Amy the Show

Living of Love: A 3-Part Reflection

2012-02-15T17:38:00.001-08:00

“Where there is no love, put love, and you will find love.”
- St. John of the Cross

Faith Sharing

“Where have you seen God lately…or, where have you seen love?” Regina asked, opening up the first of our long-delayed Tuesday night faith-sharing gatherings at the White Rose.
“Bah,” I thought, “I don’t want to answer these questions!” All I could think of, actually, was how I have not been attentive to God, how I’ve felt almost resistant to prayer. What do I have to offer this time of spirit-filled sharing that is genuine? Nothing!
“But,” I reasoned with myself, “I am here. And what good is it to be here in body with mind and spirit withheld? I will be open.” The answer to the question came in flashes:

- White crystal flakes, vertically clinging to trunks of trees, to my green sleeves,
as I walked, watching, through the park.
- Wild-haired, wide-eyed, effusively-emotive, two-year-old, love-of-my-heart, Seneca…
- Washing dishes hearing Daniel Johnston quaveringly croon, “True love will find you
in the end…” from a mix Ted made.

In all these things I found love, or rather love found me and captured my attention, appreciation and awe.

Blessed Among Women

The day of the snowy walk was densely gray in a series of densely gray days. The heavy white flakes falling beckoned me to come out and appreciate what wonder those dark clouds contained. I had much on my mind when I set out, and an iPod for further distraction if that wasn’t enough. A seemingly incongruent memory slipped in, driving a winding road in Kentucky, flanked with fall trees trembling with embodied mystery of life and death. I was asking of God, “Are you? And if so, who are you?" In response I heard, “look and listen.” So I looked at the trees and the sky and they followed me all the way here to this cement path in a park, in Chicago, in the snow. I looked at how the delicate flakes brazenly bucked gravity, catching hold of limbs and leaves, barely protruding bark; me. How these single, exquisitely unique crystals clung too to one another, forming heaps and drifts, fine lines along fences. How laced together they’d survive far longer than those that drifted apart and disappeared.

It occurred to me that I always new the snow would stir my spirit, but as a child who grew up in Florida, never travelling except to take a family road trip to Illinois (almost always in the summer!), developing a relationship with snow was improbable at best. Yet, here I was getting just what I’d dreamed of, and I almost missed the wonder of that. Another Kentucky memory was called to mind, running through the woods, chasing after my dog, Sheila, suddenly having a sense of déjà vu. Not because this moment was crossing over one that had already happened, but because it was the living of a dream, as so many moments of wandering in the oh-so-accessible woods were in those days. It was something that when I dreamed it, I didn’t really believe it would happen. I didn’t intentionally try to make it happen even, yet here I was.

A desire to practice the art of loving, along with an unshakeable, restless, curiosity has propelled me. Wanting to know and serve Jesus led me to Kentucky. Wanting to know myself and serve others led me to Chicago. Little did I know the things I never dared ask for would be added unto me. All these things...even something as small as a good mix CD. I do so love a good mix, though it’s not something I would ever ask for or expect. Such a small, frivolous thing. Yet, hearing this one touched me at my core. “Even this? I even get this?” Truly a grace. Why am I so fortunate? Why do I ever doubt it? What am I paying attention to instead that I almost (often) miss these small good things?

Beloved, Let Us Love

I remember noticing at a very early stage; perhaps even within the first year of her living, all that it took to keep Seneca on the sunny side of her tempestuous disposition was to give her attention. She shines with it. But even her disappointment, her hurt, her anger, amaze me. There is no veil over her emotions, she feels them loud, forces them out – sometimes to a point of exhaustion, sometimes to fresh new beaming, but always with absolute authenticity. I cannot maintain a dark mood in her presence. The frivolity of things that distract me from basic interacting are quickly dissolved by her boisterous laugh, her spontaneous hugs, her frequent exclamations, “Oh, Mimi!” “I love you ‘Mimi’!”

My experience of Seneca was reflected in Regina’s story of B., this little girl who barely knows her, running into her arms and proclaiming, “I love you so much!” This was a revelation of God. As she told it my mind moved to the phrase, “unassuming love.” But no, I don’t think so; I suspect this love B expressed was given with the assumption it would be received, with the expectation even, that it would be reciprocated. I am not beyond believing this is true too of capital “L” Love, which we might also call, “God’s Love.” Unconditional, perhaps, but not unassuming. Where did I get the idea that I could interchange those words?

Is it defensiveness that leads some to think otherwise? To pretend that people are capable of offering love without at least desiring it be appreciated – it is less frightening to risk giving it if I can imagine not expecting a return or receiving it if I can imagine a return is not desired. Can it be, even, that belief in unremitting Divine Love is needed simple to survive human love’s inadequacy?

In any case, it seems evident that God wanted, demanded even, that love be recognized and responded to. God, like Seneca, wants attention, as all of us little images of God do. It does seem though, that God’s love is able – whether through grace, or mercy, or some other spiritual gift – to love beyond the seemingly inevitable let down. This Divine Love, too, is willing and able to proffer itself without first having been given evidence that it will be received, or that the recipient is deserving. It defies the assumption that trust must be preceded by trustworthiness. So, perhaps that chord of assumption and expectation is superseded by a resonant note of hope, faith. This is the miracle of B’s embrace. This is a challenge to us all.

Oh me of little faith! How often I fall short of that call. Among other things, it was noted in the reflections of others that I have a tendency to be cutting, condescending, pessimistic. I am putting more emphasis on these words than the speakers did because they affirmed my suspicion that as I experience a lack of abundance in my surroundings, I become stingy with my self. In other words, I adhere to a reciprocal model, relating reactively rather drawing from a deeper source that recognizes I am all but drowning in an ocean of abundance if I’d only pay attention.

The critique of the speakers, along with thoughts that began to rise to the surface as I cleared off space by sharing, affirmed my suspicion that I am continually, subconsciously, responding to a fear of becoming “too close.” These defensive reactions – irritability, avoidance, sarcasm, silence, critique, embarrassment, dismissal – develop because I sense my territory is being encroached upon. Can I trust the invaders? Almost in direct opposition to the Divine Love illuminated earlier, that trusts even without evidence, I continue to live out a love that often takes shelter in the shadow of suspicion, even without evidence. The Pygmalion effect comes into play: fearful that intimacy will reveal my inadequacy, I distance myself from those who’ve become “too close” by becoming unlovable, proving myself right; I’m not fit for this.

Here is the crazy catch, in the midst of all my masochistic machinations, I continue to be loved. Beloved. This is the miracle of Love’s embrace. This is a challenge to me. I want to be worthy of this name, Amy, Beloved, that I have been given. Worthy of all those who speak it, and of those who crave to be called by it too. I don’t know if I ever will be. I do know I can practice giving attention; offering and receiving appreciation and affection; allowing others to be who and what they are; hoping always; believing that Love Itself is worth the risk, whatever the results.

Incomplete Thoughts - Fasting Blog Pt. 2

2012-01-06T19:36:00.001-08:00

Trust has been a recurring them for me during this trip, trust, and also language. As I begin writing, I am not sure of how these themes are related, only that both seem to intercept and underlie everything happening around me. It struck me, yesterday afternoon as I was drifting through the kitchen in a haze, preparing V8 with cayenne pepper for me, hot water with lemon/honey/cinnamon for Ted, how much we all have to trust each other in this space. Many of us are meeting for the first time, are belongings are in a shared space, as are our beds. We are putting ourselves into vulnerable positions, wearing black hoods and walking outside, inciting enmity or approbation or intentional ignoring from those confronted with our message (“torture is terrorism,” “indefinite detention is unlawful,” “shut down Guantanamo”), weary and at times befuddled from lack of sleep and fasting. Somehow this community creates a space that allows us to exist outside of conventional defenses, as though we are so aware of our mutual reliance that we hardly ever think twice about it. “there is no question that we need each other,” Carmen said during a reflection a few nights ago. It is community that enables us to continue and it is community that compelled me to come.

* * *
Why was I thinking the other day about Hannah’s vision of the web? I was on a Skype call with my older sister, Hannah, recently and she recounted a memory from when she was six years old, standing in the kitchen and seeing a vision – an intricate web of interlaced parts, all things connected – “this means something,” she said to herself. I don’t remember her ever telling me that before, but the same idea, this notion of interconnectedness, has become a kind weltanschauung the vantage from which I view and engage with life.
* * *

This morning’s gospel reading was Mark 1:7-11. Jesus is baptized by John after which the “heavens are torn open” and God’s spirit descends upon Jesus, “like a dove.” Bill S. observed that, in theological studies the assumption is made that this is not something that visibly happened, that people standing around did not see this rending of the heavens, this descending dove, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. “Scripture is calling us to look deeper,” to look toward what is unseen, to see through illusions. Illusion blurs so much of our sense of reality, sometimes created with great intentionality, through manipulation, for the sake of power – sometimes created inadvertently, through carelessness, ignorance – it is our responsibility to call one another to look deeper, to really see. And to know too that what we look to leads us. Chantal closed the morning circle leading us in a song, “woke up this morning with my mind stayed on freedom.” A mind stayed on freedom aims toward it, eyes looking for humanity, recognize it, hearts hungering for justice are filled by it.

How Then Shall We Live? Fasting notes, Day One

2012-01-03T18:32:00.000-08:00

See what kind of love God has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are. The reason why the world does not know us is that it did not know God. Beloved, we are God’s children now, and what we will be has not yet been appeared…
-1 John 3:1-2

We are fasting again, refraining from food and engaging in action to advocate for honoring human dignity. In this frame of mind I heard the above reading as a handful of us rose early to begin the day with the Daily Office. I heard the reading as though it were being spoken by a Guantanamo detainee, “we should be called children of God…” Does the world not name them as such because they do not know God? Or do we not care so much as we imagine whether or not one is the progeny of this Divine Being?

But then, not only do we not name these men as children of God; we seldom even name them as individual persons, as people. “They have no faces.” “You can’t see their faces.” I heard from passersby. They were commenting on a group of us, maybe fifteen or so, wearing jumpsuits that distorted the shapes of our bodies and hoods that veiled our faces. What they said was true as well of those we don this garb to represent. We, as a nation, have hidden their faces. We have, as some mentioned in our morning circle, “disappeared the poets.”

Several friends and I have been preparing for this fast by studying a JustFaith module on torture and reading the autobiography of Sr. Dianna Ortiz who was kidnapped and tortured in Guatemala. What is continually reiterated is that the intent of torture, along with acquiring information, is to obliterate the person. Though friends and family easily recognized Sr. Dianna after her intense experience of torture, she no longer had a sense of her self that she could trust, nor any person outside herself that she could trust to speak the truth. Healthy relationship, even with oneself, is shattered.

Walking from Trinity Lutheran Church to the Superior Court House with my senses blurred by a black hood and an empty belly, I relied on the words of our guide – we’re crossing a street now, there’s an incline here, the path is about to get narrow – and the measured steps of the person before me to which I matched my own pace, I was suddenly aware of how effortlessly I was relying on trust in order to keep moving forward. I was vulnerable and took that trust being honored for granted. I was vulnerable and took the care that was gifted me for granted. What happens when that trust is betrayed? What happens when that care is crushed?

We opened our circle this morning with the following poem by Shaikh Abdurraheem Muslim Dost:

They Cannot Help

Those who are charitable
Cannot help but sacrifice for others.

They cannot help but face danger
if they wish to remain true.

When they face injustice, dishonesty, and iniquity,
They cannot help but be under the power of traitors and the notorious.

Consider what might compel a man
To kill himself or another.

Does oppression not demand
Some reaction against the oppressor?

It is natural that a man is driven to invention
And to creation in times of duress.

The evildoer will be punished,
He cannot avoid making amends, and must apologize eventually.

Those who foolishly dispute with Dost the Poet
Cannot help but surrender, or else run away.

Oppression demands response – creative, inventive – the question is, what will that response be and when will the consequences be made manifest? Today, in his opening statement as a defendant in today’s trial*, Carmen Trotta enumerated on the ways that we as Witness Against Torture have tried to confront the injustice of indefinite detention and torture of prisoners at Guantanamo and Bagram. The judge kept saying that mentioning Guantanamo, legislation, U.S. policies, even the name Obama in the courtroom was inappropriate. Also trying to start a discussion at the House of Representatives was, apparently, inappropriate (hence the trial for alleged “disorderly and disruptive conduct”). I began to wonder, when every other route to communicate “appropriately” has been tried, when creative alternatives have been rebuffed – what remains? One is pressed toward desperation which so often tends toward despair and despair, I do believe, is the greatest temptation toward violence.

Oppression does demand some reaction, as every action does. Yet somehow, as we went around the circle, folks sharing their feelings, though there was some weariness, some anxiety, there was no rage, no depression, no threats of violent uprising. Amazingly, the most frequently used word was “excitement.” Hope was there and even mysterious joy. Because, because, we continue to believe there is another way. As one woman shared, quoting Camus, “we must be neither victims nor executioners,” we must find that 3rd place. And we find that way with one another.

The Psalm for today was Psalm 98. One that makes the outlandish claim that “All the ends of the earth have seen the salvation of our God.” A psalm that tumults into praise being solicited of all things, calling even the rivers to “clap their hands.” It’s a ridiculous kind of hope, in a way, that such salvation as promised by the prophets and the Christ – prisoners set free, hungry fed, the kiss of justice and peace – is possible, is promised even. Yet, I prefer it to any other way. It is, if one has eyes to see, evidenced in life and it allows me to live. But it is a hope, a joy that requires eyes and arms wide open also to sorrow. Somehow we cannot really live without linking arms with the dying, perhaps because we are all among that number. And so here we are again, fasting, vigiling, mourning, visioning, sharing, loving. Here we are learning again and again how to be among the living.

Love Itself

2011-08-18T15:41:00.001-07:00

August 17, 2011

I’ve had a lot on my mind lately. Enough that my usual absent-mindedness has become amplified to an almost unmanageable degree. I forgot to turn off the crockpot of tomato sauce before leaving for a day of babysitting; forgot to bring my phone to the first place; forgot to bring my planner back from it; forgot to bring my bike key to my next babysitting gig—despite riding my bike there, and locking it in the parking lot—and also forgot to bring my wallet or cash or a CTA card, thus stranding myself in Lincoln Park at 10:00pm.

M graciously came to pick me up in spite of being “on house.” The drive was good and gave us time to share in some of what’s been crowding my mind and hers: the chaos of our community, the shabbiness of our hospitality, the divergent projects, the need for lines of separation (are we a house of hospitality? a farm? an activist commune?). Some of these pontifications surface in the haphazard article I’m attempting for the newsletter that shifts from “connecting the dots” to “not seeing the forest for the trees. I pose the question, “what is the forest?” and take a couple of grasping guesses.

While the kids were sleeping tonight I read some of Robert Ellsberg’s Saint’s Guide to Happiness and came across this bit about St. Therese of Lisieux:

“She confessed to feeling a call to every vocation, to be a warrior, a priest, a doctor of the church and a martyr. But ultimately she believed that her vocation was nothing less than to ‘love itself,’ a virtue embracing every calling without exception. ‘My vocation is love!’ she wrote” (94).

How well I can relate to “Little Flower” in her feeling of being called to everything and nothing! the latter being what “everything” tends to become when you try to do it all, except perhaps when instead on nothing one chooses love, which embraces all but is itself. I too have felt that sense of vocation to love, but have seldom had the courage to proclaim it with such conviction. When asked what I am aspiring towards, I only can say, “to love well.” That sounds so feeble in my ears. I’ve tried to bolster it with better answers, sprinkling in bits about “systemic injustice” and “simple living.” Flimsy words coming out of my mouth.

Love looked humble, weak even, and I plastered her with credentials—things I do care about, but things that belong in her, not over her. I began to bury love and have observed myself becoming increasingly less gentle, less kind, more irritable and more uncertain. I care about and believe in most of what I am doing, more often than not I enjoy it too. What I am beginning to wonder though is am I doing these things out of love, or instead of love? When I was reading St. Therese’s exclamation, “My vocation is Love!” the thought occurred to me, “The forest,” (the one we are blinded from because of attentiveness to the many trees) “is love.” And I’m afraid I’ve lost sight of it.

The Sea 'n Me

2011-07-25T07:59:00.000-07:00

Sun, in her abundance, poured light deep into the apparently endless water, scattered heaping handfuls across the surface, and allowed the leftovers to melt, dripping over the sky and into the sand. This was not Lake Michigan, but the Atlantic Ocean. That’s a lot of light. Heat was heavily present already, at 9 a.m. I mindfully embraced the warmth as affection, barring the perception of oppressive uncomfortability that I normally receive high temperatures with. I stepped through thin slips of water, into soaked yielding sand, around golden clumps of seaweed that my sisters and I had been dodging in the water the day before, tossing it on Rachel so she could have “mermaid hair.” My thoughts were lapping and overlapping, belying a less than disciplined mind, a mind cradled fondly nonetheless.

I thought about the impromptu speech made the night before at the wedding of a dear friend. She is the one that brought me here, that instigated my spending more time in South Florida than I ever have in all my years living in the center of this state. I hadn’t planned to say anything and wasn’t expected to, but how could I not? She has consistently, insistently loved me and allowed me to participate in her struggles and triumphs for nearly two decades. The words I selected weren’t too shabby; they also weren’t enough. I mulled over amendments while moving through dense, salt-infused air, occasionally distracted by refracted light, so sharp, such a contrast to the immensely soft, mammoth clouds that floated by, flat bottomed and erupting from above. Words never can be enough to sum up a life, let alone the melding of two lives and all the interlocking lives influenced by their connection. Words can never be enough, but I am compelled to forever work at crafting them, and risk exposing them.

I thought about the expansive beauty, the majesty really, of the ocean and how in it’s vastness, it envelopes the nuances of the world; sparking wildly during dazzling day, melancholy and absorbing in moonlit night. Tumultuous and roiling, placid and absorbing, expressive and secretive; the sea is everything at all times, yet we receive only a little, one moment at a time. I admire the ocean and appreciate its expansive yet intimate embrace, though I don’t feel a belonging to it as I’ve heard some articulate. Nor do I feel that sense of belonging to a city that winks and sparkles with light generated from more mutable sources. My ego finds her cradle amidst the trees, in earthy depths, mounded into mountains. But there is neither one nor the other that offers completion. All are part of the whole.

My attention was drawn to a shell, bleached white, porous. A shell? No, I think not, but I haven’t the knowledge to identify it confidently. Fossilized coral, perhaps? Honeycomb from the ocean, an abandoned nest of sea-bees. It is astounding, the mirror world that exists below the surface, so alien and yet we belong to one another. I began to watch the sand more than the sea and scooped up a couple more curiosities. Studying the articulate veins of a creamy crimped shell, I arrived back where I had started. Standing on a mound of seaweed, directly in my path was an incongruous couple: a black pigeon and a white seagull. The pigeon’s presence startled me. What are you doing here? I asked. They both just stared. Representatives of my two lives, I surmised. And wouldn’t you know it, just as the thought made itself known, the seagull walked several feet away and then turned to look back at me from the distance. The pigeon remained, unmoving except to blink his blank, orange eyes.

Moses the Migrant

2011-07-14T12:06:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, long ago, in a place far from here, a familiar story unfolded. In this place there was a Ruler and this Ruler’s land was inhabited by people of varying ethnicity. There were those who named themselves “the People” and there were those named “the Others.” The Others were a strong-bodied people who worked hard, bore children and established themselves in the land. In fact, they became so abundant, that the People began to fear they would be overrun by the Others. The fear was so great that the Ruler began to look at the Others as invaders, though they had lived amongst the people for generations. They had, in fact, lived amongst the People so long that the Ruler—who was not a diligent student of history—had forgotten, or perhaps never learned that the Others had actually been invited to the land by a ruler from the past. They had helped sustain the land during a time of need. Now, they were not perceived as an asset but a threat.

In one version of this story, the Ruler is called Pharaoh; the People, Egyptians; the Others, Hebrew. Pharaoh responded to the Hebrew threat by summoning their midwives. “When you are preparing to deliver the babies of Hebrew women,” he commanded them, “you must abort them as they are being born.” The women did not argue. They also did not obey. Noticing that Hebrew babies continued to be born, Pharaoh summoned the midwives once again, “how is it that I continue to see my land overrun by newborn Hebrews?” he demanded. The clever women played helpless, “These Hebrew women, they are so hardy and energetic, they give birth before we even arrive in their homes!” Though the midwives civil disobedience delayed deaths, it did not prevent them. In his desperation, Pharaoh ordered that all male children be killed, even after being born.

Perhaps there were many families whose love and ingenuity compelled them to find ways to preserve the lives of their children. Ancient texts direct our attention to one particular family. And isn’t it often the way that our best education about broad truths comes through a narrow focus, from an individual encounter? The family was of the Levite clan. Though she already had two children, the mother of this family was struck by the beauty of her new child, a son, and she could not bear to see him lose his life even if that meant she could not share in that life with him. This child’s mother and father and brother and sister conspired together. They crafted a basket, carefully waterproofed and padded it. They placed within it this child, one of many born in the land but to them a unique marvel and mystery of creation to whom their hearts were bound. Reverently, with prayers and petitions, they placed the baby-filled basket in the river and hoped for salvation. His sister, Miriam, followed the flow of the river from the bank.

Almost of another world, another daughter ventured along the river bank. Pharaoh’s daughter, she shared the same land with Miriam and the other Hebrew daughters and sons, but knew little of their life. She lived life in a bubble of security. Even now, as she ventured to cool herself in the water of the Nile, a band of attendants followed around her; their presence both an irritation and an expectation, for she knew no life but a sheltered one. Immersing herself in the water this daughter heard a cry. She saw the unusual craft and could guess at its cargo—but how could this be? “Go fetch that basket,” she commanded an attendant. And her attendant obeyed. Opening the lid of the basket, Pharaoh’s daughter caught the spell of wonder that had been laid in the basket with this baby. She recognized love in him and wanted to share it. “I’m going to adopt him,” she said. And she named him Moses.

I imagine this encounter affecting the daughter of Pharaoh not only with compassion, but with curiosity. How did it come to be that this child was set afloat? Perhaps she learned more about the policies directed toward the people inhabiting the land she lived within. I noticed that when Moses grew to adulthood, there were still Hebrew people of his generation—they were not destroyed. Can it be that Pharaoh’s commandment was rescinded? I wonder if that had anything to do with his daughter finding her heart captivated by one Hebrew that led her to advocate, if even in only one small way, for the lives of his people. I wonder if the thought of each Hebrew baby’s death tore at her as though it were the murder of her own child?

The timelessness of this story occurred to me in a new way as I revisited it this week. Experience has a way of tinting the lens through which we look at the world. Where I stand in my interior landscape effects the perspective I have of the exterior, even when I am unaware. This time I was aware that I was reading with a mind toward the immigrants that share the land where I live. Aware that whatever people group we come from, we were all sojourners once. “My people” were primarily Dutch and Irish, welcomed when extra hands were needed, rejected when we became too many and were no longer seen as a resource but as burden on resources that were limited. A threat to familiar ways of being and looking and sounding. I thought of the South and Central American migrants who I’d never given much mind to until I encountered their belongings, abandoned during their troubled sojourn in the Sonoran Desert; until I met them, broken on the border.

Now they people my thoughts and influence my reflections. I have been reading Steinbeck’s account of his journey across America with his dog Charley. There I found that his reflection on the Bad Lands stirred in me reflections similar to those that had been awakened by a tale from ancient Egypt. Once upon a time, not long ago, very close to home…Steinbeck’s experience of the Bad Lands brought back my memories of the contradictory nature of the desert in Arizona that divides the United States and Mexico. Such a monster in the day, so majestic in the evenings. Though I tried to describe it, he says it better:

…the late afternoon changed everything. As the sun angled…the cliffs and sculptured hills and ravines lost their burned and dreadful look and glowed with yellow and rich brown and a hundred variations of red and silver gray, all picked out by streaks of coal black…once stopped I was caught, trapped in color and dazzled by the clarity of the light. Against the descending sun the battlements were dark and clean-lined, while to the east, where the uninhibited light poured slantwise, the strange landscape shouted with color. And the night, far from being frightful, was lovely beyond thought, for the stars were close, and although there was no moon the starlight made a silver glow in the sky. The air cut the nostrils with dry frost…this is one of the few place I have ever seen where the night was friendlier than the day (Travels with Charley, pg. 120).

I found it confounding, trying to reconcile the splendor of the evenings with the treacherous conditions of the day. Similarly, I find it confounding trying to reconcile the juxtaposition of beauty and cruelty in people when we choose, sometimes so arbitrarily who will be bequeathed with our favor, and who will be subject to our wrath. Unlike Moses, the rulers of this land don’t directly threaten migrants with death, but with deportation. Though, considering the hundreds of deaths that occur each year in the desert by those restricted, or returning after being sent back—considering how separation of mothers from children and husbands from wives causes life to leak out from rent hearts—the difference between death and deportation becomes blurry at best.

Who will be the fairytale-type princess in this version of the story? Who will be the unlikely one that bridges the gap between the outcast people and the obstinate ruler? “Encounter” seems to me to be the magic word that breaks the spell of blindness. I think of my own life’s experience; I began to care when my senses and feelings were engaged. I cared about the migrants because I walked their trails and heard their stories. I cared about men in Guantanamo who I’d barely given a second thought to because I saw their picture and heard their stories and read their poems. I was touched by our common humanity. Their pain hurt me. If those of us who are sheltered by the rulers of the land could learn the stories of those who are persecuted, if we would take a few steps beyond our comfort zone, perhaps their cries could stir our heart like the cries of a baby in a basket. Perhaps, if we wade in the water, God will trouble us toward compassion and we will learn the abundance of an interwoven life.

Good Morning

2011-07-08T07:38:00.000-07:00

Last night I left the blinds pulled up halfway so that the light of morning would wake me. It worked. I stirred and in my mind it was still dark—where am I? "Sister Julia’s, 'room-sitting' while she’s away." What time is it? "Day break." Do I have anything I need to do today? "Only what you want"—I opened my eyes to find that light had already filled the room. The clock read three minutes to six. The sun was slowly ascending, blazing orange light that melted over the lake and into the city. Immediately I pulled on shorts and a t-shirt and went outside.

I did not examine my good mood, I floated on it. Contradictions surfaced. As I entered the park I saw man sleeping on a bench. He had pulled his white shirt over his head. A sign of surrender, or of defiance? Crossing the bridge over the highway, I saw a crumpled guard-rail, a sure sign of disaster. I inhaled these indications of turmoil soberly, mindfully, but joy remained, unvanquished.

It is common to see the reflection of trees in water. In the park, on a path between a small pond and a row of trees, I discovered an uncommon reversal. Wobbling waves of light, the water's reflection, danced low between the branches. Invisible, except by motion, like wind; only it didn’t rustle or whisper, it laughed.

I made my way to the lakeshore and hopped down a series of giant-sized steps, offering a sun salutation to that great golden orb once I reached the bottom. The lip of the lake curled and I winked back. Sunbeams forged a wide path from the horizon to the waters edge; a few small, bold beams climbing up on my shoulder, warming and glowing. This is how I learned that the sun is a jealous star, protective of her offspring. As I walked, she followed and every time I turned toward the east, there she was, glaring.

Duck! A speckled brown mother and her fuzzy, fresh flock. Choppy water scattered their tiny buoyant bodies, but they always bobbed back together. The water was lively and I wondered at the life within it. The beam on my shoulder began to murmur about the magic of the things we call common and suddenly I remembered the dream I lived before waking. A sweet dream in which affection was shared with someone who does not offer it to me in waking life.

Colors were bold—green against brown against blue intercepted by white—shadows long, wind rallying the leaves, trying to out-sing the sound of on-coming traffic. By the time I had looped back to where I had begun, little more than an hour had passed but already things were different. I lingered by the trees that had held the waters reflection; they were empty. The man on the bench was upright now, scowling. My back was to the lake and the sun and I could feel something shifting, slipping. While waiting at a crosswalk I tried to pour the morning’s images into a bucket to carry with me. All that I had was a sieve. I watched the trickling escape of what was and willed myself to release it, redirecting my gaze to what is. The light changed and I walked forward. It was not until I was unlocking the door to Julia’s room that I realized the blazon little sunbeam had absconded with its warmth, leaving me a cold shoulder, still blushing pink.

In Transition: Part 2

2011-06-22T14:07:00.000-07:00

June 16

A new journal is always a reminder of the newness of each day and the possibilities to come.

I put off writing again and surrendered my time and attention to celebrating Regina's birthday, immersing myself in a day of crafting, prayer, and sharing meals. I am sad that I keep putting off intentional contemplation but am grateful for and greatly enjoyed this time of connection and creativity...

June 18

Marie, Jerica, Josie and I spent the night in Maloy, Iowa. We left Chicago shortly after yesterday's Loyola class on energy...Our drive was filled with lovely chats and an exchange of unsound "scientific facts"--underwire bras cause cancer, every night you unconsciously eat 5 to 10 spiders...

The morning light is being crowded out by dark clouds. The occasional rumble of thunder, though, is not nearly enough to drown out the dissonant medley of songbirds and the occasional crow of the rooster.

There is such spaciousness here. It started before we came, inside. Half the WRCW was out of town and there was room for my being to spread. Breathing and being; cleaning and cooking in empty rooms or talking quietly or laughing loudly or crying just a little with women content in themselves. "May this interior space remain whatever happens outside me," I prayed. And, thanks be to God, what has happened outside me is an ever widening.

I watched the storm roll in, first from the window, then the porch. First alone, then with Brian, hardly talking. I watched Frankie and Betsy milk the goats and walked the garden with B when the rain had reduced from a rush to a trickle, sprinkling my clothes and hair, settling in between my toes. Yesterday, in the car, I started reading Holy the Firm, one of the Dillard books Ted gave me. It is the perfect accompaniment; transcendant and grounding, like the farm. The natural space reminds me that there is more to earth than human activity. Yet, whether or not present, whether or not aware, we touch it all, and we all are touched.

Dillard's many musings on God and days as gods--from reckless to helpless to cruel to doting--remind me of an OnBeing interview about nurturing that brought up the idea of God as parent and of parenthood as "excruciating loss of control and vulnerability," drowning in a sea of love that swims with pain, the horizons beginning and end blurred into the indefinite edges of sky and water.

June 22

This past week has been one of what John calls "real Catholic Worker" days. We've had PeaceBuilder students at the house all week--educating them about consumerism, food, energy use, wast--offering opportunities for hands on work--gardening, crafting and canning, etc. Today they'll be at the farm. I am with Seneca who has been amusing herself by plucking the sunny head off every dandelion she can find and drinking muffin crumbs from a cleaned our baby food jar and crawling on me, speaking her myseterious language, while I try to write.

Yesterday, before the students came, we had an early morning vigil downtown, a prayerful presence for an end to torture and teh closure of Guantanamo. It was the first time I'd worn the hood since D.C. I hadn't given any thought to that being of any consequence. the moment I pulled it over my head the words, "God, have mercy" sprung involuntarily to my consciousness. God have mercy; on me, on us, on them.

Suddenly, I remember the men and their suffering. I was transported back to January in D.C., only now, instead of shivering in the jumpsuit, I was sweating. We processed and prayed together. Chantal led us in, "Courage, brothers..." and I read a transcript of the testimony of Omar Deghayes. After the vigil, the WRCW met with Joe S. and Mary D. to plan for our July 4 action. I started wishing I could meet up with our friends in Washington for the action this week but am glad, at least, that we are finding creative ways to bring education and awareness here.

The afternoon proceeded with students, and much harvesting of food from the garden; cutting, processing, and canning of food we picked up from Morse Market before they disposed of it. There was a break in food management for a lovely open meal with friends, the house meeting, then back to salsas and sauces...

In Transition: Part 1

2011-06-22T13:29:00.000-07:00

I tend to feel a sense of sacred transition when completing the pages of one journal and beginning to mark the pages of a new one. It's similar to the feeling I have in an airport or train station, or when the wind is blowing steady and strong as it is right now; the feeling that there is something epic in the ordinary. Because this has just happened (the transition from on journal to the next), and because I have not posted in a while, I thought I would include a excerpts of the end of one and the beginning of another here:

June 6

Thanks to a combination of garden/chicken responsibilities, poor planning, zero cash and a broken ATM at the Loyola redline, I am now reclining beneath a willow tree by the lakeshore instead of listening to Iron & Wine at Millenium Park. I was feeling very frustrated and sad to miss the opportunity to hear their lovely tunes live and to visit with friends, but I am happy to be here. I have been feeling the need to find a little space in time to reflect and write. Finding that naturally had to mean losing something else.

Walking up to the lake, it was as though I'd come here for the first time again. I was filled with that aching love and wonder that feels almost like mourning. Holding up my long skirt with one hand, I waded in the water, wonderfully icy, and watched--two young boys playing, splash and chase; an attractive triad of sparsely tattooed young adults, waist deep; soft bodied parents quietly keeping an eye out; a dark brown woman in a bright orange shirt rowing a white boat. There was a man leaning against the sand behind me. He wore office clothes and had a computer bag by his side. In contrast with his environment but seeming very much a part of it, he watched only the horizon. It almost appeared as though he were not really watching anything at all, only letting the everything roll over and through him. I admired his just being. After relocating to this tree--where the sand is interrupted by lanky green grass blades, striped by shadows and bent by breeze--I continued to glance over and admire his ability to create a time for holy sabbath in the midst of this ordinary day.

"Everyday, do something that does not compute." Use "spare time" (if such a thing can be said to exist) not to catch up on phone calls or e-mails, or reading, but to be at rest--in mind and body--and immersed in your surroundings.

We read that poem, The Mad Farmers Liberation Front, of Wendell Berry's as part of the liturgy we held on the farm this morning. It felt profound and poignant to hear it read beneath the trees, with the sound of wind and of birds coming from the trees. One line in particular came to sit with me, not heavy, but awkwardly boney; "Love someone who doesn't deserve it." I thought about all the times I unintentionally (or otherwise) am sizing people up to assess whether or not they are worthy of my love. And I thought about aching Earth who continues to provide enough to meet all our needs despite our persistant negligence and abuse. Despite our unworthiness to be so loved.

Things are changing again, in me and around me and I'm not quite sure of where to look for center. Jerica and I were sitting on the bee bench, she was carving wedges into stakes to mark the herb bed and I was taking a break and trying to make plans for leaving. J. shared her desire for commitment from the significant people in her life--to her and each other and place and way of being--for a rooted life and a long view. I want that too and wish that I could offer it. I felt sad that my own mind has more been wandering to new or old places I could go. I spent much of the car ride out there envisioning what a life in California might look like and i've been doing that same thing with Florida lately, as well as imagining long distance adventures over seas. But these daydreams do not satisfy because I am continually reminded of how well connected I am here, how full my dys are of projects I enjoy and of people that I love...

June 9

...Overnight chicago experienced another dramatic climate shift from broiling, clear days in the 90s to torrential rain and cloudy days in the 60s and below...

I feel like there's a lot going on internally that I'm not giving access to. Almost everyday I can feel it kicking and shifting, like a growing baby not yet ready to be born...I feel torn by my tugging loyalties--how does one order her loves when they are many and widespread (Dorothy, I'd love to hear the wisdom of your experience)? I want to be attached, intertwined, but I keep pulling away...

While folding newsletters something came up again that I've been thinking about a lot regarding food 1) how do we connect the people who have it with the people who need it? 2) how do we help the people who need it become comfortable and confident with fresh foods and how to utilize them? I started thinking about having a CSA-type thing where you pay a nominal sum for the food box, then, when you come to pick it up each week, there is a free cooking class and a shared meal with the same types of food you would be getting--alternative food economy + education + building community = can't be bad.

I've also beeng thinking about both nonviolence and environmental care and how really brining them into consciousness will mean talking about them and living them everywhere. I am often afraid of seeming arrogant or ignorant or demoralizing. I am coming to believe in these things more and more and that if everyone doesn't bring them into everyday life, we are lost. Both in body and spirit. But I also want to keep withholding myself from internalizing them completely because I am afraid of the losses in relationship and lifestyle that would undoubtedly follow.

A Holy Thursday

2011-05-09T12:33:00.001-07:00

Spirits were high around the table that night. Sharing the story about that ass--not Peter, though he could be so maddening, believing everything he said was absolutely right even if it exactly contradicted what he’d said the day before--I mean the donkey’s colt they’d absconded with. Leading up to the moment they felt frightened, but once the words, “because the Lord has need of it,” came tumbling from their mouths it was all they could do to keep from laughing. So insane, and yet, it worked! Now, they didn’t try to stop the laughter, it flashed golden in their faces, waving warmly through the room.

