miss them and you miss your life.
That's what I'd say to the cleric friend of mine who said he didn't get how couples stood the boring parts of marriage (read: ordinary days) - those ordinary days are the building of a joint history through love that isn't always inferno bright, and they are just as, if not more, true than the big moments of a proposal or wedding. They're the days that bring you to the other big moments like the birth of a child or a special anniversary. They're the bricks of the house you build with love. Just like the little touches say far more about the love between a couple than tonsil hockey does.
And the ordinary moments of my friendships are the same - the real heartbeat of our relationships.
Now don't get me wrong - I still love packages and cards, and even more, I love giving them. Yes, I still love bath stuff, etc. I'll never be an ascetic; the sensual will always be one of my pleasures. As will books. But this year, I'm really looking forward to the present of a friend's artwork and poem that I know is coming my way.
Oh, and let's not forget the pleasure of the cards that land on the doormat, with scrawls about how friends are, pictures, design choices that reflect the friend's personality.
This past Friday, I came home, poked my head in the lounge to say "Hi" to Greg, and my eye fell on the post. My heart - and I - smiled as I saw "The infamous Miss Irim Sarwar" on the envelope and the American postmark. My grin grew wider as I turned the envelope over to the side that had, to quote Hyphen, "been attacked with markers."
My laughter mixed with tears as I opened the envelope and first pulled out a drawing of four faeries with blue accents, signed by the artist in a heart: "Love, Lily". Next, I pulled out a drawing of two faeries (one in a flower, one flying) on a sunny day, signed "Love, Ellie". Finally, a water colour, by an up and coming young artist, simply signed "Bazzy".
Greg looked at me curiously, so I handed him each drawing as I pulled it out, almost as if I were a proud aunt. And finally - the card, with pics of all four wee ones, Brad and Hyphen. The message from Hyphen on the back made me well up even more.
That card and those drawings will never see the inside of a recycling bin. My dusty drawers, most certainly, but I'll always have them. As I will the card from Vanya, drawn by her stepdaughter, wishing me a Happy Kristmas.
Simple, but utterly, utterly perfect.
So what do I really want for Christmas? You. An evening or a coffee with you to build more of those moments. (Aside from the above-mentioned gift and the keychain with a picture of Hyphen's Adeline with her WTF expression) Time on IM, time via email exchange or Skype, just *you*. More giggles, tears, and heart-to-hearts - our unique blend of soul-time that weaves another thread into our tapestry.
I want more moments like recent ones: Hazel's 2.9 yr old, Daniel, saying, "Daddy, I love Irim!" on a night that he couldn't possibly have known was one that I needed it most; a 5 week old baby perfectly curled against my shoulder, settling into sleep; a heart-to-heart with Dani on Friday; being able to lean against Dom today.
Those are my greatest, dearest gifts - you - all of you. I love you.
But if you want to know what the other things on my list are, well, here you go:
So here's my lifelong wish
My grown-up Christmas list
Not for myself
But for a world in need
No more lives torn apart
That wars would never start
And time would heal all hearts
Everyone would have a friend
And right would always win
And love would never end
This is my grown-up Christmas list
Chanukkah sameach, Happy Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa and a blessed end to the noughties (damn, I loved saying that!) and start to the teens for all of us.
Every one.
Saturday, 5 December 2009
Obsession
At 13.45 on Thursday, 3 December 2009, I paused in the cool, dark entryway to the house of those who once ran the Inquisition; the place I'd once worked cataloguing books old and new. A place of sanctuary from the hustle and bustle only feet away. A home away from home, and the home of some of those clerics dear to me who will be filling the sanctuary at my funeral one day.
But today wasn't about the Church, or religion, or anything to do with the clergy.
This moment was about coming home to myself.
I opened my rucksack and took out the box I knew I was going to buy the moment I walked into Boots. The plastic crinkled as I ripped it off, and I stroked the familiar, almost velvety box I hadn't owned in well over a year, before opening it and pulling out the bottle that fit perfectly into my hand.
I opened it, sprayed some on my wrist and at the base of my throat, then put the bottle away.
I rubbed my wrists together and inhaled deeply, revelling in the sharp, citrusy top notes that would soon fade into the warm, woody, spicy, rich heart notes that I identify as my signature. A scent I love even 10 hours later when only the base notes of vanilla and musk are left. And suddenly, for the first time in a long time, I was back.
