A dream of Rome, a carnival and crossing the Tiber...

...or not.

Last night, I dreamt that I was at a carnival in Rome with my work crew (so non-Catholics, with the exception of G).

Rome was bright, sunny and warm - and in the dream, completely divided by the Tiber. No bridges across from one side to the other; the only way across was by ferry, which didn't run very often, and if you missed it, you were out of luck. We were on the higher side with a better view, but there was a catch to that: you couldn't leave the city. The high road was a dead end, and to leave, you had to take the ferry across to the lower end and proceed to the exit.

The carnival was unsettling - I had the sense it had a Catholic theme, e.g., Mardi Gras (but wasn't). It *appeared* normal, with the colourful masks and costumes, but it *felt* wrong. I expected Pennywise the Clown to appear at any moment, but seemed to be the only one feeling uneasy. We picnicked along the Tiber, wandered, everyone else seemed happy, whilst I felt vigilant. [This is an early analysis, but I suspect part of the unsettledness was that this was somewhere I'd expect my close Catholic/clerical friends to be, and if they were at all, we were separated and unable to reach each other.]

The carnival ended, and I pushed for us to leave sooner rather than later, sensing something wasn't right. People dithered a bit, but in time to make the last ferry - just.

If, that is, it hadn't gotten stuck in the middle of the river under an old (unsafe) bridge.

There was a rope hanging just within reach, so I grabbed it to see if I could swing to the ferry and work out what to do from there. No go, it was just short, so back to the bank, standing in the shadow with my work colleagues to think.

We went back to a house we'd been using, and the librarian and his wife, who'd taken an earlier ferry over and back to buy things, popped round. I asked, 'Why didn't you just GO? Why did you come back here?'

I decided we were going to walk up the road and see what we could do - I knew cars got across somehow, through police manned, alarmed barriers, and I was going to argue our right to walk through them and get out, because of the ferry mishap. We headed off with me in the lead, arguing with police - who, interestingly, were dressed as Swiss guards - and they simply replied, 'Rules are rules.'

My response? "!@£$%^&*()(*&^%$£ statutory law v case law. Circumstances MATTER."

I tried to sneak through an alarmed barrier, as all my work peops shouted, 'IRIM!' in horror. I came back through and we ended up in the little guardhouse, where I took charge and spoke Spanish whilst they spoke Italian, so we understood each other, mostly.

Finally, at the end of my wits, I begged them to open up and allow people off 'Por Dios!' and then 'Por Roma!' - neither of which garnered much of a reaction. But then I remembered the most basic tenet of the faith I follow:

How do you get through to a Catholic male?

'POR *LA MADRE* DE DIOS!'

That got a reaction, as I looked out the window and saw swarms of Catholics moving up towards the barriers, some looking like zombies, others looking as if they were waking from a long dream.

Then, I knew. And I turned to them and said, with all the certainty of Teiresias or Cassandra:

"The people are coming. If I were you, I would move. NOW."

Tonglen in the Lady chapel

It's an open secret that whenever I get a chance, I slip into the Lady Chapel for a few minutes at lunch to light a candle and say a quick prayer.

This afternoon, unusually, I was on my own, so I decided to try something different. As I've mentioned recently, I've been reading Pema Chodron's When things fall apart and The places that scare you (with a strong preference for the second) - and the first was on loan the minute I finished it. Brilliant, brilliant books - and they've totally transformed my spiritual practice.

There are different ways of using the practice, but the structure is always the same: you stop and find a moment of stillness/spaciousness; then you explore and work with the texture of the feeling you are going to breathe in - which is most often a negative, such as fear, anger, doubt, claustrophobia - whatever is there; you begin with yourself or someone you love; you make the circle bigger: yourself ==> someone you love ==> someone neutral ==> someone difficult ==> all beings. You breathe in the pain and breathe out spaciousness (or anything that would be healing/calming - I've been known to breathe out coffee, as did one of Pema's students, and chocolate!)

You can do it for your suffering and difficult feelings at the moment, initially breathing in your feelings, exploring them, holding them in maitri - or loving kindness and compassion for yourself - and then breathing for all those feeling like you at the moment and expanding the circle. You can do it for another's suffering and all those like them. That is classic tonglen.

But you can do it for all or any of the following, known as the four immeasurable truths - Love, compassion, joy and equanimity - these are the classic phrasings, though I've been known to change them. Use what holds the essence and works:

May all beings enjoy happiness and the root of happiness.
May they be free from suffering and the root of suffering.
May they not be separated from the great happiness devoid of suffering.
May they dwell in the great equanimity free from passion, aggression and prejudice.*
*I actually think that living our lives fully requires passion, so I specify it as 'passion that gives rise to aggression'.

Today, for me, smouldering over Glenn Beck and other things, Door #2 - 'free from suffering and the root of all suffering' was the right answer.

God was clearly smiling down on me, as when I got to Taylors, there were plenty of pastrami and emmental sandwiches left, so I grabbed one and headed into the cool semi-darkness of church, and the deeper sub-darkness of the Lady chapel. I didn't light a candle and stand or even pace as I prayed, as is my usual wont. I sat down and started to breathe.

May I be free of suffering and the root of all suffering.

*Squirm* I absolutely HATE praying for myself. And I DO mean *HATE*. Three breaths was pushing it, four was too far, but I stayed with it.

May he be free of suffering and the root of all suffering.

A good friend I'm really worried about. I could have stayed with that one for ages, but did it till it felt complete and moved on to neutral:

May the people in this church at this moment be free from suffering and the root of all suffering.

No resistance, only slight connection, but a disinterested kind of well-wishing. Ok, that's where I am, but need to work up from there to feel more engaged. But where I am is fine. Now for the toughie:

May Glenn Beck be free from suffering and the root of all suffering. No, edit that, may Glenn Beck and the Tea Partiers be free from suffering and the root of all suffering.

Resistance but managed to slip past it. Just as I was feeling spiritually smug, a voice whispered, 'It's easy when it's abstract. Pick someone you know.' Allah damn it. Just when I thought I was home free...ok, you pussy, woman up. Who's it going to be? Ah, yes. Someone who reminds me of a controlling mother.

May SHE be free from suffering and the root of all suffering.

NOW it was hard to breathe, the resistance and tension were so high, but I kept pushing - gently, in keeping with maitri, more like stretching, but I finally broke through - and found a compassion for her fear that I'd never expected to find. I'd always known she was afraid, but now I ached for her in her fear, rather than hardening in response to it.

Then I lined us all up and said it for us all together, spreading to Oxford, the South, England, the UK, the world and all beings.

Finally, I stood up and lit a candle to Our Lady. I have NEVER felt so grounded in my own centre, in my own strength. For the first time, I fully understood Kris' words to Talia in Mercy Lackey's Arrow's Flight:

"Ground and centre, greenie!"

In that moment, I fully knew what it felt to have slightly overlapping versions of yourself with fuzzy edges snap into one, with sharp, crisp boundaries. I knew nothing could shake me.

Then I turned around and nearly started laughing - not 5 steps away was a parishioner I find very difficult, because I perceive her as a mother who is 'too good' in the sense of 'this is what good is, let's be it' - and I experience her as very controlling through that 'I'm so good' way. She sets my teeth on edge. I smiled as I passed her and I thought, 'Come on, girl, breathe. Or colloquially, 'SUCK IT UP, BABES. THIS IS YOUR PRACTICAL.'' So I started breathing for her - and it wasn't easy.

Fifteen steps later, I passed by a regular asking for the sacristy key. As I'd just seen the sacristan go up the side with the above parishioner, I poked my head through and said, 'X, the sacristan has just gone up the side.' I got told, in no uncertain terms, to piss off and got totally blanked as he passed me. Normally, that would have led to annoyance, but I knew that was just the way he is, and what I'd done could have been seen as controlling rather than helpful. So now it was time to start breathing for him, as well.

Out the church door and into the sunlight, with an uneventful walk back to the office, also a church. And as soon as I sat down, who should sail to my desk but yet another difficult customer.

By now, I knew the laughing Buddha was glancing cheekily in my direction and was finding it hard to keep from giggling myself. There was no question that Our Lady was laughing richly, Joseph's lips were twitching, and Jesus was grinning like a boy who had just put a whoopee cushion on Mum's favourite chair, as the Father and Holy Spirit looked down and said, 'If you're gonna talk it, hon, you gotta learn to walk it.'

Ain't that THE spiritual truth? Being real?

And so, as I continue to breathe in and out for all of us, this time from Stephen Cope:

May you be protected and safe,
May you feel contented and pleased:
May your body support you with strength -
May your life unfold with ease.

Exodus, slavery and freedom

Every Monday, I have a standing appointment at church, one that has only been interrupted over the last decade by jobs that meant I couldn't get there by 17.15 - and it has absolutely nothing to do with holiness. It does, however, have everything to do with crossword puzzles and deep mutual affection.

My friend, John Lynam, has had the Monday afternoon shift on the Oratory Lodge since its inception - or near enough so. It took us a little while to meet, but once we did, those Monday meetings where we do the Telegraph general knowledge crossword (I have the upper hand here) and the cryptic crossword (I'm getting better, but he still has the upper hand here. However, texting Alexander has always been the way forward - he's downright scary good) were almost as set in stone as the Ten Commandments. This has been interspersed with political and religious chat, as well as my reminding John where things are (years after I had to give up the lodge).