Holy Thursday mass. My mind settles back into my body, resting on a smooth wood pew, luminously candlelit. This is a feast day, I’ve been told. It is also my birthday. I was going to conveniently dismiss the latter. There was enough happening already without having to draw attention to myself. But a friend came to town and insisted on full, extravagant, celebration. The day was spent surrounded by friends, food, a glowing positive energy--no thought of tomorrow. The night before we’d tried to sleep but couldn’t stop laughing, not that we really tried. Our bodies bucked the propriety of bedtime knowing the laughter would be stilled by morning, no matter what we did that night. Let it roll, while the momentum is good.

Somehow the Beloved saw that shadow of what was to come. When Jesus rose his friend said, “Stay awhile. Can’t we just stay here a little longer. Stay with me.” He felt an impulse to grasp at Jesus, to pin him to that place, to that feeling, to that moment, knowing once they moved from the table a spell would be broken. They would walk out the door and into the looking glass where wine becomes blood and bread, a body broken. Can’t we just stay here and hold on?

I remembered a night that had been buried in a decade of days. A young woman, with legs like toothpicks stuck in a potato, wearing a child’s red t-shirt with the number 3, boldly white, and a a delivery man’s brown pants with a black stripe down the side. She had her arms wrapped around her beloved, his wrapped around her, fingers hooked in the belt loops of the brown pants, lest she disappear. She was so small, he tried to put her in his pocket but they found she didn’t fit, her fat heart not yet leaned by living. Internally she battled between going responsibly to bed and never, never leaving this spot, never releasing this man or this moment because she knew in the morning nothing would be the same. Better to stay awake for one more hour, better wakeful weeping in the garden than to sleep and say “I never knew you.”

Stay. The disciple whispered. Candles lighting the sanctuary where extinguished and the darkness laid it’s weight on my spirit. Stay. My heart whispered. I imagined the disciples, what would they do without him? How could the energy that had drawn them together and inspired them to live that new abundant life be sustained without the presence that had brought it in the first place? How can any of us press on with hollow Absence holding the space of Love’s presence? “Can’t we just stay here?” I plead, leaning toward the lighted room and laughter. Then the communion song came, “Stay with me,” the choir sang Christ’s words, “remain with me,” asking the same thing, but differently. The almost identical opposite. “If you want to be with me, stay with me, come along--can you drink from this cup?” He moved on, to the garden, the trial, the cross, the tomb. And I wished he could put me in his pocket so I didn’t have to choose.

looking at little things

2011-04-14T06:41:00.000-07:00

I cancelled plans that would have me rushing between work and reconciliation service and went instead to the lakeshore seeking serenity and sight. I walked along the waters edge, little hills of washed up rocks shifting beneath my shoes. The rock piles roll into, are an extension of, the lake floor that, a few feet out, descends sharply and escapes my sight. Sea glass gives a green whistle calling attention to itself amidst the water slick browns and tans and sandy whites. The glass puts me in mind of Brother Josh's poem and my own old habits. I stoop to pick up every one I see, fingering the edges, tossing in those still bearing the sharp shine of their broken bottle past. They slip neatly into the wide water that somehow consistently creeps forward without ever submerging the shore.

I walked over the sand to the park that wraps the bare shoulders of the beach like a grassy green shawl. A big woman with bleached blond hair and a gray hoodie was shouting so loud her voice became a hoarse growl, a roar of profanities directed to a feather-light, steel-haired, woman who was walking her dogs and apparently failed to pick up their poop. Every unclean words for woman and excrement was hurled at the mute offender, interspersed with threats of violence. I looked and listened and walked closer incase the conflict escalated from verbal to physical. But violence was already occurring. I hovered in between, still at a distance from both, should I say something? Who do I move toward? I waited and when the lioness stalked away, still rumbling, prayed that the women's jagged, brittle edges would not be broken, but rubbed smooth.

WAT Journals--Jan 20

2011-01-20T19:56:00.001-08:00

Despite a limited dose of sleep last night—due to our overnight vigil, taken in shifts, at the DoJ last night--I hadn't heard about the article. Mary told me as we were preparing to process from our gathering circle at the Navy Memorial to the DoJ where we would be reunited with the last shift of overnight vigil-ers.

Carmen spoke the gist of it over the sound system as we stood once again before the Department of “Justice.” A report was issued in the New York Times that Attorney General Holder, glaringly absent from our invitation to break bread, will be re-instituting military tribunals for the prosecuting of Guantanamo detainees. It appears that “hearsay evidence” will be incorporated into the cases (since no solid evidence exists), meaning information derived by torture will be used. A devastating development on a number of levels. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/01/20/us/20trials.html?scp=2&sq=eric%20holder&st=cse

The news sunk like a bitter lump in my stomach and my shoulders slumped. Warm tears welled. My grief was hidden beneath a black hood. I thought of how the grief of the detained men is hidden away from the American people and the world. I thought of the hidden grief of their wives, their children, their fathers and mothers and friends. I want to believe that we are better than this.

Today has been rough for me, emotionally. The absence of solid sleep and food has left me exposed to feelings I'd successfully held at bay up to this point. Much of what has been brewing in me was released as I sat in the middle of the floor of the auditorium. A meeting had just closed and Chantal took my hand and asked, “are you okay?” Though I first said I was, her follow up questions led me to tears and disclosure.

One of the things weighing heaviest on my heart registered as I was watching portions of Taxi to the Darkside (an intense and worthwhile documentary about Bagram and Guantanamo). There was a clip from a post 911 news interview with then vice president Dick Cheney. He was talking about the need to move into the shadows, to use harsher tactics, because of who we are dealing with...these are paraphrases that actually tame what he was saying. I can't remember at the moment or find the video (day ten of fasting, remember, and sleepy). Were we not listening or did we just not care? The thought that people watched this and accepted his words, that people watched this and didn't rise up from their seats in horror and challenge him and the administration was heart-breaking. Especially in the context of having just watched footage of interviews with soldiers about and images of torture and “enhanced interrogation techniques.” The realization that I had never seen this interview with Cheney, that for most of my life I've essentially ignored the news, ignored my responsibility and complicity was devastating. Especially when accompanied by the impression that my negligence and apathy are fairly representative of the general population.

My grief infiltrates me on multiple levels and there have been other factors to my general sense of desolation today. But I am thankful for this community that I have such respect and affection for (though tonight I thought I'd go mad if I had to sit in one more circle for one more meeting!), I am thankful for my already sweet and still deepening friendships with Jerica and Chantal who sat on the floor of the auditorium with me as my facade of well-being crumbled. I am so thankful for Chantal's beautiful gift for playing guitar and singing that smoothed my wrinkled spirit. And I am thankful for the makeshift bed I am about to crawl into.

WAT Journals--Jan. 19

2011-01-20T06:49:00.000-08:00

Risking arrest can be a comical process. Monday night about a dozen from our group stayed up late to clarify an action plan that had begun being formed in the large circle. After the clarifying group came up with a rough proposal another fragment continued the conversation as to what details would be included. Tuesday the conversation continued in the large group with further questions, suggestions, amendments. Then into the night the chosen few hashed out speaking points and alternatives in case things did not go according to plan (which they seldom do).

The gist of what we came up with is this. We would once more converge upon the premises of the DoJ. An announcement would be made over the sound system, explaining our presence, outlining the steps that have been taken to date; namely, our attempts at more conventional routes of communication -- letters, meetings, phone calls—that have been rebuffed. Then, an invitation is made to invite Attorney General Eric Holder or the highest official present for the day, to come outside and speak with us. We offered to break our fast (9 days and counting) and to break bread with him, offering him the opportunity to justify present policies and us to express our dismay at the injustices we have seen committed by U.S. representatives and supported and enforced by U.S. policy makers. At this announcement a loaf of bread was presented (cardboard Budweiser box covered by a lovely decorative rug) along with a bouquet of white roses. The roses were explained to be symbolic of the White Rose Society, a movement that arose within Nazi Germany famous for their pronouncement, “we will not be silent,” who would not be deterred from speaking out against the evils being committed by those in power even to the point of death (they were captured and beheaded).

While we waited for Mr. Holder or another representative from the DoJ to accept our invitation, a program began with alternating speakers that presented stories from Guantanamo; stories of the detainees, of the policies and practices of the military, of the types of torture, of the infamous beginnings that involved buying men with bounties with no evidence of wrong doing, extraordinary rendition, etc. After the first hour those willing to risk arrest removed their hoods, in effect, releasing themselves from representing Guantanamo detainees and reasserting their identity as American citizens come to make use of the alleged power we have as citizens of a democratic republic. Reiterating our attempts at more conventional approaches to communication, it was announced that we would block the entrance to the DoJ.

There were two instances during which those of us risking arrest “put our bodies on the line” so to speak. The first began as the first hour after our invitation to Eric Holder to break bread with us drew to a close. Carmen invited those of us dressed as detainees to remove our hoods and reveal our identity as “dismayed citizens” here to address the injustices being committed and sanctioned by the U.S. Government. We were then called upon to step forward. Previously when blocking the entrances to the DoJ we had turned to face the street, the public, with our backs to the building and the officers guarding it. This time we stepped forward, face to face with those opposing us, both symbolically (the employees and policy makers represented by the DoJ) and literally (the officers that barred our way). It felt strange to walk forward toward these resolute, stony faced men. My body resisted but my will and the presence of those beside me surpassed that inhibition. We kneeled and sang, “woke up this morning with my mind, stayed on freedom,” and the song and the voices of those around me and the hidden voices of the men we had come out for, buoyed my spirit and my resolve. We waited until our knees ached and our feet fell asleep, mindful of how minor this discomfort was as the program continued behind us and we heard story after story of the abusive, inhuman treatment of prisoners at Guantanamo. I listened to the stories and wondered how much if any was being absorbed by the guards that stood before us and looked past us. I wondered how much if any was being absorbed by the employees who more than anything seemed perturbed by this interruption of their usual routines. I wondered what I would think of us if I was on the outside looking in at this odd assortment of men and women in orange jumpsuits, kneeling before the blocked doors of the Department of Justice.

After the predetermined time for our presence at this entrance drew to a close. We rose and processed to the car port where we once again assembled and kneeled, once again facing the officers on duty and the wrought iron gates of the DoJ that opened to a lovely courtyard beyond which towering offices loomed large. The program continued and I resumed alternating attentiveness to the words being spoken by the people in our group and to the unspoken messages of those not associated with us. Time and again employees and officers were invited to state their case, none came forward, nor did they speak from where they stood. I noticed that the prevailing response from employees (at this point, those not in cars were able to come and go through a rotating door to our left) most commonly responded to our presence either by averting their gaze or smirking. A sad example of how so many choose to respond to being confronted with the discomfort of a tragic truth in which we all are implicated. I don't know if those behind me or otherwise beyond view accepted fliers or listened to the speakers.

After sometime, an hour maybe—my sense of time was severely skewed so it's hard to say—we could hear sirens and see lights flashing, blue and red, as police cars and paddy wagons converged on the street behind us. A yellow crime scene tape was drawn around us and those from the support group quickly placed bottles of juice before us in anticipation of imminent arrest. More time passed and the tape was removed. More passed still and still we waited. The police cars and paddy wagon remained, the clusters of officers remained, we trespassing vigilers remained and it began to be evident that all parties involved were attempting to wait each other out. Our minds and bodies had spent the day in preparation and anticipation all the while knowing that we did not know what would transpire. As we continued to remain unshackled, we circled up and for the next 30 minutes had a kind of impromptu hootenanny, holding hands and swaying as we sang out peace songs and continued to block the the entrance. It was surreal. A soft-hued sunset came and went and darkness embraced us. Finally we began to process away, singing “Courage, Muslim brothers...” But our vigil did not end, it took it's third form. A small group remained for what will continue as an overnight presence, some staying continuously through the night to represent the torture technique of sleep deprivation, others taking a few hours at a time in shifts indicating the seriousness of our intentions. We are determined to be heard, to be a voice for the voiceless, to put an end to this madness.

WAT Journals--Jan. 16

2011-01-17T14:47:00.000-08:00

We are at the “Peace Oasis” now and I have stolen someone else's pen to write this because I cannot find my own. The PO is a large lovely home in the woods that was built primarily as a retreat place to acquaint city children with natural spaces. It is offered to WAT for a day and night of rest, reflection, and planning. It's a beautiful place and I am looking forward to a walk amidst the trees this afternoon.

Yesterday was very full with many of us being away from the home base for a good twelve hours. Mass was how the day began at a church about a block away. Bishop Gumbleton presided. I loved the songs but found the homily lackluster, hence the sketching of tangential ideas—I hope to explore them more later—during that time.

From there we joined with other groups on a march to the White House in commemoration both of MLK weekend and of the 20th anniversary of the war on Iraq. At the WH there was a service of songs, speakers, and prayers. I had a part, calling out a liturgy with the group response “we will not comply.” It was an empowering experience for me, proclaiming this to and along with such a large gathering. This was followed by an arduous teach-in (4 ½ hours of speakers, interspersed with songs) that had many informative and and tremendously moving speeches. I took a lot of notes and will try to compile them in the not too distant future.

Back at St. Stephens. I was feeling good energy earlier but feel like I'm crashing now. Some folks are talking about going to a bar which sounds fun, but I'm afraid I lack the stamina...I want to write in a way that is exploring thoughts and ideas but am finding it difficult to focus. The following tangential pieces are based on the notes I took during and after mass:

> “Tax collector and sinners” – I don't think that we “peace activists” (for lack of a better term) have the ownership of this categorization that I often see assumed. I think it reveals Jesus' ministry to and relationship with a spectrum. He met with all and spoke to all with the same candor.
Lumping ourselves into the broad category of sinners is reasonable enough, but tax collectors? This representation is more appropriately pointed toward those we oppose, those we ridicule, those we dismiss as soulless oppressors of the people, just as Jesus' followers did with the tax collectors of their time.
The movement I feel in response to these readings is not toward congratulating myself for being among the crew Jesus called friend. The call I hear is toward transparency and an invitational spirit toward all—including authorities, including those with whom we disagree—even those who do evil.

> This afternoon we came across three horses. Without a second thought, I called to them, fed them, coaxed them to come near so that I could stroke and caress them. These animals had done nothing to win my affection. I knew nothing about them except that they were beautiful creatures.

> During Saturday morning's reflection I shared some thoughts about simultaneously holding feelings of hope and despair, of sorrow and joy—the fullness of that, the full humanness, the way it binds me to what diverse people are experiencing—that's a good feeling, though it is heavy.

>For some reason this line keeps coming to mind as something important to remember: “Jesus Christ did not consider equality with God as something to be grasped...” It's from Paul's letter to the Philippians.

> During the liturgy on Sunday morning a conversation developed around sin/forgiveness/redemption. It began when Joe, a self-proclaimed skeptic, asked why we would need a God who forgave sin or for Jesus to take on the role of redeemer. Are we not responsible for ourselves? Is that just a way to shirk personal responsibility? Many interesting responses were sparked. I started thinking about KY, as I often do. I remember the sharpening awareness of the weight of history and how the interconnectedness of life which is so beautiful is also treacherous. That is, that everything we say and do has both direct effect and a rippling influence; these build, creating habits, processes, systems, to the point that we don't even see or understand or remember anymore how it began. These things can't be undone. They can only be redeemed.

WAT Journals--Jan 14

2011-01-14T20:33:00.000-08:00

Day four of the fast is nearly complete. The day was so full; it’s difficult to know where to begin. After our morning meeting we waited for a nurse who didn’t come and then left to vigil at the White House. That seems like such a long time ago. I don’t remember what I was thinking. Mostly, I was listening. More poems were read as well as our reasons for being there. This was followed by a march to the DOJ which we processed around and then vigiled in front of for about twenty minutes. From there we went to the Senate Hart building for a “ghost walk.” This involves several people in orange jumpsuits walking meditatively through the building, not interacting with those around them, specters of those whose lives are hidden from view. During and before this time others had been lobbying in their Senators offices, now we were “lobbying” in the halls, with a point person to drop off letters and share information with those who asked.

At the DOJ vigil I had held a placard with the image of a man in a pointed black hood and sackcloth being tortured by electric shock. It was a photo from a U.S. detention center. I thought about this man, about his captors; what would it take for each of them to be healed? It seems so impossible. Yet, I continued to make my small, shuffling, steps of hope. I also kept returning to what Carmen had said about Jesus and Moses during our morning reflection. Their key parallel, he believes, is that both argue with God on behalf of humanity. There’s something so penetrating and stunning about this idea to me. I’ve yet to fully process it. But I considered the rag tag tribes Moses was shepherding, and I considered the masses of mixed up humans on the earth presently. I considered how far astray all of us are from righteousness, from love—still more ready for sacrifice than mercy, and usually the sacrificing of another before ourselves. I wondered if Jesus feels a sickening sense of disappointment, of betrayal. Is he wounded repeatedly? No longer from physical beating but a broken heart? Is he dismayed by the behavior of those for whom he intervened?

The gospel reading this morning was the story of the friends who bring their paralytic companion to Jesus for healing. I am struck in this passage by the audacity of these friends. There is despair in the circumstances of their life—a friend crippled, a crowd that will not be moved, a Healer who is inaccessible, not to mention political and social upheaval. Hope is delivered to the scene by attitudes and actions that defy resignation to the situation. These friends display a willingness to confront an obdurate mass, to dismantle obstacles (in the form of a roof) that separates them from their goal, to release their friend to the unknown with hope and faith that the impossible will be made manifest. In this story I find cause for hope in what humans are capable of when compelled by compassion. I want to believe that our unconventional acts, our disruption of the status quo that envelopes the majority; our attempts at dismantling borders that block us from recognizing that we are also “them,” are acts of compassion that lead to healing.

WAT Journals -- JAN 13

2011-01-13T13:11:00.000-08:00

I’m feeling very hungry this afternoon with lots of aches and pains. Woke up with a sore throat and absent voice this morning but I seem to be growing more audible as the day progresses.

During our vigil at the DOJ (Department of Justice) today I wasn’t sure that I would be able to continue standing. We had already been holding vigil outside the courthouse as the ACLU argued the case of Ali vs. Rumsfeld (on behalf of families of men who had been captured and tortured in Iraq). There I began feeling weak and distracted and very cold. I stepped out of line a moment to warm my hands and drink some juice. Returning to standing I centered myself by watching the trees that stood at attention in a line parallel to ours across the street. It felt as though they were gazing on the court proceedings, or us, or seeing past it all. As the day was windy, they were perpetually, gently, dancing. Afterward we had a short break to get warm and use the bathrooms at the Art Museum across the street before reconvening to don our jumpsuits and hoods and process to and around the DOJ. There, ten representatives of detainees kneeled, facing the building while those remaining, roughly forty, faced the street holding up a massive black banner with white lettering, “SHUT DOWN GUANTANMO.”

Two things sustained me during that second vigil. We were standing along the curb, facing a busy street, lining the block with our bodies. I was near to center and the sun seemed to be reaching its rays directly toward me. This was a comfort in that it helped to warm me, soaking into my black gloves and hood. It also created a mesmerizing optical effect. My hood became filled with fragments of rainbows—sometimes in circles, intricately laced, like snowflakes; sometimes in interwoven patterns that spread like veins. Though from the outside I appeared to be hooded by a macabre shroud, from within it was as though I was cloaked in prisms.

Even so, I was waning. I began to meditate on one of my favorite prayers: “Creator, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow love…” Then Carmen’s voice came over the microphone to speak our case and introduce the reading of poems composed by Guantanamo detainees. Those poems lent me strength and perseverance.* My empty stomach was filled with the bittersweet words; my wandering mind was focused on the men who wrote them and on those for whom they wrote.

Writing this reminds me of yesterday when we were processing around the DOJ three times before standing vigil. As my body plodded, my mind leapt from one tangent to another. I drew close to center by praying repeated “Hail Mary’s.” This prayer led me to contemplate the prayer life of the detainees, who are predominantly Muslim. Though they are persecuted for their faith, they are unabashed in proclaiming it in word, action and writing. I, who try so hard to make controversial Christ palatable to all, am convicted by this. In the midst of abuse they find solace in Allah and are not so cynical as to cease to trust in their God. I, who question God’s love because of hardship only heard of, am convicted by this. Despite being treated with unspeakable malice and cruelty, those interviewed, while desiring justice, speak no ill will to their persecutors. I, who judge others for even imagined offenses, am convicted by this.

As Luke Nephew says in his powerful poem, “Man Under the Hood,” we do not attempt to make angels of these men, but to remember at least that they are men: deep and mysterious, feeling and thinking, intricately nuanced as we all are. Don’t forget them. Don’t drape a curtain over their cage. Don’t validate the injustice that our nation is ignoring. Don’t allow yourself to become so accustomed to bad news that you find it acceptable.

This morning in prayer we read one of my favorite verses: “Today, if you hear God’s voice, do not harden your heart.” It put me in mind of a quote from Abraham Joshua Heschel:

"An individual dies when they cease to be surprised. I am surprised every morning when I see the sunshine again. When I see an act of evil I don't accommodate, I don't accommodate myself to the violence that goes on everywhere. I am still so surprised! That is why I am against it. We must learn to be surprised."

Let us look with wonder and reverence on our brothers and sisters and on this earth. Let us be so amazed whenever they are treated as less than magnificent. Let that amazement compel us to move, to speak, to love with all our being.

*http://www.amnesty.org.uk/books_details.asp?BookID=89. There is only one copy of this book here that I know of, and it is in high demand. If I am able to get a hold of both it and a computer, I will transcribe the powerful poems that were read. In my next post I also hope to transcribe notes from speakers we heard on a panel at American University, including Andy Worthington, author of Outside the Law: Stories from Guantanamo (a book and documentary film) and representatives from the UN and from Center for Constitutional Rights.

WAT Journals--Jan. 11

2011-01-12T18:31:00.001-08:00

WAT Journals: Jan. 11

A little past midnight now so the fast has begun…a series of meetings and I am feeling clarified and confident. Also developing affection and respect already for several folks…I feel good. whole. loved. alive.

********************************************************************************

The first time I saw the White House was from behind a veil. I was standing front and center in formation with roughly 120 others in orange jumpsuits and black hoods representing the 173 men still being indefinitely detained at Guantanamo Bay. I learned, during the press conference transpiring in front of the White House, that only three of those 173 men have convictions against them. Three. And of the remaining, approximately 90 have been cleared by U.S. task forces as not presenting any danger nor having any cause for incarceration. Yet, they remain. Some have been there from the very beginning, nine years.
With our hoods on we could still see, though dimly. Even so, there were people from the community to guide us, “tree to your left—loose tiles ahead—there’s a downward step there—“ I thought about the men we represented whose hoods truly shrouded them in darkness; who were taken by strangers who did not guide them but systematically abused them physically and emotionally and psychologically. One of the things I heard that stung the most was that many of these men said that when they first learned they were in U.S. custody they were glad. They believed that in U.S. hands they would be treated with dignity. Then they were taken to Abu Ghraib. Then to Guantanamo.

At the end of the day we were not arrested. We did stand in front of the Departments of Justice, shivering in our boots as lovely large flakes of snow fell on and around us, standing solidly together nonetheless. We read the names of those still detained and spoke in unison, “We remember you.” This is a particularly poignant ritual to me as I imagine it is a devastating feeling to be forgotten in your suffering. How agonizing it must be to know that you are innocent, to know that your captors know you are innocent and yet you remain hidden from view, no just end in sight.

…This morning I woke up early after a scant night of sleep to be present for morning prayer. We ended with the Our Father (speaking it instead as “Our Creator” which I found quite lovely). Since last year’s fast two lines from that prayer have become increasingly poignant for me. I will share one here:

“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

When I say those words it is with great humility and an accompanying prayer beseeching mercy. I am achingly aware that we have not forgiven those who’ve trespassed against us and deserve no such forgiveness. We have, instead, heaped trespass upon trespass. We have stolen lives, hidden humans away to be tortured and tormented in secret and then, instead of begging forgiveness, we have tried to justify our actions. This is a hard truth.

DC--Day One

2011-01-10T09:18:00.000-08:00

The following is an excerpt from the diaries of Amy Nee:

A terrific snowstorm tried to stop us, but thanks to John & Chantal's driving prowess we made it to Christina's parents in Geneva, Ohio. The heavy snow was beautiful but treacherous. I kept wishing I could be home with that snow and build a snowman and sled...

...We are at Dorothy Day House now, in or just outside of DC. I'm a little disoriented. We just had our first "check-in" of sorts with the NY crew who rolled in about an hour after us. I'm glad to be here but feeling very out of place and wondering what I am doing here--how to respond to this environment--how it even came to be that I am in a place and situation like this.

During the long, cramped drive (five of us in a Honda Civic plus two weeks worth of baggage, and we are not small!), I reflected briefly on some of my life stages; moments of awareness of my weakness, moments of empowerment. I thought about living on New England Ave in Florida and avoiding acknowledging my acquaintances sitting on the balcony as I walked below--aware and ashamed of my impulse to ignore those around me because I did not know what to say or how to act. I remember one night in KY when I decided to go visit the community where my roommate Maureen's dad lived. I was filled with anxiety. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and confronted myself in an utterly cliche but effective way. "You are lovely," I told this reflection, "and I like who you are and who you are becoming; why are you still afraid of people?" What is it that I am afraid of?

This inhibition and anxiety and self-doubt cannot be left unchecked. That is a large part of why I am here, to continue along the road of recovery. Also, because of compassion bound together with a believing/unbelieving hope. A terrible injustice is occuring to a large group of men and we just might be able to do something about it. So how could I not try? How could I not join with those who are trying? What does love require?

My dear sister Hannah, familiar with aspects of me that no one here knows, has promised prayer, "like a blanket." I will wrap that blanket around me, when I wake and when I sleep.

Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be frightened and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go. -Joshua 1:9

I'll Be Home for Christmas

2010-12-24T15:35:00.000-08:00

Snow is falling, soft and steady. I just came in from a walk, my coat and cap generously dusted with the lacy white flakes. There’s a golf course a block from our house. Covered in snow, that space of loping fields and scattered trees looks remarkably natural. Wild geese gracefully wander leaving webbed white markings, squirrels bounce quickly from one tree to the next. I stopped at the base of one tree and my heart melted with wonder as I watched intricate, individual snowflakes bind together and form a furry shawl on the bare, brown branches. A pack of kids were hurtling down the town’s only hill (aptly named “sledding hill”) with their parents at the bottom taking photos. I was tempted to ask someone if I could take a turn—I’ve only sledded once and long for an opportunity to surf the land like that again—but felt like today was one for observation. I took a picture in my mind (and on my phone) and walked on. When I got home I tried to build a snow-lady in the backyard to amuse the chickens but had little success. The true colors of our girls are beginning to show. They’ve always looked white as snow, but when compared to the real stuff their feathers are revealed to have a distinctly yellow tint.

All my life I have dreamed of a white Christmas. Holiday songs and almost every image of the season indicate that is what we are entitled to. Growing up in Florida, travelling primarily in the summer, snow at Christmas, or anytime, was relegated to the realm of fantasies and miracles. Many a prayer was offered up from children wearing tank-tops and shorts, “Dear Jesus, let this be the year!” This is my year, but it comes at a cost. For the first time I am not in Florida with my family during the Christmas holiday. Instead I have decided to stay at my home in Chicago. Our house, normally bursting at the seams, is nearly empty. The others that I live with are off visiting relatives. I am holding down the fort and Tonguy (our guest from Togo, S. Africa who is staying with us while searching for a long term living option) will be in and out over the weekend.

I appreciate the rare opportunity for solitude and am feeling peaceful and grateful. At the same time, I know that I am missing the cacophony of exuberant voices made up of a roomful of sisters; the excitement of welcoming my brother Adam’s partner, Allison, into the family home for the first time; the combination of my brothers and my dad that always results in subtly (sometimes not so subtly) coarse humor that we try not to laugh at but then laugh regardless because it’s funny; my two-year-old niece Indiana repeating back everything anyone says to her in her beautiful little bee-like voice; board/card game playing and movie watching; siblings piled up together on the same couch, the Christmas Eve candle ceremony (a.k.a. Nee family cry fest) when we all articulate are abundant love for each other.

This has been a year of great change for me. Great in both the large and the delightful sense. I have become so comfortable with my surroundings and so immersed in my activities that I temporarily lost sight of the heap of happenings that have occurred, many of which are quite momentous for me. I formed a number of intense crushes that have grown into something more. I don’t mean on individuals but on places and people and ways of being. I was wooed by the Divine Unknown (who I know as God) and came to reluctantly, irresistibly, re-engage in relationship with this God’s incarnation in the form of a man named Jesus. After much deliberation and vacillation I consummated this relation by being confirmed into the Roman Catholic Church. I continue to be delighted, bewildered, ashamed by, and affection toward this institution that has adopted me as part of the family.

Another family that has adopted me is the White Rose Catholic Worker community; a group of people I was drawn to from the moment we met and before that even. Last fall I took a class on Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton. Learning about these individuals lit a fire in me. Their interior and exterior lives were integrated with a rare authenticity and their ways of thinking and being resonated deeply with a desire for life that I had not yet found a way to articulate. I was especially fascinated by Day and the Catholic Worker movement. Searching for people who were continuing to attempt this lifestyle I had the good fortune of stumbling upon John and Jake who, along with Jerica (and later, Regina and Marie) were in the process of establishing a new Catholic Worker in the neighborhood where I was already working as a live-in nanny. In the spring they announced me an “official” member of the community and I moved in at the beginning of August.

In between these major events I also did have crushes on a few fellas and a few had crushes on me but those interests never quite lined up. I continue to be pleasantly independent and am anything but lonely. I also did more travelling than I have ever done in my life. April, I received a surprise gift from my dear, as-yet-unmet, friend Laina who bought me a plane ticket to go visit my family in Florida. I traveled with my friend Cat and spent a week and a half in Arizona on the U.S./Mexico border. We worked with a group called No More Deaths that does humanitarian aid work and advocacy for migrants. It was a simultaneously beautiful and tragic experience, offering an intense education and stirring up a number of questions. It recalled to me a passage of scripture that I’ve often connected with:

“...I can guarantee this truth: Whoever gives any of my humble followers a cup of cold water because that person is my disciple will certainly never lose his reward.”
Matt 10:42 (GW)

I’ve often felt overwhelmed by the pain and needs of this world and the lives within it that I have felt immobilized. When I read this scripture though I am called to action, a cup of water I can give. One of the things I love about the community I now live in is the way we try to engage in small good things to meet practical needs while simultaneously wrestling with larger, systemic issues.

I returned briefly to Chicago before taking off again to spend three weeks in California. There I visited my older brothers, Adam and Aaron in Los Angeles; spent some wonderful time with my beloved sister-in-law, Ann Marie, and niece and nephew, Asher and Clover. That trip happily overlapped with a visit from my younger sisters, Ruth and Rachel. The three of us spent several days with our fabulous Aunts Nancy and Judy in Northern California. I also had the opportunity to stay for five days with the LA Catholic Worker where I connected with the wonderful community there and participated in their work of offering food, shelter, and solidarity to the homeless population of skid row.

In the fall the White Rose community packed up to travel to “Sugar Creek,” Iowa for a gathering of Midwest Catholic Workers that felt like a family reunion. November I traveled down to Georgia with several from our community, as well as our friend Aaron Z., to participate in the SOA vigil at Ft. Benning in Columbus. Another intense time of education. I went directly from there to Tallahassee where I was able to see the home and meet the friends of my darling sister Grace. She and I drove together to the Apopka house where I spent the next week and a half soaking up the presence of my family. During that time I had the great gift of collecting stories from my parents of their life together which I hope to share more about later.

Presently, I am taking a break from the frenetic composing of completely handmade planners. Our community decided, in mid-December, to being this “cottage industry.” The orders for planners (which, naturally, are expected at the beginning of the year) have poured in and at this point exceed fifty. The beautiful intention, thorough planning and ultimately haphazard execution of this endeavor acts as an apt representation of most of our undertakings here. Many thanks to dear friends Ben A. and Aaron Z. who have shared in the work and lightened it with their presence! We are now up to three “open meals” a week when we welcome friends and strangers to join us for dinner and fellowship as well as offering access to the showers and washing machine and whatever clothing items or odds and ends we can provide. We are in intense planning mode, discerning how to make the best use of 10 acres of land that has been provided for us to grow food on and continue our experiment with providing an alternative economy and way of being in relationship with the earth and each other. As our community grows (we have doubled, from three folks to six!) and our ministerial ambitions grow with it, we are searching for a larger home to live in and work from.

There is so much more that I could write. I’ve been thinking a great deal lately of my time in Kentucky, the way my spirit was shaken to a new life and liveliness by the remarkable geography there. The way my mind and heart were expanded by the remarkable people there. And somehow that is all connected to what I am doing now, who I am becoming now. I love this life. Though I struggle with the interior work of clarifying convictions, developing relationships, and growing in love and service and mindfulness; I am sustained by the belief that I and those struggling with me, are endeavoring to live faithfully. We are experimenting with truth, supporting and challenging each other along the way. Advent is a season of hope. We await a promised savior. We celebrate the birth of a poor child, hoping in his promised potential. I hope in the truth of his strange story and in the potential of us poor children of earth. May his Kingdom come. May we live as though it is already here.

Much love and peace and Merry Christmas to you.

Your always remaining and ever-changing,

amy elizabeth nee

SOA Protest: First Impressions

2010-11-23T15:48:00.000-08:00

11-21-10

I write this while sitting in a courtroom waiting for the arraignment of those arrested yesterday for the civil resistance action and randomly during the mass arrest that followed. Regina and Annmarie are among them. Bail was set at over $5000 dollars. Our friends didn’t intend to pay, hopefully we won’t have to.

Chris “crossed the line” this afternoon, nimbly, over the fence. I cried. I don’t know why. Meg, Mary Ellen, Cat and a girl I’d just met gave me long hugs of consolation. He leapt into becoming a representative of those murdered by graduates from the School of the Americas. Now I have to care.

We were there to mourn those who have lost lives and loved ones as victims, those who’ve lost integrity and humanity as victimizers. We were there too to uncover the infiltration of militarization and corrupt powers that exist all around us. The SOA has itself become a symbol. This school that has become notorious for graduates who lead and participate in assassinations, coups, massacres, war crimes—trained on U.S. soil, in U.S. tactics, with U.S. dollars, implicating U.S. citizens.

During our informal “pre-crossing” mass I could hear the “presente!” chant of the procession continuing around us, the beating of the drum. Feebly, I drew toward a sense of empathy with those who attempt to worship while surrounded by death.

“What are your impressions from today?” I asked Aaron. He said the mass felt like it was the last supper. Jake was Peter, the right hand man, the organizer. Crowds of friends and followers gave mixed messages of praise, concern, encouragement and scorn to our lamb. I wondered if he thought of Christ’s crown of thorns as his fingers wrapped over the barbed wire strung across the top of the fence.

“We act in response to the holocausts continuing to occur around the world,” he had said, carrying with him the ID card of a seven-year-old Belgium boy who’d been gassed in nazi Germany. Many of those killed by SOA graduates were young children, infants, mothers. We wonder, in retrospect, how such things as the mass killings of Jews could be allowed to happen. Could it be that such cruelty continues” Could it be us allowing it now?

After the Chris’ crossing I sat in the shad of the stage and listened to songs of freedom being belted out by the powerful voices of the musicians collective. Brother Josh, who had painted his face white, worn a black robe and carried a coffin in the procession sate beside me. “How did it feel?” I asked. He said it felt like being family, as pallbearers often are. He thought about how when one dies, all the family dies too. He thought, if we were able to truly understand each other as brother and sister, wars would cease. We would know we were killing ourselves.

Waiting silently in the courtroom to hear our friends’ fate, I think of those arrested yesterday who were not prepared, who did not enter purposefully. I think about those without support. I acknowledge that this happens every day; often without justice, often without love. Now I have to care. This is the heavy gift that our brothers and sisters who risk arrest offer. Even when I don’t fully understand thief action, I see the value of this gift.

Gratefully, I accept. May I be found worthy of the gifts that I’ve received! May we all remember the cost, and the debt that remains.

