A few months ago I signed up to take part in what I might call a spiritual support group -- a group of people who gather to support each other in their spiritual journeys. The first gathering of the group was to be a half-day retreat on sabbath time yesterday. I was very much looking forward to it, as a time to meet other spiritual seekers and to nurture myself. I felt I really needed it.
Then, two days before the retreat, my brother asked me to help move our father into a residence for people with memory loss. I'd known the move was coming -- had visited the two residences that had been recommended to my brother -- and certainly have known for some time that Dad had dementia. But the move had to coincide with this day I'd been looking forward to and promising myself, when I was going to give myself a little extra care.
There was nothing for it. It simply had to be then. My brother had arranged to borrow his neighbor's truck, and he wasn't going to be available the next weekend to do the move. When I mentioned I had something else planned, he told me he and my sister-in-law and nephew could probably manage without me. But I knew he wanted my support, as much as my help in packing up Dad's clothes and driving them the few miles to the new residence.
My brother has done so much to take care of our father, largely because he was the one who lived closest. No one could have been more devoted, more tireless, taking Dad to every doctor's appointment, taking calls from the assisted living facility where Dad lived, making this arrangement and that arrangement, having Dad over to his house, taking Dad to get a haircut. If children owe an enormous debt to their parents for nurturing and caring for them until they are grown, my brother has paid back a very large share of his debt through the care he has given Dad.
And then there's Dad himself. There aren't adequate words for his kindness, his love and support, given to me and my brothers over the years. Now he has virtually no short-term memory, but he knows enough to know that his life stinks without my mother, who died two years ago. He also remembers a frightening number of old baseball scores, and a staggering amount of English literature, which he taught for 30-odd years.
So I went. I helped pack some of Dad's clothes and drove them to the new place. I talked to Dad about why he was there and what I thought might be good about it (he will get more help with activities of daily living, and there are at least a few people there who are nearly as intellectually intact as he is), and stood by my brother to take my share of the blame for the decision to move Dad to this new and frightening place.
It is terrifying and sad to see my father, on whom I have relied for nearly all of my life for moral and emotional support, for a certain kind of steadiness, for humor, for love, become another person, one who sometimes resembles the father I knew and sometimes seems like a cruel caricature of him. It seems so unfair that on top of all of the losses that go along with old age, his disease has robbed him of his dignity as well.
I love him. So, even though I didn't want -- for a range of reasons -- to be there yesterday, I'm glad I was. Perhaps that's what growing up is all about.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
A film about the power of compassion
Last night I saw a movie that, for the first time, gave me a sense of hope about Americans' response to the Sept. 11, 2001, tragedy. In general, I think we as a nation have failed to meet the challenge of that day to broaden our understanding of people in other cultures and to cultivate compassion.
But last night my church showed the film "Beyond Belief," directed by Beth Murphy. It tells the story of two Wellesley, Mass., women, Susan Retik and Patti Quigley, both of whom lost their husbands when the planes flew into the World Trade Center towers. Both women happened to be pregnant at the time, and through friends they met each other and had an immediate sense of connection. From supporting each other, they soon moved to wanting to help other widows -- in Afghanistan.
They started with an idea that they could each help one widow in Afghanistan, which has thousands of widows, because it has been at war for 23 years. It wasn't long before they realized that because Afghanistan is such a poor country, their money would go far enough to help many more than just two widows. Then they decided to have a fundraiser on the anniversary of 9/11 where Susan, Patti and others would ride bicycles from Ground Zero to Boston. The first event raised $100,000, and they were off and running.
They made a grant to a CARE program to give chickens and incubators to Afghan widows so they could have an income, as well as having some eggs for their own table. Most of these women were the sole providers for their children.
Eventually the pair visited Afghanistan to meet some of the women they had helped. It took them a few years to be ready to make this trip, both because of the dangerous conditions there and because, since they were single parents, they were reluctant to take the risk that they might not return. Finally, they were both ready to go, and the connection they made with the Afghan women (through an interpreter) was very moving. It was touching to hear one of the Afghan women said the Taliban was bad for what it had done to Americans and that "God will punish them four times more." Of course, the Taliban has been no friend at all to women, least of all to women not attached to a man.