It makes Monday one of the best days of the week.

At around 17.45, he shuts up shop and we scoot into church for the evening mass, which ends with the veneration of St Philip's relic at about 18.35 or so. Occasionally a sermon, usually not, either way it entails discussion such as...

'Fr Richard finished mass in 18 minutes - caught most of the community flat-footed there. I didn't think it was possible!'

Today, we waxed lyrical over the rarely heard EP4 (only Fr JB ever does it, and even he, rarely) and talked about the sermon, which was about Exodus.

The reading was the complaining of the Israelites:

And they said unto Moses, Because there were no graves in Egypt, hast thou taken us away to die in the wilderness? wherefore hast thou dealt thus with us, to carry us forth out of Egypt? Is not this the word that we did tell thee in Egypt, saying, Let us alone, that we may serve the Egyptians? For it had been better for us to serve the Egyptians, than that we should die in the wilderness.

So: it would be better we had died enslaved and certain of what our life was, than to die free, uncertain and responsible for our choices.

The preacher focused on sin, which was understandable - but I think this passage goes far deeper than that; it goes to the core of one of our deepest struggles.

This passage was very synchronous for me. I have recently been reading Stephen Cope's Wisdom of Yoga, Jack Kornfield's A Path with Heart, and most recently, Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart and The Places that Scare You.

Every one of them speaks of understanding uncertainty and groundlessness as part of the path to freedom - that certainty is what we chase to avoid reality - the reality that everything changes and is impermanent, that nothing is certain. I am healthy today, but I could be dead of an aneurysm tomorrow. My world is stable and appears unchanging at the moment, but everything could shift in the blink of an eye. I see myself in a certain way, but even THAT isn't the truth - there are so many parts of me that are hidden and unexplored. One thing I realised yesterday is that the distance I've experienced in intimate relationships mirrors the distance I keep from myself - my whole self.

Freedom is about truth. Freedom is about intimacy - first and foremost with ourselves, and then with others. And freedom is about the certainty of uncertainty - and the adult responsibility of navigating it.

We think our feelings about freedom should be unmitigatedly positive, so we push away any suggestion of fear, struggle, or doubt when it comes to freedom. Of COURSE we want to be free - we wave freedom like a banner. But do we truly understand what it means? Every country that claims freedom is a slave to something: fear, addiction, competition, materialism, being powerful - the list goes on and on.

No, freedom means meeting every situation as it is in the moment, with full awareness, and with our full self (not our limited image of who we are) at our disposal - knowing that even as we make choices, they may not turn out as we planned. People may not stay - they die, they leave, relationships change. Things disappear - and so we must treasure what we do have, even as we do not depend on it for our happiness/joy - even as its presence may bring us great joy. Nor do we use it as a barrier to what scares us or to the truth.

You see, the dirty little secret is that certainty and safety makes us feel better - even as it enslaves us. To quote Kahlil Gibran:

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

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

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

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

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

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

So we grasp and we cling - not because we truly love, but just so that we know for sure, so that we have comfort.

Letting go of certainty doesn't mean we change relationships or our ideas as often as we change our clothes, mistakenly believing that we are being fluid or loving ourselves: staying with what is real, forming a relationship with it and being able to meet uncertainty requires steadfastness, not yet another form of running away.

And so, this inability to admit our mixed feelings about freedom leads us to roll our eyes at the Israelites, perhaps even condemn them, as they complain to Moses and even suggest that they were better off in the land of Egypt. But perhaps we condemn them as vociferously as we do because we know it is our truth - that we would rather go back to the addictions that keep us from true freedom - money, work, unhealthy relationships, unhealthy emotional patterns, drink, drugs, extreme forms of religion or anything that offers us escape or absolute certainty.

Perhaps if we could find compassion for the Israelites, we could find it for ourselves, and begin the long, slow walk to freedom.

In one of my favourite books, My Grandfather's Blessings by Rachel Remen, the young Rachel and her grandfather have the following conversation:

"Are they [the Israelites] very happy [about escaping], Grandpa?"

"No, Neshumeleh, they are not. They told Moses they did not want to go. They asked many questions. Where are we going? Who will feed us? Where will we sleep? Moses was deeply surprised. He could not answer any of these questions and he did not know what to do. How could he tell G-d that after all He had done to make freedom possible, they did not want to go?"

"But they were suffering, Grandpa. Why didn't they want to go?"

"They knew how to suffer," he told me. "They had done it for a long time and they were used to it. They did not know how to be free."

And this is the crux of the human condition, isn't it? We know our stories, we know our suffering, we know our wounds. We know how to survive. What we don't know how to do is how to live. But this little box is comfortable enough, right? I'm doing just fine. Who knows what will happen if I leave it?

But a gilded cage is still a cage.

So how do we move towards freedom, take that first wingbeat out of our cage into the exhilaratingly, yet frighteningly, open and infinite skies? As Rachel's grandfather reminds us, "...the choice people have to make is never between slavery and freedom. We will always have to choose between slavery and the unknown."

And the unknown is bloody scary. It's enough to make you slam that gilded cage door, peck birdseed and flap the odd half-wingbeat every once in a while for the rest of your life.

But again, the rebbe offers us hope if we dare to leave that door open and just flap those completely unfurled wings once, when Rachel asks, "Why does G-d come himself, Grandpa?"

"Ah, Neshumeleh, many people have puzzled over this question and have thought many different things. What I think is that the struggle toward freedom is too important for G-d to leave to others. And this is so because only the people who become free can serve G-d's holy purposes and restore the world. Only those who are not enslaved by something else can follow the goodness in them."

Freedom isn't a turning away. It is a turning toward, as any true vocation should be - a turning toward truth, integrity and love, and a continued acting from it. We may be in the wilderness for a long time; perhaps we will die in sight of the Promised Land, not quite reaching it - but through our continued acting from truth, perhaps we have helped others reach theirs.

Frightening? Yes. Exhilarating? Yes. Uncertain? To be sure.

But if we stand in that cage door and make that first wingbeat into open sky, we know this: in our move toward freedom, none other than G-d Himself will lead us.

Knowing that, perhaps we can find the courage to begin the journey, for...

...there are many paths to tread,
through shadows to the edge of night
Until the stars are all alight.

High mass...

…Irim-style. The celebrant, deacon and subdeacon watch, bemused, as the altar servers fight over who gets to play with the thurible - which is the baby rattle you can just see between pig and gorilla. The tissues are supposed to be birettas; they're all I had to work with. And ja, the one in PVC is me as MC.

The wolf would totally have been the deacon if he hadn’t been in the room that was in use for the full 3 hours…the leaning forward and watchful look would have been truer to life.

Finis

It was after one more incomprehensible interaction with a longstanding male friend that I finally (via chat) threw up my hands at Ari and said, without knowing what was going to come out,

WHAT THE HELL IS IT WITH ME AND ANGRY, TRAPPED MEN?????????????????

It's almost never women. My issues with female friends are few, but the ones I do have revolve around helplessness, playing the victim and neediness. The overwhelming majority of my female friendships are strong, vibrant, healthy - ja, we're all wounded but we're having heart-to-hearts, talking things through, cheering each other on as we move forward.

That's not to say that my relationships with men are all unhealthy. I've got some of the best guys in the world amongst my male friends, and I challenge anyone to say otherwise: they've manned up, take responsibility for their lives, care for others, live and love as best they can. They rock.

But Christ almighty, do I have a pattern amongst the men. There is a not inconsiderable swath amongst my male friends and acquaintances who fall under the 'angry, trapped men living unlived lives'.

Now, I get it. I get that it reflects something in me that feels trapped and is living an unlived life - that it's a mirror. That it's about my father and my brother - that these are men I know how to relate to; men who feel deeply familiar - who are the substrate to my enzyme, creating the perfect induced fit; men, at some level, I'm desperate to save.

But I can't.

Just like I couldn't save my father. Just like I couldn't save my brother - and the latter, God, I've harboured that guilt for years. When I left, why didn't I go back and get him once he was of age? Why didn't I help him GET OUT? Why did I fight with him on his brief visit here, and write him off as my parents' Stepford son? And yes, I've often thought he paid the price for my leaving, and the guilt over that is immense.

But it's NOT MY FAULT. They're both big boys, they could have made choices. Might I have mentored my brother differently? Maybe. But I DID THE BEST I KNEW HOW AT THE TIME, and the rest was UP TO HIM. TO THEM.

The guilt? The need for redemption and forgiveness for not having saved the first, most important, men in my life?

It ends now.

To those in that space, here's what's going to happen/stop happening:

1. I am not your whipping post, the person you get angry at (rather than share anger WITH, which I can do till the cows come home) because you can't get angry at your situation. Talk to me about it all you want, let's find a way through, but you don't get to take it out on me.

If you do, I'm calling you on it. If you don't hear me, I'm walking away.