Confrontations in the Desert: Part 2

2010-11-17T19:27:00.001-08:00

This synthesis of recent studies and the current reading spurred me to be more attentive to Jesus’ other responses, recognizing there was more to his meaning than I’d previously taken note of. The devil next presents to Jesus a vision of “all the kingdoms of the world in a moment’s time” (Luke 4:5) claims dominion and offers them with only one caveat, that Jesus worships him. Jesus answers, “You shall worship the Lord your God and God only shall you serve.” The reference here is to Deuteronomy 6:13. The words Jesus actually speak follow closely on the footsteps of what is often referred to as “the greatest commandment,” “you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might,” possibly because it was presented as such in the gospels during an exchange between Jesus and an inquisitive lawyer. It is worth noting that in this exchange there is an added phrase, “and you shall love your neighbor as yourself.” The words just preceding these are, “Hear O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one” which has become the Shema, the centerpiece of morning and evening prayer in the Jewish tradition. What really caught my attention here is the word “one.” During a recent morning of community prayer, one of my housemates prefaced his sharing point with an explanation of ones and zeros, “zero is a place holder, one is infinity.” One is infinity. This gave a sinking and soaring new depth to the phrase, “the Lord is one.” Satan offered Jesus a glimpse of all of the kingdoms of the world “in a moment’s time.” What is that in the eye of infinity?

Next comes Satan’s wildly decontextualized reference to the promise God makes via the writer of the 91st Psalm, “On their hands they [the angels] will bear you up, lest you strike your foot against a stone.” If you believe this, the devil says; why not jump from this precipice? It seems an odd taunt. The Psalmist promise was made in the context of God offering loving protection and being a fortress at a time of attack, not being a safety net for daredevils. Jesus’ retort is less direct but abundantly deeper. “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test,” he answers. But this is only the beginning of the sentence that, in Deuteronomy, is finished with, “as you tested the Lord at Massah.” What happened at Massah? This is a reference once again to the Israelites’ time in the desert, to the time when their gratitude for the gift of manna waned and they “quarreled with Moses,” because they were thirsty. Why, they asked, did you bring us out from Egypt? How quickly they forgot their chains and remembered only the convenience of a society with easy access to resources. The people are given water, but begrudgingly, and Moses names the place Massah [testing] and Meribah [quarrelling] “because of the quarrelling of the people of Israel, and because they tested the Lord by saying, ‘is the Lord among us or not?’” It is also the core line in a Psalm that consistently makes my heart quiver, “Today if you hear God’s voice, do not harden your hearts as you did at Meribah, as you did on the day at Massah, in the wilderness” (Psalm 95). The implications of Jesus’ response are far greater than a critique of Satan’s misinterpretation of scripture. It implies Jesus’ determination to trust that God is indeed among us, a fact that Jesus own presence affirms. And he would not prove it by dramatic self-aggrandizing acts but by a steady commitment to implementing the instructions inherent in the story of the manna—the theology of enough—even when it was inconvenient, unappreciated, unpopular; even when it got him in trouble with authorities and threw him out of favor with his own family and followers.

Following this, Jesus makes his first public address:

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives
and recovering of sight to the blind,
to set at liberty those who are oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. (Luke 4:18-19, Isaiah 61:1,2).

Confrontations in the Desert: Part 1

2010-11-16T15:07:00.000-08:00

A Reading from Luke 4:1-14

I am always impressed by how a thoughtful reading of an old text develops new contours, shaped by daily learnings. I have long been fascinated by Jesus’ encounter with the devil in the desert. It is on of the few scenes where Satan takes the stage as a present character (the only others I can think of off-hand are in Eden—confronting Eve—and in heaven—reporting to and challenging God about Job). It is quite theatrical.

Originally I read this passage as little more than a character sketch. Satan is shown to be a manipulative antagonist, Jesus a pure-hearted overcomer. Over time the readings took on different shapes depending on teachers and circumstances in which I met them. The desert is a purifying space for Jesus. Now I read it as not only a time of refinement for him as an individual (and object lesson on using scripture as combat weapons), but a purifying of the law, a refinement of the historical understanding of God and God’s commandments.

Every word Jesus speaks in this scene is quoted directly from both the 6th and 8th chapter of the book of Deuteronomy, the book of the law. This is where God is reminding the Israelites of the lessons they received during their forty year desert wandering and outlining behavioral expectations preceding their entrance into the Promised Land. Jesus symbolically relives the Israelite experience, entering the desert for forty days, subjecting himself to hardship and temptation. He not only receives the lessons into his present context, but himself voices the words of God (in his Deuteronomical quotations) as he prepares to enter/usher in the Kingdom.

I was first struck by Jesus’ response to Satan’s suggestion that he turn stones to bread. “Man shall not live by bread alone,” Jesus says, directly quoting from the moment when God was reminding the Israelites of the lesson of the manna:

You shall remember the whole way that that Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, the Lord might humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep God’s commandments or not. And the Lord humbled you and let you hunger and fed you with manna…that the Lord might make you know that people do not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God (Deut. 8:2-3).

This reference to the Israelite experience with manna sprung to life for me since I had just been reading about it in Ched Myer’s book, The Biblical Vision of Sabbath Economics. The first chapter of this book introduces the manna story from Exodus as a story about “following instructions,” and a presentation of “Yahweh’s alternative to the oppressive Egyptian economy” (11). As Myers sees it, there are three defining characteristics to the instructions God lays before these desert wanderers. He works from the understanding that these are not arbitrary instructions that expire at the conclusion of the Exodus, but rather a training ground and introduction to a new economy for these people to practice as they enter their new life.

First, the “theology of enough.” The Exodus account states that “every family gathered just enough.” I have lately been contemplated the nuances of this word, “enough.” It can indicate both that there is plenty—“enough for all!”—and also that the verge of excess is being pushed—“whoa! That’s enough!” This first characteristic refers to the former. The “enough” that the people are being provided with contrasts with the destitution of their life in Egypt. The second characteristic draws on the latter notion of “enough.” Once again contrasting with the economic system of Egypt (and, to broaden the view, our current economic system), the people of Israel are firmly instructed not to store up. Wealth and resources are not to be accumulated. Finally, the characteristic of Sabbath discipline is introduced. Gather for six days, rest on the seventh. Myers points out that this is not only “good agricultural sense,” it also “functions to disrupt human attempts to ‘control’ nature and ‘maximize’ the forces of production.” It is a reminder that the earth and the resources we glean from it are belong to God and are a gift. Authentic practice of the Sabbath requires faith and, to borrow a phrase from Covey’s 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, “abundance mentality.” It requires faith in what Myers calls, “an economy of grace.” Jesus’ reference to this lesson in response to Satan’s taunt about turning stones to bread indicates his radical understanding of and faith in God’s instructions and simultaneously foreshadows the many times he will practice and proclaim this “economy of grace” amongst his contemporaries.

Giving and Receiving

2010-10-18T10:03:00.001-07:00

I parked my bike off the lake trail so that I could walk about the segment set aside for “nature preservation.” The city is trying to revive the flora of the prairie. The long brown and bowed stems I gingerly stepped over revived a memory. It was of a trail I frequented almost daily in Berea, KY—specifically of the small patch of lowland prairie carved from forested hills. Tall flowering grasses turned to straw-like sticks in the fall and were intersected by a narrow trampled path. A Midwestern sky with clouds like shoreline sand soared overhead. On one side was a wall of evergreens, ever waving, darkly mysterious and sweetly inviting. On the other side was an assortment of maples and oaks, one monumentally thick and knotted with reaching arms as strong as a mother’s.

Now, I am sitting on a stone wall, beneath the shade of a voluminous “Wooshing Tree” (a.k.a. Weeping Willow), facing the lake; a different kind of beauty. I felt turned inward. This morning I was squeezing a quick online conversation in with my sister, Hannah (in South Korea, too many time changes away for me to keep track of), before heading off to mass. Interrupted by a persistent knock at the door I resignedly went downstairs. It was Dennis.* He wanted money for a 7-Day bus pass to get to his new job. Despite some reservations I gave him what he asked for, admittedly as much out of curiosity—will he really come back to share meals with us and volunteer around the house as promised?—as out of compassion. Questions about what it means to serve the poor, and more to the point, what it means to know and love a person, to identify and meet their needs, surfaced and churned.

The day before I had met Rose at Pax Christi’s Mass for Peace and potluck. She is, I would guess, in her forties, but with a thick, weary body and soft, deep-lined stranger’s face that makes her appear older. Her hair is thin and brown, her eyes, pale blue. The top row of her teeth grow in an ascending slant ending in unfettered pink gums. She is friendly and open though difficult to understand, speaking in garbled tangential phrases. I saw her again at mass and she came up to me, I asked her if she’d be going to the brunch our friend’s community hosts next door. She said yes but didn’t know where it was, so we went together. Lately, I’ve lamented that I don’t have enough personal contact with the poor to legitimize my words and work. God’s gifted me with a glimpse of what a that life looks like, one man, one woman, at a time.

I keep being revisited by a phrase my housemate John brought into prayer once about “building a movement.” I frequently forget it or maybe I just don’t fully believe it. That we could be agents in the creation of another way of living that reaches beyond our little home, beyond our network of friends. After Saturday’s peace mass a sharing circle was initiated and two questions were posed, “what are you working toward” and “what gives you hope?” It was beautiful to hear the variety of projects that the men and women there had undertaken. Probably 98% of those present were over sixty and I was encouraged by their persistent dedication to working for peace, justice and being a voice for the voiceless. George, an older man and friend of our community said that he finds hope in Catholic Worker houses, and others like them, “because they give to the poor, but not from a position of power.” I was deeply touched by his words, and challenged to honor them.

Telling Hannah about Dennis I had the sense that she was wary of his authenticity. I couldn’t blame her, I was as well. I had to by intentional about reminding myself that there are many who don’t have their needs so easily met as I do. They have to either ask, or go without. If I was in a tough spot, there are people who would see and offer assistance. What happens with those whose needs stand before blind eyes and cry before deaf ears? (Later it occurred to me that part of not giving from power is not needing to know or control what happens with what I give, but to give of my excess regardless. Whatever Dennis’ intentions, I have more than I need and he has less.) Hannah posed the critical question, why don’t they have support? The answer remains concealed. The question though reveals a path to response: that we not only give alms, but ultimately offer relationship, become the church.

The time, insight, and commitment required for this can feel like an overwhelming cost. At times it seems unattainable, especially when thinking of the multitude in need not just the one at the door. Thinking about this while hurriedly biking to mass I felt a renewed recognition that this is what the Catholic Worker is for. We are here to fill in the gaps, to be family to those without, whatever the reason for that may be. We are and we are becoming the church. This requires resources that we, because of investing our time and talents in being present to the “least, lost, and lonely,” are often lacking as individuals. Hence, community, and not only that of this house. We, by some twist of fate, do have friends and family and a voice that is more likely to be heard in society. So, we ask for help on behalf of those who lack these gifts: Asking partly because we know we have not because we are more deserving but by some strange grace. We are obliged and grateful and overflowing.

I thought about the parable of the man who had a visitor. He had no bread to offer this visitor, so he went to his friend’s house, woke him from sleeping, and asked persistently until this friend, reluctantly and irritably, complied (Luke 11:5-8). During mass the gospel reading was of a widow who unflaggingly plied an unjust judge for justice against her adversary (Luke 18:4-5). I couldn’t help smiling, filled with both consternation and delight at the reading and at the way the judge says, “Though I neither fear God nor respect people…I will give this widow justice so that she will not beat me down by her continual coming.” How often Jesus upholds persistent petitioning! How often he upholds, even, begging, which we as individuals and as a society are so resistant to. We modern Christians often allocate this advocacy of begging to a symbol of spiritual supplication, to prayer. But why not acknowledge it as it is presented; a commendation of begging for help in addressing tangible needs?

At the post-mass brunch I sat at table, across from Rose, and watched as my friend Liz cheerfully, patiently, deciphered her confusing conversation. I though of the parable of the banquet where all are invited and the one of the lowest social position is given a seat of honor. I though of our little open meals at the White Rose where often the guests are strangers, some not even English-speaking, and how strange and how wonderful that no one present acts like anything unusual is happening. We are serenaded by guitar strumming and Spanish songs as we share a meal with brothers and sisters whose stories are a mystery to us.

Before mass had ended, kneeling before the Eucharist, I felt challenged by Christ’s presence. Each week I consume him, but am I in turn offering myself to be consumed as he would? I continue to wade through questions and confusion about appropriate giving, healthy relationships, appropriate work, effective ministry, and movement building. For today though, I choose to be grateful that when Dennis knocked—though I was reluctant to be interrupted, reluctant to part with cash, reluctant to be manipulated—the door was opened.

Love Letter

2010-10-10T21:24:00.001-07:00

Dear One,

This was a beautiful day; warm, sunny, blue. Yesterday was like it, unusual weather when October already is casting its first week aside. This sort of anomaly is welcomed here as we anticipate dark, cold days. I remember this weekend as at home, outdoors. I remember the main thought as, “thank you;” the main feeling, “Love.” Most of the rest, I imagine, will be forgotten, but these I will carry.

Do you know this wild love for living? It is oddly unaccompanied by fear of death. Though, it does know sorrow. Here is a thought I recall—it came alongside me where our garden grows in the alley between our backyard and the tall fenced soccer field of Loyola University. I was crouched filling a watering can from the barrel (filled by hauling water from the rain-catching-barrel attached to the house), feeling proudly like a farmer. The sun’s warm hand touched my shoulders, pretending to be summer. I was filled with love for that touch, for the solid ground supporting my feet, the little leaves of lettuce reaching from raised beds. I felt love for the shockingly white chickens chirping gratefully at having been release into a heap of bug-ridden compost, for Matt who was fixing Regina’s bike brakes, for John and Regina who were building a new worm bin to supplement our abundant need for a place to direct food scraps. I felt love for God, for letting me know all this, for myself for saying “yes” and living. Quietly entered the thought, “is it wrong to have all this joy when so many suffer?” Even while asking I knew the answer was no. Joy and grief are not exclusive emotions. They live side by side, and know each other well. Tenderly, even, they know each other deeper than I understand and one will seldom lose sight of the other. It is, in fact, joy that gives me grief (consider, maybe it really is a gift, in this context at least). Accident or oppression or ignorance, create walls detaching joy from grief. This is what turns loneliness to alienation, sorrow to despair. Joy compels me to break the barriers and love the grieving back to life. If I abandon joy for grief, I diminish the hope of their reunion.

What am I talking about? By four o’clock I was tired. Now, I am downright weary, but with a spirit well-rested, satisfied, and wanting to tell stories. Last night we (the White Rose) hosted a roundtable discussion on climate change. The large group broke into smaller ones. I inserted myself into a circle of folks talking about the spirituality of consumption and conservation, or something of that nature. I talked about mindfulness and interconnectedness. Others talked about small steps, about wants vs. needs and self-care and sanity. Someone said, “Fear.” The word punctured me and poured out further reflection. My heart pounds and hands reach not from fear—unless it be of the awful (awe-filled) variety typically attributed to awareness of the Holy—fear paralyzes. Admiration and affection move me. I am driven to address environmental justice because of a reverence, a tenderness toward the earth and other people, toward the wind—when I imagine it to be God’s continually whispering creation into being, or its just being a movement that coolly kisses sweat from my skin and dances with leaves—water, and waste that when managed well returns to life and sustains me and you and everyone.

I am moved toward a good life. Not the proverbial “good life” of ease and abundance. That is to say, ease in its time and abundance toward all; a life that gives as often as it takes, that says, “I love you” with its actions. Then too, a life that at times fills in the gaps left by the times when my actions inevitably spoke, “I don’t care,” “I forgot,” or (God forgive me) “I hate you.” A life like this means being compelled, when the occasion calls for it, to stand in the way of those who don’t endeavor for the good but do quite the opposite, intentionally or otherwise.

If I have an agenda in developing this life, it was woven into me, by my upbringing and by a spirit I consider to be God who I believe is Love. I can’t see the threads beginning any better than the end. It’s been molded over time by experiences and influential friends and an enduring (imaginary? maybe, but I don’t think so) relationship with the so-called-son-of-God who tried to teach a timeless truth. “Ask and it will be given,” he said, “Knock and the door will be opened…” He spoke these like a promise, but I hear them as a call too. Because he said also, “give to all who ask of you,” and “as you did to the least…you did to me.” I have been told too that we who believe become part of his body, in and out from God as he is. Do his promises too become mine? (I suddenly remember being barely twenty, on the phone with an ephemeral man, asking, “What does it mean to be a disciple? Does anyone live that way?” Afraid, because I’d realized I wasn’t and didn’t know how to be.) After all, if everyone gave when asked then those who asked would receive. If all answered to a knock, then the door, indeed, would open.

Of course, all don’t. It’s possible, probable, that all never will. Does that mean the much proclaimed Kingdom is not already here? Or does it come when we live (as we often advocated for in recovery) “as if”? The Kingdom is at hand when I practice personal responsibility and love my neighbor as myself. The Kingdom comes when I resist the evil in me and that in my government and culture (even when that resistance is rude, awkward, risky). Sometimes it means little more than the elusive quality of mindfulness, cultivating attentiveness and intentionality into our thoughts, words, and deeds. Before you buy that—where did it come from? Who worked for it and how were they treated? What waste has and will be created by it? Before you judge her—would you welcome the same judgment for yourself? Sometimes it means intentional planning and action. Many need to be wakened from slumber. Many need dull perceptions sharpened. Even those who see sometimes forget to look.

Dorothy Day writes, “We need always to be thinking and writing about poverty, for if we are not among its victims its reality fades from us. We must talk about poverty, because people insulated by their own comfort lose sight of it…” Contemplating this, I realize that the word “poverty” could easily be exchanged with a multitude of others. We need always to be thinking about the: workers who fill the jobs we ignore; children, mothers, fathers, who are killed by bombs our money bought; land abused for the sake of indulgence; people dying of thirst for water we flush down the toilet; people with confused minds and wounded hearts that need healing though there is no one to blame for their brokenness.

I consider all this and decide that it is too much. It is impossible to be mindful of so many things. It is absurd to hold all this in one’s hands and say, “I will carry you.” Yes, yes, as absurd and impossible as a camel passing through the eye of a needle! I will remember though that my hands are not mine only but part of a body made up of millions. I will remember that it’s been said that though with humans such things are not possible, “with God all things are possible.” Such a wild promise. When I consider the wildness of this life, it just might make sense. I will believe (Lord, help my unbelief!) I will let love give me the strength to embrace sorrow, and the arms of grief press me to create spaces where I can plant seeds of joy. Then I can listen to the promise, “the kingdom is coming, the kingdom is coming” in the context of the quiet, audacious assurance, “the kingdom is already here!”

But who am I to say these things—a sleepy sun-burned girl, lying on the carpet on her bedroom floor, surrounded by the clutter of shared space, listening to music mixes, pouring the fullness of her heart through pen to paper—I am yours.

What I have done and what I have failed to do...

2010-09-27T18:35:00.000-07:00

The homily at mass yesterday addressed the “sin of omission,” those things that we fail to do, using Jesus’ story of Lazarus and the rich man as a starting point (Luke 16:19-25). He noted something I had failed to see in all the times I’ve read it: The rich man never directly addresses Lazarus, and even after death the rich man, in torment, still tries to dictate Lazarus’ actions.

The priest talked about continually failing to see the poor and marginalized as brother and sister, failing to treat them as part of ourselves and bearers of Christ’s image. I was not particularly impressed by his oratory skills but, thanks be to God, my heart heard past that and was convicted by his message. I may be able to wax eloquent about solidarity with the poor, but do I live it?

After mass two women approached me. One took my hand, her skin was soft and creased, her hair dimly blond and curled, “we were at the conference,” she said, “and wanted to thank you for what you offer.” I noted they did not use the past tense “offered,” as in what I said at the conference specifically, but the present “offer,” as in my life. It felt like both a compliment and a mystical command.

A friend standing beside me was abundantly amused, “a celebrity in our midst! We’ll have to work to keep your head from expanding,” he said. The conference being referenced was an event with Catholics on Call, a young adult ministry rooted in the Catholic Theological Seminary on the Southside of Chicago. I was invited to be one of three panelists responding to two different speakers about “emerging adulthood” and the relationship between this new young adult demographic and the church. I said what I think may have been some challenging things, more on that later perhaps.

This put me in mind of a dream I had in which I woke one day to find, to my great surprise and dismay, that I looked exactly like Jesus. People kept thinking I was him and I felt a tremendous and frightening responsibility to say and do what I believed he would say and do. People were looking to me to be like Christ and in the dream I thought, “Is this what it’s like to be a Christian?”

Here are just a few of the hard sayings that Jesus reportedly delivered to a crowd that had gathered about him:

“Give to all who ask of you and do not refuse the one who would borrow from you.”

“Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

“If you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.”

“Whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them.” (From “the Sermon on the Mount,” Matthew 5-7)

“Truly I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you did it to me…as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me…” (From “The Last Judgment” Matthew 25)

Is this what it means to be a Christian? Is it possible to embody such teaching? One more reference from the words of this odd, amazing man, “With man, this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.” What a terrifying adventure this life can be if we let it.

A Disconcerting Dream

2010-08-31T07:37:00.000-07:00

"My belly doesn't seem big enough to be having a baby. It just looks like I've put on weight." I looked at my thick waist, only slightly extended in the center.
"But if you press it, you can feel the baby," my friend Anne said.
I pressed and the at first subtle impression of an infants shape became increasingly, weirdly evident.
"Oh my gosh, I can see it." The shape of a baby projected out from inside my belly. It was high, where one would expect my ribs to be.

Next thing I remember I was lying in bed, the room was dim and felt gray. Though I hadn't felt anything--no contractions, no labor, no birth--a baby was lying in my arms. My impression was that she had come through my stomach.
"Now that's a home delivery! No doctors, not even a midwife." I was mystified and pleased.

The charm soon degenerated. We were in the car. Mom was driving, not Anne, and I think some of my sisters were with us. I was in the back-seat and we stopped at a convenience store to pick something up. There was something strange about my baby that I couldn't identify. I lifted I tucked her under my shirt and pressed her to my breast to feed. Her mouth could not attach, because she did not have a mouth. She did not have a face. I realized what was wrong with my baby is that there were uncomfortably extended periods of time when she was a baby-sized, shapeless, relatively firm, brown mush, not unlike partially baked bread.

I don't remember much else. There was some moment of realization that indeed my stomach had not been big enough. This baby was not fully-formed. I don't remember if the final diagnosis was that it had died, or never really been born. I only know that by the end of the dream my baby was no mine. My baby was not. And I felt hollow.

Love mercy, do justly, walk humbly...

2010-08-26T15:02:00.000-07:00

God of the garden,
God of the park,
God of growing things
and of wild spaces,
God who whispers in the leaves,
weeps through the clouds,
shouts with the sun;
you have my heart.
I am yours.

While waiting, I watched the dragonflies. I stood close to the green heart of a yellow fringed flower, watching a fuzzy-bodied bee sip its nectar. Birds watched me and danced among the tall stalks, and with each other. I laid on my back beside an artificial stream, coins shone on the tiled bottom. Clouds sketched whitely on the buoyantly blue sky glided slowly and showed their reflection in the skyscrapers that towered, lean and gleaming. M. Ward sang, “With my eyes on the prize, and my mind on you, I put my pride on the line, and my whole life too…” And I laid there, my phone on my belly, waiting for the call from friends who would be meeting me there at Millennium Park to hear Ray LaMontagne and David Gray roughly croon our hearts away.

That morning I had went to the park. I walked, mostly, did some yoga and climbed “sledding hill.” I listened to a podcast about Mohammed and Islam. The speaker helped me grow in understanding and respect for Muslim teaching, providing a more in depth perspective from that proliferated through daily news sound-bites and general assumptions. Its flaws, usually the result of misapplication are quite similar to ours [Christianity]—violence, prejudice—as are the qualities at its heart—liberation, compassion. Hearing though that Mohammed, the exemplar of Islamic teaching, was a military leader, I felt suddenly grateful for Jesus’ rejection of that role. I remembered a recent reading of Gandhi attempting to creatively interpret around a call to arms in the Gita. I thought about the fearful question that sometimes surfaces when I read the Law of the Prophets or even the poetry of canonized Hebrew scripture; “What if God was, what if God is really a tyrant?” Amid this pondering stood Jesus, the Christ; enduringly non-coercive, non-violent, consistently compassionate and critical of injustice. He did not force or connive but offered an invitation, “come and see,” and a Way.

The merciful, radical, insightful Jesus’ reverence for the God of history, the “God of Abraham,” encourages me to look beyond the apparently cruel exterior I am often presented with and to perceive the God, creative and compassionate, that holds my heart as I work in the garden or walk in the park. If they are indeed One, I will be one with them.

West Coast Formation

2010-08-14T20:39:00.000-07:00

A week has passed since I returned to Chicago after a three week sojourn in California. The trip impressed me deeply, causing events from earlier this summer to be all but lost in its shadow. I have to be intentional about recalling the first weeks of summer, the activities that felt so momentous at the time.

June began with the Catholics on Call conference, appropriately laying the groundwork for a formative summer with talks on discernment, vocation, prayer and community. A few days after I headed to Arizona where the boundary between the US and Mexico is lost in the Sonoran Desert. I went to participate in a humanitarian aid project, to educate myself about immigration and to be present with some of those who are in the thick of it. The two weeks I was back in Chicago are a blurred flurry of processing the previously mentioned experiences; entertaining out of town visitors; planning for a move away from my apartment and job as a nanny and into the White Rose Catholic Worker in West Rogers Park.

I hadn’t been to LA since I helped my brother Adam move there four years ago. Since then my oldest brother, Aaron, headed west as well with his wife and two children. I’ve been promising a visit for at least two years and this summer I finally made good. My original plan was to stay for ten days; that later extended to three weeks as I decided to take this opportunity to spend some time learning from and working with the Los Angeles Catholic Worker. The LACW has been living out the gospel with intensity and integrity for forty years (they celebrated their anniversary the week before I showed up). Those who comprise the community structure their days around performing works of mercy. These include feeding the poor, clothing the naked and giving shelter to the homeless.

Roughly twenty-five men and women reside at the LACW. Only eight of these are seasoned workers. The rest of the house is comprised of a handful of summer-interns--discerning whether this is a way of life that they can get behind—and “guests.” Some guests have lived in house for as long as or longer than some of the workers. All of them are men and women the workers met through the “Hippie Kitchen.” The heart of the LACW is this soup kitchen that beats out its life giving rhythm in downtown LA’s “skid row.” If you have never been to skid row it is a difficult place to imagine. I’ve lived in and visited major cities across the country—Orlando, Manhattan, Louisville, Nashville, San Francisco—never have I encountered homelessness and hunger like there is in downtown Los Angeles. Driving at night I saw blocks of sidewalks lined with tents, make-shift shanties of boxes and debris, church parking lots with bodies parked in every available space.

One of my favorite things from the five days I spent there was the picnic. Three weeks out of the summer, the LACW rents a bus, fills it with their friends who regularly eat at the Kitchen, and drives to a lovely lakeside park. The community prepares food early and is there to meet the bus load of skid row residents with chips and salsa and fruit. Grills are ignited and before long servers and those served share a meal, play Frisbee, take a stroll or simple rest in the grass beneath a shade tree. Here I had the opportunity to say more than “good morning” while quickly scooping salad onto a plate or sticking a spoon into a bowl of oatmeal. More importantly, I had the opportunity to listen, to hear the stories of my brothers and sisters who so readily welcomed me though I was a stranger.

The person who remains most present in my memory is a man who called himself “Black Jesus.” He took the name as a testament to his faith and a challenge to live an exemplary life. Black Jesus was sinewy and tall. He stood stopped and laughed soft and high like a little child. Thinking of him invariably brings to mind Jesus’ words recorded in the book of Matthew:

Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. 5 And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me. 6 But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea. (KJV)

Before the day was over Black Jesus had a “spiritual name” to offer me and a poem to accompany it:

Unto your eyes;
Your spiritual name, is Heaven Hi.
You are a blessing unto this world,
you are a spiritual woman, within a spiritual girl.
May this poem bless you always with Jesus Holy Love,
Heaven Hi, got Jesus Blood.
Heaven Hi, is Jesus, satan is hel-lo;
Jesus is your foundation, unto your mind, body, and soul.
We are children of the living Jesus Christ,
look within, you will see Jesus mercy, grace and glory unto your life.
A-MEN

Black Jesus is one example of the many men and women who fellowship with the LACW on a regular basis and they are only a fraction of the millions of men and women throughout our country who experience homelessness and hardship and who are rejected by the mainstream. These are the least Jesus referred to when he said, “as much as you did to the least of these, you did it to me…and as much as you did not do it to the least of these, you did not do it to me” (Mat. 25:40). These are the face of Christ; thirsty, hungry, naked, homeless, [often] imprisoned. When we avert our eyes, or cross the street, it is Christ we turn from. When we wait for someone else to meet the need we find overwhelming or outside of our responsibility, it is Christ’s need we neglect. As a Catholic woman I am confronted with the responsibility to respond. What is required? Interacting with these men and women, I did not get the sense that their need would be satisfied by having the gospel preached to them. What was required for them, what is required from me, is that the gospel be practiced for them.

I met with many people and situations during my time in Los Angeles and Northern California that challenged my ideas of who I am and who I want to be. I think the greatest challenge though is engaging in the process of continually becoming a woman worthy of the friendships so readily offered to me, to be a woman with the humble audacity to take on the name “Jesus” with the understanding that doing so does not mean I will merely speak of him, but that I will be him; no matter where I am; no matter who I’m with.

Eyes to See

2010-07-08T10:14:00.000-07:00

The other day I was sitting at the computer, inanely shuffling from one e-mail address to another, to an article absently read. In the midst of this I was gladly distracted by the presence of Isaac, the one-year-old I take care of, beside my chair. He was absorbed; picking up his toys, one at a time, from a basket in the corner next to me and carrying them across the room where he placed them in a new nest beneath a chair. Intrigued by his attentiveness to this task, I decided he was more worth watching than whatever was hovering behind the electronic screen I’d been dazed by.

I started thinking about watching and being watched. I had the sense that Isaac was aware of this new dynamic and found some satisfaction in it. This is something I have thought about before. This feeling that an act attains wholeness through observation. It is validated by being viewed. I began to recall times that I’ve felt this craving to be noted acutely.

When I was in college it felt like my mind was incessantly whirring with ideas. I was forever forming little theories, enacting conversations, examining feelings and ideas, histories and futures and sometimes simply wondering and being suffused almost to suffocation with the ineffability of being. I remember a particular moment of a particular day, sitting in the hall of a classroom building, waiting between classes, wondering with an anxiety that gnawed into me, if the unrecorded thoughts roaming my mind mattered at all. If these wonderings were never written, were they of any significance at all? Was this all a waste? I often felt wasted in those days.

When I lived in Kentucky, I wandered often and alone. There were many wild hills with looming trees that tangled their long arms together or reached right into the sky and large rocks that rose up from beds of fallen leaves that had been layering for years and years. In the early days even a trip over the small paved hill that separated our volunteer house from the mailbox at the entrance of the valley had an aspect of grandiosity to it. I remember one day moving my bare feet contentedly from the warm pavement to the cool grass, admiring the loveliness that enveloped me, I began to wonder if I was lovely and wished for a witness. At the time my heart was hungry for love and inclined toward Spirit, so I prayed; “do you see me? do you love me? do you think I’m beautiful?” What I saw in nature, what I felt in my body, what I heard in the whispering breeze, was a yes and a yes and a yes. That was enough for me then.

Why does being seen matter? A couple of months ago Chris Hedges spoke at the Catholic Worker Resistance Retreat. He referred to our culture of celebrity saying, “We try to see ourselves as a camera would see us…” This is in part because we have so internalized the message from film, and television and advertising that those most worthy of our attention and admiration are those whose beautiful image has been captured. We continue more and more to experience by viewing rather than by being and feel like what we do doesn’t matter if it is not being watched or recorded. Hedges follow this line to illustrate how human beings become commodities, how we move from production to consumption. This, he says, is “the ethic of unfettered capitalism.” This is the ghostly apparition of the innate need for acknowledgement.

The need (or desire? I lack the proper research to assert that it is an actual need, though I suspect that it may be an integral part of being human) to be known has existed long before twitter and YouTube and public access television let us all make celebrities of ourselves. It’s entwined in child development, spirituality and interpersonal relationships of any age. I wonder where this comes from and what it means. Where do the boundaries between truth and falsity, healthy and unhealthy fall?

I like to think that who I am is who I am, regardless of who happens to know or notice. At the same time, I know the truth is that I want to be known and noticed, even when I’m withdrawing, even when I’m resistant. I know that, as far as I am concerned, something gains significance only when it enters my realm of observation. When I can see, touch, taste, smell or hear a thing; then it matters to me. I do not and really cannot (can I?) care about an issue unless I’ve seen it, or heard or read about, or in some way experienced it. So, can I be of significance if I am not experienced by another? Does what I do or what I think matter if it is not made manifest in a realm of observation outside my own? And beyond me, what about you? What about a child in danger of being bombed by a drone missile in Afghanistan, an unpublished author in Alabama, a migrant in the desert, a contemplative in a monastery, a tree in a forest. Oh dear, I just made myself think of one of the old, universal questions, “If a tree falls in the forest and there is no one to hear it, does it make a sound?” I finally understand the weight of that common inquiry. My goodness, there really is nothing new under the sun. Yet, somehow every living thing is ever being made new. Paradox abounds. Can you see it?

America, Be Beautiful

2010-07-05T07:43:00.000-07:00

“Perhaps we chose to come to this country, or it was our parents or grandparents, or even further back that family came here with hopes and dreams and determination. For others among us, being here is directly related to forbearers being brought here as slaves. For many of us there are a variety of situations and circumstances that have led us to where we are today. The best way we can acknowledge the freedoms that we enjoy is to work to assure that they will not be eroded for the generations that follow us. We also must be vigilant that these freedoms do not encroach upon the freedom of others. Without justice there is no freedom. Even as we give thanks for what we have, we realize we are part of a larger world where in many places there are people longing for the same freedoms that are ours. May we pray and work for the freedoms that recognize the dignity of all our sisters and brothers.” -Father Grassi, St. Gertrude’s Church (emphasis added)

I felt so grateful for Father Grassi’s words this Sunday, the 4th of July. It has been interesting experiencing the approach of this holiday surrounded by this beloved assortment of activists and anarchists who view it with such antipathy. Interesting, and at times frustrating. Ambivalence, I can understand. How can one take an honest look at all the blood that has been shed, and all the injustices committed in the name of the Nation, for the sake of “Freedom” and not feel the need for repentance and critique as well as thanksgiving and celebration? Yet, we are a people of great privilege. That word too though is one that, amongst those of us who desire to remove from ourselves the mantel of power, can be seen only in a negative light. We are people of privileges that ought to be acknowledged and celebrated because they are privileges that we would desire for all people. If we ignore these unmerited gifts, there is the risk that we may begin to think that we’ve earned them, that we deserve them and that those who don’t have them must not have earned them, must not deserve them. There is the risk that if we ignore them, we will obliviously swallow them in excess. Neither enjoying them nor sharing them, all while others are deprived, waiting, working, struggling.

Mass ended with “America the Beautiful” as our closing hymn. I felt the influence of the afore mentioned ambivalence creeping in as it was announced. “Really?” I thought, “this is what we want to end with?” While singing, I realized I’d never learned any lyrics beyond the first verse. Here is the second, for those who might be in the same boat as I:

O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose stern impassioned stress
A thoroughfare of freedom beat
Across the wilderness!
America! America!
God mend thine every flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law!

Singing the first few lines I thought about how little most of with the legal label of “citizen” can relate to the struggle indicated here. How many of us bear the blisters and burns and calluses of “pilgrim feet?” How many are familiar with the wilderness? My mind immediately recalled images of the desert, that sun-scorched scape that blurs the boundaries between the United States and Mexico. I thought about the pilgrims I met there. I thought about the “stern impassioned stress” that drove them from their homes and families; that burdened them along their treacherous trek; and that enveloped them as they were branded “illegal,” put in cages, processed through courtrooms, shipped away to unfamiliar cities full of unfamiliar people and promptly forgotten by those who can cross borders with barely the flick of a passport because of where they were born.

I feel fortunate to amongst those born here. But that fortune weighs heavy. My mom has often said, “From those to whom much has been given, much is expected.” I’ve long felt the truth of this as an individual. I feel it now also as a resident of the United States.
“America! America (incidentally, when we use this word, do we forget that we are only North America? There are South and Central nations that share our name!)! God mend thine every flaw; confirm the soul in self-control, thy liberty in law.