All in all, the film was hopeful and inspiring, a real testament to the power of compassion and human connection. I can't imagine anyone not being deeply affected by it.
By the way, Susan and Patti started a nonprofit called "Beyond the 11th" if you want to support their efforts.
But last night my church showed the film "Beyond Belief," directed by Beth Murphy. It tells the story of two Wellesley, Mass., women, Susan Retik and Patti Quigley, both of whom lost their husbands when the planes flew into the World Trade Center towers. Both women happened to be pregnant at the time, and through friends they met each other and had an immediate sense of connection. From supporting each other, they soon moved to wanting to help other widows -- in Afghanistan.
They started with an idea that they could each help one widow in Afghanistan, which has thousands of widows, because it has been at war for 23 years. It wasn't long before they realized that because Afghanistan is such a poor country, their money would go far enough to help many more than just two widows. Then they decided to have a fundraiser on the anniversary of 9/11 where Susan, Patti and others would ride bicycles from Ground Zero to Boston. The first event raised $100,000, and they were off and running.
They made a grant to a CARE program to give chickens and incubators to Afghan widows so they could have an income, as well as having some eggs for their own table. Most of these women were the sole providers for their children.
Eventually the pair visited Afghanistan to meet some of the women they had helped. It took them a few years to be ready to make this trip, both because of the dangerous conditions there and because, since they were single parents, they were reluctant to take the risk that they might not return. Finally, they were both ready to go, and the connection they made with the Afghan women (through an interpreter) was very moving. It was touching to hear one of the Afghan women said the Taliban was bad for what it had done to Americans and that "God will punish them four times more." Of course, the Taliban has been no friend at all to women, least of all to women not attached to a man.
All in all, the film was hopeful and inspiring, a real testament to the power of compassion and human connection. I can't imagine anyone not being deeply affected by it.
By the way, Susan and Patti started a nonprofit called "Beyond the 11th" if you want to support their efforts.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
A little rant about religion vs. spirituality
I was at a meeting last week where the conversation turned to how to attract younger adults to a church event. And someone said young adults were "not religious, but spiritual." Now, I think I have some idea of what she meant, but somehow the comment really bothered me.
Part of it's the buzzword factor. These days "religious" too often equals some combination of "fanatical, boring, straitlaced, excessively pious,and/or narrow-minded," while "spiritual" means one or more of "deep, personally meaningful, good, cool, new age and/or affirming of one's own beliefs.
Another thing that bothered me is the sense that being religious entails following, or at least acknowledging, a lot of boring, restrictive rules: the "thou shalt not's" of Old Testament fame, plus maybe a few more. And then there are the "thou shalt's." Thou shalt share with others through charitable contributions to the church and other organizations; thou shalt treat other people with the kindness and respect you would like to receive, whether or not you actually do receive it. Thou shalt give of thy time to benefit the community. All that religious stuff -- what a pain!
Whereas, if one is spiritual, one may enjoy profound personal experiences without any obligation to anyone. There are no rules governing what you have to do in order to be spiritual, no requirement to care for others or contribute to something larger than yourself.
I don't really think the religious and the spiritual are so opposed: I think in their best expressions the two go together. The experience of Mystery and the ineffable grows out of serving others and, in its turn, supports our efforts to live an ethical life. Religion and spirituality are two sides of the same coin, and it is only when we try to separate them, or hold them opposed to one another, that we reduce them to caricatures. In the process, we reduce our own experience as well.
Part of it's the buzzword factor. These days "religious" too often equals some combination of "fanatical, boring, straitlaced, excessively pious,and/or narrow-minded," while "spiritual" means one or more of "deep, personally meaningful, good, cool, new age and/or affirming of one's own beliefs.
Another thing that bothered me is the sense that being religious entails following, or at least acknowledging, a lot of boring, restrictive rules: the "thou shalt not's" of Old Testament fame, plus maybe a few more. And then there are the "thou shalt's." Thou shalt share with others through charitable contributions to the church and other organizations; thou shalt treat other people with the kindness and respect you would like to receive, whether or not you actually do receive it. Thou shalt give of thy time to benefit the community. All that religious stuff -- what a pain!
Whereas, if one is spiritual, one may enjoy profound personal experiences without any obligation to anyone. There are no rules governing what you have to do in order to be spiritual, no requirement to care for others or contribute to something larger than yourself.