2. I am not going to channel your anger if you can't deal with it yourself. I'm happy to help you admit it, face it, deal with it, accept it if it's legitimately directed at me - but I'm no longer doing it for you because you think I'm 'an angry person' - which, by the way, is usually what you give me a hard time for. You can't have it both ways.

3. If I'm trying to tell you what I see, and particularly about your situation, if we've been discussing it/you asked - which is different from my being provocative where, if I get an argument, I deserve/expect it - listen, as I will try to do for you. If stuff comes up for you around it, let's talk about it. But you don't get to lash out because at some level, you know what I'm saying is true - and that you hate me for questioning your comfortable world.

4. I am happy to try to articulate why I am still in the Catholic Church to those who do not genuinely understand. *I* don't genuinely understand. But give me the space to work it out. I KNOW I'm in a contradictory space, that it doesn't make sense. But please don't push - if and when I'm ready, I'll move. And if I'm not ever? That's ok too.

5. On the other side, I refuse to deal with those questioning whether or not I am really a Catholic or trying to make me a 'real Catholic' - essentially using that as a way to feel better about their own holiness. On FB, this manifests as people who are silent as death through emotional posts, political posts, funny posts, anywhere I need support, positive posts about the Catholic Church - but then suddenly appear, and volubly, when a post that shows my dissent with the Church or that might even SLIGHTLY challenge the Church, to 'set me right'. If you can't be there for the fun, for the positive, for when I need you - but only pop on to tell me what a crap Catholic I am (I do NOT mean authentic discussion/dissent) - Houston, we have a problem.

6. I am going to make you angry. There are no two ways about that, especially if we're close - and you're going to fuck me right off. We deal with anger in our own ways. Need some time to cool off? Fine. But then come back and talk to me. Your feelings, your responsibility. My anger? MY responsibility. I will NOT be frozen out for months on end, expected to know why I upset you and to come grovel. I know it's scary; but cutting off communication for considerable lengths of time increase the likelihood that the relationship won't recover. If our friendship matters, let's talk. I'll try to hold the space - I may not do it well, but I will do it. If, however, freezing people out is about manipulating them and making them chase you? Don't look behind you. Won't be anyone there.

7. Don't expect uncritical adoration. If you need a prop for your ego, find someone else. I will love fiercely, but I will see clearly.

8. The drama llama: if you're on it, I'm going to slap its ass and make it run in a random direction. Away from me. Have fun.

9. The unpredictable moods, usually found in addicts/alcoholics: I got really good at walking on eggshells - but now I like the crunch under my feet. Feel like trying the unpredictable snaps of anger for no reason that used to make me chase my alcoholic ex to make him feel better? I'm just going to be pouring myself another drink and looking at you over my glass.

10. Oh, and the mockery that one can back away from, claiming, 'I was just kidding'? That's not about me and I know that. So I'm holding up that mirror to you. Genuinely angry with me? Man up and talk to me about it. Way to make yourself feel better? Find a more authentic one.

Trust me, I recognise these things because I DO them in more variations than I care to admit to and because I know how to chase them, how to fix them, how to placate them. Doing all those things feels comfortable, familiar.

But comfortable isn't where I want to be. It's too small; too deadening.

So what will happen is that I will try to hold the space, however imperfectly and humanly I do it. I will try to listen, however imperfectly. I'm learning.

I don't promise you the perfect friend. I don't promise to always get it right. I don't promise I'll never push your buttons. I don't promise you a rose garden.

What I DO promise you is that I will be real. That I will be here through darkness and light. That I care, passionately - which is why you'll get the full range of emotions. And that if you're angry, trapped and want to find your way out, I will stand right by you, though I may tell you things in ways you don't want to hear them: "Look at yourself! In the mirror, in pictures! What are you trying to tell yourself? Clue phone, babe, emergency ring tone. IT'S FOR YOU."

But I can't, and won't try to, do it for you.

I can't save you, just like I couldn't save my father or my brother. The only person I can save is myself - though I'll need a little help from my friends.

That's my promise; that's what my friendship will look like.

Whether or not you choose to accept it is up to you.

Group therapy - what's the issue?

I have a confession to make - when clients don't show up at my volunteer counselling sessions, I've taken to playing with the stuffed animals. The other week, it was Pooh being distracted by biscuits; this week, we had group therapy, with Duck being distressed. The box of tissues hides Duck's teddy bear.

So...what brings this unlikely group of characters together in therapy? Answers on a postcard, or preferably in comments.

Ascension Epilogue

Last Saturday night, I was out for a curry with a friend, and we were discussing my Tridentine experience.

She asked me what my issues were around having the server say the Confiteor.

"I don't want to lay that on him. It's not his job to carry anyone else's sins. And he's too young - no 16 year old can carry the sins of an entire congregatiom."

She nodded thoughtfully, then said something I hadn't expected:

"There's something about trust in there."

I felt like I'd been struck in the solar plexus, which I knew meant she'd offered me a deep truth.

I tilted my head and asked her to explain.

She said she understood why I felt that he shouldn't shoulder it and she agreed. But she felt that for me, it was about trust, about an inability to allow anyone to bear a burden for me, even for the length of the Confiteor.

I sat back. 8 days later, I'm still unwrapping that.

She's absolutely right. One of the things I took 'pride' in about my spiritual meltdown was that I managed it without burdening a single cleric. Kind of a "See, I can do the tough walk without you. Just hand over the sacraments, and run off like a good boy, because I know you can't handle this 'relationship with God'/messy emotional stuff."

That resonated with something I'd heard someone say months ago, about the moment she realised that part of her problem with being in a relationship was that she assumed that men didn't have capacity, so she took everything on, and ended up in friendships and intimate relationships with men where there was little mutuality. She was always doing everything, organising everything, initiating communication, you get the drift.

I hold others easily, but I have immense trouble being held - both emotionally and physically. I'm great with being the emotional container, less good with being contained.

It's all in the letting go.

I'm not alone in this: I know any number of women who hold everyone else in their lives and never let go themselves. When you're feeling overwhelmed? Close up, get spiky, push people away. It's the best way in the world to make sure no one ever gets too close and into a space where they can hurt you.

So whilst we talk about how we want to be the one in someone's life, we set up a world in which it's not possible, where doors to the inner sanctum slam shut. And in order to be the one in someone else's life, we need to let them feel that they are the one in ours - and that they have all of us, not just a select part.

But that doesn't mean letting everyone wander willy-nilly in the precious space that is ours - doing that, whether through co-dependence, or merging, or any form in which we allow others to rob us of self - is the flip side of the coin. That's why we often see people swing from extreme self-containment to merging: often, extreme self-containment hides a deep hunger for attachment, and when that hunger can no longer be denied, there's no model for healthy attachment - so, to quote Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, 'We've gone to the other extreme...'

It's all about healthy boundaries, which are established through learning how and when to trust.

And if we don't learn that through early secure attachment - knowing that our physical and emotional needs will be taken care of, learning trust and healthy attachment will be extremely difficult. Not impossible, but much harder without that initial knowledge of what trust feels like. It's like...picking up a language later in life, but without the structure of grammar and vocabulary to help. And unlike learning a language, when you get it wrong, it really really HURTS.

But there's no other way forward - we learn to trust the way a child learns to walk - a few steps forward, falling on our bums, getting up to try again. Yes, it's made much harder when you've spent a lifetime keeping yourself safe, because learning requires risk - and in learning how to trust, the risk isn't small.

But the payoff - genuine intimacy, love, connection - is huge.

Trust isn't all or nothing - it's nuanced and we learn how much and when to give it through learning in tandem with that gift of the Holy Spirit, discernment - which means we need to let the winds of inspiration help us on our way.

And so, to the clerics I'm closest to, take a seat. I need to talk to you about my relationship with God.

Ascension, continued: Extraordinary Form, or, 'Dude, it's awfully quiet in here. When does mass start?'

As I crossed the forecourt, the Paraclete Express kept chugging my way. I ran into a friend who looked surprised to see me and after exchanging greetings, he said:

"You know, it never ceases to amaze me that you come to the masses [which you're going to find most difficult]."

"I know. But I keep thinking if I can do this, it'll make me a better person. It doesn't always work, but..."

In the middle of my answer, I heard the still, small voice: "Irim, stop the war." Finally, I really heard myself on the subject for the first time.

In Stephen Cope's book, The Wisdom of Yoga, he talks about samskara and vasana, or reactive patterns that develop from our taking in a situation, evaluating it, and then reacting to it. One of his teachers referred to such patterns as "those etched in water, those etched in sand, and those etched in stone."

My need to struggle, to push, to challenge – so ingrained that my mantra is ‘growth needs resistance’ – is so deeply etched in stone it is akin to an addiction. When using my favourite image of a butterfly beating its wings against a chrysalis, I forget it is only temporary, and that afterwards, the butterfly is free. Resistance is meant to be temporary.

But going up against resistance, stepping into conflict, is my crack. I heard it in my voice: tense, invested, frustrated. Attached. I need the war - for the same reasons an addict needs his drug of choice.

But the war doesn't just affect me. As Jack Kornfield says in A Path with Heart, an internal war will always become an external war. That had been exemplified at the weekend, when a friend was telling a story over lunch, and I judged the behaviour of one of the characters (let's just say it wasn't exemplary) quite harshly. From my left came a gentle, but strong, reminder: "But it is very human, and therefore, very understandable."