Dorothy: A very short reflection

2010-07-01T07:33:00.000-07:00

On facebook an option came up on the sidebar to "like" Dorothy Day, so I did. So silly, really, but I am glad for every reminder of her. Not because she was perfect, or because I want to be her (though, sometimes I think I do), but because I love the way that she loved. Her life reminds me of what is possible. I consider her witness and am uplifted and challenged to live beyond the enclosure of my Self, to open my arms to Christ, creation, community. Amen. Let it be so!

First Impressions

2010-06-26T17:44:00.001-07:00

I have been trying to make myself document an account of my time in Arizona with No More Deaths but continue to encounter the obstacle of my own resistance. I don’t know where this resistance is coming from and thus am unsure of how to overcome it. I am going to attempt circumnavigating it, following the first impressions that rise wherever they may lead.

From the vantage of the “twin peaks,” in the early evening, the Sonoran desert looks lovely; peaks and valleys clothed in soft brown fur; subtle shifting hues. I’d climbed the peaks with a small group of fellow campers—Becky, Larkin, Cat, Sarah, Christina—with the hope of catching an elevated view of the setting sun. It was with some reluctance that I made the hike having just bathed for the first time in several days. At camp we bath via the “sun shower,” a plastic bag with a hose attached that is hung from a mesquite tree. Privacy is provided by a blue tarp stretched taut, attached to two poles. The bather stands, or squats rather, on a bed of carefully placed large red rocks collected from the crumbly hillsides. To the left is a “toilet” (a plastic bucket with a toilet seat set over top) that is to be used for #2 only (you’re on your own for the rest). Straight ahead is a patch of brambles, the drop of a valley, the quick ascension of a hill that breaks into incessantly, brilliantly blue sky. Birds sing and flutter near. I am the Eve of Arizona, naked and unashamed.

I was glad to share this hilltop sunset with others content to be quiet, to be in their own moment, while still it is a moment shared. My heart felt close to the skin of my chest, beating quickly. Emotions fluttered and throbbed but I couldn't identify what they were, what they were telling me. The landscape seemed imperturbably perfect. I could walk around the small circumference of our perch and piece together a 360 degree view of the desert that I’d spent half a week driving and hiking and sleeping in. It occurred to me that somewhere between the mountain ranges that laced the horizon was the Chavez trail that I’d patrolled the day before.

Generally a patrol begins with a drive, twenty to thirty minutes on roughly carved dirt roads that connect ranches and barren land and lead us to water drops. After checking the drop and leaving more water if necessary, we continue on foot, carrying backpacks with food, medical supplies and more water. NMD volunteers have created regular areas where we leave large deposits of water, far enough from the road that it is not readily visible to ranchers and border patrol, close enough that we don’t have to walk far lugging gallon jugs of water. A water drop could have anywhere from fifteen to fifty gallons of water depending on how “active” a trail is. Active trails are those frequently traversed by migrants. Activity is gauged by how quickly our dropped water is consumed, how much evidence there is of people passing and whether or not any migrants have been encountered by volunteers as they patrolled the surrounding area. At times a drop can become dry within a matter of days. Other times not a gallon has moved. Sometimes the water jugs are slashed or crushed. This is something that I didn’t want to believe happened until I came across it myself. It’s hard to imagine what would motivate one person to destroy another person’s chance of survival, but it happens, often.

Summer days in the desert are always brutally hot, but on the Chavez trail I felt the oppression of the heat and the relentlessly present sun magnified. Here the mesquite trees grew low to the ground. The only plant life with any height were the leafless Ocotillos, spindly and prickly and providing no shade. The ground was treacherously rocky and seemed eager to role an ankle and bring a weary body to the red dust. Navigating this path I noticed an empty bottle of Electrolit. This is a Gatorade like drink. The bottles decompose quickly in the sun and are easily crushed under foot after a few hours of exposure. This bottle was fresh, resilient, evidence that not long before me, another was present. This was the closest to a migrant that I had felt all week. I did not encounter sojourners in the desert during my week but evidence of their presence was abundant. The land was littered with discarded sweatshirts, pants, underwear, hairspray, bags. I found a Spiderman backpack. A volunteer who was with me picked up a child’s shoe. The sole was worn off completely, in its place; the insole of an adult shoe had been sown. Someone else picked up a handmade book, colorful pages were blurred by the rain and the sun but there were remnants of drawings and soccer stats written on the pages. There are people out here. I knew this before but did not feel the truth of it then as I do now. There are grown men and women, little children, individuals together and alone. People on a journey with entire lives encased within their flesh, stories that intertwine with others—husbands, wives, sisters, brothers—stories that intertwine with me.

The setting sun slunk from subtlety to brilliance, bright orange embracing the elegant edges of lavender mountain ranges. During the day, I can hardly bear the desert or Arizona in general. The thought that people choose to live here bewilders me. But in the early morning and in the evening I am converted. “This is the most beautiful place,” I say to anyone who will listen. And it is, in that moment. Yet, it is composed of harsh cruel things: thorns, scorpions, rattlesnakes, dehydration, burns, inhumanity, injustice. Amongst those harsh cruel things though are delicate, enduring beauties: brightly colored flowers, breath-taking views, self-sacrifice, forgiveness, perseverance. The contradictions of the desert and the complications of immigration are like microcosms that illustrate the confounding juxtapositions of creation and destruction, helplessness and empowerment, of mercy and cruelty that comprise life on this earth. A sense of awareness settled over me. My feelings were ambivalent. I sat feeling quiet, whole, grieved, appreciative and hopeful.

quick Doula update

2010-05-30T12:07:00.000-07:00

Dear readers, I got an e-mail this morning from Sarah, the Doula I was going to be training with next month. She will not be able to to do the training at the time planned and rescheduling is not clear. I am still registered with a Doula network but am considering taking a some time to consider the track I want to follow before committing to another training (including considering a different trainer). That said, I am going to remove the donation gadget on this page and withdraw my request for support. This stage of the process (reading, talking to people, etc) requires very little financial investment and I don't want to collect funds for an unknown future workshop. Thanks so much to those who have already contributed, I will be refunding you, either through paypal or by sending a check.

Amy the Doula?

2010-05-25T15:41:00.000-07:00

Hello dear readers, you may or may not have noticed the presence of a new gadget on the upper right hand side of my blog. I'm referring to that gold button inscribed with the dubious word, "donate." I feel a little foolish having it there and would like to explain the reasoning for it. The following is an excerpt from a letter I've composed for friends and family. If you have already received my "Where I am, Where I am going" letter, save yourself the trouble of reading any further!

June 21-28, Doula Training Workshop

Dona International describes a Doula as “a knowledgeable, experienced companion – who stays with them [mothers] through labor, birth and beyond” (http://www.dona.org/). I’ve recently taken an interest in learning more about and possibly becoming a midwife. The first step for me is becoming a certified, practicing Doula. When I consider where this interest rose from and why, the rationale seems simultaneously obvious and vague. There are several reasons that this trade appeals to me and I will attempt to enumerate on a few here:

When I contemplate what I am most passionate about, what I value and would risk my safety and lay aside my comfort for, I think of Life. Granted, this is a rather broad. I have a friend who is a great admirer of Albert Schweitzer and through him I picked up Schweitzer’s oft used phrase, “reverence for life,” adopting it as a guiding principle for how I engage in encounters with people, animals and the earth. What a beautiful thing it would be to be trained in a practice that would allow me to be involved in what may be the most essential process of human life, for both a mother and child, to participate in birth!

I am motivated too by a frustration with the way that this natural, beautiful, process is often relegated to the realm of being a medical condition. Women are filtered through hospitals, treated as if they have an illness. I become frustrated too that despite pregnancy being so often relegated to the medical realm, there is still such a high rate of infant and maternal mortality. This is especially true of women who, whether because of income, culture or color, find themselves in marginalized social groups. My imagination wanders to a place where I have the training and the connections that allow me to be present for women who too often go without the assistance and empathy of someone trained to companion them through what would ideally be a joyful albeit challenging experience.

I am attracted to this field, also, because it is complementary to the lifestyle I find myself drawn to. Doula training, volunteering on the border, Catholicism; these are all facets that stem from and strengthen what is an ever deepening desire to live responsibly, with reverence for life, with great intentionality and care. Thanks to remarkable parents, and wonderful siblings, friends and relatives, I have always been well-loved and encouraged toward being loving. I am keenly aware that my experience of life has been an exceptionally blessed. For the past several years I have been trying to learn how best to act out of my gratitude. My time living and working in Kentucky did much to challenge and refine my thinking, particularly with regard to how I understand and respond to others, and to being mindful of the consequences of my choices which effect far more than just me. Living in Chicago has led to deeper paradigm shifts. It has also been a catalyst for my becoming more practical and intentional about implementing my convictions into the way I live life on a day to day basis. I have often described integrity as “honesty with legs.” I want to walk in alignment with what I say I believe is right and good. Namely, to practice what Jesus preached about giving food to the hungry, shelter to the homeless, visiting the sick and the prisoners—essentially, loving God and my neighbor--living in unity with those around me and sharing the burden of living in a broken world.

Clarification of Thought

2010-05-15T21:38:00.000-07:00

May 14, 2010

This week I was stuck on the thought, “I can never be of service if I am not rooted.” Not a new thought for me, but an uncomfortably persistent one of late. It comes in company with the thought that if I pursue all my plans for the summer, I will have very little time here with my community. I may be off learning, collecting experiences, “doing good,” but what will I be building?

There is the thought of being in formation, and I believe that is a healthy and necessary thing. But what is the goal? Am I aiming towards it? Right now I am thinking it would have made a lot more sense to stick with interning at the LA CW than going to Africa. Dear God, lead me in my discernment. Please help me to not squander resources in seeking fulfillment. Please help me to not neglect the best in dividing my attention between various goods.

* * * * *
“Greater love has no one than this, that someone lays down his life for his friends”
(Jn. 15:13).

For the first time, this saying of Jesus has struck me with a new depth, one that hits close to home. To lay down one’s life for one’s friends does no always mean to “take a bullet” on their behalf. To lay down one’s life can be a daily, lived sacrifice. To lay down the life you had planned, to lay down ambition, to lay down travel, to be present. Community is what is essential to demonstrate love.

“Greater love has no one than this, that someone lays down his life for his friends.”

That someone puts all else aside and says, “I am going to be here for you.” The gospel reading from the Daily Office is John 15:12-17 and I just keep reading it over and over and though I don’t fully understand, my heart is pounding:

“You are my friends if you do what I command you…you did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you that you should go and bear fruit and that your fruit should abide…these things I command you, so that you will love one another.”

You cannot bear fruit unless you are planted, least of all food that abides. How can you feed the hungry unless you bear fruit?

“These things I command you…”
“Greater love has no one that this, that someone lay down her life for her friends.”

As I consider these things, my thoughts keep turning toward Mary and Martha, toward the one thing…

“Martha was distracted with much serving…”
“’Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things but only one thing is necessary…” (Lk. 10:40-42)

I felt like crying when I read this.

I think the time is right for me to intentionally and intensively learn to live by my convictions; here and now. I am fresh in commitment to God and to the Church and to community. How do I live that with integrity? How do I enter into the depth of that? Not by lingering online, skimming the surface of relationships. Not by stuffing myself with news until I am too full to process any of it. Not by committing myself to such a variety of events that I am distracted from the one thing that is necessary.

* * * * *

I read an article that I friend has written in another Catholic Worker’s newsletter. It was one more thing today that stirred my heart. He wrote about the things he was renouncing and I was moved and convicted. So much of what he wrote resonated strongly, I have spoken these same renunciations and yet I look at my life and see little movement beyond the small ripple of words. Where is the lack? It is all in such remarkable harmony with a conversation I shared in a late night chat with two dear friends at Gino’s the other night. What are the things—material items, habits, relationship patterns--in life we desire to renounce and yet continue to hold on to?

Here are a few for me:

 overuse of the internet
 unhealthy food and over-eating
 working toward being pleasing more than toward being honest and understanding
 seeking entertainment more than relationship
 doing something halfway and then moving on to something else
 criticizing others (non-constructively)
 speaking before considering the meaning of my words
 listening politely instead of lovingly
 waiting to be told what to do
 avoiding intimacy where it is relevant and seeking it where it is not
 wanting new things

May 15, 2010

I just got back from “Haunted by God,” a one woman play about the life of Dorothy Day. Initially, I had some reservations about the way the actress was portraying Dorothy and a few of her life’s events. But I had to admire the courage and energy of her performance. It was good also to remember that my perception of Dorothy is not the only one. It was good too, over the course of two hours, to be afforded the opportunity to revisit my initial reading of the Long Loneliness and Krupa’s class. Funny too, I saw K. last night at the White Rose roundtable where we were discussing the Aims and Means of the Catholic Worker.

The actions and discussions of this week have been so remarkably complimentary. Even tonight’s dinner with L. seemed perfectly placed. We talked about our plans for the summer and for the third time today I spoke about Africa. I feel that each time I talk about it, I am coming closer to an understanding of what I want, closer to a sense of what seems right.

It would be inaccurate to say that I don’t want to go. I do want to go. What is more appropriate is to say, I don’t want to be gone. The four weeks I have planned for Arizona and Los Angeles are already so much time to be away.

I don’t know what my job will be or where I will be living, but I am feeling like I want to be here because this is where my home is. This is where I am learning to be grounded and “rooted in love.” Before I go off to serve, I want to know where I am coming from and what I am bringing to offer. What is significant about being here is not that I have found a place to live, but a Way. A way of Being: being awake, being compassionate, being in community, being of service, being genuine, being bold, being humble, being the Body of Christ.

Here I am, Lord.

* * * * *

It is a lovely thought to me that amidst all this existential sowing and reaping, I have been planting physical seeds in the physical earth. Larry used to say, talking the trees in his yard of which he was so proud, “to plant a tree is a declaration of hope.” I think the same can be said of planting a garden. I think along with that hope there is an indication too of faith, and of commitment, and—if the fruit the garden bears is to be nourishing—it is an act of love.

I was born. I was made alive.

2010-04-23T11:58:00.000-07:00

April 21, 2010

Here I am, the utterly undeserving recipient of abundant love. I don’t say this as a sort of self-deprecation but as someone beloved to a degree that boggles the mind. I am on the receiving end of love that cannot be earned; it’s beyond measure. My cup overflows. Already. I felt it. The love of this Chicago community would be enough to be amazed by. But there is also the love of my family and of the friends who have stood with me for many years. Then there are those that I have never, or at best barely met, my long distance friends who continue to astound me with their affection and fidelity. Today, Laina absolutely astonished me. She has bought me a ticket to Orlando, Fl, roundtrip, April 29-May 4th. She coordinated it all on the sly, working things out with Anne and the fam. Sometimes it feels like too much. I was already feeling that way with all the affirmation, parties, presents and the presence I have been given for confirmation. When discussion arose as to what to do for my birthday I felt overwhelmed. Such an outpouring of love, I don’t know if I am a container adequate to hold it. I will let it spill over and continue flowing.

* * * * * * * *

Anne took me out for a delicious and embarrassingly expensive dinner and dessert at a sweet little French restaurant in Lincoln Square…One the way out to dinner Anne and I drove past a coffee shop called Julius Meinl. I had gone there once for a sort of interfaith discussion group that I’d found through an online network called “Meet-ups.” That was shortly after I moved here, during the time when I was persistently thrusting myself into situations where I might meet interesting people. I couldn’t figure out how to identify who I was trying to meet that day and wound up leaving without having made any connections, feeling frustrated and dejected, wondering if I would ever figure out how to make friends—how much has changed! Truly, God has been so gracious; granting me the courage to press through awkward situations and the disjointed early stages of relationship, guiding me into this incredible community.

Lying here in bed I was thinking how grateful I am for this day, for this condensed account of the wonderful people I’ve encountered and continued to be in relationship with through various places I’ve lived and stages of my life—Apopka, Winter Park, Mt. Vernon, Berea, Chicago (not to mention Keene and Graz, where I’ve never been!)—and I realized that beyond this day I am grateful for this life and overwhelmed by all the good that it has been filled with, all of the wonderful people and places and experiences. I am glad to be alive. I am glad for today and yesterday. I am glad for tomorrow. It feels good to say that. The feeling of love for life is not one that I’ve always had. One of my few regrets is that I’ve dwelled in so many days that I wished to be removed from, thinking that not being would be preferable to being who I was. I know that I am privileged, embarrassingly privileged. I will not respond to that knowledge with guilt but will give thanks and give back and, God willing, give forward.

Returning to the present--two recent entries, very closely related

2010-04-16T12:54:00.000-07:00

April 12

Our community is fond of posing the question, “If I were not afraid I would…” I generally respond with well meaning ambiguity, something like, “If I were not afraid I would…love.” Yes, yes, very nice Amy. You’re sweet. Currently, I find myself in one of those rare moments when—though specifics still elude me—I have a clearer idea not only of what I would do, but also of what I am afraid of. So, without further ado:

If I were not afraid—

of the criticism of others
of being dependent
of being a disappointment
of making a mistake
of being rejected (or worse, tolerated)
of hurting or offending
of failing
of loving and living deeply—

I would—

become fully engaged in community
be less wasteful
embrace conviction
go to Arizona and spend at least a week with No More Deaths
write diligently and, Lord willing, truthfully
be willing to risk arrest and to risk more in general
talk more openly to friends and family about my feelings, questions and beliefs
joyfully pursue peace and service

April 16

I can’t stop thinking about the reflection exercise Annemarie facilitated at Kairos last night. She asked four questions, waiting after each one until we had an opportunity to respond before moving on to the next. It was a warm, soft-aired night. We were gathered on the porch of the ministry center, many of is in shorts or skirts. I was feeling sleepy from a day full of walks and sunshine, sharing space on a deep-cushioned couch with Claire and John. We split into groups of five or six.

The first question was something to the effect of, “What would you be willing to work your whole life for, to die for?” I was discomfited by my inability to think of an answer. “Life” was the vague response that surfaced. No wonder I am aimless, I thought, I have no great passion. Instead I tread amidst many small passions, each distracting me from the other and from s specific focus through which to channel my energy.

I listened to others in the group: Katie on education, bridging the gaps of unknowing between cultures; John on service and placing the same value on all people; Rachel on non-violence and on end to war; Claire on purity, against violation and all the contributing factors. I caught fragments from the other group as well, Luke finding Jesus in the face of prisoners, and Meg empathic concern for those who suffer from poverty. The most tangible thing I was able to latch onto was waste; particularly food waste.

I had watched Dive earlier this week and it brought back to me much of what I had been studying last year about food and the far reaching effects of our choices about what and how we eat. It is something that consistently stirs me up, grieves me, moves me to want to act. There is where I stop, not knowing what to do, afraid to try. There is so much injustice, ignorance, irresponsibility dishonor, cruel carelessness and even hate (albeit often inadvertent) in waste. I see this as very much tied in with sexuality—its abuse and misuse—service with and for others, violence, lack of education, poverty, spirituality and many other things. It’s a web from which no one strand can be extricated. I see waste, and all these things, essentially as both symptoms of a reverence for life, or the lack thereof. Though I frequently fail to live it with integrity, such reverence is a driving force in formulating how I want to behave and who I want to become. Life, of the capital L variety, is what I live and die for. However, it is difficult to hit the mark when you don’t know where you are aiming.

remembering Lent, part 1

2010-04-14T19:35:00.000-07:00

This is going to get a bit long. I have been wanting to update this blog for quite sometime, preferably taking the time to elaborate on the many under-developed thoughts meandering about within. For tonight though I have decided to revisit selections from my journal entries from the season of Lent. Partly as a reminder to myself, and partly as an opportunity to share with anyone who might be reading.

February 16

What mysterious beauty shimmers within undisturbed snow set aglow by street lamps. Remarkable beauty. Patches of hallowed ground finged by fences or rumpled clumps of snow that have been shoveled from the sidewalk and trodden on by children, by dogs (who leave their yellow mark) and, when no one is looking, by me.

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday and I am glad for it. Lent is such a gift…

February 18

Why the Catholic Church and not just “Christianity”? Because the Catholic Church is where, in my lonely wandering, I found myself confronted by the presence of Christ.

February 22

Since I’ve all but decided to not be confirmed, I feel the homeless loneliness creeping back up. I also have a renewed interest in an international adventure—why not? What else have I got to do? Money is a continual obstacle and also the inclination I have to be called to a place and not just to choose it randomly. I did recently begin to re-acknowledge my long harbored desire to work with orphans…I also do want to learn more about food, health and agriculture and as long as I’m listing things I’d like to learn sign language too.

“Only goodness and steadfast love shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall return to dwell in the house of the Lord
forever” (Ps. 23:6, ESV alt. trans.)

“…if you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved” (Rom. 10:9)

(Where did we get all of these other trappings from?)

February 25

The morning sun is shining powerfully through my window, magnified by a fresh layer of snow. I can breath through my nose and swallow without wincing. This day is off to a good start. When I wok up—after many false starts—I felt such a sweet wave of gratitude. I was almost washed away by it when I drew back the curtain.

Last night, I feel asleep with my head full of thoughts of India. My dreams though were of the Music Man. First watching it with the family, then, somehow living. And just before I woke, I was traveling. Where I was travelling I am not sure…

February 26

Oh Chicago, how I love you! More specifically, White Rose Catholic Worker and the extended community that you draw, how I love you! I was trying to think of what the feeling is that I have when coming back to the apartment after these gatherings. the best I could think to say to myself is, “I feel like a person.” I know of course that is what I always am. Here though, I am Amy. When in Florida, I am a Nee. When in Kentucky, a part of CAP. I am Amy here; this woman, equally aimless, bent, confused, delighted, alive, but more than ever me. Part of me wants so much to just pick up and leave while I still have a good reason to. Another part of me thinks that could be the worst mistake of my life.

February 28

Anne and I watched Meet Me in St. Louis last night. The movie is good, in part because it is wonderfully simple, yet you get the sense that the characters are experiencing this simplicity with full feeling and drama, just as we do when we are awake to our lives…I watched the sweet and clumsy relationship between Judy Garland’s character, Esther, and the boy next door with delighted amusement and also with some sadness. they were so young and fresh and they believed so strongly in the significance of their emotion…

I propped myself in bed with every intention of meditation or praying, of listening to God’s take. Instead, I remembered. I became submerged in Kentucky, revisiting scenes I didn’t know I had stored—my CAP car breaking down after a home visit in Crab Orchard, those visits—the mischievous smiling face of the little boy and the tired, negative apathy of his mom—the Vineyard, making shish-ka-bobs at Z & T’s, night at the playground with T when we found a wallet and I learned he knew AW, living in Janet’s spare room, moving into the “hotty house,” walking over Cardiac Hill for the first time as a volunteer and then daily as a Healing Rain employee; the faces and voices of people I worked with from every program and the scenes we shared; Disaster Relief in New York and calling T, writing him letters I never sent; so many memories and so emotively and visually vivid. I can’t describe how I felt at receiving this flow of recollection. The sad and the happy alike were so sweet to me. I felt wonderfully grateful. Returning, slowly and gently to the present, the thought occurred to me: I have been praying. These memories are my prayer. God’s presence and mine…

Dear, Adoring Mystery, where are you leading me?

March 2

Notes from today’s reading (Is. 1:10, 16-20):

 “Cease to do evil,
learn to do good;
seek justice,
correct oppression;
bring justice to the fatherless,
plead the widows cause”

It is right to focus on these things—God has been commanding it as long as there have been people to hear; perhaps even longer.

 “If you are willing and obedient,
you shall eat the good of the land;
but if you refuse and rebel,
you shall be eaten by the sword…”

And so it is with us. We are being devoured and devouring.

 I am feeling this morning that the one constant thing is Christ’s presence.
 Sometimes I feel as though all of life is just a lesson in love
 What a strange mix of being comfortable and at home whil simultaneously longing for the hills I feel.

March 5

Why are you so gracious to me, my Lord? Goodness and mercy have indeed followed me, all the days of my life.

Kentucky is where I began to wake up to the world beyond me. Chicago is where I have begun to wake up to my place in that world.

Last night I prayed for God to guide me, with no ambiguous messages, to where he would have me go. In the mean time, I commit to be faithful to those things I have already invested in for the sake of growing closer to God.

March 7

The following is something I wrote on the back of an envelope (as I continued to procrastinate from writing the LACW application letter):

“It’s time. It’s time to take my place…

I want to become a midwife and I want to walk through the birthing process alongside those fourteen year old girls who are still children themselves, children whose role as mother was not chosen by, but for them.

I have spent so many years being fed and taught and cared for—it is time for me to give food and to teach; it is time for me to actively care.”

I don’t know anything about being a midwife or becoming involved in a program that would give me this opportunity—I don’t know if it is what is best or if it is just another fixation. I know that it’s high time I get my hands dirty and put legs on all these words about love.

Lord, let you will be done, and please, God, make it obvious!

…I am feeling a bit emotional now. this is in part because I am weary from the weekend. I think it is also because I feel certain a change is close at hand. Change means loss, but opportunity too. And so, I am full of sadness, gratitude, and hopeful anticipation….

An Eaters Prayer:

Creator of Life,
we know that this food came to be through great labor,
of earth and of men and of women.
We know that it is a privilege for us to receive it.
Thank you.

As I am typing these things out I realize that my journal is almost half full and that we've only been out of Lent for a couple of weeks. I may have to be more selective in what I choose to include!

an end and a beginning

2010-02-14T21:49:00.000-08:00

The completion of a journal always seems as momentous thing to me, as does the act of first marking the blank pages of a fresh one. Both of these events occurred this weekend.

Feb. 12, 2010
I read Simone Weil on the train during the long ride to the Loop. The other books that I’m in the midst of meandering through are either too big or require too much concentration. Weil’s, Waiting for God, a light paperback broken conveniently into letters and essays, is a book that often rises to mind but since I left Florida has been out of reach, boxed amongst a motley assortment of other texts in my parent’s attic. When I was home for Christmas I was determined to remember to bring it back with me, and I did. She has been sitting on my shelf ever since. That is, until I read C.S. Lewis’, That Hideous Strengt,h and the prevailing theme of obedience put me in mind of something that Weil had said on the subject, something about the preeminence of obedience. Happily, I hit upon it (and something very similar in sentiment from Bonheoffer in his Letters from Prison), dog-eared and underlined. Weil, in fact, had many things to say on the subject. It was the driving force of her life. In a letter to Fr. Perrin, her great friend and Catholic advocate, she writes; “If it were conceivable that in obeying God one should bring about one’s own damnation while in disobeying him one might be saved, I should still choose the way of obedience.”

Her firm adherence to duty did not attach her to the Church, however, quite the contrary. I had remembered her writing something of this and found where she detailed her reasoning in letters to Fr. Perrin. This is what I was reading on the train. I did not find answers to my questions about religion and vocation amongst Weil’s letters. She did not have answers even for herself. What I did find is that I have been asking the wrong question. I have been asking, “Should I become Catholic?” A more helpful question is, “Where does love for God lead me?”

“We have to abandon ourselves to the pressure, to run to the exact spot whither it impels us and not go one step farther…whatever stage we may have reached, we must do nothing more than we are irresistibly impelled to do, not even in the way of goodness…”

“I think that with very important things we do not overcome our obstacles. We look at them fixedly for as long as is necessary until, if they are dues to the power of illusion, they disappear…”

-Simone Weil

Incidentally…this journal has come to an end. All things must. In closing, some words from Merton that I read today:

“Be anything you like, be madmen, drunks, and bastards of ever shape and form, but at all costs avoid one thing: success…What I am saying is this: the score is not what matters. Life does not have to be regarded as a game in which scores are kept and somebody wins. If you are too intent on winning, you will never enjoy playing. If you are too obsessed with success, you will forget to live. If you have learned only how to be a success, your life has probably been wasted…”

-Thomas Merton, from “Learning to Live”

Feb. 14, 2010
A new journal feels like a fresh start. That first page is like the first day you wake up and feel with all your senses in a way you cannot explain to anyone, even yourself, that a new season has begun (I find that I experience this most with the dawn of Autumn).

I am sitting at Ennui, my new favorite coffee house. I have finished a long letter and in the process of writing it unmasked a set of feelings that have for the past month been parading through my mind wearing an assortment of costumes that ranged from the clever to the absurd. Their unveiling occurred in the midst of a rather intense and seemingly unrelated RCIA session. Sweet epiphany.

After finishing the letter, which also contained some vague references to my “values” and “aspirations,” I breathed a deep sigh of release and rose for a refill. I returned with fresh coffee and a question: “What are my values and aspirations?” My response was not a detailed, specific list but a root source from which a number of varied articulations might rise with equal relevance. I found a blank space amidst my notes and handouts and scribbled out the following:

How I begin to define my primary values in life—my view of what it means to be alive:

To receive/pursue/develop relationship with God, believing God is Love and that through this relationship I become a conduit of love, delivering it to the world; directing that love toward all living things; making every choice out of the context of an abiding sense of personal responsibility and reverence for life; sustained by a sense of hope that this God is indeed Love/Truth and at work; enlivened by a sense of wonder and delight at the gift of being able to perceive Beauty and Mystery and to share in them.

The original ended, actually, with the phrase “reverence for life,” but the remainder requested that it might be included as I wrote. I failed to include that the hope is so vital in light of the formidable weight that can accompany an acceptance of responsibility and the ability to perceive not only what is Beauty and Mystery but also what is Broken and Ugly. These last at times appearing to be the most prevalent and powerful. So hope; yes and also trust.

“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,
whose hope is in the Lord.
He is like a tree planted beside the waters
that stretches out its roots to the stream:
it fears not the heat when it comes;
its leaves stay green;
in the year of drought it shows no distress,
but still bears fruit.”

Jeremiah 17:6-8

Considering "the Word"

2010-01-28T09:23:00.000-08:00

“The sower sows the word…” (Mk. 4:14) How odd that I have long felt linked to this oft referenced “Parable of the Sower” and yet never hat I stopped to ask, “what word?” And I wonder; is this the same “word” Catholics speak of when they kneel before the Eucharist and pray, “Only say the word and I shall be healed.”? Jesus, can a person know the difference between what you meant and what your successive followers have taught and continue to teach? Do we now follow Christ or do we follow the church; and is it reasonable to draw a distinction as if all were not one? Tension creates a desire to understand, to know and to strengthen relationship. Would joining a church, for me, be a way of experiencing a sense of resolution for a challenge that has not yet truly been met?

These were the thoughts and reflections that rose in response to yesterdays readings (part of the “readings for the week” that tend to be distributed in liturgical churches). Today’s readings brought further consideration and along similar lines. The Old Testament reading is an account of David responding to God’s promise to “establish his house,” so to speak. While reading David’s words by habitually frame of mind rests on the image of David being literally present with God, having this conversation. I was not aware of my frame of mind until I reached the line, “Therefore your servant has found courage to pray this prayer to you” (2 Sam. 7:27b). David responded to God in prayer—suddenly the image shifts to this man, David, alone in large room, on his knees—how did God speak to David? That, I could not so easily imagine. In what way was the promise made known? It was through the voice of Nathan, the prophet (I had almost forgotten the previous days reading accounting for this; how easy it is to lose context!), to whom “the word of the Lord” came at night.

There is the word again. This time it is elucidated; it is narrated by the voice of Nathan and specifically directed toward David. Not entirely to David though, as it does incorporate his offspring. This is the word that God delivers through Nathan telling of how he will relate to David’s offspring: “I will be to him a father, and he shall be my son…I will discipline him with the rod of men…but my steadfast love will not depart from him…” (7:14-15). Perhaps this is the “word” to which Jesus refers in the parable, only he has expanded it beyond David’s line, because as he called God, “Father,” he called those around him “brother and sister and mother” (Mk. 3:35). This relates to what I had just been reading in Martin Buber’s philosophical work, I and Thou (I had read the parable just after the passage that follows and wondered if Jesus’ “word” was more closely akin to the basic word “I-You” than to a compendium of doctrine. Incidentally, Buber is not Christian but Jewish and his book is not considered a work of theology):

***How powerful, even overpowering is Jesus’ I-saying, and how legitimate to the point of being a matter of course! For it is the I of the unconditional relation in which man calls his You “Father” in such a way that he himself becomes nothing but a son (an act that both elevates and humbles)…if detachment ever touches him, it is surpassed by association, and it is from this that he speaks to others (this I-You association with the Father is the root from which all other relationships grow)…everyone can speak the You and then becomes I; everyone can say Father and then become son; actuality abides (it is not limited to or possessed by one, all have equal access and equal level of association—when my You is Father, I am daughter; others or brother and sister to me—sons and daughters of the same—neither more nor less.)***

The italicized parentheticals were my own response as I read this text. Later though, C.S. Lewis threw a spoke in my wheel via this dialogue between two characters in That Hideous Strength:

***“I thought love meant equality,” she said.
“Ah, equality!” said the Director, “…we must all be guarded by equal rights from one another’s greed, because we are all fallen. Just as we must all wear clothes for the same reason. But the naked body should be there underneath the clothes, ripening for the day when we shall need them no longer. Equality is not the deepest thing, you know.”
“But I thought that was just what it was. I thought it was in their souls that people were equal.”
“You were mistaken…Equality guards life; it doesn’t make it. It is medicine, not food…”***

I have found, in reading this story, a disquieting tendency to relate to the characters who are being portrayed as caught of in the confusions and illusions of the world. Whether I ought to take this as a challenge to my own philosophy or that of Lewis, I cannot tell. In the past I’d have automatically gone with the former. Now, I think it reasonable to question both—in much the same way that I would question my assumptions behind what Jesus means when he says “the word” as well as I would both question and welcome another’s interpretation of it—we may not be equal but we are each significant, and doubtless carry a small piece to what amounts to a great and mysterious puzzle. In any case, I suppose the thing to do for now is to read on.

I would certainly welcome any thoughts and reflections from you…

Daily Bread

2010-01-24T12:53:00.000-08:00

I had every intention of writing a clean, coherent reflection on the fast I recently participated in with many others in solidarity with Witness Against Torture's recent campaign in DC. However, I cannot seem to pull myself together and really confront myself with the task of writing. What follows then is a compromise, the reflections jotted in my journal over the course of the past couple of weeks that relate what I was thinking and feeling. I primarily included thoughts that relate directly to the fast but included too impressions that at first glance have nothing to do with the fast's intentions but that surfaced from my personal experience of it:

Jan. 12
Day one of the fast went smoothly enough. I felt that what was most difficult was not eating. That is to say, not the hunger itself, but missing out on the action, the ritual. I did feel a little fuzzy and weakened but in good spirits.

Day two begins. I just woke up to my 6:30 a.m. alarm, pressed snooze and could not fall back to sleep. I was very nauseous, feeling strange and uncomfortable. Prayer came for those who wake this way every morning, and also for those of us who create and allow circumstances that lead to such conditions of living. I stood up and had difficulty gaining my balance. I took a sip of water then went quickly to the bathroom where I sat on the floor and vomited liquid into the toilet. My skin was even paler than usual and I was sweating and trembling. It frightens me a bit that I could react this way after only one day without solid food. Now I feel a bit better, though still managing a shakiness. I feel very weak, still a little nauseous and quite unsure of what to do. Yesterday, I was uncharacteristically cold as well.

Jan. 13
Day two of the fast ended far better than it began. In the morning, I made myself a smoothie with a whole banana and walnuts and flax seed which did a good deal towards returning me to strength…I made a really delicious looking savory pie for Anne and put a piece for myself in the freezer. Cooking without eating my craft as I create it requires some discipline and is yet another reminder of how impulsively I tend to act; certainly with regard to food, but with other things as well…It was good to hear from the others why and how they are fasting and I learned that I am not the only one supplementing my juice and water with more substantive things, like a smoothie.

Jan. 14
A terrible earthquake shattered Port-au-Prince, Haiti, a few days ago. The news grows worse daily as journalists are able to gain access and report in more detail…The destruction is more than I can imagine. Aid is difficult because there are virtually no structures remaining in which to store supplies, let alone house people. Men, women and children are dying from minor injuries because they lack the basic tenets of survival—food, water, shelter—and because there are so many more people that need treatment than there are doctors who can provide it…Walking home from the bank with Isaac in tow, my back ached and I moved slow. When we look critically at a mother who seems unresponsive to her child—is she hungry? When we look down on a man for being lazy or lethargic—is he hungry? When we encounter people who seem confused or detached—are they hungry? When a child struggles to keep up with studies, or when that child ceases to struggle—is it because he or she is hungry?

Jan. 15
My menstrual cycle began today and I was advised by some friends that I should eat because of this. Transitioning out of the fast feels like betraying those who continue and abandoning those who suffer. I ate a piece of bread tonight.