I don't really think the religious and the spiritual are so opposed: I think in their best expressions the two go together. The experience of Mystery and the ineffable grows out of serving others and, in its turn, supports our efforts to live an ethical life. Religion and spirituality are two sides of the same coin, and it is only when we try to separate them, or hold them opposed to one another, that we reduce them to caricatures. In the process, we reduce our own experience as well.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
What is home?
Two weeks ago, I bought a house. That is, I actually purchased a house. I mean to say, I presented an absolutely enormous bank check to an attorney and signed a lot of papers and now I (and Bank of America) own a house. In a town about 20 miles west of Worcester, Mass.
So here I am, at 57, learning how to be a homeowner. I hope I do OK at it.
I still have not really gotten my emotional mind (as opposed to my intellectual mind) around this colossal fact. It's a nice house, faintly reminiscent of the one my parents owned when I was in high school, college and for many years after that. It has a yard with trees in the front and flowers in back, and a deck and two stories. Well, probably more stories than that, but only two you can see.
The house is starting to feel a little bit like home. It has my stuff in it, and I've slept here for two weeks now, and the dog already takes it for granted that this is his place. But still it's strange. I've never owned a house before, and it feels like a huge change in my life, and rather a daunting one. I don't know much about taking care of a car, either, but I know where to take it to find someone who does. With a house, there is no one "house mechanic," you've got to find a whole retinue of persons to do this, that and this other, and first you have to know that those things need to be done. Daunting.
But it's a much better place for my sweetie to visit, and so far it's been a pleasant place to be. But there is one obvious major lack -- my sweetie. She visits, but she doesn't live here. I am impatient for her to move in, but our other house must either be sold or rented, and that hasn't happened yet. So we have to just visit.
I have met a friendly neighbor who actually left me a plant on the front stoop the day I moved in. She has also promised to bring over extra veggies from her garden and warned me of coyotes in the neighborhood. A good reason to continue my practice of keeping the pup on his leash and not letting him out by himself.
We walk in the morning, when I get home from work, and after dinner, usually going a little less than half a mile each time. It's quiet here, and pretty. It will be a good home for us when my sweetie's house sells.
Right now, "home" is a bit elusive for me. The other house is still comfortable and familiar, but it's not home any longer. And the new house doesn't really completely feel like home yet, either. I don't think it will really feel like home until we're living together again. I have found that "home" isn't always a place. Sometimes it's a person, or people, or even words. I have experienced a sense of home in the words of the Episcopal prayer book, and in other books that are special to me.
I guess it's a sense of safety and belonging -- of being in your own place. Maybe of knowing that others' caring is with you even when they are absent.
So here I am, at 57, learning how to be a homeowner. I hope I do OK at it.
I still have not really gotten my emotional mind (as opposed to my intellectual mind) around this colossal fact. It's a nice house, faintly reminiscent of the one my parents owned when I was in high school, college and for many years after that. It has a yard with trees in the front and flowers in back, and a deck and two stories. Well, probably more stories than that, but only two you can see.
The house is starting to feel a little bit like home. It has my stuff in it, and I've slept here for two weeks now, and the dog already takes it for granted that this is his place. But still it's strange. I've never owned a house before, and it feels like a huge change in my life, and rather a daunting one. I don't know much about taking care of a car, either, but I know where to take it to find someone who does. With a house, there is no one "house mechanic," you've got to find a whole retinue of persons to do this, that and this other, and first you have to know that those things need to be done. Daunting.
But it's a much better place for my sweetie to visit, and so far it's been a pleasant place to be. But there is one obvious major lack -- my sweetie. She visits, but she doesn't live here. I am impatient for her to move in, but our other house must either be sold or rented, and that hasn't happened yet. So we have to just visit.
I have met a friendly neighbor who actually left me a plant on the front stoop the day I moved in. She has also promised to bring over extra veggies from her garden and warned me of coyotes in the neighborhood. A good reason to continue my practice of keeping the pup on his leash and not letting him out by himself.
We walk in the morning, when I get home from work, and after dinner, usually going a little less than half a mile each time. It's quiet here, and pretty. It will be a good home for us when my sweetie's house sells.