And there was the addict's response, "Yes, but it's up to us to be better than that."

As the Paraclete Express hit me yesterday in the forecourt, I knew it was time to stop the war. But how?

I went in, sat and waited - and it came to me. Maybe I couldn't end it immediately, but I could refuse to engage this battle. I could do that in a very simple way - by staying present. Then, when I moved away from presence, bringing myself back with awareness, without judgment or recrimination.

As mass started, this proved very easy to do, since I can't be on autopilot during the Tridentine the way I can during the Novus Ordo. Yesterday, I had to juggle the Trid missal and the sheet with the special collects and prayers for the Ascension, so there wasn't much room for brooding.

As I stayed present, something interesting happened. I felt clear. I could feel the full range of emotions - touched, irimtated, amused, curious - stay with them, and let them pass through me. I did that and followed my breath, and suddenly, I had space, and more room to be clear.

I was no longer attached - and suddenly, I understood.

I don't HATE the Tridentine mass. It will never be my favourite mass, because I firmly believe that in not participating in the mass - e.g., reciting the Confiteor aloud - the congregation is denied that most necessary element of the spiritual life - taking responsibility for it. I also feel that it cuts the priest off from the people - and because I picture the mass as a triangle: one leg is Priest-God, the other is People-God, the base is priest-people. Take the base away from the triangle, and it doesn't work.

As I stayed present, this was simply an observation - no anger, sense of futility, or frustration attached to it. It simply was - and is - how I feel, which is absolutely fine. Letting that feeling be what it was allowed me to see what I really appreciate about the Tridentine mass: there are parts of the text that I prefer to the Novus Ordo, I think the priest is more deeply present when distributing communion, and I love ending with the prologue from John. All in all, I think that if the Tridentine had been allowed to evolve naturally, the Catholic Church would have had a liturgy beyond imagination, with undisrupted, solid roots, and plentiful branches, lush with greenery and fruit.

Suddenly, like stumbling through an open door, I realised: the Tridentine mass is simply that - A FORM of the mass. Everything we associate with it - right wing agendas, intolerance, smugness, rigidity, resentment, slavish adherence to the past - none of them belong to the mass itself. They are projections ONTO the mass by us, because of what we desire, need or fear it to be.

In this moment, engaged with the sermon in which the Paschal candle is extinguished and Fr Jerome says, "We extinguish the Paschal candle as a sign that Our Lord's visible presence is removed from us - from now, we are only to meet Him in silence, in shadows, in the sacraments."

Right where I want Him to be - because I need to take that leap of faith.

Adsum, Domine. Follow the breath.

Done with the liturgy, but what of the people? There is no denying that stereotypes exist because there is often considerable truth in them - and the stereotype of Tridentine mass-goers as right-wing, angry, intolerant, isolationist, rigid almost to the point of snapping is no exception. Very few people can make me go incandescent like they can.

Liturgy is easy, it's inanimate. People, well - when you can keep that spiritual calm around people, it'll be your ascension we'll be celebrating.

Communion. Usually, I would have dismissed the server at a Tridentine mass as 'one of them', but in my presence in the moment, I noticed his hand shaking visibly as he held the paten - and my heart went out to him.

Post-communion prayer, and the Paraclete Express decided to reverse over me.

Over the past few weeks, as I've been walking into work, I've been practising Cope's version of the Metta, or loving kindness meditation. As with all meditation, one centres by following the breath, then beginning with oneself, one recites some version of the following:

May you be protected and safe,
May you feel contented and pleased,
May your body support you with strength,
May your life unfold with ease.

After directing that prayer of loving-kindness to oneself, one directs it to loved ones, then those for whom one has neutral feelings, then to those one finds...difficult - and finally, to all of creation.

I had been having no problem with those I loved (of course), nor with my parents, or the uncle who abused me. Not surprising, I think, since I am considerably removed from my relatives - so it's easy to wish them well and feel particularly proud - 'LOOK! I did my uncle! Go me, I must be done.' Ja. And Satan will be hosting the Winter Olympics in 2014.

The group I had felt real resistance to, the group that was REAL work, was the group encompassing the ones I bump up against all the time who trample my triggers, setting them off in series.

As I knelt after communion, I thought, 'What better prayer is there than to wish the others here well?' Thus I found myself reciting the Metta meditation as I knelt after communion in a Catholic Church.

Hey, you knew I was a spiritual patchwork quilt. So sue me.

Easy enough to begin with Fr J and the altar server for whom I'd felt that sudden protectiveness. Then John, Juliet and George were easy. Someone in the front served as neutral. And then...

...there was the mother who hadn't taken her child out. There were the rigid faces with the slight contemptuous twist that put me on a hair trigger. They were my crack, the people I wanted to square up to and push against.

It was time to walk my spiritual talk. I could feel the resistance, so I went back to neutral and came at it again - first with one difficult person. Then another.

Suddenly, Metta was magick. Wishing them all well in that moment, in that space, was effortless and felt amazing. Finally, I got it:

But it is very human, and therefore, very understandable.

They're not evil. They're not my enemy. They're afraid.

It's how they create certainty in an uncertain world; how they feel rooted, attached. The way they act - adaptively or maladaptively - is organised around that need for security, attachment and love.

Very human, indeed.

As I left church, I felt at peace. I was no longer prisoner to my projections on the Trid mass - I could come to one or not as I pleased, knowing that I could remain centred in what was real.

When I passed church again, having come back from buying lunch, I passed a gathering of the younger 'Trid boy' types in front of the archway, posturing. One of them said, in a manner reminiscent of a stereotypical Oxford don, 'I have some sympathy for that position...' A week ago, I would have wanted to smack him. Yesterday, the teacher in me saw the boys I'd taught, standing in the school hallways, in those same positions, using that same tone of voice - and I grinned.

...though I may not have the answers
At least I know what I'm looking for

Yes, I can do without the sorrow
There's a day after tomorrow -
So I'm leaving it behind

I'm free, I'm free -
Things are only as important
As I want them to be...

The Ascension, Prologue - spiritual meltdown

God doesn't offer many neon signs - but this was one of them.

Today, 40 days after Easter, is the Ascension and a holy day of obligation. Normally, that would mean that if I can't make the 18.00 solemn mass - as would have been the case today - I could have gotten up early and gone to the 07.30 or, in extremis, the Vigil mass last night.

Unfortunately, NOT in England and Wales where, for some reason, the Bishops decided to ignore the fact that Jesus ascended 40 days after Easter, not 43, and transfer it to the Sunday. I have to admit, liberal as I am, that gets on my (not inconsiderable) tits. 40 days is 40 days.

That left me with a decision: business as usual, and go to the Sunday mass, or make a statement and go to the Tridentine rite (Extraordinary Form) mass of the Ascension today?

I leaned towards not going for three reasons:

1. Paz and I hadn't had a lunchtime walk all week, and I was looking forward to a catch up.

2. I had to leave early for counselling, and going to mass might cut out too much of the day.

3. More often than not, those associated with the Tridentine mass drive me into a murderous rage. Not ideal.

I got to work early, checked my nemesis, Outlook, for email messages that needed attention and got down to business - once I'd made coffee in my Pizzazzadoodle mug, of course. Nothing happens without morning caffeine. When Paz came in, I asked her what she wanted to do for lunch. She looked at me apologetically and said, 'I'm going to get my hair cut.'

I know when I'm being railroaded by the Holy Spirit.

In a last ditch attempt to avoid being run over by the Paraclete Express, I texted a friend in the know, asking him how long he thought mass would take. He reckoned 45 min - 1 hr, but I suspected I knew who the celebrant was and that I could shave about 5 min or so off that guesstimate, which made it more than feasible.

Damn.

After many whacks over the head with a clue-by-four, I've learned that if events are lining up towards a particular choice, going with the flow is the way forward, no matter how difficult it might seem to be. So I gave in and decided to go to the 12.15 mass - though I couldn't IMAGINE what God had in store, aside from irimtating me for the rest of the day.

Even so, I wondered - much has changed since the last Tridentine mass I'd attended. I've been in spiritual meltdown since March, when a decision I'd helped someone come to went from being simply 'very important' to 'life-changing'.

Now the work, of course, was hers. But in that moment, I suddenly realised that however much I tried to take myself out of the equation in what had happened, I couldn't. That I had been there *mattered*; that it was *me* mattered; that *I* had been placed there and worked through: I couldn't have orchestrated this, imagined it, made it happen, forced it, any of it.

Suddenly, I saw God's hand all over this and that He had used me - not just for brightening up someone's day; not the 'this is how I see it'; none of the stuff I'm used to. I looked away for *two seconds*, tops - and God put me THERE, where her having someone to listen, be there and ask questions to, so she could come to her decision, made all the difference. And I realised, 'Oh. my. God. If I let You all the way in, what the hell are You going to do?'

I guess I thought that I had figured You out
I knew all the stories and I learned to talk about
How You were mighty to save
Those were only empty words on a page
Then I caught a glimpse of who You might be
The slightest hint of You brought me down to my knees

Suddenly, briefly, I caught a glimpse of the tapestry and the Weaver - and I was absolutely terrified by how wrong I was and how limited my vision had been.