Prayed the rosary…Friday’s mysteries were “sorrowful” and could not have been more appropriate as I offered the prayer with intentions for the broken people in Haiti and those in the prison at Guantanamo. I imagined Jesus praying in anguish for them, bleeding before God, as he did for himself in the garden (as he does for those suffering both as their intercessor, and because they are him, incarnations of Christ in this world), while we his disciples sleep; or betray (with a kiss?). I imagined Christ’s presence in them as they are forced to carry an unjust cross, as they are beaten and mocked; mother’s watch in helpless agony, parents separated from children. Christ in them. Christ in me. All One. I prayed the Our Father and came to the supplication, “give us this day our daily bread,” and felt my small voice was the mouthpiece for millions. I could almost feel them, hear them, “give us this day our daily bread…(please, we are hungry!)” Especially poignant because I had not yet eaten. May my feast of a slice of bread tonight be a symbol of what is soon to come for all who hunger! Let me eat as an act of hope.

Jan. 16
…One of the primary challenges of fasting is how it inhibits me socially—eating is such a relational experience. I miss sharing meals with my roommate, bringing a dish to a friend’s house, going out for dinner.

…Prayed the rosary up to the third mystery this evening. Today was “Joyful” mysteries and even with these I could feel the alignment with my intentions. I kept thinking of the seemingly impossible claim God made to Mary which she accepted with obedience and hope saying, “Let it be as you have said,” and I thought that if we are willing to be obedient vessels of hope, living out the prayer, “Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done…” then it will be. And that hope came to us in the form of a small, unknown child, with a long journey ahead.

Jan. 17
…Throughout mass, I was preoccupied with the thought that I wanted so much to embrace and be included in the sacraments, but I don’t feel nearly ready to accept and profess the whole doctrine of the Catholic church, nor do I think any amount of time or study will change that. I believe in God as mystery, intrinsic and transcendent. I believe in God as ineffable. God cannot be tied down with words, however many one might try to pile on (and the church does pile them on!). Yet, I still want the connection, the community, the signs and symbols and in many cases the traditions and teachings…
…I called Pop and had a nice long chat with him and Mom. He gave me some anecdotes about fasts (he has done three forty day fasts and numerous shorter ones):

“If you are driving down the road and see a billboard for Kentucky Fried Chicken and think, ‘man, I could go for some of that!’ then you have not been fasting long enough. If, some time later you pass the same sign and think, ‘man, I could not eat that, all that grease and junk would tear me up,’ then you have not been fasting long enough. If you pass by that same sign again and think, ‘JUST LET ME EAT THE PAPER!’ then you have probably fasted long enough.”

Jan. 18
A quiet day. Revisited yoga, finally, followed by some mediation, prayer and reading of scripture. Sitting and studying the contents of my RCIA binder, listening to itunes and sipping coffee (accepting my empty stomach), I don’t know when I have last felt so much myself…a song, “Sing with the Sailors” comes on and my heart beat quickens. The feeling, I find, is not unlike what I experience when I catch a glimpse of the mystery of God and the intimate love we share; the indwelling of Christ. Oh, I am happy to be returning, returning yet moving forward, returning but becoming new; always becoming.

Jan. 20
Larry’s e-mails have highlighted some of my insecurities and doubts—they’ve also reached into my heart and turned it, ever so slightly, to remind me that I am not looking at the whole thing. He is reminding me of something I keep wanting to believe I have overcome; the fear of loving, truly…

Jan. 22
…Some further thoughts I would like to pursue reflecting on:

• Eating and Community
- inspired to fast because of community I know and love. Supporting them as they support others.
- struggling with fast because of community that I feel separated from (i.e. not sharing meals with Anne)
- feeling more connected to those who suffer both because of my hunger and because of how easily I could and did end it. Feeling and knowing (beyond intellectually) that I did not have a greater right but did have a greater privilege because of where and to whom I was born…this brings up many questions and mixed emotions.

• Prayer and compassion; so much richer during absolute fast. The more I ate the less I prayed and the less attentively I reflected on and followed news.

• Distractions: thinking a lot about Haiti and about myself, including discerning future paths both practical (where will I live? what will I do?), and spiritual (what do I believe? what is my vocation?). Though, I don’t know why I separate the two—practical and spiritual—because for me they go hand in hand.

• Question: is there pride in denying privilege or, a kind of attempt at personal redemption (from guilt) when we deny ourselves—is it a rejection of gifts?

• Recognizing the sin of excess: how seldom I ever feel hunger and is over-eating as wasteful as dumping good food in the trash?

• Supporting others, acting justly through agriculture and loving our neighbor/friend/enemy through sharing a meal.

• Being denied the right to deny ourselves (i.e. Jake’s reflection on hunger-strikers being force-fed)

prevalent thoughts

2010-01-20T12:09:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking it's high time I posted a fresh reflection here but have lately been keeping my mind busy with other things; namely news and novels, personal journaling and one-on-one communications. I have decided to take advantage of an instance of the latter, an e-mail correspondence with good friend from Kentucky, a man I consider to be a mentor, in which I articulated some of the dominating thoughts that have been rambling about my brain of late. I am only including my response to what he wrote in response to my first message as I don't feel comfortable making a message he wrote to me personally, public. I hope having this appear out of context doesn't make it completely incomprehensible:

Yes, I didn’t expect you to be enthused about the Catholicism considerations. For the most part only my Catholic associations and some other folks who have long been straddling the fence are optimistic that I will set my cap on that institution. The view of it as an institution (which would appear so glaringly obvious to the more logical pursuant)is the little detail that continues to put a spoke in my wheel. There is much about the Church that is not appealing to me–much of what is contained in your message–and I find myself wondering if it is possible to take on what I do love (namely, the sacraments, the sense of community, the philosophy of some of the great writers and thinkers and doers) and leave aside what I don’t. The problem with taking on a label though (e.g. “Catholic”) is that you begin to represent the whole of it and not just the parts you favor (this is why for so long I avoided calling myself “vegetarian” and would only say, “I am just not eating meat right now.” The former sets in assumptions and indicates categories, the latter invites questions and illustrates choices). It is something I continue to wrestle with. For a time I tried to settle in as a woman detached from the idea of God, but I find that belief in this Being is so integrally a part of my identity that abandoning religion doesn’t satisfy me; it doesn’t feel true either intellectually or emotionally. Nevertheless, my understanding of God is one of mystery and for any person or institution to try to iron out the details seems a false step to me. So that is an issue too. I suppose the hope would be not to emulate the history of the Catholic tradition but to learn from it and work toward refining it whilst benefiting from some of the practices and theology that I do find edifying as well from the sense of being rooted and connected as I continue to grow and explore. Enough about that for now.

As for Haiti, of course I realize that there is a chasm tremendously wide and deep between my own experience of voluntary fasting and the suffering that is experienced there. I think that is part of what made the connection so poignant, this knowledge that while I could at any point choose to eat, a majority of the people there (even before this earthquake, as you noted) do not have that option. The connection was not a sense that we are the same, but a pointed reminder of my extreme privilege. A privilege I felt too as I laid in bed and fended off the chill in my body by wrapping it in blankets all the while safely within four walls and beneath a strong roof; yet another gift so often taken for granted. I don’t know what to make of all this except that it intensifies my sense of responsibility, not just in being mindful of how I live my life (avoiding waste and damage to the environment and others, being loving towards those I encounter, etc) but also being mindful of how others live and how I might take advantage of my excess and use it as an opportunity to propel myself into a position where I can work toward lessening another’s deprivation. That said, I have thought about going to Haiti and seeing things for myself, but in what capacity, I don’t know. One of the things that weighs on me most is, as you mentioned, the lack of any stable infrastructure or system of governance that would allow for the present aid being offered to lead toward sustainable change and benefit for the country. But, much as I increasingly recognize the importance of politics, I don’t believe that I’ve a real capacity for being particularly helpful in that arena. I have loved the learning that’s been happening for me here with this group of activists and idealists, but I hope to take the challenges and inspiration they’ve offered and translate it into something more relevant to my intrinsic gifts. If only I had a keener sense of what that means! Perhaps that would amount to something I could bring with me to Haiti to offer in return for the life-education I would doubtless receive there. I do remember you talking about your own experience in Haiti. Do you have any thoughts on what a person like me might be able to bring if I did decide to go?

Sorry, I didn’t mean for this to get so lengthy. These just happen to be the two topics that have been most on my mind, and both so full of nuances and contradictions and hopes and frustrations.

What sort of volunteering are you looking into?

Love & Peace,

Amy

Good Stories

2010-01-06T09:47:00.000-08:00

I just finished listening to a wonderful articulation my brother shared with his church about storytelling. The crux of his talk was to communicate that good storytelling is about telling the truth. This, I firmly believe. It is something that is often brought to mind and was a point of discussion as recently as New Year’s Eve with a new friend. For some reason, just thinking about stories that tell the truth fills me with a kind of ache and excitement, not unlike the feeling of unmet love, leading me to feel that there is something unfinished in my relationship with such stories. That is a thought I will explore at another time. Presently, I merely wanted to share a list of books that resonate with me. 2009 was a good year for many things in my life and one of them was a return to delighted reading. The following are stories that caused connections to hum in my brain, songs to dance from my feet, and love to swell in my heart. In other words, here are a few stories that told the truth:

(Not exactly in order of greatness as that is something too hard for me to decide, but I will say that the first two are probably my favorite)

1) East of Eden by John Steinbeck
2) The Poisonwood Bible by Barabara Kingsolver
3) Perelandra by C.S. Lewis (2nd book in the Space Trilogy)
4) The Life of Pi by Yann Tierson
5) Gilead by Marilynne Robinson
6) What is the What by Dave Eggers
7) The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby
8) The Long Lonliness by Dorothy Day
9) Seven Storey Mountain by Thomas Merton
10) Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver

New Year's Eve

2009-12-31T06:37:00.001-08:00

This is the last day of 2009. This is also the first morning of my stay at home that I've woken at a reasonable hour (8 a.m.). Because of the latter, I enjoying the opportunity to be alone in the quiet of the morning, reflecting. I read a blog post from a friend that highlights her experience of 2009, complete with dates and photographs. It reminded me that I always want to do that but never actually do.

Perhaps when I've returned to Chicago I'll work on that. For now, I am sitting on the back porch with two of the cats, a chorus of birds, and the fresh dewy chill of this new, climactic day. The past year has been one of great change for me; some triumphs, some sadness, a strange but fruitful shift in geography/employment/community.

January was the month I had originally planned to leave life in Kentucky, not for Chicago, but for Palestine. I pushed that back to March and then never went at all. Instead, I began to treasure up my time with the women and staff of Healing Rain, with my darling roommate and other volunteer and former volunteer friends, with my sweet Kentucky home. I had no idea, when I first moved there, how my heart would be wed to its hills.

I trained for and ran a half-marathon (though, in all honesty, I couldn't run the whole thing)in Nashville with a few dear friends who would soon be setting out on their own, separate, adventures. I paid a visit to Israel while he was living in Tennessee with his brother and sister-in-law whose lifestyle I admired and tried to not covet. I flew down to Florida for Easter and a chance to visit my family before entering the unknown.

Chris and Amanda drove up from Knoxville when the day for moving arrived and helped me transport my bedroom's worth of belongings to Chicago. Over half of the latter end of '09 has been spent in that city; no telling how many more months/years will be lived there. Before I left it for this holiday trip, Chicago was the location of monumental transpirings. Sitting here though, in flannel pajamas at my childhood home with the majority of my family slumbering nearby, my life in Chicago seems faraway and small. I know that won't be the case when I return. It is a peculiar thing, the effect that perspective can have on one's vision.

Since being in Chicago I have already had a number of visitors (Grace & Sarah, Kristen and Shannon, Kosch) gone to visit others (Amblyn-WI, the Rommelfangers-WI, Rebecca-TX, the Nees-FL). I have reconnected with dear old friends from former seasons (Laura-Ky, Azuree-WP) and made a passel of new ones (Cat, Chrissy, Catholic Workers & Co., Laura F. the yet unmet but greatly beloved Laina, Dan & Angela, etc.). these encounters have led me to realize that relationships are the essence of being. They are life's fullness without which, even the most beautiful landscapes, the most exciting experiences, are flat.

In addition, I have begun to find acceptance of and in the Catholic church. I miss Aaron and Ann Marie very much. My feeling of being responsible for and connected to the world has been reinforced. My sense of wonder has returned. My love for the Nee family abides. And I wonder, with anticipation, what we will become and what we will create in this new year.

Be well and blessed dear friends, and yet-unmet fellow travelers.

Are You My Mother? (a reflection on learning how and who to follow)

2009-12-10T12:29:00.001-08:00

The Daily Office readings for Tuesday paralleled our first mother, Eve, with our second, Mary. In Genesis, the presence of God is in the garden, asking man how he happened to notice his nakedness (Gn 3:9-15). Adam points to Eve who acknowledges, “The serpent deceived me and I ate.” Eve rejects the first divine imperative, conceding her will to that of the serpent as if his understanding of the way things are (“it’s good to eat the fruit”) exceeds and nullifies her understand of what God had spoken (“don’t eat the fruit”). Implementing her freedom of choice in this manner, Eve diminishes her power by submitting to the serpent’s suggestion and not acting out of her own conviction. Responding to the woman’s deviation toward passivity, God puts a name to her action in the form of a curse, “Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you.” It reads like an accusation and an allowance of what she herself has determined; more consequence, “look what you’ve done to yourself,” than curse. This was not the pattern of relationship for which we were originally formed. It is the result of an aberration, one that has continued as each successive generation accepts the “curse” as an indelible aspect of reality and not a consequence renewed by each individual’s chosen course.

With Mary, we have an example of one who walks another way, returning to the original pattern before it was distorted. Initially, this “new Eve,” looks to be following the same formula as her predecessor. An outsider, the angel Gabriel, enters her guarding, so to speak, and delivers a message. This message (you will conceive and give birth to a son), is to her understanding, contrary to the proper order of things; “how can this be?” Mary’s understanding is based on a broken way of being initiated by the first false move and perpetuated by those that followed. Mary accepts the contradiction. In doing so she is like Eve, believing that the assertion from this outside source supersedes what she previously accepted as truth. She is different though in that her acceptance signals a restoration for woman/humankind, to the position in which she was originally created. That is, in direct relationship with God, choosing to act in alignment with his intentions; whereas Eve’s obedience was an act of submitting to an authority other than God to rule over her. Mary and Eve are placed in the same position but on opposite sides. Eve, from a place of union, chose division. Mary, from a place of division, chose to be reunited. Hence Mary is called, “Holy Mother,” not just because the one that she delivered through childbirth was holy, but also because she is in a sense a deliverer as well; restoring for those with the vision to see an example of how we can relate and respond to God, even when Word God speaks stands in contradiction to our understanding of how the world works. We all, like Mary, are presented with that choice of being filled with the Christ and delivering him to the world or otherwise rejecting the claim that “with God all things are possible,” and saying, “This cannot be.” The latter is a sensible response. It makes sense to look at the overwhelming, destructive cycles that encircle us and to submit to resignation. “This is just the way the world is.” There are those, however, with ears to hear and eyes to see that that become aware of way that while not new is surely different. They know it looks impossible, and that is sounds crazy, and in response the say, “I’ll take it.”

I read these passages on Tuesday morning and they triggered a replay of a question a classmate had posed during her presentation the previous night; “If government authorities came to your home and commanded you to do something you believed was wrong, would you say, ‘no.’” I raised my hand, along with about a dozen others, indicating that I would. If this same question had been asked of me a year ago, I don’t know what I would have said. Even now, my confidence wavers. I am uncertain of my own judgment and feeling diminished by my ignorance, inclined to obey, if not trust, those who display certainty. More and more, I learn to question and to recognize that the common way is not always the best. I believe that I am beginning to understand what it means to be free.

Hail Mary, full of Grace; blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb…pray for us…

Oh World, I want to wrap my arms around you; I want to push you away.

2009-11-15T20:09:00.000-08:00

1

The woman who stations herself near the Waldorf School was sitting in her usual spot last night. I passed her on my way to the Loyola red line. She is an African American woman with short graying hair; her joints are indistinguishable, buried in flesh. I wonder how she moves about and it occurs to me that I have never seen her walking. She has no teeth. I noticed a nubby cigarette in her hand and for some reason began to think how strange it most feel to smoke with the paper touching your gums.

"Honey, I'm homeless," she says as I approach, "can you help me out?" This is what she always says and sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't. I've passed her many times and feel like we are acquaintances at least. I feel sad that I don't know her name. I ask for it this time, but she doesn't hear me and I let it slide. I'll call her Ana for now. Ana rides the train all night for warmth and because it's safer than sleeping in the street. She told me that she filed for social security and was not denied. Ana expects to receive payment by the middle of this month. I didn't think to ask her where the check will come to.

"I plan to use that money to get me an apartment," Ana tells me, "I sure will like that."

2

Love, I think, is like manna. Trying to save it up only causes it to spoil. Better to give it all away, trusting more awaits with the morning.

3

I heard a bit of a report on the BBC News Hour about video games. They played an audio clip from a game with terrorists as the main characters, the avatar for the real-life-person holding the game control. I could hear the sound of guns firing, people running and screaming. This is entertainment. I am sick at heart. Our sense of safety at the distance between violence/murder that is actual, and violence/murder that is synthetic, frightens me. What is the appeal? Actual terrorists tend to perform their acts for an ideal and they are demonized. Gamers do it for fun.

Words, words, words

2009-11-03T08:12:00.001-08:00

The tension between words and their intended meaning has been a prevalent theme in my life as of late (as of always really, but more so as of late). Last night it came up again as we discussed apophatic mysticism, that type of experience of God as Unknowning, as No-thing, as Being itself. Paradoxically, thought the nature of this experience defies images and labels of any kind, to be expressed to others it must be molded into the shape of words and risk distortion. The cry of this conflict crawls through me, as I believe it does through all that is. It is elemental and its implications far reaching. I will not endeavor here to resolve the tension. I feel inclined though to share a reflection I wrote while on retreat a couple of weeks ago that ties into this theme.

There was a reconciliation service at 4:15 p.m. I did not go to a confessor but stayed amongst those who were waiting. I moved from the Our Lady Chapel to the main sanctuary and began a private confession, facing the stained glass window that composed half the wall and beautifully, ecstatically, abstractly portrayed the trinity and the tree of life and seven binding rivers; beneath, small and plain in comparison, was a wood-carved Christ, one with his cross. You could not look to one and not see the other. There is a part of me that is still reticent to accept this effusive return to embrace a specific religion, to say, “I am a Christian and I believe what Christians believe.” I withdraw a little from the use of the name “Jesus” from the reintegration of Christian phraseology into my vocabulary. Words. These are so vital to communication and yet can be the greatest inhibition to accurately sharing thoughts, feelings, truths.

I don’t always like the words said about You, God, nor the ones that allegedly you spoke. Sometimes they don’t make sense to me and sometimes they don’t seem right or good or just or loving. Sometimes I can’t believe that they are true. I can’t believe that you are who we say you are. Just as I am not always sure that Jesus is who his followers say and who the scripture’s records of his words imply. It is not difficult for me to accept God as “Being Itself” or as the life-spring and actualization of Love. But the specificity of Jesus confronts me. He feels like an intrusion. His definitive body, the imprint on history of his words, his actions—a boundary line is thrown—this calls for acceptance and allegiance; this creates us and them, division, “not peace but a sword.”

I read the “high priestly prayer” (John 17), Jesus’ prayer to God on behalf of his disciples. I read it thinking this is how I will listen to Jesus, how I will learn to pray with him. But it didn’t make sense to me. It didn’t sound like I thought it should and I felt disappointed. I had an idea of who I felt Jesus should be and I didn’t find it there. The words confused me, and no wonder, because they are words! Words divide and hid and yet without them we lose significant access to ourselves and others. The naming of things is such a crucial component to being human; according to Genesis, it’s been with us since the beginning. Jesus is the Word of God. What we see of him is the word. In actual essence he is Logos. Logos, the meaning behind the words. Father Kinoti, in a talk on the Holy Spirit, described Jesus as the mind of God. Like an artist, only more perfect, God can project his thoughts onto the world tangible and Jesus is a representation of His mind.

Abstract art is the only way to depict God with anything close to accuracy, I decided, admiring the stained glass in its surreal, mysterious beauty. And religion should always be poetry. But there, beneath it, the harsh realism of the crucifix, Jesus the man, suffering. He looked so small beneath that great glass and yet, his was an unavoidable presence.

And that is Christianity. It is intrusive because its version of God breaks the rules. The Christian God collapses the division between spirit and flesh and yet creates new division between those who believe it and those who don’t. It is a religion that demands mind and heart and strength too, the body because God took on a body and walked among men: touching as they touch, speaking as they speak, feelings as they feel. That is why it is a religion that cannot be contemplated only, it must be lived. What have I to do with all this? I don’t know. I don’t know except I think sometimes that this God loves me, and sometimes I think I love him too.

Street Talk ((sorry folks, this is a long one!))

2009-10-20T20:44:00.000-07:00

Sunday night I went to see Where the Wild Things Are. I went alone and was thus fully engaged in the film and in the feelings it conjured. I thought a lot about perception, about family and loneliness, rejection and disappointment. Spike Jonze and Dave Eggers remind an adult of what it feels like to be a kid. They remind an adult that what we brush away as little things, to the child are everything. The loss of a golden moment (when your experience of moments has been so brief) is like the loss of years and rejection from a loved one is like being abandoned by the population of the world. I thought about my ten year old brother Sam who, when he and our sister were running for “house president,” had a campaign platform that promoted “everyone doing everything together, in the same room, at the same time.” We laughed about it then and it grieves me that I did not respond to it as an expression of his longing for communion. I began to wonder, as I’m prone to, why I am here in Chicago when the rest of my family remains clustered together; one bunch far to the west, the other to the east.

Walking out of the theater I continued to gaze in the direction my inward eye had turned while remaining awake to the life of the surrounding night. Enclosed in thoughts, I still felt the cool soft air and watched, as if from a distance, the people moving about me. I was the center of my universe, the one intrusion being my inability to decide whether or not I could justify buying myself a cup of hot chocolate. I didn’t want to go home and be interrupted by ordinary life. A warm beverage would be good company to wander down to the lake with me.

I was interrupted; not by ordinary life (at least not as I know it) but by Francis. He and another man were sitting in bulky coats and ball caps, hunched on a bench a few steps in front of me. The bench faced the street, but Francis had angled himself toward the sidewalk so that he could hail passersby for spare change.
“Hey girl, where did you learn to walk like that? That stride.” It took me a minute to understand the question; he spoke with a mumbled slur. When I did understand I still didn’t know how to answer.
“Um, I just, ha, I don’t know.”
“Well, my name’s Louis and I sure would appreciate 80 cents, or more if you’ve got it.”
“Sure,” I said, handing him a dollar.
“Do you have another one of those?”
I laughed, and pulled out another. “You rascal. What was your name again? Louis?”
“It’s Francis.”
“Oh…”
“Here, it’s on my bracelet, I just got out of the hospital.”
I asked why he had been in the hospital and he said it was for epileptic seizures. I assumed this meant seizures induced by an overdose or an inadvertent detox, especially because he smelt strongly of alcohol.
“Are you okay now?” I asked.
“Am I okay? No, not really. Not sick I guess but I’d be a whole lot better if I had a bed. Or a roof over me.”
I nodded, not sure how to respond, wondering what a Catholic Worker would do in this situation. Somehow we came around to talking about me going to school. I said I was going to Loyola.
“That’s where we were!” Francis exclaimed, explaining that he had studied Dance, Theater and Creative Writing and that his brother--he indicated the man sitting next to him--had studied History. Up to this point the brother, (who’s name I later learned was “Frank, frankly”) had remained facing the street. He looked like he wasn’t listening, like he was beyond caring about anything at all. But when I mentioned my class on Day and Merton he turned and asked, “Dorothy Day and who?” and continued to quiz me on the life and times of Thomas Merton. Francis kept interrupting us and even grabbed my wrist once, like a child impatient for his mother who is ignoring him while she finishes a conversation.
“Hey, we are trying to have a discussion,” Frank says, “I am talking to my friend Amy here, stop touching her.” Frank indicated that his brother was “the town drunk” and continually responded to him as one who was perpetually, affectionately annoyed.

Francis did get my attention when he abruptly asked me if I was going to become a nun.
“Oh, I don’t think so; it does seem to come up a lot though. I don’t know. Some people even have a problem with me thinking about becoming Catholic.”
At this Frank rejoined us, saying that denominations don’t matter, that I shouldn’t let anyone discourage me as long as I was believing in Christ and following his Way. He continued quietly but emphatically in this way and I don’t know why but I could feel that tears were beginning to form in my eyes.
“There are two great commandments,” Frank said, “do you know what they are?”
“Love God as your—no, love your neighbor with your whole heart—I mean—“ my hands were rummaging through the air as they often do but they provided no assistance in finding the words I knew that I knew.
“You can’t quote it?”
“No.”
“It’s in Matthew, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your mind and with all your soul; and love your neighbor as yourself.’ You do these things, and you aren’t gonna break any laws that matter.” He told me about a church he and Francis had just gone to, asking if I had heard of it. I had not.
“It’s just at the end of the block,” he said, “Here,” he reached out his hand and I took it and we walked to the corner. It was little store front catty-corner to a coffee shop I frequent with a hand-written sign posted in the window announcing days and times when the fellowship would be gathered.
“They aren’t fire and brimstone,” he said, “they’re all right. They do get excited though and might want to lay their hands on you.” I laughed and nodded.
“That’s good too though,” he added, “they aren’t fire and brimstone about things. My back was hurting real bad and they laid hands on me and it’s better. They pray for him a whole lot,” he smiled wryly and pointed to his brother, “they really pray for him.”
We talked a little longer and then they said, “Well, we’ll quite holding you up, let you get out of the cold,” though they would not be getting out of it anytime soon.
A wiry bedraggled woman approached as I was getting to ready to leave, cursing up a storm and casting it on Frank. Then she saw me, “Oh honey, you know I was just joking.”
“I know.” I said. There were hugs all around and I went on my way.

Not even two blocks down the road I walked past a couple of men who were standing next to each other. One was leaning on a fence, about as thin as one of its rails, holding a briefcase and talking on his cell phone; he closed the phone as I walked past.
“Aye!” He called after I’d passed.
“Hey” I said, turning to face him while still moving.
“Can I just—I don’t want anything—can I just offer you a compliment?”
“Um, sure.”
“I saw you walking up this way. I was on my cell phone, on a long distance call and I had to tell them to wait after I saw you. You are beautiful.”
“Oh. Hm. Ha, thanks.”
“I don’t mean anything by it—I am just giving you a compliment—when I see something, I tell it like I see it. And you are, not just in your face. Something about you that comes out.” He continued in this fashion for what seemed like a very long time. His name was Antonio and though he “didn’t mean anything by it,” he did want to know if he could buy me anything, if he could give me his number, if I had a boyfriend. I responded no to all but the last. It was a lie but one I find myself speaking more frequently, almost automatically.
“How long have you guys been together?” Oops.
“Oh, uh, not very long.” I just made him up in fact.
“Well you tell him—I’m sayin’, make sure he knows—because you really are—“
“I am going to tell him he better appreciate what he’s got!” I said laughing and walking away again. The exit wouldn’t be so easy, several more calls of “Aye!” and me turning, and him reminding me of what I need to say and to “be careful.” I eventually made it out of ear shot. After Antonio, I thought I should probably skip the lake.

I walked home feeling exhilarated, suffused with an intense energy of the kind that I sometimes feel after an enlightening class or an engaging conversation or noticing a small beautiful thing I’d overlooked before. Back at the apartment I gave Anne a rough outline of my encounters.
“It’s weird that these random people are always talking to you.”
“Yeah. It is a little. I must have some kind of air of approachability or something.”
“Yeah. It’s weird.”

I was wondering if the mark of openness (or the sign that said "sucker" however you prefer to think of it) was on me tonight as I walked down Sheridan toward Loyola's campus. A trio of men in big jackets were huddled together in front of Chipotle, talking in loud erratic tones. As I walked past, one hailed me, "Aye!"
"Hey."
"Can I ask you someth--oh, girl, you are beautiful."
"Thanks." I was not comfortable with this man. He was too young, standing too close. He said something about my eyes and my "face structure," and I backed off a little.
"Hey. Hey. I am hungry."
"You want me to buy you a burrito?"
"Yes."
"Okay."
We turned toward the building and walked past his friends who were surprised and irritated at his successful conquest, "What? You got to be kidding me!"
"Shut up," he said to them, then to me, "those are my friends." I just shrugged at them and smiled.
"What's your name?"
"I'm Amy, what's yours?"
"My name is Temple…Yeah, I don't know why my mom named me that. Kinda crazy. Do you think it's crazy?"
"It doesn't seem crazy to me."
He was difficult to understand, evidently intoxicated, talked a lot and was pushy. He kept asking the girl preparing his burrito why she was mad at him and telling her she had a nice smile. After a few minutes she stepped away and told one of her male co-workers to take over. When we finally got to the register I paid and he asked me for some of the change.
"No." I said, "I need it. The burrito is for you, this is for me." He thanked me and I left quickly.

I continued down the sidewalk in a bemused state. What am I doing? Why does this keep happening? What I began to realize is that what is happening around me is not unusual or even different. What is different is my response. I went to the campus chapel wanting to sit in silent contemplation; not making requests, not trying to figure anything out. A student was practicing the organ in the balcony and someone else up there was playing "Mary had a little lamb" on the piano. I laughed at myself and the context. Truly there can be no perfect place of quiet except within a disciplined mind and devoted heart. But this place was good and I had a few moments of communion before the thoughts of whether what I had done was "good" and helpful or just "nice" and potentially harmful came crashing back in. I thought of Jesus saying, "give to anyone who begs of you." There are no qualifiers attached to that statement, but how to apply it when you live in a city like this? Do I have enough for everyone? And when he said "give" does that mean, give what they ask of you, or just give something? I avoided following through with the questions that surfaced and sounded something like, "What would Dorothy Day/Peter Maurin/Thomas Merton do?" knowing well my potentially disastrous proclivity to make heroes of humans I admire.

I left the chapel to make my way home but then stopped at a statue of Mary that stand in the courtyard of St. Ignatius church. Aesthetically, I don’t like the statue. Yet, I am frequently drawn to the aura of sweetness, simplicity and warmth that hangs about it. Sitting on a bench that faced her I said,
"I want to be good and do right, will you help me?" Then I laughed at myself again for being so vulnerable to spiritual sentimentality and continued toward home.

Only a couple more blocks to my apartment and still my mind was grappling with an amorphous opponent. I thought of myself confronting the man for having spent whatever he had on alcohol, or telling him I would get him something if next time I see him he is sober. But that was not a satisfying rewrite to our meeting. The image of that girl behind the counter, so uncomfortable, resurfaced. What I could have done differently? I imagined telling the man to settle down, that he was acting inappropriately. I imagined a scene in which someone confronted me for bringing him in there and asked if I even knew his name. That question interrupted my dramatization; did I even give him the dignity of an introduction? I couldn't remember, but then, yes. Yes, I asked him his name. His name was Temple.

The instant his name came to me, my feet stopped moving and I was still. His name was Temple. My mind reached for a scripture I could not remember and found instead a quote from Peter Maurin I had read earlier this afternoon. He had been in Chicago, visiting an underground railroad where homeless men had taken shelter, Maurin addressed them saying, "You are in fact ambassadors of God." We are all, in essence, image bearers of the Divine. How much grief and glory are held captive in that phrase!

A reflection written Oct. 9, 2009

2009-10-10T09:16:00.000-07:00

Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize, which seems very strange. I can only hope and pray it acts as a kind of cornerstone, continually forming him in the way of peace. The timing is interesting as tonight the Roger's Park Catholic Worker house is hosting a round-table discussion about the role of peacemakers in our present context. Some of the following questions come to mind: how long do we wait for Obama to make good on his promises regarding Guantanamo Bay and Iraq? What about Afghanistan, can all that is transpiring there be considered actions of a "just war"? Is there such a thing as a "just war"?

As I write this my mind keeps revisiting the image of a night when my family was at a lake house visiting with missionary friends on furlough from Spain. Sitting around a campfire, I don't remember if we were listening to a radio or just talking but I know the topic was war. Desert Storm had just been initiated the grown-ups were in the house and we kids were making planes of sticks and dry leaves that we would toss into the fire to be devoured in flame. I remember a mixed sense of unease, sadness and excitement. That is my first memory of war, so distant and safe. Yet, that is probably the most connected I have ever felt to one. It was very present in my mind and in the conversations of those around me. I don't remember people close to me either trying to condone or condemn it. I do remember my younger brother Jonathan, who could not have been more than six or seven, writing a journal entry about trying to love Saddam Hussein and get him to love Jesus and change his ways. He believed that was the only true way to reach a healthy resolution.

My general reaction to war has tended to be avoidance, even in films and conversation. I have always been disturbed by films about war or even action film scenes of vast destruction, not only because of the violence, though that is troubling in itself, but also because of the sense of aching futility and tragic waste. Despite feeling ill at ease and unhappy with questions that feel too wide to be narrowed into words I do little. Resigned to a deeply ingrained pragmatism I find the cry of my heart easily muffled and brushed aside by the louder voices asking, "Well, what else can we do?" I have no answer that sounds intelligent or practical enough to be worth voicing. So, I listen, and leave the decisions up to those who do. This does not relieve my responsibility.

In, Dorothy Day: A Radical Devotion, Day and the Catholic Workers are cited as seeing, "militarism, totalitarianism, fascism, and communism as the outcome of centuries of pragmatism and practicality...the state being elevated..." Economist John Kenneth Gilbraith, in his book The Good Society, theorizes that elevation of the state is exacerbated and reinforced through the population of affluent nations (i.e. the United States and Europe) buying into a lifestyle that demands the assistance of the state.

Thus, I am implicated in activating the war machine not only by my reliance on practicality and pragmatism but by, however much I may verbally protest, engaging in a manner of eating, dressing, traveling and general living that stimulates state regulation. A transactional relationship is established in which I become the debtor and thus diminish my power. How does one extricate oneself from such a system? There is the option of "hobo-ing it" which has an appealing dramatic flair, but in the end continues to rely a great deal on the affluence of others. Besides, that option (as with many means of "going off the grid") risks resulting in isolation and alienation, a step I am reluctant to take as a professing Christian. Where is the love in that?

Though I won't pretend it is perfect or even that I perfectly understand it, I am drawn to the Catholic Worker response to this conundrum; addressing the immediate needs the community is confronted with--feeding the hungry, comforting the lonely, confronting injustice--while persistently working toward a long-range plan that "gives the worker ownership of the means of production" (Day), and "makes our world an easier place to be good" (Maurin).

Experiments with Truth

2009-10-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

Alone on Monday morning, I am still in Texas and the friend I am visiting is at work. I am reading the bible and thinking about what has been unfolding in my life: the gift of my pen-pals, the state of the world, the Catholic Worker movement, the events of this weekend. I feel a bit disgusted at the excess I have indulged in over the past few days: beer, chocolate cake, and meat everyday, crude talk and no exercise, prayer or meditation. I wonder, when is it appropriate to accept differences and when to stand on principle and confront them? I find I do significantly more conforming than confronting.

My quandary about how to treat my meat-eating is an example of that. I do not want being a vegetarian to stand in the way of receiving hospitality, particularly because I am not sure I am opposed to eating meat per se, but to the way it is produced and processed, the treatment of the animal and the people along the way. Then, I think of Gandhi who rigidly refused milk even when told it could cure his deathly ill child. The religious teaching he aligned himself with was against eating of any animal product and he stood firmly to that. His decision seemed so narrow and foolish to me when I first read of it. Yet, it was that type of hard-nosed adherence to conviction that put him in a position to shake the world, one consistently principled step at a time.

Sometimes I feel that the religious life is for me not because I am especially religious, but because it is the only place I can safely and acceptably practice the lifestyle I am inclined toward. It is the only way I can practice this lifestyle without being an embarrassment to myself and an offense to others. This line of thinking begs the question, why so much attention to avoiding offense? The prophets offended others and brought derision on themselves as did Jesus and all the disciples who have followed his Way, knowing that the sincere love they share will not always be received as such. This is a hard truth. I had comfortably turned away from it for a moment, but it is always hanging in my periphery, occasionally sliding around to stare me down. I do not know how to respond. It is so much easier to be nice than to be good.