Right now, "home" is a bit elusive for me. The other house is still comfortable and familiar, but it's not home any longer. And the new house doesn't really completely feel like home yet, either. I don't think it will really feel like home until we're living together again. I have found that "home" isn't always a place. Sometimes it's a person, or people, or even words. I have experienced a sense of home in the words of the Episcopal prayer book, and in other books that are special to me.
I guess it's a sense of safety and belonging -- of being in your own place. Maybe of knowing that others' caring is with you even when they are absent.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
On why I hang my hat here
I'm reading Mary Gordon's "Reading Jesus: A Writer's Encounter with the Gospels." Gordon, of course, is a Catholic writer, known for her novels memoirs and literary criticism. "Reading Jesus" applies a novelist's sensibilities to the gospels, and in particular, to their portrait of Jesus. In it, she says "the holy is inseparable, not only from matter, but from the narrative of our lives."
Let me run that by you again, "the holy is inseparable, not only from matter, but from the narrative of our lives." This, to me, was like when you hear something and say, "Oh, of course. I knew it all along." Only I didn't know I knew it. It made me realize that the reason religion/theology/the spiritual life means so much to me is this very sacralizing of narrative.That everybody's story, your, mine and ours together, is holy. That what makes the Bible itself sacred literature is that it is the story of a people and their struggle to be faithful.
It is not a sacred text because of the few small successes of individuals at actually being faithful, nor the recorded acts of God, nor the do's and don'ts offered for the people's edification. It is because of the ongoing struggle, the preservation of the stories, the falling away and the returning, the seeking to know God and to serve God that hallows the story -- the stories -- of the Hebrew people and eventually of the followers of Jesus.
I would also say that the narratives of Buddha's life, of Krishna's, Mohammed's -- of all religious exemplars and their followers -- are holy.
Indeed, all of our stories are holy, if they contain the truth of our lives, if they convey the essence of our being, if they speak to what it is to be in the world. As long as we can tell our story, there is no such thing as a life without meaning.
But it takes the genius of a novelist to notice, to celebrate that meaning and to enable the rest of us to be enriched by participating in it.
Let me run that by you again, "the holy is inseparable, not only from matter, but from the narrative of our lives." This, to me, was like when you hear something and say, "Oh, of course. I knew it all along." Only I didn't know I knew it. It made me realize that the reason religion/theology/the spiritual life means so much to me is this very sacralizing of narrative.That everybody's story, your, mine and ours together, is holy. That what makes the Bible itself sacred literature is that it is the story of a people and their struggle to be faithful.
It is not a sacred text because of the few small successes of individuals at actually being faithful, nor the recorded acts of God, nor the do's and don'ts offered for the people's edification. It is because of the ongoing struggle, the preservation of the stories, the falling away and the returning, the seeking to know God and to serve God that hallows the story -- the stories -- of the Hebrew people and eventually of the followers of Jesus.
I would also say that the narratives of Buddha's life, of Krishna's, Mohammed's -- of all religious exemplars and their followers -- are holy.
Indeed, all of our stories are holy, if they contain the truth of our lives, if they convey the essence of our being, if they speak to what it is to be in the world. As long as we can tell our story, there is no such thing as a life without meaning.
But it takes the genius of a novelist to notice, to celebrate that meaning and to enable the rest of us to be enriched by participating in it.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
On belonging and identity
One of the things I have always struggled with is connection with other people. I am both introverted and (sometimes) shy, and for reasons connected with my particular psyche, I am ambivalent about being part of a group. Part of me wants to belong, like any normal person, and part of me is wants to stay aloof, hanging out on the fringes. This part is suspicious of group-think, of the political correctness that can be imposed by belonging; I'm also wary of the demands on my time that may come with group membership, and of losing my individuality in the group.
With time, I have become aware, in a way I wasn't when I was younger, of my need for belonging and connection with a group. I've also learned that I can belong and still set my own boundaries.But the ambivalence, which set in when I was quite young, has remained.
It is reinforced when I lose touch with friends, family and the groups (primarily church) that are important to me. The less I'm around others, the more ambivalent I feel about being around them. The more I'm around others (up to a point), the more I look forward to connecting.
I haven't been to church since Easter, and I feel it. I need to go to church, to be part of that group of people, most of whom I know only slightly, with whom I share a bond of faith and a roughly similar approach to the spiritual journey.