What do I know of You
Who spoke me into motion?
Where have I even stood
But the shore along Your ocean?
Are You fire? Are You fury?
Are You sacred? Are You beautiful?
What do I know? What do I know of Holy?

Most of my faith had been dissolving for a while: certainty of who God is, what He intends and how He acts has made me recoil more and more; a lot of stuff around me has been making me uneasy. Much of my own armour was beginning to feel uncomfortable. I feel unsure that I have any idea what faith is, what holy looks like, how God works or what my journey to Him is meant to look like. I'm even less sure, meandering as it has been, that my journey has been a mistake at all - and I've been dead certain about the wrongness of my life for at least a decade.

And so began the descent into the Underworld.

I can take great emotional shifts in my stride, but this, on top of paper thin boundaries that meant I was feeling the emotions of everyone around me - which, just my luck, were mostly intense and chaotic - made my knees buckle. Early on, it became clear that it was too deep, too intense, for almost anyone to hold the space - and I was far too raw to be able to bear watching close friends squirm uncomfortably or look away. If I tested the waters and no response appeared to be forthcoming, I simply took it as 'I can't/don't know how do this kind of intensity, I'm sorry,' and left it at that. It was easier than asking again and hearing the 'I don't know how to be here for you.' I could go it alone, I knew that. So I got moving.

Traci and Ari were too stubborn to let me do that. Traci, a fellow Catholic, held the religious and emotional space; asked the questions; was there to wrestle with the relationship with God and the theology; called it like she saw it; called me on dissociating and not feeling what I was going through; let me be scared, angry, unsure. Ari was Ari - the friend who has known me in the darkest of places and moods, and just sat with me - listening, asking, letting me be fully me - intensely emotional - something I wick away from most people. I owe them the deepest gratitude - not feeling alone during the inner hurricane; being able to have space held for me when I couldn't hold things back to protect others - I couldn't even protect myself - was the most precious of gifts.

At church and work (which has a religious culture), I locked up tight. I was numb for most of Lent, and when I wasn't numb, I was furious. The Triduum was beautiful as ever, but I felt locked in ice; not even Tenebrae, which always moves me deeply, could touch me. There was the odd thaw - I can never shut out those close to me, and if they needed support, love, affirmation, I was drawn out of my icy enclosure to connect, which helped me too - for the most part, though, I wasn't there.

But the desert wasn't as barren as it seemed. Fr Dom's talk on prayer at the Passiontide Oratory unlocked something that took weeks to emerge. If I could pray, I did it. If I couldn't, fuck it. I prayed as I was, not as I wasn't. I remembered Mark Poulson's words from the pulpit at a funeral I'd been to: "I think God can take our questions, our doubts, our grief, our anger - all of it. I think He says, 'Give it to me. I can take it.' And He wants it all because He loves us." At some point, when I couldn't carry it any more, I must have let it go and handed it over, just saying, 'Fuck it. I have no clue. Let's see what happens.'

Only when I let it go - and let me be honest, not out of faith, but out of sheer exhaustion - did it begin to happen. A friend waxed poetic about Stephen Cope's The Wisdom of Yoga: a seeker's guide to extraordinary living in a blog entry or several. 'Huh,' I thought. 'I'll give anything a try.' I checked Amazon, and when I couldn't stop reading the VERY long excerpt from it, I ordered it - and then couldn't put it down as truth after truth launched themselves at me from every page, shattering my icy prison.

I was finally fully present; the game was afoot. I had no idea how things were going to unfold, but finally, I was good with that. Early days, but I was going to try to follow the signs and go with the flow. As far as I was concerned, God and life could bring it on.

It was in this state that I found myself under the Oratory arch this afternoon at 12.05. 'All right, Lord, I'm here. Bring it on.'

I took a deep breath and stepped through.

Deleted: unread

What most people don't know is that because we had problems last year, I've set my work email to send 'read' receipts. Not as obvious as it sounds, since the person has to agree to send it. That means that what I know about email I send from work falls into 3 categories:

1. Email that has been read and I know it has been read.

2. Email that has been read or at least briefly scanned before deletion, but I don't have a receipt.

3. Email has been deleted: unread.

How do I know #3? Because when I require a 'read' receipt, I automatically get a 'Deleted: unread' receipt.

I rarely get them - the vast majority of what I send is individual, and the group emails I send tend to be reasonably important. Even so, I absolutely expect to get a number of those - from supervisors, students, etc. I don't bat an eyelid and I don't take it personally.

Until this weekend, when I got *2* - from a good friend, when the subject lines were pretty clearly not mass emailings.

The sense of rage and betrayal took me by surprise. I let them know I knew, but I sat on how I felt - which may seem surprising, but if folks look closely, you'll notice that I actually only go off on big things in public: Church, politics, sermons - anything I deem to be in the public domain, unjust or intolerant, or an 'I'm generally overwhelmed' vent.

So - rage and betrayal. To quote myself in a therapy session, 'Let's explore that, shall we?'

Why the anger and betrayal?

People have the absolute right to do what they want with their email. It's their email, right? So big deal. I got an email of mine deleted by a friend. Boo fucking hoo.

Here's why it's a big deal for me: deleting an email without so much as opening it is a dismissal. It is, quite literally, saying, 'This is trash; I'm not even going to take the time to look at it.' I only ever delete things without reading them if I know they're spam.

If a friend's name is attached to them, no matter how crazy they're driving me, even if it says 'chain letter' in the subject line, whatever - unless I know for sure it's a virus email or the friend has specifically asked me to delete without reading - there is not even an iota of doubt that I will open that email

S/he is my friend, and no matter what, I will hear them. That is one of the most basic tenets of friendship.

Opening an email and at least briefly scanning it before deleting, no matter how busy you are, is about valuing the person who sent it. It doesn't matter if you think, 'Oh, G-d, what are they angry/upset about NOW?' (Maybe it's time to ask them what's driving the anger and listen, especially if there's a particular target?) or 'Not another forward, I don't need that now!' - opening it matters.

I suspect it's a particular bugbear for me because I write. I'm far more adept at expressing deep emotions in writing; I find it much harder in speech. It is the very rare person I can go up to and lean my head against their shoulder and not speak when I'm stressed beyond measure; otherwise, it's all in writing: text, email, letter, whatever.

So what I write matters. What any of your friends writes to you matters.

Now that doesn't mean I expect immediate responses - or even responses - to everything. Some things don't lend themselves to that. What I do expect, and have the right to expect, as your friend, is that you will read what I have to say and take the time to make that judgment.

The rules aren't hard and fast - a friend and I are currently in the midst of an intense conversation that has been on ice for about 3 weeks because she's had a PhD defence and needs to submit. We've had desultory IM chats and other, less demanding conversations in between, but neither of us is bothered about the hiatus because that's how we work. We know we'll get back to it when we're ready. Oddly, I'm far easier with a long lull in the middle of a conversation than an initial silence, perhaps because I've already read the other person (pun intended) and it's easier to jog them and go, 'Hey, I don't think we were finished here. Do you mind if we pick it up again?'

And I'm not perfect either, nowhere near. But I DO have a set of principles I try to abide by, and here they are:

1. If a friend sent it, I will always read it and evaluate how to respond.

2. If a question is asked or a request is made, I will respond either with 'Yes,' 'No,' 'Let me think about it,' - usually with considerable elaboration.

3. Jokes, 'I'm here, on my way,' etc. may or may not get a response.

4. The more emotionally intense/wound up the email/text/whatever, the more immediate my response, because the more it is needed. Some things I'd prefer to do in person, and I'll say that, but in most cases, it's just not possible. So I'll write - even if just to say, 'Got this, will get to it asap, KICK MY ASS if I don't, b/c I'm so busy and you might slip off the front page of emails.'

5. Listen. I've had some huge rows via email, really heartfelt, down in the mud, knock down, drag out, 'This is how I feel about what's happened' exchanges. And there have been long lulls in the middle of some of those exchanges. But 9 times out of 10, the friendship has become far closer. And the 10th time? It's told me the truth of who the other person is, what they can/cannot handle, and moved them to the outer circles, where they belong.

As Traci once said, 'You're about intimacy and deep connection,' which means it's going to get intense, in good ways and bad. Not everyone wants that from a friendship, and that's fine. But because it's where I am, then, for both our sakes, those that aren't need to be further out, where we're both comfortable.

Those are my principles. Within that, everything is flexible and based on context, because every relationship is different. The desire for, and the concept of, connection may be universal, but each connection is unique.

So, what do I ask in return when I send an email? I know not all of my friends are writers, and in fact, I know some absolutely can't abide dealing with the big stuff in writing. No biggy. You are where you are, but:

1. At least open it and scan it. Then decide if you want to chuck it.

2. Listen, even if you have to take a deep breath and it isn't easy. Bugs you? TELL ME. I get the feeling that some friends feel that if they leave it long enough, we'll both have forgotten about it and everything will be ok. No. Even if it is for a while, it's going to come back up in another form. Let's deal now.