Truly, madly deeply...or, truly, deeply mad

2009-09-30T20:50:00.001-07:00

Brother Lawrence writes about coming to know God through faith; a faith at once childlike and obstinate. This faith he considers to be a superior vehicle to knowledge of God than "deductions of the intellect." Knowledge of God thus acquired is deepened and sustained through "practicing the presence of God," and its fruit is a relationship of love.

For me, such a relationship, and by such means, appears exquisitely beautiful and appealing. It also appears dangerous. Whether seeking truth via faith or intellect, I feel that I am blind. Relying on the intellect, I reach about, grasping for a sense of my surroundings. My reaching hands are aimless guides, utilizing the accumulated knowledge of life to discern what is touched and to make inference of what is yet untouched. Relying on faith, specifically on faith in God (this is a challenging term, even with intellect a measure of faith is required; a trusting of learned facts, mental processing and memory. And then, can we assume an experience of "faith" is not being filtered through the intellect?), my reaching hands have found a rope. When I am willing to take hold of this rope and hold fast, I find that there is someone or something at the other end, drawing me forward. Wonderful, awful discovery! Am I saved? Am I being drawn to Truth, Light, Love? Or, is this a steady tug pulling me to a deeper darkness, drawing me into an enthralling delusion?

Encounters with certain gentlemen who experienced dramatic transitions towards what they perceived as transcendent awareness and even some of my own reactions to relationships and situations have left me scarred and wary of an encompassing spirituality or complete release of the self to the Other. I am afraid of losing my mind, losing control, losing my place in this world. The jubilation I felt this weekend is being crowded by gathering clouds of anxiety. Yet, I do not feel that my withdrawals from these situations and into more reasoned, rational ways of being has led to the life of liberation and purposeful action and enriching relationship that my heart persistently hunts for.

I feel more at ease moving at my own pace, reaching about in the dark, but I also feel alone and unsatisfied. So, disregarding whatever psychological or philosophical rationale may apply to qualify my experience (it is so tempting to me to enter into that realm where conclusions are indefinitely delayed), I feel there is something constantly being point to, that amidst a milieu of raucous clamor something insistently, consistently speaks in a still small voice, and I feel that this something is God and that God is Love. If this is so, how can I not desire above all things to seek after, to love and be beloved of such a One!

I hear my struggle voiced in the words of Dorothy Day when she writes,

"Always at the bottom of my heart was the desire to believe, sometimes so faint as to be imperceptible, at other times very strong. But I distrusted myself, my own emotional reactions and my own instability."

Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton, and C.S. Lewis are three spiritual writers through whom I am consistently inspired and challenged and with whom I feel a deep synthesis and mysterious kinship. All three had sharp intellects and brilliant creative talent, to the point that I feel overwhelmed in the presence of their work. They were well learned, curious and speculative. In the end their knowledge did not inhibit their aptitude for faith but in fact played into their inclination toward it.

Perhaps this matter of faith versus intellect is not an either/or affair at all, but a situation where each would benefit from humbly acknowledging the presence and purpose of the other. With that in mind, I think it is valuable (and has proved itself to be productive) that I continue to identify and pursue those things that kindle my heart, while simultaneously continuing to actively question myself and my influences.

August, Part 1

2009-09-10T09:20:00.000-07:00

Looking back over my journal, I found that August was a month of much contemplation with journal entries to accompany my thoughts. I began this post with my usual technique of simply typing up journal entries, cutting out pieces that seem too boring or personal. Halfway through the month though I realized that I wasn't going to make it to the end in this manner. Below is what I had already typed. Hopefully I will find a more constructive, creative way of exploring and sharing the latter portion of the month's meandering thoughts and experiences.

8-3-09

Reading Merton’s reflection on his mother’s illness (Seven Storey Mountain, 15) plunges me back to thoughts of perception and how shallowly we tend to view others and the world. A person’s character we assess based on a moments interaction, coupled with physical appearance. In this assessment they are encased and viewed as long as we have memory of them. Seeing the paradigm shift from Merton’s child p.o.v. to adult caused a quickening in my heart. How I would love to receive everyone I encounter with up close and abundant excitement. Accompanying this beating desire, a feeling of excitement—what a glorious way to live!—and a feeling of sadness—what an impossible way to live! These thoughts remind me that this journey I am on arose from a desire to learn how to love. (Why Jesus? because he taught me to love…) I’ve strayed from that goal, making the mistake of pursuing maturity, purpose, identity; valuable aspirations but I think misplaced when made direct objects.

8-4-09

“I wanted to be in all these places, which the pictures of LePays de France showed me: indeed, it was a kind of problem to me and an unconscious source of obscure and half-realized woe that I could not be in all of them at once.” (Merton, 48)

A sentiment I often share…

* * * *

I washed diapers today, feeling very satisfied as I hung them on the drying rack in a sunny patch of the concrete courtyard, noticing they had very few stains. Removing them from their rinse in the tub I’d been singing “Sisters” while squeezing out the excess water. “I like how you’re like Cinderella,” Anne said, “singing while you do your dirty work.”
After lunch, I took Isaac in his stroller to the Devon Market. I enjoy going to market, particularly browsing the produce and international food isles, pushing the stroller with one hand and hefting a full basket in the other.
While walking I listened to the sermon by a young pastor of a new church. I appreciate his zeal and scholarship, but own that I hold myself at a distance from his message. Though multiple factors doubtless apply, I attribute my reticence largely to the derisive statements he consistently throws in about other established religions; namely Buddhism and Catholicism…I don’t dare make a character judgment or ever dismiss his teaching. I will say that he (unwittingly, I think) portrays himself as an underground church elitist, justifying criticism of the traditional because that’s what Jesus did, forgetting that these other established groups are simply more mature bodies that were born into Christ many years ago. Everyone looks different when they are older. Because Jesus died when he was in his early 30s, should we never exceed the point of view of someone in that age group?

* * * *

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart
And do not lean on your own understanding.
In all your ways acknowledge him,
and he will direct your paths.
Be not wise in your own eyes;
fear the Lord, and turn away from evil.
It will be healing to your flesh
and refreshment to your bones.”

-Proverbs 3:5-8

8-5-09

I was out of bed by 6:20 a.m. this morning. Light was already seeping redly through the window shade. It felt good to be awake, good to be on a schedule. I did yoga and meditated. This was the first meditation I had practiced in quite some time. I chose Lao Tzu’s “The Best,” and St. Paul’s “Love is…” from Corinthians. Short but very sweet. When I got to “love never ends” I kept examining and caressing the words feeling an almost suffocating combination of sadness, joy, gratitude, remorse and affection. I suppose I felt love; more than anything, the reception of it. Attached to the words was the image of Jesus. “I can’t not be in love with Jesus,” I admitted to myself. And I don’t know what to think.

8-6-09

Anne, Isaac and I packed a lovely picnic lunch…and walked to meet Angela at the beach. Outside it was absolutely beautiful; solid blue sky, light breeze, bright sun, high 70s…Angela looked out over the lake and exclaimed, “look at that blue!” It was tremendous. This great expanse of water with no end in sight had soaked up the color of the sky and implemented its small waves to add depth of hue and texture.
“Who wants to do sun salutations?” Angela asked, quickly responding to her own question, “I do!” And she did.

8-7-09

It’s a drizzly day and cool. I’m having a cup of tea, cursing myself for wasting so much of Isaac’s nap-time on facebook…It’s 2 p.m. and I am listening to beautiful, melancholy, Elvis Perkins. The music is probably more distracting than helpful. I’d had thoughts I wanted to explore, but now I’m thinking about how, according to Grace and Sarah, he wrote this song, “While You Were Sleeping,” about his mother who died in the 911 crash; just a passenger on a plane. And, as with any sad, sweet music of quality, I think of love. I have been thinking of this a great deal recently, particularly the nature of love itself and love for Jesus, for religion even, and then too love between humans; considering the distinction between these, if any exists. If any exists. And here is where I speculate that my jaded pragmatism toward romantic love has seeped through its compartment merging with my love for Jesus and influencing a stance of determined detachment. This detachment insists upon validation and definition before affection and devotion. I haven’t liked the feeling though. This week I’ve returned to meditation. I have also been listening to Poppa’s sermons and reading Merton and wondering, “can love take the lead over logic?” I hesitate in wording the question because of the implications that can arise from the words that take their place between “love” and “logic.” I don’t want to imply that one contradicts the other, nor can I assume that the plane they exist upon is a linear line. I it reasonable to even consider they might exist in a relationship where one leads to the other? In fact, I think my belief in the possibility of such a relationship may be an impediment in itself. I would withdraw from love for fear that a logic that followed after love would be bent, biased toward the treasure of my heart, the overflow of which my mouth speaks and my thoughts think.

8-9-09

It’s amazing how refreshing it can feel to wash one’s feet. I just got back from a night walk. I went to the beach, taking my flip flops off and walking to the water’s lip. there were five points of bright light in the sky. they gave the illusion of stars, but were something else. I don’t know what.
Many people were out, I was surprised how many; enjoying nighttime picnics, or taking a stroll. Most people move in multiples; couples or groups of friends. I felt self-conscious walking past them.

* * * *

…it is a curious thing, this feeling that follows shifts in place of occupation. This feeling that something internal, essential even, has shifted as well and you are not what you were. Yet, simultaneously, you are seamlessly imprinted with it, even when memories are vague.

8-10-09

While waiting for the train, I noticed another girl standing on the platform. My first thought was, “how is it that some people are so tiny?” She had curly brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail. Though it was quite warm, she wore a long-sleeved black shirt with a black cardigan. Her skirt was a light material, but long with a patch-work pattern. She wore brown Grecian sandals. For a few minutes she sat right next to me on a bench. I had my guitar propped upright between my legs, my hands folded on top and head resting on them. I observed this girl, discreetly I hope. the sleeve of her shirt had shifted a bit so that about two inches of her left wrist showed. It was covered in white raised scars. I considered what gift I could give this girl. I thought about saying something simple and stupid like, “your skirt is pretty,” hoping that might be enough to remind us that we are not alone in this world. That would be enough to remind us that we are both seen and seeing. I didn’t say anything. On the train we sat across from each other. I watched her face run through myriad of dour expressions. I watched her get off the train and walk away.

8-11-09

I don’t want to pretend,
nor to offend;
it seems we must always do one
or the other.

8-12-09

6:30 a.m. and the sun’s awake. I missed the meteor shower, too sleepy to motivate myself to get up and go out in the wee hours of morning alone…
…I am feeling very aimless, unaccomplished, and disheartened today. I imagine there are physical contributions to this—in the house all day, little exercise, possibly premenstrual—but I’m inclined to believe there is something of the spiritual involved as well. I feel as though I have not course, and I don’t like. And, I miss my family.

3 weeks in

2009-06-07T20:39:00.000-07:00

Three weeks ago I moved to Chicago. The following are some selections from my recorded thoughts, feelings and deeds.

5-17-09

“…drove to Chicago, in a van, with my friends…”

I actually did not listen to any Sufjan on my way to Chicago, nor did I drive a van. I did however drive with friends, or behind them anyway. C and A, in their little Jetta, toted a trailer packed with my furniture. They barely let me pay for their gas and didn’t even stay long enough to let me by them dinner. They stayed just long enough to heft all my heaviest stuff up the windy back stairs and into my new bedroom.

I unpacked everything except kitchen stuff that night then watched Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets with A…It felt good to wake up in the morning and be surrounded by my own things, an island of comfort in this alien ocean.
…I want to be diligent in proactively engaging in things that I velieve or want to have become foundational elements of my life: contemplation, exercise, writing, reltionships (with people and the earth).
Now is the time to act…

5-18-09

…I made waffles for breakfast and French pressed coffee. A and I went out so I could get a library card and bank account. The LC was acquired without a hitch. The first bank we went to offers a free 4-piece Pyrex set upon opening an account. I eyed the box and felt excited at the prospect of storing it away in my closet. Unfortunately they require and IL drivers license, something I neither own nor plan on obtaining. So, on to WaMu where less than a week ago I’d closed my account. There Damir, my “personal banker” accepted me for who I am, KY drivers license and all…

…I took out the trash and proceeded to walk to Lake Michigan. The clear sky had clouded over and wind entered the city…I wandered around the sandy lake shore, picking up perfect skipping stones that were swallowed quickly by short aggressive waves instead of skipping across the surface. So many seagulls, and people—walking dogs or kids or partners or alone.

5-19-09

…I walked to the lake again this evening, trying an alternative route. The neighborhood is beginning to feel more familiar now, the streets woven with such precision. The day could not have been more beautiful. I sat at the lake watching people, reading the bible, jotting down observations…On the way back I stopped at a used bookstore I’d notice on the way called “Armadillo’s Pillow.” It smelled of incense and was dimly lit with wonderful nooks and narrow halls formed by tall shelves of books. I bought two postcards and “73 Poems” by e.e. cummings.

5-20-09

Well, today was Isaac’s due date and he has yet to make an appearance. A. is watching Lord of the Rings and I am wasting time doing God-knows-what on my computer…

5-21-09

Omnivore’s Dilemma. See previous post.

5-22-09

A. wasn’t feeling well yesterday so she spent most of it on the couch. I divided my
time between the computer, books (Ramayana and The Omnivore’s Dilemma), walking and talking on the phone…Intermittently through the day A. would feel like she was having contractions. Every noise from our neighbors—with my window open they sound as if we’re sharing a room—woke me with the thought that Anne was going into labor. No such luck.

5-23-09

“Sometimes I wish I was somebody else; sometimes I wish I had more to give; sometimes I wish I was better than this; oh, Honey, let me sing to you…”

Oh Joe Purdy, I hear you and you can sing for me any day.

…This would be the day I go downtown. My first time venturing outside the neighborhood alone. I don’t even want to estimate how many times I visited the bathroom that morning. My body’s stress responses are predominantly physical…I can’t deny that I was nervous. It was a pleasant anxiety though, I gave it space as partner to excitement. A new adventure. A chance to prove myself to myself. A change of scene. A long awaited reunion with a dear friend.
I walked to the Loyola station and climbed to the wrong platform twice—thankfully making it to the southbound side without missing my train.
From my corner seat I could observe everyone in the car and noticed a young man with glasses and a bright green shirt noticing me. I tried to arrange my face and body to look composed; “I belong here.” In my mind it finally struck home, “My God, I’m here, I’m really doing this!”

I exited at Lake, underground, taking note that the walls by the stairs had tiles indicating what street you’d surface at. I headed left at Randolph and climbed the stairs to the chaos of downtown State St. Towering sky scrapers, packs of people, signs that stretched from a building’s head down to its waist. I walked in the wrong direction for blocks, just past the river before I checked my map and realized I wasn’t heading toward Millennium Park.

5-24-09

Isaac’s second due date is today. We’ll see if that’s anything he puts much stock in…

D and A continue to delight me, a little more each time I see them and I am touched by their inclusiveness. D, ever ready to instruct me on the city; it’s layout, history, politics. He shared with me too, on the same walk back from dinner at the Viceroy and Mango Lassis at the Sweets & Snacks café, about his travels in India and Nepal. It was kind of a funny conversation to have walking down the sidewalks lined with shops displaying sparkling saris, a video store with a poster of Shah Rukh Khan in the window and side walks teeming with Indians. He warned me about how you don’t have to worry much about your safety, but you do have to watch you money as they will try every angle in attempting to cheat and hustle you.

5-24-09

This is the first day that I have really felt down-hearted. The realization that I will not be returning to KY is settling in. I’m sad fore what’s been left behind: dear friends, a lovely town, a job that I knew and was good at—where I contributed—places to go and a place to come home to…

I like to believe that I can be a valuable contributing human even without a work schedule, but I’m beginning to doubt it. My over-inflated sense of self-determination and intrinsic, driven, goodness is losing air. Maybe that’s a good thing. I think I was beginning to develop a cockyness that overlaid some still rooted insecurity…

5-25-09

Isaac was born tonight around 8:30 p.m. It’s nearly 11 p.m. now and I am waiting for word that A’s parents are on their way here to the apt. Funny how it worked, the moment we took our eyes off the pot it boiled. Most of A’s labor took place in her sister’s car on the way down from WI to her hospital in Evanston, IL. I wonder what our lives will be like now? I wonder what A is feeling?

5-27-09

In the hospital with A and Is. A. has been such a natural, coaxing him to eat, comforting his cries; it’s lovely to see. Now she is trying to doze a bit as Is sleeps between my legs on this little cot where I spent the night.

5-28-09

First full day with Is at home, scrambled eggs and black bean soup, my wonderful outing with Az, our unexpected rendezvous on the el, perusing the life aquatic at John G. Shedd Aquarium, chill'n at JPUSA. I took the train a few stops in the wrong direction…I had a lot of fun today, hopefully I’ll learn to be helpful soon.

5-29-09

K.U. called me tonight. I thought it was an adventurous move on her part and told her so. I also said I hope she doesn’t have any false expectations about my coolness just because I’m Adam’s sister. I don’t mind that I said it, but it’s a bit sad that I think that way.

Had a wonderful chat with A’s mom L today. She told me the story of her life as a young woman in Long Island, New York, contemplating convent life; to a happily married mother of six (with 12 grandkids!) in OskKosh, Wisconsin.

5-31-09

Reclining on the couch, reading while cradling Is, a moment of awareness met me. I took note of the light streaming through the tall windows that I had laboriously cleaned earlier in the afternoon, the way the trees that loomed outside and the shade’s A’s mom had sewed broke it into scattered beams that played in the embroidered flowers on my shirt, he bared skin of my chest where the shirt’s neck had shifted, Is’ five small fingers clasping one of mine. I heard the pounding bass from our upstairs neighbor’s music, dulled only slightly by the floorboards and accompanied by his off-key crooning. Their noise annoys A—who I hop is successfully napping—but it amuses and delights me. Here we all are, separate but together, sharing our lives; albeit unintentionally.

6-1-09

…It was hard for A. to see her mom go, “I wish my mom would just move in!”
“Are you scared now that it’s just us?” I asked.
“A little,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes.
“It is scary.”
We were sitting side by side on the couch, silent for a while. I don’t remember what was said, but a moment later we’d found something to laugh about.

I’ve drifted in and out of wakefulness—gone to the bathroom, eaten ½ a banana, even knocked timidly on A’s door—since 6 a.m. It’s ten to 7 now and I am sitting up in my bed, covers on, lights off.

I told A I would take Is in the morning, but now I am wondering, what’s the protocol for that? Do I just go in there and risk waking her if she’s already asleep? Do I wait until he’s awake, knowing that at that point he’s probably ready to feed? Acts that come so naturally to a mother, I am having to slowly learn. One thing to definitely work on is asking more specific questions.

6-2-09

Digital media is delighting me today. This morning/afternoon I watched the recently made Bollywood film, “Paheli”…I’m not often moved to distraction by stories these days, it takes more (or perhaps it’s a matter of timing and theme?) to captivate me. “Paheli,” with Shah Rukh, Rani, accomplished it. I find myself hungry for something that I don’t know the taste of. Feelings like this beg the question; is it better to side step stories that stir yearning and restlessness, or is it better to embrace them; to follow them like clues to the heart of the universe (or at least, to my own heart)?

Just as I scrawled that question mark, the Bowerbird’s singer (the other digital media that I’m currently delighting in) crooned, “well, I don’t know.”
Walking home from the market, arms laden with a purse and two bags of groceries, I was not afraid to smile in the face of strangers. After I did, I felt even better.
Outside, it is cool and cloudy. A. decided to wait for a nicer day to go out with Is, but I had the excuse of groceries to escape the confines of the apt. Amazing how simply walking through a door can feel like unfurling shining wings.

6-3-09

…Is. had an appointment for a DNA/Paternity test this afternoon. Holding him while A. still slept, I thought how this test dispels the cozy illusion that Is. is all A’s and that everything is as it should be.

6-5-09

I need to get over my cell phone fixation. The proclivity I have towards obsession surfaces in the most random and useless areas…

What I want has been much on my mind today, and I don’t mean just in a wireless provider. I’ve let my mind look to the future and consider what it is I’m working toward and hoping for. The images I conjure fork in vastly divergent paths. Laying on the couch in the quiet of the morning when A. is sleeping in heard bed and Is, in my arms, I read “Ominvores…” and conjure up the dream of pastoral living; growing vegetables and having chickens for eggs and maybe even a cow for milk. I’d live in a house with extra rooms so I could be open to visitors—people who need a change of scene, writers, friends, family—

…In the book there is a brief allusion to Chilean child labor and my mind transported me to the scene, a witness (for peace? a journalist? an advocate?). Someone who travels and writes trying to frame my vision in words, to plant an image in minds and light a fire in hearts. Then, the sound of Is’ breathing, the warm weight of his body in repose on my chest, reminds me that the latter is not a lifestyle in which a day like this would be a likely experience, and I am liking this day…

I imagined myself in the activists life—maybe I could foster infants when on a furlough of sorts. I imagined getting the call, having just returned home to my husband (where’d he come from?) after a mission: “Amy,” the voice on the other line would say, “we have a baby, will you be available to take him?”
I say I will have to talk to my husband, feeling the pit--that will steadily grow throughout the day--begin forming in my stomach. No time seems like the right time to bring it up. Finally, at dinner, I lay it on the table.

“____ called today,” I say, shifting food around my plate with a loosely held utensil.
He’s sitting across from me, the room is light, we’ve just grown quiet after talking about something, I don’t know what.

“She says they have a baby that needs placement,” I continue.
He sighs and looks away, I stop speaking and wait.

“I feel like I hardly know you Amy, you’re always buried in something. I don’t know if you married me because you wanted a husband or an extra pair of hands.”
I’m holding on to the first part of what he said, turning it over in my head.

“Sometimes I feel like I hardly know you too. It seems like there’s this certain place a person comes to in relationships, or in most things really. Like a wall. And you either give up there—walk away or just stay stuck in a kind of suspension—or you dive in and discover this other life below the depths. I’ve never dove. I don’t think I know how to. I’m not sure I would even be able to.”

“Amy,” he says, rising from the table, “you tend to have a knack for getting what you want. When you decide what that is, let me know.”
He is tired of my abstractions. As he walks away I consider asking, “So, what about the baby?” but decide that now is not the time.

The high cost of cheap produce...

2009-05-21T11:37:00.000-07:00

"...I started to see the golden kernels everywhere, ground into the mud by tires and boots, floating in the puddles of rainwater, pancaked on the steel mills..."
-Micheal Pollan at an Iowa grain elevator (from The Omnivore's Dilemma)

As I read this, an image returned to me. Hands and knees in the dirt and patchy grass of the Farmer's Market lot, fingers picking up each individual kernel that had spilled to the ground. I was helping S, a local farmer, and T, the wiry brown-skinned boy with eyes like the ocean who was interning with her, run ears of corn through a hand-cranked machine that freed them of their kernels. Following this, T and I winnowed the grain, pouring pounds of it from one shining silver pot to another, letting the chaff be blown off by the wind. More often than not the machine delivered patchy ears with a majority of the kernels still clinging. T and I would kneel by the trough, coaxing the kernels off by rubbing our fingers against the roots fixed to the ear like tooth in gum. We'd carefully pick up whatever had been flung off target by the spinning wheel, going so far as to brush our hands over the surface of the earth to reveal any that had jumped behind a sprig of grass or been covered in a thin layer of wind blown dirt. As far as we were able, we accounted for every kernel. Nothing was wasted.

I was simply following S. and T's lead. My first inclination was to let what had fallen lie. First, it's dirty (how quickly we forget that it's from dirt that all food rises!). Second, taking the time and trouble for such a small thing seemed pointless--we had stacks yet to go through! I had a commodity view of corn. A supermarket shopper's presumption that whatever was needed, or wanted, would arrive before I did and be neatly presented for my consumption; whatever I wanted, whenever (for the 24-hour Wal-mart shopper) I wanted it. S and T had an entirely different paradigm. Having been with this corn from seed time to harvest, it was not just a product to them, it was the tangible manifestation of work, energy, life. It was a representation of their time and talent, as well as a sources of income; food in a starving world, money in a poor man's house. Golden kernels of corn where, for these farmers, not unlike nuggets of pure gold to a miner.

How quickly excess quickly begets waste.

Pollan quotes Friar Sahagun in his writing regarding the Aztecs:

"If they saw grains of maize scattered on the ground, they quickly gathered them up saying, 'Our Sustenance suffereth, it lieth weeping. If we should not gather it up, it would accuse us before our Lord. It would say, "Oh, our Lord, this vassal picked me not up when I lay scattered upon the ground, Punish him!" or perhaps we should starve.'"

Forgiveness

2009-05-09T10:27:00.000-07:00

The child makes many a mistake,
But the mother forgives them all.
I am your child, your wayward child,
Lord, won't you forgive my sins?

If the child throws a temper tantrum
And pulls and pushes his mother,
She does not move away from him
Nor pull and push in return.
I am your child, your wayward child,
Lord, won't you forgive my sins?

My mind is trapped in depression;
How can I free my mind without your name?
I am your child, your wayward child,
Lord, won't you forgive my sins?

Bless me with a loving heart and a peaceful mind,
And draw me into full absorption in you.
I am your child, your wayward child,
Lord, won't you forgive my sins?

-Kabir

Darlin', come be close, and be rested...

2009-04-12T11:56:00.000-07:00

When you’re in love the reasoning behind your affection can be difficult to ascertain—the love supersedes what is commonly considered logical or within the realms of accepted reality. I guess I’m in love with Jesus.

On Good Friday, I went to mass with A. I left feeling a bit dejected and guilty. My mind had spent most of the time wandering and halfway through the two hour service I noticed my antsy feet were jiggling the pew in front of me. I was not embracing the mystery. It was not long ago that I felt a thrill at the symbolism, sanctity and unity that infused traditional services. Now I only felt impatience. Can it be that I’ve killed my ability to be receptive to this mode of spiritual connection?
My schedule has been completely askew this week, set on the shelf waiting for Monday and the promise of a more normal work-week. The result has been a perpetual struggle with anxiety and irritability. Thursday night I was on the edge of despair. Friday morning I rallied, but my response to the service acted as a catalyst for a decline in morale. Saturday I slept deep and late into the morning; running errands in a mental fog and returning just in time to leave for an Easter/Birthday cook-out.
After that I felt pressed for time to do laundry and get a good run in before going to HR to cover the night shift. I couldn’t find my keys and was feeling agitated and rushed when J called. I overrode my usual inclination to ignore incoming calls and answered. It was good to catch up with my wise, mystic, silly friend. He said some things about faith that made me wish I’d been recording our conversation. It was something about the need for an apocalyptic, eschatological faith—as crazy as it sounds, he said, we need a Christianity that embraces the idea of a kind of Utopian future—we need hope. In the moment I didn’t fully agree or believe, at the same time though, something clicked. I was raised, if only a little.
This morning I went to St. Thomas with no expectations. In truth, I went anticipating the discomfort of insincere recitation as I participated in worship. I went with the expectation of being unmoved. I was drifting until the gospel when Andy’s reading of John 20:1-8—Mary’s lament at the empty tomb of Jesus—captured me. It was her despair at the perceived loss of her believed that pierced through my apathy. Not only was he dead, now even his body was absent and she had nothing left to hold on to. I grieved with her.
Without recounting every detail of my thought process, there came a point in my sparse notes that I scratched, “Oh Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, how long will you put up with me?” Mary mourned at an empty tomb. I avert my eyes like someone avoiding the sigh of what they are afraid of (will it turn out that no one is there?). Both of us focused on an absence, ignoring the presence that asks of her, “Why do you weep?” of me, “why do you ignore?” Communion was a blessed reunion and the song that accompanied it contained a verse, “How I love him,” that I sang with the heart of a grateful lover; changing my vocabulary from “I doubt,” to “I wonder.”

wilted

2009-04-09T19:45:00.000-07:00

How I would love someone to hold on to tonight.

March Musings...

2009-03-31T16:45:00.000-07:00

When I said “I don’t want to write,” I may have been telling only part of the story. Another part indicates the opposite is true. A third says I’m lazy. This laziness is compounded in times of enhanced guardedness, times when I am reluctant to share my thoughts or even to explore them myself. This is not one of those times. What follows are some journal excerpts for the month of March.

“When the Lord God did not call my name, I might have called his name—but I did not. There you have the difference between greatness and mediocrity. It’s not an uncommon disease. But it’s nice for a mediocre man to know that greatness must be the loneliest state in the world.”
Samuel Hamilton in East of Eden

3/7/09

Spring. We set our clocks forward tonight and nature has spent the day dropping heavy hints. Straight narrow blades of thick dark grass pierce through earth into air, which is warm and windy. These will soon surround bright yellow daffodil blossoms. One of Kentucky’s most brilliant indicators of seasonal shift. Birds are exultant and fat squirrels shake off their lethargy to hop across open spaces in search of new food sources. Patches of delicate, pale purple flowers are cast across the grass like throw rugs. I’m sitting at a picnic table on campus. The sun is low. From the building behind me I can hear a faltering but rich melody; a student is practicing piano.

Sitting atop the East Pinnacle with L…we talked about the various ways that we respond to coincidence; sometimes trying to find the secret signs and meanings, sometimes just sitting back in amusement. During the silence that followed, I looked over the distant littleness of Berea and the wide wild expanse of hills and valleys and ragged winter forest that surrounded it. I mulled over the other part of my conversation with A [ about the death and new life of moving from one place to another—wondering what reincarnation of me would present herself in Chicago.], understanding that to a large degree the me that will arrive in this new place is largely a matter of choice. It is a rare, priceless opportunity. As I present myself to a new place and new people, who do I want to be?

3/10/09

There’s a bright full moon tonight and I was wishing I could just lie back and look at it instead of having to drive my car home from Jackson County. I could go gaze at it now, but my body feels so tired, nothing outweighs the appeal of being stretched across my bed wearing loose light clothes…Mitch Barrett was playing at AJ this evening and his music, as usual, draws me deep. There’s magic in that man’s art. My thoughts were many but primarily I’m being kept in mind of D. “…she wasn’t born to waste, she had to develop the taste,” is a recurring line in a song Mitch wrote…I felt the stories of all the Healing Rain women; those stories I’ve made them write not once, but twice over the courts of their stay, the stories I see them act out day after day…D said writing hers brought up all sorts of negative feelings. Looking back, all she was a waste. Some women pointed out she had her daughter. I said something feeble about her now having a unique perspective. I meant it, but I hate that I said it—filling the silence, putting a band aid on a bruise—knowing all the while that I saw the waste too. The heart-breaking, bewildering waste of a beautiful life.
I keep thinking about this and mulling over how I could have responded, how we can respond when encountering these things in ourselves or others. I cannot think of a way to look back and make the bad things good. Valuable perhaps, as lessons, but not good. The good can only come in present awareness and future creation. That is where D’s gift comes in. She can look at her life and see what it has been and what she would have liked for it to be. D can look back with the perspective of today; a perspective grounded in life as a treasure, recognition of responsibility—she can see that there was something to be wasted. Whereas, those who’ve lived in relative ease with little disruption sit heavy on their eggs, crushing what was meant to be hatched. Not to say we need disaster in our lives to truly live, but something that’s what it takes to wake up.

3/11/09

Morning. The tree outside my window is budding!

3/18/09

In East of Eden, when contemplating the meaning behind the story of Cain and Abel, Lee has an epiphany. He realizes that the story is about rejection and man’s response to being overlooked in his quest for love and approval…I read this over a week ago and, while I felt it deeply then I’ve only just begun to think about it. Looking at the stories of the Old Testament through the lens of Lee’s revelation, I can see this theme of rejection and response cropping up everywhere. Isaac and Ishmael, Jacob and Esau, Rachel and Leah, David and Saul—the party that wields the sought after love varies, but the primary elements remain. One is chosen over the other for reasons appearing, for the most part, to be entirely arbitrary. While this seems utterly unfair, does a lover not have the right to choose a beloved and is it not possible that this is true with God as well? In any case, that part is not a thing that can be changed or controlled. As with HR classes, the story shows that we can’t make anyone feel anything, that’s up to them. Freedom comes though in the next step, acknowledging that in the same way that we don’t have control over other’s feelings, neither do they have control of ours. Hence, timshel, “Thou Mayest.”

“If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? And if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto Thee shall be his desire, and thou mayest rule over him” -God to Cain

“…the word timshel—thou mayest—that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man.”
- Lee, in East of Eden

3/23/09

I don’t want to be a cynic. “I want my heart back,” an inner voice whimpered; creatively remembering an innocent, hopeful, believing heart. I’ve always been receptive to cynicism though, identifying it in others and reaching my arms out to wrap it in an embrace even as a decried it. Cynicism is safe. Eventually you come out on top, life proves you right. Every battle that you win though brings you closer to losing the war. Maybe it’s not better or worse to think one way or another, it only brings you to different results…This morning’s meditation on the same old words lit a fresh angle:

“…If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong…if I have prophetic powers and understand all mysteries and all knowledge…but
have not love, I am nothing.”

“I want to go back,” I started thinking but was corrected and redirected by what I would call the Holy Spirit,
“You can’t go back (and if you could, it’s not what you’re thinking), there is only forward—but you can choose what you will bring with you.”
---Timshel, “Thou Mayest”---
Skepticism has its place; turning stones and revealing new truths. Cynicism though, I believe it closes more doors than it opens. It asphyxiates the spirit.

During meditation this morning (and this is so silly, but it touched me) I had an impression of Jesus, bending down and reaching out – like Aladdin on his magic carpet to Jasmine – asking, “do you trust me?” And oh, how I wanted to take his hand!

3/26/09

…I was reminded of The Poisonwood Bible, the part where the sisters are touring a temple and the guide explains some of the religious rituals that basically amounted to massacre. The tour guide pronounced the barbarism of the race, while one sister pondered, perhaps this was a survival skill in a region where sustenance was scarce, and she questioned the ethics or her own role as a doctor. K and I went on to consider, if all of the men and women who died in wars and other acts of cruelty or neglect had lived and had children—would the earth be able to sustain us? Do we need wars? Do we need the elimination of individuals in the present for the sake of the survival of the species throughout the future?
I told K that I ask God everyday to teach me to love. Some days I have the heavy feeling that the best way to love is not the kind that brings warm fuzzys and that tough love goes beyond telling a child she can’t have a piece of candy. It’s a thought that challenges and sometimes frightens me. I want my love to feel good. Bother to me and to those who receive it. Here, K, beautiful big-hearted K, interjected. She said, even recognizing this argument, she could never go against her feelings and support a war or any kind of killing. Nor could I, I conceded, but I’m not confident that I could fight convincingly against them either.
Then, one of us brought up natural disasters—is what happens naturally not enough to maintain the balance?
K made an interesting point; if we were not destroying each other, as the human race expanded would the earth not more naturally assert herself, express her boundaries—swallowing us in water, withering us in drought, ravaging us with disease—we could experience the natural consequences of withdrawing earth’s resources, of living, rather than bearing the weight of another’s death. Anxious to take on the power of God, we crush ourselves beneath a responsibility impossible to understand or bear...

It rained steadily through the night and into morning. A light drizzle continued into afternoon. I went for a jog. The air was damp and hung heavy with the smell of earthworms that stretched across the pavement.

3/29/09

While chopping lettuce for future lunches, I recalled something I’d thought of while driving home from work. I decided to say it aloud to A.
“I don’t know why I started thinking this,” I began, “…it occurred to me that my growing romantic skepticism runs parallel with my religious skepticism…faith seems to require believing something and then building a life around it, much the same as romance involves feeling something and then building a life around it…”
…I did not tell her, I didn’t even remember until now, my minds rolling about the word “believe.” Focusing on the letters that begin it: b-e. What you believe is most accurately revealed not through what you say but what you do. So, to believe something is to be it. To be something requires a series of complementary thoughts, feelings and actions. These I identify as being a matter of choice. Is a belief a choice? I think so. As such, can it change without losing its validity or diminishing its value? I don’t know. In the past, I think I would have said, “No.” In the past, I also believed I’d feel romantic love for one man only and that I would love him until my dying day, even if it was unrequited. And so I move most of my beliefs to the shift but not altogether unwelcoming house of doubt.
All this from a girl who yesterday morning sat cross-legged on a porch swing and felt the pull to commit her heart to the Creator for keeps. The subtle greatness of sisterhood is never allowed to travel far from me before I call, “Wait! Stay where I can see you!” (Followed by a whispered, “but don’t come any closer!”) Processing the idea a little, I thought that one of my dominating inhibition regarding relationships is a reluctance to become too involved in one thing lest there be something (calling, person, place) greater—what could be greater though than a commitment to be eternally devoted to the God of the Universe? No wonder such a notion would beckon me, and that it would call all the louder in times of uncertainty.