In fact, connecting with other people is the second-most-important reason I go to church. The first is to connect with God and to be reminded that it is to God that I most deeply belong. The two really are intertwined: because all of us belong, on the deepest level, to God, connecting with others is connecting with God and vice versa. Because God is the true home of each one of us, we are ultimately connected with one another, involved in one another and obligated to one another.
It's much harder to live than to say, and I'm not good at it. But I try (pace Yoda), in my fitful way.
Lying in bed the other morning, these words came to me, accompanied by a simple tune:
Breath of God, breathe in me,
Heart of God, beat in me,
Love of God, flow in me,
Life of God, show in me.
Peace of God, rest in me,
Power of God, move in me,
Joy of God, grow in me,
Light of God, glow in me.
May the love of the One who holds us all draw us ever closer to each other. As the beloved of God, may we know deeply our unique contribution to the whole, and the particular gifts that belonging nurtures in us.
With time, I have become aware, in a way I wasn't when I was younger, of my need for belonging and connection with a group. I've also learned that I can belong and still set my own boundaries.But the ambivalence, which set in when I was quite young, has remained.
It is reinforced when I lose touch with friends, family and the groups (primarily church) that are important to me. The less I'm around others, the more ambivalent I feel about being around them. The more I'm around others (up to a point), the more I look forward to connecting.
I haven't been to church since Easter, and I feel it. I need to go to church, to be part of that group of people, most of whom I know only slightly, with whom I share a bond of faith and a roughly similar approach to the spiritual journey.
In fact, connecting with other people is the second-most-important reason I go to church. The first is to connect with God and to be reminded that it is to God that I most deeply belong. The two really are intertwined: because all of us belong, on the deepest level, to God, connecting with others is connecting with God and vice versa. Because God is the true home of each one of us, we are ultimately connected with one another, involved in one another and obligated to one another.
It's much harder to live than to say, and I'm not good at it. But I try (pace Yoda), in my fitful way.
Lying in bed the other morning, these words came to me, accompanied by a simple tune:
Breath of God, breathe in me,
Heart of God, beat in me,
Love of God, flow in me,
Life of God, show in me.
Peace of God, rest in me,
Power of God, move in me,
Joy of God, grow in me,
Light of God, glow in me.
May the love of the One who holds us all draw us ever closer to each other. As the beloved of God, may we know deeply our unique contribution to the whole, and the particular gifts that belonging nurtures in us.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
On finally making a commitment
Unlike the rounds from Sunday to Saturday in Garrison Keillor's Lake Woebegone, it has not been a quiet week here in Worcester. Not for me, at least. It began with my spotting an ad online for a job working for my old employer in the state where I used to live. I jumped at the idea, thinking, "That's it! They'll be happy to have me back and I can just go back with my sweetie and pretend none of this ever happened." At first my emotions soared at the prospect.
But after a while, I sobered up and thought, "Do I really want to 1) run out on the commitment I've made to my employer here; 2) take a huge pay cut to work for an editor I've never met at a paper that tends to get short shrift among the properties owned by my former employer; 3) cut the ties I've just renewed with people here I like a lot, all because I'm lonely? I decided maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all.
It came to me that the best way to be happy where I am and to make the change I've undertaken work out is to regard it as a settled thing. Not that I couldn't ever change my mind if that really seemed like the best thing to do, but I have to stop waffling about whether I'm really committed to being here and really intending to stay. I had good reasons for coming here, I now have a good job and connections to people I care about here, and I'm committed to making this move work out. And I accept that it may take longer than I want it to before that happens (if I'm honest I'd have to admit that it already has taken longer than I wanted it to).
So great, I learned something about myself and I moved to a healthier way of thinking. Then Wednesday I went to my first Mindfulness Stress Reduction class. I mostly enjoyed the class, but when we went around the room and everyone said why they were there, I was struck by the amount of pain carried by everyone in the room, and the sense of inadequacy most carried because they had such pain. It brought to mind Thoreau's remark that "the majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation." I guess the good thing for those of us in the room was that we had all decided to do something about the desperation we felt and try to find a better way to live with it.