3. If we're close enough that I'm emailing you when I'm stressed, depressed, tired, angry (about personal stuff), freaked out - please acknowledge the email. I've never understood why people freak out when I get upset, and hope that if they just ignore it, it'll go away, I'll be fine and phew, they don't have to deal with it. You may not want to deal with it in writing. You may not know what to say. That's ok. But connect with me. If you can't even bear to write, 'I don't know what to say,' or 'I'd rather talk about this,' then the next time you see me, acknowledge it. Let me know that how I'm feeling matters to you. If I've let you in that far, let me know that you can hold that space; that I'm safe with you.

4. If I ask you a question or ask you for something, please respond, even if only briefly. 'Yes,' 'No,' 'Let me think about it,' 'I'm not comfortable with that,' 'Give me a few, freakishly busy,' are all absolutely fine. I just need to know.

Within that, I'm flexible.

It's so easy to just delete emails: the person isn't in front of us, most of the time we don't get receipts, and we're all overwhelmed with the number we get - work, corporate, advertising, friends, spam - every day. We feel plugged in all the time - and we are, what with mobiles, laptops, desktops, Crackberries - but connection is about what - and who - is important. And it doesn't mean emails that are pages long. It can be as simple as, 'I hear you.' I've gotten emails that simply say, '*HUGS*' - and that's enough. There will be time enough for words, but it is the reaching out, the connection, the 'Hey, I'm here,' that matters.

Typing in a quick sentence or a word of comfort or 'I'll be on top of that as soon as I can,' doesn't take more time than it takes to delete 5 Groupon emails. But the difference it makes is immense.

Don't just plug in, connect. And save 'Deleted: unread' for those Jehovah's Witness and 'Hi, my name is X from Y, could you send me your entire bank account' emails.

Those you care about deserve a 'read letter' day.

Talk given at Church of England Diocesan Interfaith Advisors Conference, 16/3/11

Reflections on Caring for Converts

I first came across the Guidelines for the Care of Converts when I had the immense pleasure of meeting Dr Wharton and Guy (Wilkinson) last November.

"'Caring for converts?' I thought. 'Concept!'" An obvious one, once you think about it, but it doesn't seem to be thought about often.

Why is that? One of the first things that came to mind was a quote from the leader of a workshop I attended recently: "There is no object, there is only process." The reason we don't consider care for converts very often is that we see the conversion as an object, the finishing line - in the same way we see a funeral as the end of our need to support the bereaved - in both cases, we see it as time for them to move forward on their own.

But we forget that conversion - like grief - is a process, not an object. Conversion, true conversion, does not end at baptism and welcome into the Church. Conversion is a person living a story making a journey of faith. Nor is the new convert alone in this - we are all in the process of conversion, of taking steps on our spiritual journey every day, whether or not we attend church, read the Bible or meet for fellowship. How we treat the harried salesclerk, the hapless waiter, those with whom we share our lives, are all part of our conversion. To quote Kahlil Gibran, "Your daily life is your temple and your religion."

So what does this mean for the guidelines I received from Kate last month? I believe it means that we start these guidelines from the underpinning principle that we are supporting a process rather than achieving a goal - which means we may approach it from a different angle, use different language and so on. The tension - and possibly, the paradox - here is that as we support the process and draw up the guidelines to do so, we cannot predict how the process will unfold.

Well, that's all nice and woolly as a flock of sheep, isn't it? So how does that translate? When I first read the guidelines, I really felt for Kate. I could sense her overwhelm and how much she felt she had to try to do. I wondered if what might be needed was a step further back to ask the questions 'What are we trying to do?' 'How are we trying to do it?' - to give a thread which will help create a coherent whole. We need to define what we mean by conversion, support and care.

Here were some ideas I had along the way:

1. We are supporting a process, and not a natural one, at that. It is one which begins with a huge change/rupture for the convert, which will require specialised support: possibly of those who've been there, those from their own background, but equally likely, specialised psychological support.

2. The question we must always ask as we draw this up/work with converts: "For whom are we doing this?" It is very easy to see the convert as a point on the religious scoreboard or to get invested in their journey and think it is ours. It is very easy to lose sight of the fact that we are walking with someone on THEIR spiritual journey, not forcing them on a path that we feel they should follow. Rachel Remen's differentiation between attachment - which leads to imprisonment - and commitment - which leads to freedom - is helpful here. We may be COMMITTED to the convert's spiritual journey. We may NOT be ATTACHED to how that journey unfolds. Every time we answer that question, the answer must truly be, "For the convert, to support their journey to God."

How do we do that? Tom (the previous speaker) brought in Transactional Analysis; I'm going to mention Carl Rogers, whose core conditions of unconditional positive regard, empathy and congruence are essential here. No matter how the convert may act out - and they will - or what they say, it must be welcomed with love, understanding and honesty.

3. ASK them what they need. Let them lead and take responsibility, for it is only in doing so that they can make the faith their own and come to maturity.

4. Relationship. The Christian God, a Trinity, lives in eternal relationship of love, hospitality and self-knowledge. We've touched on the first two, but the third is very important: we must always be aware of what's happening with us, and not put it on the convert. If we get very angry or upset, we need to stop and reflect and think about how much is about the situation and how much is about us.

Conversion takes place in relationship, and it may be a good idea for the guidelines to consider what a healthy relationship looks like.

5. DON'T PIGEONHOLE. We can draw common themes or make guesses - but don't assume. Listen to their story. Remember that those who tend to be happy in the culture/family they're living in probably AREN'T GOING TO CONVERT - if they're comfortable, they're not going to ask the questions necessary for change.

Don't assume people want family connection - I didn't.

It's good to have an outline of what we know about various cultures - South Asian, Iranian, North African, etc. - but remember that within those communities, people have unique experiences. Don't immediately shower them with people who share their ethnicity - they may recoil. I would have told you where to go, how to get there, and given extremely detailed directions. Sometimes people don't want family - sometimes they need a monastic or desert experience to heal from their family.

6. Support is not always warm and fuzzy, sometimes it's confrontation in the desert. We've talked about God living in an eternal relationship of love, but let's not forget that the Father sent His Son to die and that the Son asked for the chalice to be removed from him and that at the end, He asked, 'Father, why hast thou forsaken me?'

Appropriate challenge and conflict do not rupture, on the contrary, they drive intimacy deeper.

One of my favourite forms of support is that of the rabbi who turns away the convert twice before accepting her. In that way, he is more certain of her sincerity and motivation. I often worry that we as Christians grasp: we grasp as soon as someone is thinking of converting; grasp to hold someone in 'our' church; grasp to force them onto a path that looks like one we recognise. The problem with grasping is that it is about fear, and fear drives out love, which is the ONLY way to support a convert's journey.

By leaving room for the Holy Spirit, by creating space through challenge - even though we LOVE that they are throwing themselves into our church activities and slagging off their old religion - we allow for healthy growth. If we say 'no' to a potential convert because we sense that their desire to convert is not about God, but about getting back at family/renouncing their heritage, we allow space for a TRUE 'yes' - in God's time, not ours. Those of you who have read The Shack will remember Sarayu's love of fractals and wild growth - and her tendency to put them everywhere. In my experience, the Holy Spirit rarely works in a straight line.

So, to close - where to go for these guidelines to make them generally helpful, but not specifically stifling? At the beginning, definitions and principles need to be made explicit: conversion, care, support, process, relationship: getting the underpinnings right will get the details right.

Then draw them out by asking questions: what does a healthy sponsor/convert relationship look like? What possible forms could it take? When do we worry? When do we say 'no'? How do we respond? How do we challenge? What does care look like? What resources do we have?

I almost feel that these guidelines - like my talk - need to be a book: Converts' stories, principles drawn, good practice, FAQs, resources. But that's just me. Somehow we need to offer concrete help without dictating how all journeys must unfold: and I suspect the way to do that is to draw from experience to offer ways forward, and seeing the theology emerge from the experience rather than having the theology drive the experience. Yet we must always remember that, as we draw from experience, we must respond in the moment: for our God is not 'I was' nor 'I will be', but I AM.

On being called ma'am

I hate it. I can tolerate it from those younger than me, but when it comes from those older than me, it's so physically repellent I want to throw up.

In this case, it has to do with a student who's older than me doing it.

Walking home from the bus stop, I remembered why it's so visceral. I used to joke about it making me feel old, but I always knew that wasn't it. Suddenly, today, I had this image of being in Pakistan and being about 9 or so, and having my relatives' servants call me 'baji' - same kind of respect as 'ma'am'...and feeling deeply, deeply uncomfortable with it. Even then I thought, 'This is so wrong. I'm a KID. Just because I was born into a family with more, YOU - YOU, who know more about life than I do, who have had a hard life, who works so hard - YOU have to call me 'baji'? I don't think so.'

The most fun I ever had in Pak, outside of time with my cousins, was with the servants. They read our palms, they babysat us, they gossiped, they loved us when we sat in the kitchen, they told stories, kept our secrets. They were REAL, and often happy in a way other adults weren't. I ADORED them and felt so guilty when they did stuff for me.