I don't want to write.

2009-02-23T18:32:00.001-08:00

I don't want to write. If I could just stop thinking about it, I wouldn't write. I wouldn't have to. There'd be no need. I'd just let the thoughts run over my wrinkly brain, like waters teasing embrace of a creek bed. I'd just let it run over and out. Whether I wanted to do it or not would not be an issue. All those thoughts would just be themselves, and run their course. And I'd feel fine, just dandy. If I could just stop thinking about it.

Thinking and feeling.

2009-02-17T19:11:00.000-08:00

Poetry's been creeping up on me. Perhaps because it's a way to focus, like meditation, and not get swept up in the sea of words and wondering cascading through my mind. I do want to attempt navigating through the swirling ideas and select the bits that I can apply to an essay about hope and change (no, it's not about Obama!).

Sometimes, surveying the wreckage that is our world, the damage that we inflict on one another in seemingly indefatigable cycles; I think, if I love well enough I can help. Other times, I despair. During despair, if I can remember how I act when I believe, there's still a chance that the step forward needn't be followed by a fall back (perpetuating the myth that it is the despair that is more naturally valid). "Faith, hope and love abide, but the greatest of these is love." Without hope though, can love live?

Present stabs at elucidating my thoughts result in a frustrating amount of omissions and overwhelmed dismissal of the multitude of seemingly necessary tangents that wrap themselves around the central thought. Hence my inclination toward poems. Poetry has a tendency to leave itself wonderfully open to sparse language and broad interpretation. The following began during a walk on my usual trail that winds through the woods behind Berea College:

***

Love is stalking me
not creepily
playfully
clandestine.
Shuffling,
several steps behind
like a friend
setting up a surprise.
I keep my eyes
winding up the forward path
winking at skeleton trees
I won’t interrupt Love
reticent rogue;
becoming, being
it’s wonderful, mysterious,
approaching self.

I lightly kiss
the soft spreading earth
with skipping steps.
Love lingers.
It will sneak up
getting closer and closer until—
“Boo!”
“Oh my gosh!”
I exclaim,
“I had no idea I was falling in love!”
I smile to think of it.
Oh man, the stupid grin on my face.
Sun, the rascal,
acts casual casting
shifting light
sighing color.
Pretending its not romantic
I nearly bust with laughter

I’d love to share this joke
but choke back the urge
to speak
and spoil the process.
so I play a game with love
(while letting it be)
I walk with slow dragging steps
then fast
and
stop.
“oh, what an interesting beautiful place,”
I audibly muse,
touching rough bark
with fingers tips
eyes swallowing what there is to see…

Love is,
well, taking its time
for a reason
I am quite sure.
Still, a little peek
a discreet glance
a 180 just to check, I see

nothing.

Was it wind?
Brambles whispering
gossip about birds
and bees?
My own feet perhaps.
Oh, but no
no, no—
Love, haha!
Sly sneaker
you got me just now
but I know.
In the end,
I will tell the joke with confidence.

***

(Feel free to offer critiques, I know I can use all the help available when it comes to poetic compositions.)

And there are these little ditties I made from poetry magnets at 3rd Street Stuff coffee shop in Lexington:

***

She saw good
from dark
what can that mean?

***

Cool round moon
nest those
who cry.
They are nowhere,
slow to get home.
They may grow
to flower
after time.

***

Thank you NPR, for rockin' my socks off yet again

2009-02-04T08:53:00.000-08:00

I heard these songs on the radio today, one right after the other. The first made me think. The second made me smile.

Winter keeps being what it is, in spite of me

2009-02-04T06:40:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while, I wake to the feeling that I haven't been myself in quite some time. When my mind is in that place, I think perhaps Kentucky's been my cocoon, how I hope to leave it as a butterfly!

I hiked the pinnacles after work. What a beautiful mess it was, with thorny brambles and uprooted trees cast across the muddy path. While walking, my out-of-shape body greedily gobbled at oxygen. I felt the cold air in me. I had a sense that the exertion I was experiencing was akin to that felt swimming in the ocean. I remembered a day when I'd gone alone and sat in the wind with the sun laying over me, sand forming crystals on my skin. My nose and throat felt like I'd had an inadvertent dose of briny water. I let myself believe in it for a moment, knowing all the while that what my sinuses were clogged with was "Kentucky sludge." A side effect of the winter weather.

There's an open patch about halfway to the east pinnacle. It's a wonder how it changes from one month to the next. Today it was a field of tall brown grass and flowerless stems. Their dry rustling sang to the silence. I'd say the place was lonely, but every where I looked were watching hills rolling over one another, and swaying trees; all made shadowy by the unusually unfettered sun, and cutting their shapes into the achingly blue sky. An old tree, bleached bone white, lay lifeless and long across the field. I perched on the base of it's broad trunk, faced the sun and closed my eyes. "There is nothing better than this moment," a whisper told me, "how happy I am to be present in it." With my eyes closed, the sounds and sensations brought me back to a sense of the ocean. So different, but so much the same in the way each location, combined with Presence can simultaneously lift the spirit above this earth and bind it gratefully to the body.

for the curious

2009-01-25T19:12:00.001-08:00

I did eventually finish that essay about co-dependency. There are some areas where I'd like to edit it a bit, but I am too lazy at present. It is what it is, and it is quite long so I won't feel bad if you don't read it:

Amy Nee
1-18-09
Co-Dependency

The word “attachment,” as used by Simone Weil, presents my mind with a series of metaphors. Attachment is a black hole that expects all the world to fall into the consumptive abyss of me. Or else, it is for me to find something or someone (oh special someone!) into whom I disappear completely, and become free of responsibility. Attachment is like a woman looking at her lover and thinking, “he is mine,” or even, “I am his.” In either case entering the illusion of a dissolution of boundaries, ceasing to see what is—two distinct beings able to think/feel/act independently—and fixating on a false image of her own creation. An amorphous mass that feels and thinks and believes what the perceiver feels and thinks and believes, all in alignment, all defiant to the idea that they are only reality because that is the label the perceiver has given. It’s what she believes, oblivious to the possibility that it may be a deviation from or distortion of what is true.

Attachment is a major player in the modern American conceptualization of romantic love. That may be over-generalizing; to be fair, attachment has played a major role in my conceptualization it of romantic love. It approaches surreptitiously in the guise of affection, loyalty, commitment—presumably acceptable attributes in a healthy relationship—it cranks up emotion and dulls intellect. I’ve found that I’ve a tendency, when fond of a person, to begin forming him into an idol; casting the multitude of concepts he put me in mind of into a single image, his. The clumsy representation tumbles over the person, hiding him from my view and overwhelming me in its bulky shadow so that I too am hidden. When the one to whom you are making yourself known has been transformed from a person, to a god that encapsulates what is both most desirable and most intimidating, is it any wonder that instead of bringing to the table self-revelation, I hide in other-imitation? In the presence of the divine, my manifest destiny becomes only to be pleasing; any other ambition or defining lines are dissolved in the ocean of attachment. There are those times too, when the part of god is designated to me, at which point the roles are reversed, and there is an expectation that the other ought to always be in agreement in order to be a worthy lover, or should I say worshiper?

Misconceptions of love are not the only illusions that attachment weaves. It can surface in many aspects of life coloring belief and behaviors in its chosen hues. I see it very much in association with the desire to possess, and the accompanying notion that to grab hold of something and own it makes that thing, or the one who has it, more complete. What that thing is can vary depending on the seekers fancy. For some it may take the form of information, for others money, or artistic ability, or another person. I have discovered this feeling of restless dissatisfaction in myself even when I’ve hiked to the ridge of a mountain, surveyed a beautiful view and thought, “if only I could capture this.” It was not enough to savor the sight of peaks robed in reaching trees and surrounded by yawning valleys, multitudes of colors blending and contrasting, I felt that I could only truly enjoy it if I could wrap my arms around it. It is the same feeling that swells up when I hear beautiful music and ache, not only because of its beauty, but because I cannot play it. It isn’t mine, so I am diminished, and the full-figured notes fall flat. A fine line exists between appreciation and attachment, the latter demanding that the object which enraptures be a package that can be put in my pocket. Thus the object of affection is severely diminished and the attempt at satisfaction brings only self-defeat.

Detachment, I think, is acknowledging you don’t have all the answers, and recognizing that things aren’t necessarily what they appear to be in your own eyes. At the same time, it involves the ability to accept your own ideas as worthwhile, even when not perfectly in alignment with another’s. Great difficulty can arise when trying to parse out what is mine and what is another’s. I believe that even within the realm of healthy detachment I can allow myself to be influenced by those I respect, without being passively submissive.
There were times (there still are) that if I found my own thoughts and feelings contradicted those that I perceived in a beloved authority, then—ashamed of and frustrated by my internal dissonance—I would dismiss what was mine and resolve to replace it with what was “right”. I was so attached to the beliefs of others. Detachment allows me to think for myself. When appropriate, I can choose to sacrifice what I would like for myself, replacing it with what another would like, so long as I recognize that I am doing it because I want to, not because I need to keep them close to me.

The shape I am today is the result of countless exchanges—extractions, additions, alterations—between myself and those around me. I am a compilation. The repertoire of music that composes the soundtrack of my life is always being edited; making room for a new melody that I heard from someone else, a clear note that resonated from the wilderness, and making changes to old tunes that are no longer in harmony.
It’s all very confusing. In fact, the more I think about it, the more intricately wound the web appears. If there is an “objective reality” possible to be ascertained—a me that is “most me,” a belief that is unadulterated, a truth that is intrinsically, unerringly true--it is not something that I can clearly see. It is a great mystery. Often I cannot even honestly say I recognize when I am viewing the fabricated illusions of attachment and when I am catching a glimpse of that presumably more accurate reality offered by detachment. For now I try to remain ever mindful of the words of Epictetus,

“People and things are not what we want them to be
nor what they seem to be.
They are what they are.”

I only hope that St. Paul’s implication was accurate when he said that as I put childish things behind me, what is now seen dimly will one day be clear. Perhaps that day will be when I learn more truly what it means to love.

about "love"

2009-01-16T12:36:00.000-08:00

I tend to take issue with the way this word is bandied about, by others and myself. It's something that's on my mind often and has of late been almost overwhelmingly so. This is partly to do with the environment in which I work. A couple of weeks ago, for staff training in a class on Co-dependency, I was assigned to write a reflection on the quote:

"Attachment is the great fabricator
of illusions;
reality can be attained only by someone
who is detached."

-Simone Weil

The reflective essay is due on Wednesday, I've yet to write it. I have however, written some sort of poem things.

If you love me,
don't say that you will change for me.
Don't do it for me.
If you do, you'll expect something in return,
and I may not want to give it.
Then, you'll focus on the disappointment of me
and fail to see what you've achieved.
When you change for yourself, you can be happy with the results
and freely choose
with whom you wish to share them.
Then you have a gift to give. A free gift
(because that's what gifts are).
If you choose to share with me,
Thank you.

* * *

Let's try this;
I will say, "I love you"
and not wait for you to repeat it
You will hear "love"
not as a claim of ownership
nor sign of increasing expectations
just a word
expressing that to me you are:
a treasure-
of priceless value,
of infinite mystery-
a dear friend
a constant challenge
a lot of fun
your own, not mine
beloved.
Let's try this;
"I love you."

* * *

I do not want to fall in love.
"Hopelessly in--"
"Helplessly in--"
Hopeless? Helpless? No, thank you.

I do not want to disappear into,
to get lost in someone,
nor for them to lose themselves in me--
or find themselves there for that matter.

I want to walk
wide-open-eyed to love,
to walk deciding everyday
that the other is the one I want most to be beside.

* * *

I could walk away from you
you could walk away from me
but you've chose for now that you will be
walking next to me

Hopefully, November will have less typos...

2009-01-13T20:30:00.000-08:00

11-4-08

Election day, and I began in a panic. Before going to bed last night--far later than I'd planned--I checked my voters registration notice. My breath stopped. Somehow, I'd never noticed the fine print: "more information needed...you are not registered to vote." For awhile I considered not even going to the polling booth. My thoughts attacked me. How stupid, stupid, stupid. Only a fool would miss her opportunity to vote in a historic election because of a careless oversight. I was embarrassed, angry, and deeply disappointed. [Note: I did get to vote]

"If you would be a real seeker after truth, it is necessary that at least once in your life you doubt, as far as possible, all things." -Descartes

11-7-08

The lighting outside is really remarkable--I love the sky after a rain. Cracks of light--accentuated by broken gray clouds--illuminate the autumn leaves; transforming them to shimmery gold slivers, gently waving in the cool fresh breeze. The wakening air and radiant scene are juxtaposed by the still staleness of the kitchen; pale walls dimly lit by an energy saving bulb, the drone of appliances, and M typing on her laptop. With the back door open just enough for me to lean against its frame, I sip a cup of hot tea and straddle two worlds. This has been a strenuous week, I am relieved by the arrival of a Friday with no plans.

11-10-08

...This morning I was like a kid at Christmas getting ready to come out here [to camp AJ for the Healing Rain "Survival Week"]--jumping up and down while I packed--I listened to a This American Life called "The Break Up"...Sunday was beautiful. I was so ready for the weekend and so happy to have nothing planned except church and coffee with my crew...

11-14-08

The rain kept waking me as it altered it's rhythm throughout the night. It began falling fast and hard and I felt like an asshole for being in a tent beneath a shelter while everyone else was exposed to the elements...It's been a wonderful week but I'm with the women when they say, "I'm glad this is the last day."

...We are all so tired. I spent much of the day on the verge of tears for no reason other than exhaustion. But we accomplished much. We built a bridge. We did a lot, but above all, we built a bridge and treated each other with love--walking zombies of grouchy love...One picture that's imprinted; turning to look behind me on the geocache hike--the forest nearly bare of leaves, except those that carpet the ground, the air draped with a silky mist; orange, gray and brown--I'd turned because S spoke to me,
"Thank you for making this happen," she said, "I didn't want to come but I've had a great time."
I've had a great time. I feel love and loved. Also, my heart wants to break, thinking about decisions and relationships and all that I stand to lose by changing and all that I stand to lose by staying the same. But I won't think about that tonight. I'll think about that tomorrow.

11-16-08

Driving past the Vineyard, on my way home from St. Thomas, I thought of my investment there. I remembered the feeling of anticipating a walk with Z after services, to hang out with T, and then to hang out with Z himself as he tried to pry me open and find a warm place to rest. I put so much energy and emotion into that fellowship, into that man, now I hardly think of them...

"I like to leave things unfinished sometimes, so I've an excuse as to why they don't meet my standard...it would be nice to finish though."

11-21-08

"Everything's changing and I don't feel the same."

A and I are in the process of packing up Berea House to move to Forest St...I'm in my bed and wishing my mind was ready to sleep. It is active enough to keep me awake but too somniferously inclined to properly process my thoughts. Ever since camp, I've been blearily watching myself travel through a series of mental shifts. At this point, I almost feel reluctant to get in the way of whatever is transpiring up there; better to stay on task and attentive to the tangible, pressingly present aspects of my life...

I'm reconsidering Palestine; feeling the confusion dissipate when I let myself say, "I think the time may not be right."

My iPod has been stuck on Alyson Krauss for almost an hour. Now she's singing, "Baby, now that I've found you I won't let you go..." and the weaker part of me is wishing I had someone to hold.

I've so much to be grateful for.

The joy of the Lord is my strength.

Amen.

11-26-08

...Preparing for the new and leaving the old, combined with our usual tasks of work and other responsibilities, has been a non-stop task. We spent our first night on Forest St. Sunday. With only a few days in I already feel more of a sense of belonging in the quirky, crumbling "treehouse" than I ever did in the cookie-cutter mansion on Commerce Dr. My mind is buzzing with crafts and creations for decorating and I feel right at home cooking in the kitchen, squished in the tiny space between the sink and our waist-high, square-top stove...

11-27-08

Happy Thanksgiving. I'm enjoying this slow quiet morning with A. It will be strange to ever live with someone else...

...One thing that continues to linger in my mind: A few nights ago, Tuesday, we had a guest speaker at HR. He's the man L bought a motorcycle from...He was unabashedly pro-Jesus and I was amazed at the respect L had for him considering his stance on "deliverance" vs. "recovery." I think that what resonates with L is sincerity--this man's sincerity certainly moved me. I was determined to get home and get in the word, to re-examine the space I was in spiritually--but first I had to make M cake and enjoy being with her for our last night as roomies, then there was stuff to do on the house, dinner at HR, A's sister arriving,and now Thanksgiving Day. In a few hours I will be going to work and staying until tomorrow morning.

11-28-08

...I doubt there are many jobs from which a person can come home after an overnight shift and say, "that was fun."

11-29-08

Last night MB came over--truly the world shines brighter with her in it--we all went to the Paddy Wagon and laughed and drank for hours. It was the most fun I've ever had at that place.

By request, October

2009-01-12T16:47:00.000-08:00

10-1-08

I woke up feeling sad again this morning. This seems to be becoming a trend...

As I moved through my morning routine I determined not to let my mood get the best of me. The tools I've gained from Healing Rain over the past year were doing little to help curb my negative thoughts and relieve the burning pit devouring my stomach. So, I drew on something deeper; I sang. Beginning in the shower, I sang praises, "I will enter his courts with thanksgiving in my heart," and petitions, "draw me close to you," and proclamations, " Lord, you are more precious than silver," and while the sense of sadness remained, hope and thanks enveloped it. Even when my car refused to start, I was confounded but at peace...A middle aged woman from AAA with straight, bleached-blond hair jumped my battery and told me to have a blessed day. I thanked her, and I did.

Still sad but not lost...I am determined to not ignore my melancholy. I am determined to not exalt it, but to acknowledge and except it; to listen to and learn from it. Many people to whom my heart is connected experience pain. I share this pain now, and will likely always share it in waves; swelling cresting and settling. To always experience it at the crest would be debilitating, to always remain settled would be inhuman...

...I am willing to accept that (though there are many other factors involved) the swelling sadness has been triggered by T's imminent departure and intensified by the frustration that as we stood together winnowing corn, captivated by the kernels cascading from one steel container to another, I said almost nothing...and when I was walking away, I didn't look back until I knew I was out of sight.

10-4-08

My ears are still ringing from last night.

With A back home my life is tied to hers again...A's active and pleasantly invasive presence feeds another part of me and helps distract me from extensive brooding. As cliche as it sounds, recent conversations with A & M and even spiritual pursuits...have been encouraging me to, "give love a chance." This includes being more open to receiving it, even in unexpected forms, as well as being more open to extending it.

I think one of the things that has been so disconcerting...is my inability to conduct myself with the openness and confidence I try to encourage in others. At the opportunity for vulnerability, I shrink. In the aftermath, I nearly withered. Weakness did not "reappear" it has been ever present, only it lifted the veil that had me almost fooled. My lack was felt like a fresh wound I couldn't reach. I am grateful for it as a reminder...

...[Last night] it became quite clear to me that I do not like when strange men feel at liberty to touch me in a way that indicates a relationship of intimate familiarity. Though it seemed to be the 'modus operandi" of the dance floor, this was not behavior I felt compelled to adapt to and learn from. By engaging in this behavior I would not be opening myself to connect with my fellow humans--nor were they doing so with me--the behavior was confined to submission to impulse and the desire for, though doubtful acquisition of, personal gratification. I wonder what value, if any, could be found in becoming lost in the moment. The energy, the pounding music, the sea of bodies in motion, there was an element to this I enjoyed; singing along with familiar music and unreservedly jumping and swaying...even while appearing as one with the crowd though, I felt waves of isolation. At the peak of these waves, my movement would slow as I scanned the room. Capturing images of faces, some in blurred motion, some still and looking for something, I wondered to them, "what are you thinking?" "what are you feeling?" "what are you hoping to find?" and then I returned to my own body, shielding it from idly groping hands. I covered my wandering eyes with dark glasses.

...The trouble with idolatry is it takes all the joy out of loving...

...I read a quote the other day, the author of which I cannot recall that says, "The greatest mistake you can make in life is to be continually fearing you will make one."

Can it be that in seeking perfection I am overlooking all that this imperfect world has to offer?

10-8-08

...I've also had a mind to write about Poppa; his openness and continuous learning. This idea was inspired by listening to the Woodsong Radio Hour on Sunday night. Dar Williams was the guest...I remembered my first encounter with DW. P had a habit, when we worked at the KK office, of going to the library and checking out cd's. He did not often borrow cd's of music he was familiar with. Rather, he would make selections based on album covers and titles that caught his interest. The selections introduced him to a broad range of music that was not limited to time or culture or genre.

...I'm so grateful for K. Last night we had the first meeting of the book club we'd been scheming about for months. We are reading Life of Pi and it is intoxicating...

10-17-08

...Driving away from Wal-Mart I encountered a man. He had a neat silver goatee, straight smooth hairs forming a triangle, mating the long gray ponytail hanging down his back. His skin was a dark orange-ish tone, his eyes barely peeking through narrow lids. His features were soft and tranquil, body bundled in bulky clothes...he sat calmly beneath a bold red stop sign, holding his own cardboard sign that read: "Homeless, need help, God bless." Attached to this was a smaller white piece of paper with the words, "need socks."
I pulled into a nearby McDonald's and approached him. In my mind I imagined words--full sentences even--that I would use to connect myself to this man and to learn his story. I timidly approached, five dollars folded in the palm of one hand. He rose to meet me.
"Hi." I said, extending the money and smiling shyly.
"God bless you," he said.
We nodded to each other and I walked away. I did not feel warm and fuzzy, I felt disappointed with myself. Another transaction, not unlike that with the cashier and Wal-mart, and I continued in my bubble. Had it been L or D in my place, we'd know his name, where he was from, how he came here...all I know is his face, the warmth of his smile, the surprising softness of his fingers as they brushed against mine, accepting the bill.

10-18-08

Though many may consider this idea a dead end career-wise, or at best a foolish whim; to me it feels like a path of freedom, joy and peace. I am exultant, weightless...The pragmatic corner of my mind is saying, "Don't get too excited, plans fail, ideas change." While agreeing with the cautious corner of my psyche, the prevailing portion of my spirit is lifted hope, and cheerful expectation.

"I must say a word about fear. It's life's only true opponent. only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary...It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease. It begins in your mind, always...you must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don't, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never fought the opponent who defeated you."

-The Life of Pi, Yann Martel

10-19-08

"Time is an illusion that only makes us pant."

-TLP, Yann Martel

10-20-08

...About driving vs. cycling (motor or bike). I often dreamily assert that I prefer the latter, while I consistently choose the former. Though there are several practical reasons for this--shelter from elements, ability to transport more than me, safety--there is an equally significant psychological reason that I've only recently realized. Exposure. The cyclist is so exposed. Even more, in fact, than the pedestrian because the cyclist dares to impose herself right onto the same playing field as the motorist. What audacity! The nerve! The vulnerability. Bottom lines, this is why I continue to crawl into the shell of my Ford Escape. There, my boundaries are clearly outlined. There, my form is easily hidden.

10-25-08

...For the first time in what appears to have been over two years I checked my Flickr account. The old comments on photos that I took stirred memory of sweet moments and of old hopes, yet unrealized. What tomorrow will bring, I don't know. Tonight, sleep.

10-26-08

Something strange happened today. I did not get out of bed until almost 1pm. The cold medicine I took likely had something to do with that. In addition, I realized as my brain slowly began working, that cold medicine was mixing with the small glass of wine I'd consumed nearly an hour earlier. I don't like to sleep in late, not to mention right through the morning and into the afternoon. In the shower I began to work on my thinking, "what matters is not how late you slept but that you're awake now. Don't focus on the hours 'lost' but those yet to be lived." Sounds silly, I know, but working on my thinking works for me. My day does not begin with an arbitrary hour, it begins with me...

"We do not see the world as it is, we see the world as we are."
-7 Habits of Highly Effective People

"...Isn't just looking upon this world already something of an invention?...The world isn't just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no? Doesn't that make life a story?"
-TLP, Martel

10-28-08

Today is the last day of my October fast--I bumped it up a day early--I am so relieved. It's a bit disgusting to me how begrudgingly I've engaged in this discipline; the sense of entitlement I have toward consumption.

10-29-08

I've decided to go in an hour late to work this morning but still woke at the usual time. With no rush, I've had the opportunity for calisthenics and prayers, grooming, and eating a good breakfast with coffee while reading yesterday's copy of the Wall Street Journal. (India's struggling with the weight of their growing middle class, the U.S. is working towards new resolutions in Afghanistan and fudging formerly improving relations in Syria). This is a glorious way to start a day.

10-30-08

...When I finally fell asleep I dreamed I was staying in a house across from a very large lake. On the opposite bank there were rows of cannons and they were firing on dozens of people parachuting from old fashion bomber planes. The parachuters kept coming, the air was thick with them, and the cannons kept shooting. The violence escalated to a scene of bizarre acts of carnage, old men turning cranks into the faces of other old men and many other surprise attacks and cruelties that I don't remember. I don't want to remember. No one could answer me when I would ask, why? Why is this happening? There were other elements to the dream, but they are only vague images.

Fast-forward to January

2009-01-07T13:32:00.000-08:00

I'm growing a bit weary of this retro-active posting. A new year has begun and it's time for me to keep pace with the present.

Last night I finished a short essay for a staff training class on co-dependency and thought that I would include it here as a peace offering to any readers who may have noticed I'm long overdue on posting (Bobby, I'm thinking that's probably you). I'll state up front, I am not entirely satisfied with the following piece of writing, but it communicates a little of where my mind has taken to wandering as of late.

The question that the essay below is responding to was something to the effect of, "what person or thing do you consistently worry over--what benefit/harm would result from detaching--what benefit/harm has been the result of being attached?"

1-6-09
Co-Dependency
Amy Nee

To Be Right (or Left?)

The person in my life who I find most troubling is me. More specifically, it is the manifestation of me who feels a need to be right, always. Writing this, attempting to explain my thoughts about and feelings toward this aspect of myself, I feel conflicted. It would be wrong to say I dislike her, that I want nothing to do with her. The cliché statement, “we have a love/hate relationship” comes to mind. I hate when she stands so close, with her preoccupying presence, that she blocks my view of others. I love when she prompts me to realize that in trying to hold my ground I’ve blindly been stepping on someone else’s feet. I love when she points out the difference between an impulsive craving and a true desire. I hate when she builds walls around me and discourages me from taking a risk; from leaping into, learning from, and loving through the unknown. Much of the time, I don’t know how I feel.

Her presence is particularly powerful in the presence of those whose good opinion I covet, or those for whom I feel a sense of charitable responsibility. It is manifested through a nagging inclination to perform perfectly. Not that I need to know the most facts or to win every argument, but that my thoughts, feelings and behaviors are at all times appropriate. If I make a mistake, I must learn the lesson, show that I know it, and never repeat the err. I need to be right because of those that look to me as an example. If (when) I stumble, I risk causing others to stumble too. I need to be right, because when I’m not, I may injure another, and I may lose a little of myself. I need to be right because “right” is “good.” Because, I am Amy Nee, and Amy Nee is “good.”

Here, I must halt and redirect the course of this essay. It is becoming increasingly apparent that the desire for “rightness” is not so much at the heart of my agitation as the weights with which I balance right vs. wrong. I do care about how my actions affect other people and how the consequences of those actions affect the me of the next moment. I don’t want to stop caring. I don’t want to stop being cared for. I do want to be free of feeling the need to protect and prove myself. I want to make decisions based on principles that are appropriate to the moment and not reliant on what I perceive another’s expectations to be or on “shoulds” that I’ve developed over the years.

In light of this alteration, perhaps the greatest risk of detachment is the identity crisis I would inevitably experience. Following the old way has frequently rewarded me with favor in the eyes of men, women and children. To detach from the compulsion to be right could leave me bereft of others approval. Not to mention if I detach from this, I have no sense of security, no foundation, and am left to discern my course through questioning, careful examination, counsel, and experimentation. No easy answers. Even answers achieved, at the moment of realization, instantly transform themselves to a question.

On the other hand, a foundation built on ideas I accept because they are “what I’ve always believed” or behaviors I perform because “that’s the way we’ve always done it,” no longer feels secure. Over the course of my life, when uncertain, the test for whether or not an idea was valid was if it was held by peers and elders I respect and love. The edge of uncertainty however, does not diminish but sharpens as new people enter my life whose actions bear good fruit but whose beliefs vary in shade and texture from those with which I am familiar.

The person who troubles me most is me, because I am straddling the fence; ill at ease and irritated with myself until both feet rest on one side. Getting off the fence would mean learning to become comfortable with disagreement, and not knowing; humbling myself to choose a path—even if it means disappointment or discomfort—and not sit in the middle of the road contemplating whether it is preferable to turn to the right or the left. In the meantime, I live. I find ways to love and reasons to laugh. I listen to others and myself. I try to find quiet from others and myself to listen for who else may have something to say. Sometimes I with I could just go back. Go back to answers that, though often not easy, were accessible. I know that I can’t. Even if I could, I wouldn’t.

What I desire to detach myself from is this tentative mode of living spurred by reluctance to miss the mark, coupled with a near-sighted view of what and where the mark may be. I feel that this course has contributed to an unhealthy type of detachment. In my heart, I want what is deep. I want closeness, passion, dedication. In my life, I choose careful distance, measured emotion, half-hearted efforts. But I am not finished yet, and a new year is just beginning.

September

2008-11-11T14:16:00.000-08:00

9-1-08

When my mind is whirring as I hope to sleep, I think, "I must not have used it enough." Lying beneath my duvet...I thought about young couples. For a moment, I envied them. Then I remembered the lesson from meditation today. Then I remembered that to be wistful for what will never be is to spurn what is. I thought about young couples, and was happy for them. I feel a strong appreciation for the gifts of God tonight and an affectionate love for his Presence. I remember in my early days at Healing Rain, as I agonized over a potential admission, Larry told me that statistically we make decisions on 40% of the data, that typically 40% is the best we can hope for. I will continue searching for truth, but I won't wait for 100% before I let myself love Him...

...I walked to the small man-made pond between our neighborhood and the next. There was a pile of rocks I could sit on rather comfortably and from which I had an excellent view. Summer wildflowers have triumphantly overtaken the perimeter of the pond. On a slight incline, to my right is a cluster of trees, the flowers climbing over rocks and crowding their trunks. The surface of the water dazzled in response to the soft light of the lowering sun that seemed to be setting beneath a silvery veil. Behind me, a pair of black and orange insects acted like lovers on one of the bright yellow flowers. I began to wonder if, were I to choose another home, I'd ever find such a place to sit--I wondered if places could be thought of as important as people--I wondered if...I realized all my wondering was doing a disservice to the very thing that had set me at it; that is, what a wonder this place was in this moment. What was important was that right then, I was present in it's presence. Any other wondering only carried me away from what I had. Wondering over "what ifs" and "not yets" may have their value, but they are out of place when usurping the "here & now."

And here in my bed, now at nearly midnight; I think I am ready to sleep.

9-7-08

In Kentucky there is an insect with a long, narrow, dusty brown body. When in resting pose he looks similar to a grasshopper. When startled into motion, he spreads wings of bold black and yellow and flutters off; lovely as any butterfly. Because he will return to a sedentary, drab form does not discount his hidden glory. And though he can flash brilliantly and fly away does not mean a part of him isn't ugly.

9-9-08

...When I hit the snooze on my alarm this morning it was with the idea that I would go back to sleep and create a pleasant dream so that I could start the day right. Apparently I'd felt the dreams I woke from, which I can no longer remember, were somewhat disturbing. A thunderstorm was brewing and it broke before I got to my car. The rain felt like a gift and I didn't mind the way it railed against my windshield. The earth and atmosphere and I sang with delight at this long awaited refreshment.

9-20-08

...Everything is not falling apart, but it is certainly changing...

9-21-08

I went to the Berea Friend's Meeting with M., K., and J...We were warmly greeted at the door before walking through another, entering a room with a wood floor, open windows, and green chairs set in a circle. A few people were already seated quietly and K. led the way to the outer circle. People gradually filed in, wordlessly taking their seats, the noises of bodies encountering chairs and the insects outside singing were the only sounds. A woman named Maureen momentarily broke the silence, inviting Friends to lift joys or concerns to the light. Between the deep pockets of voicelessness, a voice would raise up a thanks or petition or observation.
I thought of many things, most petty. There were some paltry attempts at plans, glimmering hope of uncovering a future destiny, many unfounded visions of life in Chicago. With these would always come the reminder that the day in which I am living is "today," thus only when present in today--with those who are also present--am I really living. It requires a self-awareness that shifts outside the self and is present in its surroundings...I tried to focus on God and "the light" but could only bring the focus as far as creation--my point of reference--particularly thinking of living things and people.
"Thank you for putting your children on this earth," I thought, "and thank you for letting me be one of them."
Much of my thinking at this point became centered on the theme of reality as something that far exceeds me and yet from which I am not excluded. Accompanying these thoughts was a recurring image; a shift from me standing timidly outside a door debating with myself over whether or not I should knock, to me as inside the house, opening the door widely, inviting the outsider in...And I saw an image like a painting, but alive, me among others floating in water. We were each distinctly ourselves but without any sense of separation. I could imagine myself turning and talking to any of the others without and sense of insecurity or pride...

...Other thoughts from Friend's Meeting on being natural--feeling natural is "not good" (violence, cruelty, lack of awareness, etc.) in spite of opinions to the contrary ("act natural," "be yourself")...perhaps these opinions stem from a belief in a kind of "super-nature." That is, that there is some naturalness that rises from below, or descends from above, or otherwise encounters from beyond and supersedes that naturalness that we typically encounter...

9-22-08

My first evening housesitting at Larry and Martha's--Though summer is supposedly ended the weather remains soft and warm. As evening progresses a gentle breeze picks up and the temperature creeps down. The breeze coaxes a deep round sound of varying pitches from the large metal chimes hanging in the far right corner of the porch. The melody of the chimes is accompanied by the crisp rustle of two grass plants with striped stalks and leaves and cream tufts at the top. They are full and tall, almost touching the eaves, and swaying in a slow erratic dance with their invisible partners. Beside me sits the Madison County Library's copy of the Brothers Karamazov and a poorly made vodka martini with a single olive floating in it's center. Surrounding the porch are mild hills, houses, barns, and fields of cows and browning grass. The sky is pale blue with only a few clouds hanging in clusters on the horizon.
I have a sense of wonder and of peace and of being set apart. The moment I stepped onto the porch and settled into this low broad wooden rocking chair, my worries about not having a working phone and concerns as to how I would spend the evening were transported, or perhaps I was...in any case, they and I have parted ways.
...A few minutes ago I stood on the back deck and looked up. At first only a few stars were visible; within moments, however, millions of barely perceptible points of light teased my sense of sight and I could see how ancients saw them performing stories.

9-26-08

From The Reason for God:
"Unless you are willing to experience the loss of options and the individual limitations that comes from being in committed relationships, you will remain out of touch with your own nature and the nature of things."

...The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, has been calling me and I made the mistake of finally giving in and watching it. I say mistake because, though it was very well done, and the Alan Arkin as Singer absolutely captivated me; I now feel utterly lonely and undone. The characters of this story move inside you. I begin to remember the stories that are told in the book, as well as the me that I was when reading and I feel them. And I ache for Singer who was always listening but never heard...

...The quote I wrote from earlier today haunts me and I don't know how to respond. I find myself now longing for tomorrow's contra dance, longing for looking into eyes and holding hands and interacting with people I care about. I must not lost track of today, however, and the gift of temporary aloneness that I often crave as well.

9-27-08

"I am waiting for God to tell me that I'm doing all right."

I thought of this phrase while reading the final chapter of The Reason for God. It arose as a response from a character in one of the untold stories I carry around with me, the story of the wandering servant. She is answering the question, "Why do you live this way?"

...[I have] continued to think of what I could have said [in response to the question of why I would want to go to Divinity School] and to wonder at and develop the reasoning that lies behind my decisions and desires.