Which? Calvin Klein Obsession. A classic, oriental amber scent (ironically, the same family as my mother's Estee Lauder Ciara, which I hated). For those who are interested, here's the composition:
Top notes: green, mandarin orange, peach, basil, bergamot and lemon.
Heart notes: spices, coriander, sandalwood, orange blossom, jasmine, oakmoss, cedar and rose.
Base notes: amber, musk, civet, vanilla, vetiver and incense.
In 2004, I decided I wanted a signature scent. I knew that mostly citrus would make me smell like a cat's litter box; I'm not floral by nature; I love rich, oriental scents - sandalwood was an absolute must in anything I was looking for; in fact, I wanted it as a base note, which was why I nixed Obsession when I was hunting online.
In the end, I knew I had to just go to Boots and Debenhams and run down the list. Hugo Boss Deep Red was going to be a top choice, till I realised that it reminded me of strawberry jam, with the sandalwood base note nowhere to be seen.
But I kept coming back to Obsession, which I loved when I spritzed it in the air. Finally, I gave in and sprayed it on my wrist. As the top notes faded, I fell in love with the perfect marriage of scent and skin.
On 11 September 2004, it became my scent, the one that at least one man will remember me by. I was never without a bottle until 2007, when suddenly, I just stopped buying it. I stopped wearing lippy to work too.
As a perceptive practitioner put it so well all those weeks ago, "What is someone like you doing here?" Then answered her own question: "Hiding."
The abandonment of lippy and a scent that is thoroughly me would seem to confirm that - both make me noticed and remembered; to stop using one, let alone both, is an unequivocal "Please don't look at me."
No longer. Look at me. I'm real. You, be real. And if you're one of my pack, you can bet I'll be keeping YOU real.
Look out, world, I'm back with an obsession.
For life.
But today wasn't about the Church, or religion, or anything to do with the clergy.
This moment was about coming home to myself.
I opened my rucksack and took out the box I knew I was going to buy the moment I walked into Boots. The plastic crinkled as I ripped it off, and I stroked the familiar, almost velvety box I hadn't owned in well over a year, before opening it and pulling out the bottle that fit perfectly into my hand.
I opened it, sprayed some on my wrist and at the base of my throat, then put the bottle away.
I rubbed my wrists together and inhaled deeply, revelling in the sharp, citrusy top notes that would soon fade into the warm, woody, spicy, rich heart notes that I identify as my signature. A scent I love even 10 hours later when only the base notes of vanilla and musk are left. And suddenly, for the first time in a long time, I was back.
Which? Calvin Klein Obsession. A classic, oriental amber scent (ironically, the same family as my mother's Estee Lauder Ciara, which I hated). For those who are interested, here's the composition:
Top notes: green, mandarin orange, peach, basil, bergamot and lemon.
Heart notes: spices, coriander, sandalwood, orange blossom, jasmine, oakmoss, cedar and rose.
Base notes: amber, musk, civet, vanilla, vetiver and incense.
In 2004, I decided I wanted a signature scent. I knew that mostly citrus would make me smell like a cat's litter box; I'm not floral by nature; I love rich, oriental scents - sandalwood was an absolute must in anything I was looking for; in fact, I wanted it as a base note, which was why I nixed Obsession when I was hunting online.
In the end, I knew I had to just go to Boots and Debenhams and run down the list. Hugo Boss Deep Red was going to be a top choice, till I realised that it reminded me of strawberry jam, with the sandalwood base note nowhere to be seen.
But I kept coming back to Obsession, which I loved when I spritzed it in the air. Finally, I gave in and sprayed it on my wrist. As the top notes faded, I fell in love with the perfect marriage of scent and skin.
On 11 September 2004, it became my scent, the one that at least one man will remember me by. I was never without a bottle until 2007, when suddenly, I just stopped buying it. I stopped wearing lippy to work too.
As a perceptive practitioner put it so well all those weeks ago, "What is someone like you doing here?" Then answered her own question: "Hiding."
The abandonment of lippy and a scent that is thoroughly me would seem to confirm that - both make me noticed and remembered; to stop using one, let alone both, is an unequivocal "Please don't look at me."
No longer. Look at me. I'm real. You, be real. And if you're one of my pack, you can bet I'll be keeping YOU real.
Look out, world, I'm back with an obsession.
For life.
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Night spirit
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.
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.
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."
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