It was amazing to hear people, just regular folks who seemed pretty much like me, talk about the physical and psychic burdens they carry and know that not only was I not alone, I hadn't been through half what some of them had. People bear incredible burdens with great stoicism a lot of the time, believing that they have no other choice.
And Thursday morning I was walking my dog in the backyard behind my house, and he got caught on some barbed wire lying serpentlike in the leaves. The next thing I knew he was frantically struggling to free himself. The wire was caught in his ear, and as I tried to help him, he screamed (that's a blood-freezing sound if the animal is yours). After trying unsuccessfully to free him for a few moments, I decided I'd better go see if any of my neighbors had wire cutters, because I was afraid the wire was in the flesh of my dog's ear. (He's a poodle-cocker spaniel mix and has floppy cocker ears).
As I was running for the street, my next-door neighbor ran over and asked what was going on, having heard my dog crying. I told him breathlessly that Riley was caught by his ear on the barbed wire and that I was going to see if anyone had wire cutters. He didn't have any, but said he'd try to help the dog.
In the time it took me to pound on two doors across the street, Rick, the neighbor who had come to help, got Riley free and brought him over to me on his leash. I thanked Rick profusely for freeing Riley and he ran back to his house.
Luckily, the wire was caught mostly in the hair on Riley's ear and had just nicked the flesh a little bit. We saw the vet later that morning and he was pronounced to be in good shape.
And then last night I went to a friend's house for dinner, the first time we'd seen each other in about eight years. From her welcoming hug to her goodbye hug she was so warm, and really went all-out to be hospitable. I felt so special, and like it really meant a lot to her to see me. We talked nonstop for about four hours, catching up on a lot of what had happened since we last saw each other, laughing and renewing our friendship. It was really wonderful.
Maybe I came back here for more reasons than I know. In fact, believing in Providence as I do, I'm almost certain that's true.
The reasons we give ourselves for doing things are usually rational, and sometimes even true. But they are seldom, if ever, the whole story. There is a force, call it God, love, mystery, the universe, or life itself, that touches and shapes our lives, moving us toward greater wholeness and fullness of life. It never stops, never abandons us, but is infinitely adaptable and patient. We can choose to fight it or work with it, but it is always there. It calls us to allow ourselves to be loved more deeply and to open our arms and our hearts wider to the life around us.
But after a while, I sobered up and thought, "Do I really want to 1) run out on the commitment I've made to my employer here; 2) take a huge pay cut to work for an editor I've never met at a paper that tends to get short shrift among the properties owned by my former employer; 3) cut the ties I've just renewed with people here I like a lot, all because I'm lonely? I decided maybe it wasn't such a great idea after all.
It came to me that the best way to be happy where I am and to make the change I've undertaken work out is to regard it as a settled thing. Not that I couldn't ever change my mind if that really seemed like the best thing to do, but I have to stop waffling about whether I'm really committed to being here and really intending to stay. I had good reasons for coming here, I now have a good job and connections to people I care about here, and I'm committed to making this move work out. And I accept that it may take longer than I want it to before that happens (if I'm honest I'd have to admit that it already has taken longer than I wanted it to).
So great, I learned something about myself and I moved to a healthier way of thinking. Then Wednesday I went to my first Mindfulness Stress Reduction class. I mostly enjoyed the class, but when we went around the room and everyone said why they were there, I was struck by the amount of pain carried by everyone in the room, and the sense of inadequacy most carried because they had such pain. It brought to mind Thoreau's remark that "the majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation." I guess the good thing for those of us in the room was that we had all decided to do something about the desperation we felt and try to find a better way to live with it.
It was amazing to hear people, just regular folks who seemed pretty much like me, talk about the physical and psychic burdens they carry and know that not only was I not alone, I hadn't been through half what some of them had. People bear incredible burdens with great stoicism a lot of the time, believing that they have no other choice.
And Thursday morning I was walking my dog in the backyard behind my house, and he got caught on some barbed wire lying serpentlike in the leaves. The next thing I knew he was frantically struggling to free himself. The wire was caught in his ear, and as I tried to help him, he screamed (that's a blood-freezing sound if the animal is yours). After trying unsuccessfully to free him for a few moments, I decided I'd better go see if any of my neighbors had wire cutters, because I was afraid the wire was in the flesh of my dog's ear. (He's a poodle-cocker spaniel mix and has floppy cocker ears).