"I guess you can say I am one of those people that believes in God, not only as existing but being existence; I believe in God as the core of all that is. I believe in him, but I don't really feel that I know him. Because of that I often feel that I don't really understand people, including myself. I want to help people and to enjoy life, but I'm not sure of what is truly helpful and I continue to be walled by peculiar fears and petty greed. I believe also in Jesus as redeemer and so am able to carry on without being overwhelmed by guilt and disappointment despite constantly missing the mark or failing to even take a shot. And because of love, which has an unshakeable hold, I am not satisfied with saying, 'Well, I'm forgiven by God through Jesus Christ, nothing more needs to be done. I don't need to do anything.' The issue is not whether anything needs to be done, it's that this love not only holds me outside but compels me from within. It does not drag, but guides and beckons and I want to join the dance that draws us together and into joy--where we give and take and no one is left wanting. I've a suspicion this leading Love may be a part of what some call the Holy Spirit or Counselor, who continues with us to remind us that though absent in the flesh, our Lord and our God is with us.
So, this is why I am interested in getting a masters in theology; to learn to know and honor God--who is the reason for and heart of life--and to understand and love the earth--which is the actualization of life as well as my cradle and my tomb."

9-28-08

It is 8 p.m. I am unpacked, organized and settled in my home. This place feels like home and that feels good.
Tonight I've the sense that I am reawakened to life; not because the past week was uneventful, not because I didn't feel I was engaging in the days. The week was rich. My time and L. & M.'s was revealing and rewarding. At Healing Rain I felt more like an active player in the game than usual. One thing I am having continually confirmed is that, much as I covet time alone and away, I really like to be around people. Another thing I became aware of, and I didn't realize this until I got home; I have been carrying around the secret belief that L. And M.'s life is better than mine. I don't believe that anymore...I like my life. I could certainly do more and better, but each day along the way to maturity and excellence is good all on it's own.

August

2008-11-07T18:33:00.000-08:00

8-1-08

August already. This year has dashed by. I believe that yesterday was my Healing Rain anniversary. Lately I’ve been so caught up in my quandary over Palestine, I’ve spent little to no time in reflection—I’ve certainly continued to neglect prayer and meditation, despite the fact that now is the time I need it most….

…Pop believes that God has certain things in store for certain people. He believes that I’m a special person for whom a special path is planned. I am struggling so much in my faith. After talking with Pop and hearing myself say how much I enjoyed my work…I began to think maybe Adam was right about Palestine. Maybe it was just a crazy whim I was embarking on to feel meaningful and to have an adventure.

…Yesterday, at work, I had a good day but it had somehow lost its luster. I wonder if part of what makes places appealing to me is the knowledge that I’ll soon be leaving them…

8-2-08

Oh negative thinking, what a trap you are!...

Pleasing my parents is very important to me. Hm. I do make decisions based on this. There is good reason for this in that, they have given me so much, I want to honor them and to add to their happiness. At times, when this feels restrictive, I feel like rebelling against it. Ironically, what I am rebelling against is only my interpretation, my assumption of what it is that they would want me to do. I never ask, “What do you want me to do?” and yet I continually strive to work towards it or, at times, to rebel against it. More than likely what they want me to do, is to find what I want, and to do it. I wonder if God works in a similar way…

8-3-08

Yesterday played out beautifully…

M. and I went to Wal-mart to buy ingredients for “chocolate gravy” which J and I made back at the house. R from Jackson House came over and we ate biscuits and chocolate gravy, listened to J & R tell stories, surfed craigslist and the white pages online and played pick-up sticks. I am so grateful for the fellowship…

8-11-08

The past several days have been magnificent. Fall, though distant, has already begun to woo us with mild days and cool, clear evenings…

…I’m feeling fairly certain that I won’t be leaving here until spring. E. sent me a message on facebook saying she too is considering a spring journey to the Middle East. Grad school has also been on my mind a lot lately and I am excited at the prospect of studying theology in Chicago.

Life, like love, is something that can be stepped toward; not just fallen into.

8-14-08

This morning I almost skipped out on a date with H & C…a hike up the pinnacles to watch the sun rise. Lately, I’ve not been feeling well, whether because of physical or mental illness, I don’t know…When my alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., I didn’t get up. When H. called me a few minutes later, I didn’t get up. At her second call I roused myself and answered, agreeing that…I would meet them at the top.
I thought I might die, or at least pass out, as I struggled up the hill. The headache, cramping and cold chills that led me to decide to cancel dinner plans the day before returned. Every bench I passed called out to me, especially after I realized I’d gone the wrong way and begun heading toward the west peak.
I finally made it, the day not fully broken, golden blades piercing and scattering clusters of clouds and casting a glow through the mist that hung about the peaks and filled the valleys. It was good to be with H and C. I felt more like a person that I do much of the time…

8-16-08

A was driving off in her sliver van as I walked back in the house. I turned and saw Sheila’s head, ears perked up, in the backseat. A wave of loss and uncertainty swept over me. Standing in my living room I became aware I was holding something wrapped around my hand, looked down and saw that it was Sheila’s leash.
I called A immediately,
“We’re not far,” she said, “we’ll turn around.”
I went out toe meet the van,
“Sorry,” I said, handing her the leash.
“Thank you.”
“Have a nice drive.”
“You too—well, you’re not driving—have a nice day.”
“You too.” I patted the side of the van.
In the house again and they drive away. This will be strange.

8-23-08

Last night [in meditation] I chose the phrase, “help my unbelief,” which is as much as prayer as a focus, but does tend to offer direction to my thoughts…I fell asleep and at some point, in the night or morning, became tangled in a dream…
The short of it is that I was being expected to present a homily at mass, or some type of service that was “high church.” I felt utterly unprepared and inappropriate for the task which was fast approaching. At some point I would, from outside myself, remember, “I went to sleep on Friday, it’s only Saturday. I have time to get out of this or at least to be more ready.”
This would bring some relief, but the moment it did the scene would shift—sometimes with the same plot and characters, sometimes different—and the cycle would invariably repeat itself. Whatever may change there was always the theme that something important (important because it was spiritual and sacred) needed doing or was being done and the person responsible was defiling the act by either being unequipped or behaving immorally.
Just before Amblyn woke me (amazed that I was still lying unconscious in bed at ten to eleven) I was at a table, surrounded by church elders, trying to get around what was being asked of me. Someone said something, whether I or another, to which the woman in charge responded, “One thing we will not debate here is whether or not we believe in Jesus…”
I was very full of the dream as I drove Amblyn to the airport and had to exert some effort to distance myself from the discomfiting but beguiling recollection of it…when I got home…I walked for an hour, listening to my iPod. The last song I heard, one I haven’t the name for, was Alison Krauss singing about Jesus and hard living. It had a line that plead, “Lord, I believe, help thou my unbelief.”

8-25-08

…I walked the college trails after work Sunday and chose to meditate outside at a secluded picnic table. I was feeling a little unstable and for a while, with every exhale, I would think “lean,” reflecting on Pastor Andy’s sermon.
Today, I hiked the pinnacles, making an effort toe “practice presence,” and focus on the beauty around me rather than making plans for the future. I took the phrase “Here I am,” for my anchor as I set on the eastern peak and surveyed the lower hills and valleys. Near the entrance were some maple trees that looked ablaze, their leaves a mix of red and orange. Several trees have begun to change color already and August has not yet ended.
I let myself walk slowly and felt the energy of the forest. The physical discomfort I’d experienced initially dissipated as I stopped thinking of the hike as exercise. I stopped at a clearing overcome by wildflowers that were almost as tall as I, with blossoms of purple and yellow. I stopped at a vantage point where I could see the waves of flowers with their multi-color crests, as well as the round, layered hilltops in the distance and was amazed at the beauty one can miss when focused only on reaching the top. Though, if I’d stopped there and not continued toward my destination, I’d not have appreciated it for what it was; a chapter, not the story.

8-30-08

…I was sad when I realized that Monday was a holiday; giving me three days off of work and no one to spend them with, and nothing in particular that needs doing. Then I remembered that the present is a thing to be appreciated and life, and the lives of those around me are marvelous gifts to be appreciated and what I will be is up to me.
Self Esteem class is actually quite helpful…Two of the great revelations that may seem obvious to others and that can be expressed in simple syllables are, “I am who I want to be,” (which can have multiple shades of meaning when considering the function of the word “want”) and perhaps most significant, “my relationships with others are not based on their thoughts about me.” How many times I’ve seen the antithesis of this statement guide my reactions to and interactions with others—worrying so much what they thought of me and giving very little consideration to understanding who they actually were.
So much of my life has been lived in response to the belief that I must live in accordance with expectations; that my thoughts, feelings and behaviors must always be in line; and that if anything went wrong I was responsible…A renewed self-awareness enables me to choose a path of recovery. However, just as with any addictive behavior to which one conforms, there is no immediate cure, only the upward spiral…

“I was asleep,” Sufjan Stevens is singing, “and he woke me up again…Hallelujah.”

July

2008-10-20T14:55:00.000-07:00

7-3-08

...I feel tired and out of touch with things that used to center, inspire, and direct me. Namely, reading the bible, praying and singing songs of worship. Where has my devotion gone?

...I bought a ticket today to fly to FL. next week for N's wedding and a quick family isit. I'll have only the weekend but I'm excited...

7-5-08

The past two mornings I've slept late and woke feeling poorly, physically and mentally. Sleeping late tends to get me off to a bad start. While washing my face I glanced in the mirror and reminded myself, "I am living right now." It's intriguing how phrases like this can cause subtle shifts to amend my perspective. I'm still not feeling very well on any front, but will vigilantly keep my thoughts in line...

...I prayed this morning, on my knees; just for a few moments and wordless. My "inner man" is crying for nourishment and I reluctantly toss her crumbs.

7-6-08

...Yesterday, while accompanying A on her shopping trip in Old Town and Tater Knob we met three remarkable people:

a weaver
a candy man
a potter

...With each of them I was awed by the specificity of their life choices. They were true tradespeople, steady residents, and wonderful artists. The weaver--who also made corn-husk dolls and fairy homes--was a thick bodied woman with soft fair skin that gathered in wrinkles and rolls. She had pale, sparkling eyes and a long gray braid that hung down her back like a rope. She called us over to observe her work as she wove recovered scottish thread into dish rags, "saving the world one China-made-sponge replacement at a time." When she heard I worked in recovery she told me that back in the 70's she used to be a "trip sitter" and would watch over people high on acid. She said she used to live in a single room with 20 people. Only two survived to be middle aged, herself and a man who lost his mind and locked himself away. She continued to explore the world, found herself in Berea, married a weaver and for the last thirty years has "been in the process of living happily ever after."
The other two I remember less about. What stood out to me about the chocolatier is that he runs his shop alone, talking about his candy makes him smile, and he still likes to eat it; "a little at a time but continuously." The potter loved attention. She talks loud and continuously. She demonstrated "throwing" a bowl for us. Centering is the most important step, she said. It is the first thing to do and the hardest to learn. If you are not able to center your clay, you are at an absolute loss.

7-8-08

...We went to Berea Coffee & Tea after L got back, both working on class prep. L ordered a vanilla milkshake and I got chocolate. The barista with a penchant for oldies was working and when "Earth Angel" came over the speakers I texted the lyrics to H; remembering a time many years ago when I sang it into a broom handle 'mic' while we were cleaning the garage and made her laugh...

7-9-08

Watched Gandhi last night, the title role played by Ben Kingsley. Very moving. As I yearned to be part of his journey, I learned something about myself. I've a tendency toward envy, gravitating towards that which is outside my realm of control and even outside my character.
When I see a beautiful place, I want to be there. When I hear beautiful music, I want to play it. When I witness a "great soul" I want to be it.
I daresay Gandhi would prefer being a source of inspiration to being a source of envy. He recognized the needs of his time, his culture, his community--he did not seek them out, but he did willingly meet them, and face them head on.
It's easier to look at another's life and land and thin, "I could help there," than it is to look at my own and ask, "What needs to be done?"

7-11-08

At the Louisville airport now awaiting my flight. Today is Pop's b-day and free slurpee day at 7-11. I am always afraid of misusing my airport time--something about it feels so sacred.
For now I will eat a muffin, drink a Starbucks coffee, read the Alchemist, and celebrate the divine.

7-12-08

I'm at the Nee house now and happy to be so. A marble print kitten is rubbing against my leg. Rain drops are dripping from the eves of the side porch. A dog is barking. There are ten animals here now and poor Mom bears the brunt of their care...I can hear Aa, A and S in the throws of a nerf gun battle. Aa revamped the bright colored, soft dart projectors to shoot faster and harder, and he painted their frames a rough gray. Last night he gave one to Pop for his birthday...Later we all--everyone of us--dressed as cows, taping black spots to whatever white clothes we could find to cover us, and got free food from Chik-Fil-A in honor of national cow day...

It feels so right to be here, I hate the thought of leaving so soon...I find myself so much more lively here--albeit less physically active. I make up songs and dances and joke and laugh and drive into discussing my view of things, in addition to listening to that of others. Mom and I had a discussion this morning that led to our concern over the distressing state of our society. I didn't get to mention it, but I thought again of Gandhi. From my position, it seems like the societal issues he worked against had sharper lines and more clear cut solutions. I suppose it always appears that way when looking at others and away from ourselves. I long for the "simple way," for an environment in which I can be connected to the earth and to others without all of these objects that come between. I continue to have the sneaking suspicion, much as I resist it, that I need to show up for my own culture; however that need may materialize.

7-14-08

...Once again I am waiting in an airport terminal...I have spent the weekend scheming how I might make myself useful and create a life in FL.

The wedding was beautiful, very festive and creatively decorated. So many people I loved there, it felt like a reunion...

Hearing on side of a phone convo.
"What would you think if I dated ____ ? I mean if I really liked him?"
" ------ "
"Why? Because he's fat?"

At the Washington airport now and it is super crowded. I bought cinnamon sticks and a coffee not because I was hungry but because I felt I needed to do something.

7-18-08

...I've been meaning to reread Isaiah for quite some time and I finally began today. I read the first chapter and it seems very clear. God's primary concern seems to be that the people straighten up and begin to care for the marginalized and helpless. James admonition in his NT letter sounds like and echo of the twice mentioned point Isaiah makes, righteousness does not come from following rules and making sacrifices but in defending the fatherless and caring for the widows. The rules I see more as boundary lines to help us keep from harming others. The sacrifices are ways of apologizing for when we've crossed those boundaries and saying "thank you" for the opportunity we are given to live, and to try again.

"One key element of living as a Christian is learning to live with the life, and by the rules, of God's future world, even as we are continuing to live in the present one." -Simply Christian, N.T. Wright

...I discovered another Palestine aid mission online yesterday. They are Mennonite/Quaker founded, advocates of active nonviolence with the motto "getting in the way." It's a profound one-liner alluding both to getting in the way of niolence and getting in the Way, as early followers called it, of Jesus...

7-20-08

I hit a bright yellow butterfly while driving home from work this evening--not an uncommon experience this time of year--it's wing stuck to my windshield wiper, the rest of it's body pelted by the momentum of the moving vehicle. I was so ashamed and sad watching it struggle that I had to pull over and remove it, alive but fatally injured. I don't know how much longer I can bear to drive a car, the destructive elements are so numerous.
I'm also feeling that it's time for me to commit wholly to not eating meat...

I've experienced strong feelings of love, wonder, searching and a kind of restless peace today. I determined not to spend time thinking about or planning my future today, though my stubborn mind has wandered there...

I've the feeling that God is waiting and I want to enter into his Kingdom--still part of me resists; as though I could come up with something better, as though I could work things out on my own.

7-21-08

Note to self: Stop eating sugar! It leads to feeling fat, tired, unhappy. Not worth it.

7-22-08

...Working half a day always seems like such a good idea until I am driving home at noon and am struck with a sudden sense of sadness. "I would not have felt this if I'd stayed at work and made myself useful," I think. Structure. Amazing how much we need it and how much we resist it...
...As soon as I arrived home I began eating and knew I had to get a hold of myself. I wrote down how much time I had between that moment and leaving for Batman (A agreed to go see it with me-hurrah!). I then proceeded to list the things I hoped to accomplish in that time and approx. how long they would take. The time was spent with activities to spare--resuming self-imposed guitar lessons will have to be saved for another day--without ordering my thoughts and prioritizing my tasks, I'd probably have moodily sat playing word games on the computer and wonder where the hours went when it was time to go.

7-23-08

Anxiously awaiting my Project Hope phone interview. Should be any minute now.

(insert picture of jumping stick figure) I believe it went well.

7-25-08

(several pages of writing about a day at work, followed by:)

When I was backing out that night I felt happy and sweetly content, but with a nagging, whispering sadness that asked, "how can you leave this?" I am reminded of the boy in the Alchemist. On the path toward his Personal Legend he'd been brought to an oasis in the desert. He found love there and was respected by the communities. He was tempted to remain there, making the excuse that the love he'd found he was surely equal to the treasure of his Personal Legend. But in the end he carried on, leaving what was good and discovering something great.
As I'm writing this I remember too "Big Fish" when the hero stumbles into "Paradise" but realizes it's too soon for him to stay, despite the peoples wishes, and he continues on his journey.
I'm reminded too that those are stories and this is my life. I wonder if this is a recurring them for authors because it reflects truth or because it's something written by humans and humans are insatiable always wondering that life would be like if we'd taken another path.

7-26-08

There was lightening flashing when we left the folk center after tonight's contra. Now, I am serenaded by the sound of a torrential downpour and Iron & Wine as I lay across my bed. This weekend has felt like one of revelations. I'm not sure they are ready yet for words. They creep up with clarity only when it suits them. This seems to happen especially when I am reading my current books of choice: Simply Christian and The Story of My Experiment With Truth....

7-28-08

A few quick notes...

-I keep leaving work feeling torn in two. Thinking of leaving I begin to notice more, work harder, perform better...It is an incredibly unique environment; one that could never be recreated, one that I am so grateful to be a part of. Leaving HR will hurt like leaving home. My inability to be open and frank about my current plans adds weight.

-I keep having dreams with my family. they are always either trying to get my attention or we are trying to make the most of what we know is a short time together.

-Lately I've allowed myself to be so preoccupied with my own dilemma that I've not been listening well to others.

and then there was June...

2008-10-17T13:31:00.000-07:00

I've been surprised to see how much I wrote in the month of June. Believe it or not the following is a highly abbreviated version.

6-1-08

...I would like to begin focusing on things for which I've already some propensity. My first thought towards what such things may be were these words: 'children' & 'writing.'"

6-2-08

...I think my not staying here too much longer may be merging from imagination to reality. It's a hard thing for me to think about. I've become more attached than I realized.

6-3-08

...Sheila and I took a long walk when I got home. We encountered a young man. Sitting with his back to us, he faced a tree that grew tall, with a thick gnarled trunk and massive limbs outstretched. He was in a camp chair, smoking a pipe of sweet smelling tobacco. When we passed he looked up and smiled, bright blue eyes, "hello."
"hi."
I assumed he was an artist but didn't ask.

6-5-08

"Just a regular coffee and a water? That's all you want?"
"Yes."
"Are you okay? Do you need--"
"I'm fine, I'm fine, thank you. I'm just between shifts at work."
Do I convey the image of someone who is not okay? It must show because a couple of the staff members here at Mt. Vernon's Denny's have been eyeing me with a look of curious pity. I did go to jail today to talk, for the first time, through glass with a phone to my ear. There was nothing of the drama, the anxiety or excitement a first generally carries. There was quietness and sad resignation...seeing her vacant eyes, hearing her defeat...she is lost...

Is everything okay? Yes, I'm just feeling life happening, to me and around me. I'm just realizing that in this game of life, I'm a player too. I've just spent so much time in the bleachers, I'm not sure of my position...

6-7-08

...This morning I slept until I woke; no alarms, no surprises. It felt so good that the first thought I consciously had was, "Thank you God for sleep."

...I made a last minute decision to go to Lexington and see 'The Fall.' It was wonderful. I'm very glad I went. It animated my mind. Afterward I walked to Joseph-Beth Booksellers, perusing the selection and making lists of what I want to read. I am beginning to feel a sense of direction. The books were like arrows...I thought a lot and should find a way to express those thoughts. But not tonight, not tonight.

6-8-08

On the days when I am able to be home in the late morning, drinking French pressed coffee, I am transported to the days of life in Winter Park. As a nanny my day often did not begin till the afternoon when Ellie was ready to be picked up from school. I would sit on the petite floral print couch with shimmery fabric that J got from the thrift store, my journal and my bible on the rickety brown coffee table that her mom had given us. Often I would wake myself early so that I could first walk in the park, read, and pray. It seems like I prayed a lot in those days...

...Even at the volunteer house I would go to my room early, or hike up the hill so that I could pray or read or write or meditate--and to write in a way that organizes and expands my thoughts and to read in a way the nourishes and challenges. I need to reincorporate this in my life...

Last night, yesterday in general, was so special to me. Nearly the entire day was spent in action and reflection. There was no room for loneliness in my time alone. My thought and reading, the movie, the titles that caught my eye at the bookstore, even M's thesis, all reminded me of something I'd known before.

Once when I was with D. he asked me what I felt my mission was, my ministry. I responded that I had never felt called to bringing people from outside the church in. Rather, my heart was more inclined to those who were in, but broken still, and to see connections and seek to unify the disparate factions. I want to help bring peace; to individuals and organizations and perhaps, Lord willing, to nations. I want to help us to see each other and to understand. Where or how to being, I don't know.

6-10-08

...We had to climb down a slope to reach the water which was deep and warm. Looking up you could see the reflection of the water faintly dancing on the dusty slate hillside. We were surrounded by hills that are now packed with vegetation, a deep summer green. Two men were fishing and Sheila got her snout stuck on a hook. She shook free before I could swim to her...

6-12-08

"...I am reminded of your sincere faith...for this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God, which is in you from the laying on of my hands, for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control. Therefore do not be ashamed of the testimony about our Lord..."

Reading this passage brings many thoughts and questions to mind:
1) what is meant by 'sincere faith.' Timothy's is a faith that one might call inherited--his grandmother and mother--reinforced through Paul's influence...Then too, I wonder, what was the faith of his grandmother and mother; not Christianity, surely, but in the power of God perhaps; in that calling and purpose which, Paul asserts, were given [in Christ Jesus] before the ages; which were manifested in the appearance of Jesus. What was, always was, though it was not seen till Jesus...in this Timothy has had an abiding, sincere, faith.
2) Paul, for all his stoicism and logic, is a mystic. It seems so obvious, but honestly it's not been to me. Perhaps especially now that the closest thing to spiritual leader in my life is L. who tends to look on mysticism--at least of the Christian variety--with something that closely resembles derision. Paul, the mastermind of Christian doctrine, believed that by the laying on of his (Paul's) hands, Timothy was the recipient of a gift from God. He refers again to a 'deposit' both in relation to himself and to Timothy. What is it that's been placed in them, this thing that warrants a reminder to Timothy that the spirit given him is not one of fear, but of power, love and self-control.
3) There is a translation of this verse that is written, 'power, love and sound mind." I remember because it was very specifically this verse that helped give me encouragement and resolve against the creeping feeling that my mind was shattered. At this point in my life though, 'self control," seems the more pertinent translation...

6-13-08

Something about mysticism I'd meant to mention, probably the reason it stuck out to me. Earlier in the day I'd been listening to a podcast of Bob Edwards Weekend. Mr. Edwards was interviewing Elie Wiesel (whose work I've never read, though I've been meaning to for some time). EW is Jewish and a mystic. He talked about how it is forbidden to even study mysticism before one was at least 30 and firmly established in his faith. I was reminded of this today when L showed me his new book, Spiritual Radical, a biography of Abraham Heschel...he went on to say how AH exhorts that one must be firmly established in their faith before exploring mysticism or they will lose it all together. I was so excited by the synchronicity of this information with what I'd learned the day before I nearly jumped out of my seat...

6-14-08

Today was very sweet and gentle. I woke at 7:30 a.m., a little dry-mouthed from the wine John brought over for us to drink while he, Lindsey and I played "shoots and ladders." I let myself go back to sleep and didn't wake till B. called me at 10...I stayed home; read, wrote A. a letter, got a call from K. and had a wonderful chat about mysticism and faith and so forth in which we resolved the mysteries of the universe, as usual...I love his random calls...I've begun reading "Real Christianity" and am continuing with "Ramayana." There is so much that I want to be reading right now. There is always so much to learn.

6-15-08

I just reread the entry I wrote 3-27-08. In it I mention imagining writing stories and playing guitar. There was definitely a hint of constructive optimism in these imaginings; there was the idea that I would actually invest the time and energy into accomplishing these things. Reading that this moment was kind of funny...

6-17-08

I'm on the front patio now, a glass of water sits half full before me; sweating, refracting the suns light, casting prisms across this page...I'm listening to Christopher O'Riley's piano adaptations of Radiohead songs, because they are lovely and because I have no Eric Satie...

...I imagined H. playing the piece on our antiquated upright at home. I'd be sitting on the couch, listening, probably with a book so as to not make her too self-conscious. She would have the subtle excitement and focus that always came with a new set of sheet music. I would experience a deep sense of love and of loneliness, of rich fulfillment and restless melancholy. When I felt this way at home, I experienced it as longing for something far away...When I experience similar sensations now, I tend to associate them with homesickness...

...Last night, at the top of the pinnacles in the midst of a lightning storm, awareness of my own mortality walked close beside me. But more often my own death is of little concern to me while I am living. When reading Psalm 91, "a thousand will fall at your right hand, ten thousand at your left" (or something like that), it occurred to me that this assurance brings little comfort when the trouble is not a fear of falling, but grief in not being able to catch those that collapse around you. There is too, possibly, the fear that at the end of the day you will be standing there, all alone, and would it not have been better to have fallen with them? In Christianity we are called continually to "stand firm." Perhaps this is a precaution against that addiction like craving to lie down and let what will be, be.

6-19-08

...A large group of ducklings, startled by the sound of a passing car, just ran across the water, their mother close behind. I like to watch her watch them, a quiet steady honk emits as she surveys her clan. There is a very small duckling with a high, fast, anxious chirp, no doubt looking for his family--oh! he just found them and ran into their midst--thank goodness.

6-21-08

Yesterday was an odd one with many ups and downs, little waves in life's ocean, but they tossed me...

6-23-08

...I've brought my bible out here with me, but I find I don't feel I know how to read it or think about it these days. The feeling is similar to that I've had regarding prayer. This is another arena in which I think some space between L. and I may be good. He is a wealth of knowledge and I love to hear his thoughts, but I am afraid I listen often without challenge and allow them to overlay my own. God help me, I am so impressionable...

6-25-08

God, how can I doubt your attentive mercy when you are continually working things together for our good? And why is it that I am forever looking to prove the theory that those I love will stop loving me? Why is it so much easier to believe rejection than acceptance?

6-27-08

I am so cowardly that I did not have the nerve to go get my oil changed! Ridiculous...So, to challenge myself, instead of going home, I have gone to some place new, The Black Feather, a little cafe on broadway.
A man who I presume to be a regular--toothless, with a long denim shirt, shorts and a fishing cap--keeps talking to me. He initially drew attention to himself by sighing and proclaiming, "the New York Slime--not fit for print," and folding up the New York Times paper (which I'd just delightedly observed they carried here) he asked, "so, you a college student?"
The atmosphere is nice here, very comfortable.

"It is important to see, and to say, that those who follow Jesus are committed, as he taught us to pray, to God's will being done, 'on earth as it is in heaven.' And that means that God's passion for justice must become ours too. When Christians use their belief in Jesus as a way of escaping from that demand and challenge, they are abandoning a central element in their faith." -Simply Christian, N.T. Wright

"...When they are young, everyone knows what their Personal Legend is. At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is possible. They are not afraid to deram, and to yearn for everything they would like to see happen to them in their lives. But, as time passes, a mysterious force begins to conving them that it will be impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend." -The Alchemist

6-28-08

As I sit here, contemplating, with the hot sun penetrating my skin and the soft wind relieving it, I keep having images of yesterday in the kitchen with A. IT occured to me for the first time as I went from pitting cherries and listening to my iPod, to chopping vegetables and chatting with her, how like a sister she has become...I can casually mention to her things I would previously have hidden in shame. I trust her and I love her and I am so grateful that she is my friend.

The clouds are monumental and the sky is blue. K. called again to ask for my e-mail address so he could send me his thesis. Staying connected with him has been a surprising and welcome comfort.

...I have within me a hope that speaks the "greater yes" for which I am abundantly grateful.

"When each day is the same as the next, it's because people fail to recognize the good things that happen in their lives every day that the sun rises." -The Alchemist

6-29-08

"Do you know why Jewish people wear those caps?" J. asked me at last night's contra.
"No, why?"
"They are a reminder that there is always something above you," he said.

I am feeling so tired and down-hearted this afternoon; it's difficult to stay awake. I feel bad about my moodiness and the way it invariably effects those around me. It's difficult to find the balance between owning and being honest about one's feelings and maintaining control over thoughts and actions. I seem to vacillate between conceit and despair. But, as I write that, I can see how one can lead to the other. Conceit indicates a sense of mastery, over oneself and above others. Despair would naturally follow as one realizes how far we fall short and the feeling that if we can't do it, who can.

a month in brief

2008-10-15T18:00:00.000-07:00

A few friends have kindly brought to my attention the fact that I’ve not updated this fine blogspot since May 14, 2008, which, I’m told, was a Tuesday. The fact that the last day I updated was a Tuesday strikes me as being of little relevance, aside from the fact that it illustrates the astuteness of the reader who observed it—thanks reader. The fact that the last day I updated was May 14th, however, presents what appears to me as an interesting angle.

In the interest of catching this space up to speed I had it in mind that I’d take fragments from journal entries leading from the point of departure (the already established date in May) to the present (a fine Wednesday evening, October 15. Practically the next day, give or take a few months…) Flipping to the entry most closely correlating with the beginning date I was please to find that I’d written in my personal journal on May 14. Abbreviating this entry presents little challenge as it consists of a single sentence in the middle of a page;

5-14-08

“Why am I still here?”

5-15-08

“…He and I stayed up till morning talking while D. dozed next to me on the futon, eventually climbing to the loft. I wish I could recount everything A. and I talked about that night. It was exciting. There aren’t many conversations I would call exciting. We covered addiction/recovery, speaking the truth, personal development, purpose/calling, his desire to channel the fantastic stories that seem to be falling on him from above—oh the dreams that stirred—thoughts about community, collaboration & faith. I realized eventually that there would be no natural end to this flow and suggested we follow D’s lead and sleep awhile. A’s tiny frame somehow fit curled in the window seat. I made my bed of the futon, still folded as a couch…The next morning D. and I walked to the shore of Lake Michigan…On the trail that encircled it we encountered a jogging Superman and Ronald McDonald on a bike. We wound up walking all the way downtown to see the absurd, magnificent Bean. It was afternoon by then—we took the train back so we’d have time to be with Az. as she anxiously awaited her wedding. I love city trains.

Pop said Mom doesn’t want me to go to Palestine because I’ll marry a Palestinian and join the cause. He suggests an Irishman instead, as long as I don’t get swept up in the IRA. I told him not to worry, A. thinks I’ll never marry; after all, I’m Amy Nee.

5-26-08

Driving to the lake I felt excited. The sun was high and warm. The sky was blue with islands of clouds. The trees were luminously green. I loved the light that spilled onto the curving road, laced by trees shadows. I love the mix CD Laura had made reminding her of our time together. I loved that I was about to be immersed in water. Sometimes I’m afraid that I might be having too much fun…
It’s odd how one’s sense can acclimate. I didn’t notice the extra-terrestrial, unbroken hum of the cicadas until Monica pointed it out to me. There are so many sounds out here; a cacophony or a symphony depending on how your ear is turned…

What does it mean to be a Christian, and have I the will to live it? Yes. Faith is a gift – but, the songs must be sung or they will be forgotten.

5-27-08

When I thought I might not make it through today, I remembered Jesus’ words to his disciples: “You feed them.” They’d just returned from a journey on which they’d not even been allowed an extra cloak as they approached villages of strangers with a radical new Way. Now, they’d followed Jesus with the hope of rest and were instead faced with thousands of hungry men and women.
“Where will we find bread for all these?”
“You feed them.”
How small are the challenges I face in light of others tests and trials! And how shamefully evident that it takes rough patches to remind me that I need more than me…

…In class today I had the women write their visions for the future and realized I have no such thing.

5-31-08

J., who’d come to meet me at the car was standing at my side. In the living room, with no lights on, M. sat in the recliner, playing guitar and singing “Sound of Silence.” We nodded an acknowledgment…
J. introduced me to one of the women. She had a tiny from and steely, shoulder length hair. The other, I had already met.
While M. and L. showered, J. and I tried to learn the hymns MA had given me to practice for the Indiana-Kentucky Synod. My fumbling attempt at finding the melody on the piano left us laughing more than singing.

And that is all for the month of May. This may be a bigger project than I’d anticipated.

what to do?

2008-05-14T19:31:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I don’t know how to ask the questions. Then I turn my mind to wondering why and am further distracted from what it was I wondered in the first place. Often I am not even aware of what I’m thinking at all. This seems terribly wasteful. I waste a lot of minutes too; lurking facebook, waiting for my opponent to move in scrabble, looking in the cupboard when I’m not at all hungry, reading without paying attention to the words, acting without paying attention to the acts…these minutes melt into hours and days and isn’t it a wonder how much life is lost like leftover food dumped down the disposal.

One thing I have been reading and paying attention to though is C.S. Lewis’ Perelandra. In the chapter I recently completed, this entity, like our devil, that had overtaken the antagonist, Weston, was arguing against a seemingly arbitrary command of Maleldil (God) in order to convince the green Lady (a kind of Venetian version of Eve) to break it. Ransom, the hero, was there to protect the lady from our world, the earth’s, first error by defending Maleldil’s command. He spoke of the pure love made manifest in obeying even when the good is not evident:

“I think he made one law of that kind in order that there might be obedience. In all these other matters what you call obeying him is but doing what seems good in your own eyes also. Is love content with that? You do them indeed because they are his will, but not only because they are his will. Where can you taste the joy of obeying unless he bids you do something for which his bidding is the only reason?”

I remember Simone Wiel saying something to this effect in her book Waiting for God (which I’ve never finished reading and cannot, for the life of me, find), and Bonhoeffer too in one of the first excerpts found in his collection of prison letters and papers. To obey is the highest good as it supersedes our own idea of good and falls into an act of pure trust and love. I used to adhere to this way of thinking. I recall being a particularly passionate advocate of it. When I lived in an apartment in Winter Park, FL, I desperately wanted a kitten. The very thought of it sent me skipping and singing. I was going to name it “Obedience,” or “Scroll.” But lucky kitten, it didn’t get a name from me. Pets were not allowed and though many a tenant of that complex had one, I decided to abide by the contract I’d signed. During that time I was diligent in the reading of scripture and in prayer. I embraced the law and found energy and life in devouring and digesting it.

My thinking has turned somewhat in the past couple years. Turned away from what some term “blind faith” toward a more critical view of the bible and of Christian traditions and social mores. Have I grown “older” as the green lady says of herself in moments of enlightenment, or am I being broken by the “wisdom” of the world? Part of the difficulty in discerning how to be obedient comes in the extraordinary number of commands the bible and the church deliver to us. Then there is the process of distinguishing the commands contrived and heaped on by man and those that are actually of God. I tend towards the belief that we must examine the context and intention behind biblical mandates. Yet, in doing so, in asking “did He really mean that” I fear the awful resemblance of that question to the one the serpent asked Eve in the garden, “Did God actually say…”

I believe Jesus gives what is called the greatest of the commandments, and I recklessly paraphrase, “the law is summed up in this; love the Lord your God, and love your neighbor as yourself.” Then again, Jesus does say other things in commanding ways and there is too that follow up question, “how do we love?” As a personal response to this question my colleague, Larry, calls himself a “Matthew 25 Christian,” referring to that passage where those who meet with Christ are told with approbation;

“I was hungry and you fed me,

I was thirsty and you gave me a drink,

I was a stranger and you welcomed me,

I was sick and you cared for me,

I was naked and you clothe me,

I was imprisoned and you came to me…”

though they did not know it was him, they did it to “the least of these.”

Still though, this seems to fall into the category of obeying what already seems good. Perhaps part of the complication of being obedient to love is when you have to say “no.” When you have to point out to a person that they have the ability to meet their own needs so you are not going to do it for them. Is obedience being willing to look less than amiable to perform the truly loving act? I am not entirely satisfied with this conclusion.

I do believe Jesus is the ultimate example. Through him and with the law and the prophets we can come to a better understanding of the nature of God (if we use these resources and accounts wisely); who he is and what he’s about and to align our lives to his principles if we so desire. Three things I am aware of as recurring themes: life, light (this I take to be synonymous with truth) and love—and these three are as one, though they are distinct, not on is whole without the other.

I am perplexed.