More times than I want to remember, one of my aunts or uncles would yell at them for the smallest infraction, because dinner wasn't ready fast enough or because they were taking out their frustrations on them. I might have spoken up, on occasion, saying that it wasn't their fault - and sometimes, if I wasn't dragged off, I'd stay and comfort one of the younger women if she was crying after being yelled at. That made me feel worse about going up to them and asking for something to hear 'Gee, baji?' From an ADULT to a CHILD. So wrong.

People would say it's an appropriate mark of respect. Respect? For a *9* year old? What fucking respect had I earned by being middle class? Exactly NONE. 'Sufi', 'Hajji', titles that are earned for some achievement or mark of character, ok. Otherwise? No.

And I feel the same way about priests. You get the respect of your office when I respect the man you are. Character gets respect. Titles aren't worth the graphite a pencil uses to write them.

This student calling me that? NO. No. He's older than I am, wiser than I am, a better person than I am, has done so much in his life. IF there's inequality here, it goes the other way.

In the end, that's really the crux of it: it creates barriers between people. It gets in the way of talking to you, finding out who you are, genuine meeting.

And taking the time to listen and spend time? Now THAT is real respect.

8 Days. Day 8.

Day Eight: Four things you are terrified of, and four things you desire intensely.

4 things I'm terrified of.

1. An intimate relationship. For years, the thought of one brought on an intense sense of feeling trapped and difficulty breathing. The thought of having to share a room (my parents used to LOVE to 'clean' my room and invade it at all times), having to consider someone else when I wanted to get up and go, having someone else who HAD THE RIGHT TO DEMAND TO KNOW WHERE I WAS...FUCK IT. NO. I would go to my friends to have my parents ring 7 times to find out what we were doing; most of the time I couldn't leave the house. THIS. WAS. NOT. GOING. TO. HAPPEN. AGAIN. I. WILL. NOT. BE. CONTROLLED.

2. Living an unlived life. Again, see here. I know I've referred back to it before, but it really sums this one up.

3. Selfishness. OMG, I can't even begin to tell you how terrified I am of this one, of being a raging narcissistic beast who walks over anything and everything, who uses others as commodities to get what she 'wants'. The horror of it; the knowledge of the damage it causes...*shudder*

4. Dying without anyone noticing that I'm missing. This has a lot to do with a fear of not being important enough to someone for anyone to notice that I'm not there.

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

4 things I desire intensely

1. An intimate relationship. To be THE person in someone else's life and have them be the same in mine. The deep connection, the joint history built of ordinary and extraordinary moments - some difficult, some joyous, many of intimacy, just about the two of us - the emotional, physical and spiritual closeness. The little touches and looks. Nestling. Talking about everything. Witnessing each other's lives. Raising children. A shared vocation. Passion on all levels - real passion, not a flare, but a lasting fire - sometimes an inferno, sometimes banked.

Love shared in the deepest way possible in true union of body, heart and soul.

2. To make a real difference in people's lives, and thus, in the world. I know I want to do it big, working with people at the edge, working in some of the darkest places...but I'd be happy to do it in a quiet little corner of the world.

3. Deep connection in all my relationships. Truth, honesty, love - even when my heart breaks because of it, this.

4. Unfolding completely into the person I am meant to be and being able to always work from that wild space. Love, compassion, extending my talents to their fullest...flying, running at full stretch - then resting at full stretch. I want to be an alpha female in a wolfpack: at one with her alpha male, sometimes hunting, sometimes still and listening, sometimes playing...and rather often, nipping cubs' ears or picking them up by the scruff of the neck and moving them when they play too roughly, then lazily watching them again.

Home. That's what it's all about...coming home.

8 Days. Day 7.

Day Seven: The four most important things someone has said to you, and the four most damaging things someone has said to you

The 4 most important things.

1. I was talking to X [another teacher] and we think you have a huge, unexplored verbal talent. --Jean Hill, my Western Civ/American History AP teacher, senior year of high school

I adored Ms Hill. She kind of scared me in 7th grade, when she was all spiky, but when I ended up sitting next to her in my Western Civ class (she had a circle) and discovered we had similar dry senses of humour, we really clicked. I even rode down to the senior retreat with her and visited her daughter, Julie, when she was in Lower School.

It was, in fact, the day of the senior retreat that she said this to me. She'd pulled me into her office to find out why I wasn't going, and somehow, this came up as we talked about my parents and their expectations. I said something disparaging about my talent, and she responded with this and suggested that perhaps I shouldn't take them at their word when they said all I could do was maths and science.

It was too late for high school, of course, but not for university and beyond. Every humanities course I took, I got an 'A' in. And I learned that I love writing and am a pretty damn good editor.

Ms. H - as usual, you were right.

2. You were meant to go through the world two by two/You'll be a wonderful partner to some very lucky man/etc. --Various friends

I know that one of the reasons I never paired up - and only have the odd partner - is because of how trapped I felt in my family and how desperately unhappy my parents' marriage was. I was about 13 before I worked out that people married because, well, you know, they actually WANTED to. I still have a hard time with that, having known any number of dysfunctional couples who settled because they were afraid of being alone, or because their dysfunctions/wounds fit each other like an enzyme-substrate induced fit (look it up). Despite all the wonderful couples I know, these stick with me, as they elicit the claustrophobic near-panic feeling that I lived with growing up.

But another big part of it is this fear that I would be a horrible partner. Needy, clingy, sucking the other person dry. I'm terrified of this, even though it's not generally how I am in friendships, though I tend to feel that I am in close ones, where I'm more vulnerable. Every time, I think, 'OH CRAP, here I go again, they're going to think I'm completely devoid of humour, needy, too intense, clingy, OMG!!!!' So I pull back, but then, b/c they're close friends, need to talk to them again. Gah.

These quotes, from those who don't live in my crazy head, give me hope. Hope that they see me more clearly and that they are right. The fact that there are numerous versions of that quote over the years makes me hope that maybe they're onto something.

3. I want you/you're beautiful/If I were...

I'm used to being needed. Used to being liked for my humour. The fact that I'm capable. That I can listen. That I'll know what you need before you do. Those sorts of things.

But being desired, having someone think, 'God, you're gorgeous,' just WANTING me without wanting something FROM me...that's amazing. And far too rare. Thank you. You folks know who you are.


4. I love you to bits. I don't want you to change at all/Lose the edge, but not the passion?/Or not even lose the edge. --A close male friend, 20/2/10

I nearly cried.

The background: I had been a bitch. Not to him directly, but it mattered, and that's all you need to know. We'd touched on it a bit in writing, but it was this evening that the real work was done: this evening that we had the heart-to-heart where we spared each other nothing, where we were heart-achingly honest, this evening in our friendship where we knew we could be real with the other and we were absolutely safe.

I had been talking about how I felt hemmed in by all these people who seem to want all these bits of me that they really like, because they're useful to them, but they want X to change so they're more comfortable with who I am; something that makes me less wild.

And he just burst out with that.

I froze and stared at him, trying to read him, looking for the lie, for the reason to doubt him.

There was none.

The continuation of the exchange confirmed that, as has his behaviour - before and since. There is almost no one else with whom I feel so free to be myself, to just let go and be difficult, uncertain, dark me as well as competent, caring, funny, witty me. I do worry that I lean on him too much, because I know I can bring anything to him and I'm safe, but I also trust that he will TELL ME if I am leaning too hard. (Hint hint - you will be reading this, b/c I'm telling you about it :-).)

There aren't words to thank him for what he said that night and the support he's been through our friendship - laughter, listening, joint human observation ('Bossy girlfriend'/'OMG, that's a GUY? I thought it was a girl!'), just talking about anything and everything. AND he gets my idiolect.

I know how blessed I am to count him amongst my circle of friends.

Oh, he cheeks me and is as stubborn as I am - so voices will rise and gestures will fly - but I would trust him with my life. More importantly, I would trust him with the life of a child.

And yes, you, this was a chance to let you know how much this spontaneous comment of yours meant and to say 'thank you for being you' as much as anything else. Because even though I AM going to have to whack you with my cane more than once, our friendship is - to quote a Mastercard advert - priceless.

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

1. It's not important; it doesn't matter. --My father

This is what my father said when I told him his brother had sexually abused me.

2. Talk to me, I'm your mother. I won't tell Daddy [sic].

The evening chats when she wanted me to sit at the foot of her bed and have a cosy 'mother-daughter' chat where we shared our confidences. She told me how awful my father was, which made me open up and share how I was feeling. I should have known better: she never offered comfort, only asked more questions. I knew her well enough, that should have told me she was digging for information - but every time, I was stupid enough to assume she cared. That she was interested in my life.

Stupid me.

And yes, she always told 'Daddy', and it always came back to bite me on the ass.

And I was always stupid enough to trust her again.

3. You're flat. --Mr Wilson, 7th grade music teacher and choir director

That was in choir, and he wasn't one for teaching technique. He'd put me with the sops. *Waits for her friends to quit laughing*

From that day to this, I won't sing so I can be heard, even though, far more recently, I was told by another music teacher that I had a gorgeous speaking voice and she suspects that I CAN sing.

4. ""

All those things that I needed to hear, that people assumed I knew about how they felt about me, and were never said.

8 Days. Day 6.

Day Six: Four things you are grateful for, and four things you want to change about your life.

1. My friends. They are my family: brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers and have given me heart-children. They have been my strength and that which has pulled me out during the darkest of times.

2. The way I think. I love being an NF, big picture, pattern person with a huge imagination. LOVE IT.

3. My passion. It may hurt like hell sometimes, but I'd rather that than flatline. It gives the world such shades of colour, Crayola and Technicolour couldn't touch it.

4. Being able to see beauty in the universe and the part of me that senses and reaches out for something larger than we are. The stars, galaxies, God, the underlying pattern to it all. I suspect it's that which drives my sense of service, which would have been #5.

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

1. I want to be more in touch with my sensuality. Via clothing, what I surround myself with, feeling more comfortable in me. I've become very head/emotional/spiritual.

2. How I feel about my body. I've hated it my whole life for various reasons, or seen it as a vehicle for my brain. I need to learn to love it and revel in the physical.

3. I want to be able to let go and let God - to do what I can and trust that I'll step off a cliff and be able to fly.

4. I want to be able to sing. I've loved and dreamt music since I was young, and whilst not many instruments appealed, singing always has. I want to find my voice.

8 Days. Day 5.

Day Five: Four songs from you to yourself, and four songs from you to others

4 Songs from me to myself

1. Evanescence - Bring me to Life - THE song I listen to in my deepest depression. It captures the sense of being frozen, of being lost, of yearning, reaching towards life. The anger, the passion, the searching, the sense of hopelessness, yet deliberation when she lets go...that's me in a dark period.

2. Sarah Brightman - Journey Home - It's a promise from that part of me that knows that there IS a home, a place of sanctuary and rest that I have yet to know, where I am loved and that 'sometimes standing still can be the best move you ever make.'

3. Bette Midler - The Rose - Ever since this came out when I was young, it has been a promise to myself from myself that love will come, and that the times that seem barren hold more promise than they seem...and that I must never be the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live.

4. Peter Gabriel & Kate Bush - Don't give up - This song always makes me cry. I feel like Peter Gabriel far too often. The deeper part of me is Kate Bush - who somehow always brings the friends in the outside world I need.

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

1. Kelly Clarkson - Because of you - To my parents. The lyrics are self-explanatory. Yes, I've come a long way, baby. But there's a long way to go that shouldn't have been necessary. We're not speaking, I hear you say? Because of you.

2. Clarence Clemons/Jackson Brown - You're a friend of mine - To Midnight Sidhe. Because I am the one who always makes you laugh until you cry. And you can depend on me till the day you die.

3. Moody Blues - I know you're out there somewhere - An unwavering statement of faith from me to the man I'm meant to be with, wherever you are.

4. John Farnham - You're the voice - From me to the world:

This time
We know we all stand together
With the power to be powerful
Believing, we can make it better

Oooooooh,
We're all someone's daughter
We're all someone's son
How long can we look at each other
Down the barrel of a gun?

You're the voice, try and understand it
Make a noise and make it clear
Oh-o-o-o, whoa-o-o-o!
We're not gonna sit in silence
We're not gonna live with fear

So let's be the voice.

8 Days. Day 4.

Day Four: Four talents/superpowers you have, and four talents/superpowers you want

1. Counselling/psychotherapy work: People tell me I'm good at this; I'll take them at their word, because I just assume everyone can do what I do. I've done it since I was young - seeing patterns, asking questions, listening. People's stories fascinate me, so I guess that's why I love it so much. Tired as I am before my placement, I always come out energised. What I need to work on is staying behind the client: I have a tendency to jump ahead.

2. Big picture/patterns. I love looking for them and teasing them out. Understanding systems of people - communities, hierarchies, dynamics - is a real strength of mine. Unfortunately, my detail work is less impressive. I'm a big one for principles and proactive problem-solving - give me the nuts and bolts and I'm going to pass out.

3. Losing myself in other worlds/imagination. Have always been able to do this. It makes reading and amusing myself far easier. Possibly writing as well.

4. Associative/Lateral thinking. I LOVED teaching for this reason. If a kid didn't understand? No problem - finding another metaphor or allegory was a challenge. It makes communicating ideas so much fun and a real pleasure - rather than a trial - to discover other ways of doing it.

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

4 talents/superpowers I wish I had.

1. Teleportation. There are so many places and friends I want to visit - and I could be there immediately and spend as long as humanly possible with them before coming back.

2. Healing. As per Deryni/Valdemar worlds - able to heal by laying on of hands and infusing energy; both body and mind.

3. Telepathy. To have the intimacy of speaking mind to mind, layering it with emotion and images, to have the deepest of conversations, to bond that way...yes.

4. Manipulation at the subatomic level. With this, you can change the universe.

8 Days. Day 3.

Day Three: The four gods/superheroes you most identify with, and the four you least identify with.

I'm 4 days behind my friend on this, so let's see if I can catch up.

1. Demeter. My maternal instincts can be so powerful, they're archetypal, and Demeter helps me understand them. Also, ashamed as I am to admit it, I withdraw nurturing as a last resort when no one is listening. She needs more balance in my personality.

2. Oya/Persephone. Yoruban goddess of the underworld, wind, fire, lightning and fertility and Queen of Hades, respectively - but ultimately *change* and *transition*, both of which swirl around me so much, I've been jokingly called ta'veren by the odd friend who loves Robert Jordan. Interestingly, *my* life doesn't seem to change much, but those around me do. And the underworld, the psyche, the subconscious and death? MINE. I also love that Persephone can accompany the dead in some versions of the myth - which is what a therapist does with their clients.

3. Angel of Death. I dream about him unsettlingly often; one of the things I'm drawn to in therapy is counselling those who are dying or grieving.

4. Hephaestus. Wounded and imperfect, tossed out of Olympus by his mother in a rage, he became the most incredible craftsman - bad start, abandoned, and out of it he creates unimaginable beauty. True alchemy, and what I would want my life to become.

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

4 Gods I least identify with.

1. Zeus. Whiny, immature, unfaithful, unable to lead. A complete dick.

2. Robin. Grow up and get out of Batman's shadow.

3. Hera. Jealous, whimsical and unable to direct her anger where it belongs - at her asshole of a husband. See #1.

4. Mammon. What the Western world, despite its crowing that it follows Judeo-Christian values, serves and values so deeply it has become a slave to it. It's PRINTED PAPER, PEOPLE. It's meant to serve you. FFS. It's just a medium of exchange - use it THAT way or go back to bartering and learn what really matters - love and relationship.

8 Days. Day 2.

The four places you most want to go to, and four things you need in a home.

1. Sub-Saharan Africa. Ever since I was young, I'd always had flashes of myself working there with young children, working at the edge. There's always been a magnetic pull; something to do with vocation. The greatest draw is probably South Africa, the fascination beginning with my elementary school songbook which had 'We're all marching to Pretoria' in it. But the idea of crossing the equator totally freaked me out.

2. From Lahore to Jalandar. The reverse of the trip my parents made during Partition. Just as that border of violence, blood and pain was crossed when their lives of fear, pain and anger began, it needs to be crossed the other way for healing to begin. I want to see where they grew up, where I might have gone as a child had the subcontinent remained undivided. And yes, I want to see India.

3. To an alternate universe where WWI never happened. What we lost in that war was incalculable and arguably, the set up for the 20th century bloodbath that followed. I want to see what happened in the world where the boys who came up to university in 1913 had the same idyllic 3 years that their 1910 predecessors did. What happened to the map? The Bolshevik revolution? What did we create? Who led us?

Did we find our way better than we're finding it now?

4. Space. I've been in love with the stars as long as I can remember. One of the possibilities for my tombstone will be an epitaph on that of two amateur astronomers: '[I] have loved the stars too fondly to be afraid of the night.'

I want to be on the Enterprise - under Picard, not Kirk, please!

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

4 things I need in a home

1. Sanctuary. That means unconditional love and acceptance, with the honesty that goes with that. I grew up in a house with way too much subtext, a place I hated to live. I have worked hard to create a home that is an emotional sanctuary, where I'm free to be me. That's not something I'm ever, ever giving up.

2. Open space. I don't have that so much now, but when I CAN, I do want an open plan downstairs as much as possible, high ceilings. I think the need for physical space is a reflection of the need for psychic and emotional space, having been hemmed in by others for so long.

3. Cosiness. They seem diametrically opposed, don't they? I don't think they are - by this I mean stuffed chairs, fluffy throws, things that are comforting and comfortable. Things one revels in running one's fingers through and touching. Luxurious fabrics, plush throws one can wriggle one's toes in, sofas one can sink into, furniture one can cuddle on. I don't do minimalist furniture; I do warm - colours, furnishings, all of it.

This, I think is about the need for intimacy, and 2/3 are a balance for me.

4. LIGHT. Sounds funny from a girl who loves her long evenings and soft indoor lighting, but during the day, I want to capture as much light as possible in the house. Yes, summer evenings ARE too long, but I prefer to move and work by daylight, not artificial light, for as long as possible.

And all this with as many windows as possible overlooking the sea.

Right, off to design it then...right after I win the lottery...