As I was running for the street, my next-door neighbor ran over and asked what was going on, having heard my dog crying. I told him breathlessly that Riley was caught by his ear on the barbed wire and that I was going to see if anyone had wire cutters. He didn't have any, but said he'd try to help the dog.
In the time it took me to pound on two doors across the street, Rick, the neighbor who had come to help, got Riley free and brought him over to me on his leash. I thanked Rick profusely for freeing Riley and he ran back to his house.
Luckily, the wire was caught mostly in the hair on Riley's ear and had just nicked the flesh a little bit. We saw the vet later that morning and he was pronounced to be in good shape.
And then last night I went to a friend's house for dinner, the first time we'd seen each other in about eight years. From her welcoming hug to her goodbye hug she was so warm, and really went all-out to be hospitable. I felt so special, and like it really meant a lot to her to see me. We talked nonstop for about four hours, catching up on a lot of what had happened since we last saw each other, laughing and renewing our friendship. It was really wonderful.
Maybe I came back here for more reasons than I know. In fact, believing in Providence as I do, I'm almost certain that's true.
The reasons we give ourselves for doing things are usually rational, and sometimes even true. But they are seldom, if ever, the whole story. There is a force, call it God, love, mystery, the universe, or life itself, that touches and shapes our lives, moving us toward greater wholeness and fullness of life. It never stops, never abandons us, but is infinitely adaptable and patient. We can choose to fight it or work with it, but it is always there. It calls us to allow ourselves to be loved more deeply and to open our arms and our hearts wider to the life around us.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Prayers, silent and otherwise
Some Christian saint or other is supposed to have said, "Pray always. If necessary, use words."
Most mornings I meditate for 20 minutes before I take a shower. I simply sit on the couch in my living room, close my eyes and say a short prayer, then repeat my prayer word a few times, gradually letting myself become aware of what's going on around me, my thoughts, whatever, and every so often returning to my prayer word. I like the image used by a friend who meditates: the thoughts are like cars on a train that you simply watch as they pass by. You can't stop the train to examine the cars and you can't make the train go faster to avoid looking at them. They just pass by at their stately pace, and you watch one after another.
I feel somewhat ambivalent about praying in words. It seems too much like telling God what to do, or at least telling God what God already knows. There are certainly times when I do pray in words, but sitting quietly in God's presence is how I prefer to pray.
Lately, though, I have been praying in words when I end my meditation. I pray to be able to turn down the voices of fear and negativity and listen only to the voice of love. I also pray that God will make me a light to show others the way to God.
I guess that's one use for prayer in words: when you don't know how to do something, like be a light for others, or attend only to the voice of love, expressing the desire to do it may move you in the direction of doing it, even without consciously knowing how.
The prayer about turning down the voices of fear and listening to the voice of love feels right on many levels to me, so I trust that it is a true prayer. I will stick with it as long as it feels right.
Most mornings I meditate for 20 minutes before I take a shower. I simply sit on the couch in my living room, close my eyes and say a short prayer, then repeat my prayer word a few times, gradually letting myself become aware of what's going on around me, my thoughts, whatever, and every so often returning to my prayer word. I like the image used by a friend who meditates: the thoughts are like cars on a train that you simply watch as they pass by. You can't stop the train to examine the cars and you can't make the train go faster to avoid looking at them. They just pass by at their stately pace, and you watch one after another.
I feel somewhat ambivalent about praying in words. It seems too much like telling God what to do, or at least telling God what God already knows. There are certainly times when I do pray in words, but sitting quietly in God's presence is how I prefer to pray.
Lately, though, I have been praying in words when I end my meditation. I pray to be able to turn down the voices of fear and negativity and listen only to the voice of love. I also pray that God will make me a light to show others the way to God.
I guess that's one use for prayer in words: when you don't know how to do something, like be a light for others, or attend only to the voice of love, expressing the desire to do it may move you in the direction of doing it, even without consciously knowing how.
The prayer about turning down the voices of fear and listening to the voice of love feels right on many levels to me, so I trust that it is a true prayer. I will stick with it as long as it feels right.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
A happy working vacation and a housing dilemma
I just got back from almost a week with my significant other at our old house. I was helping said S.O. clear the basement so the house can be put on the market. We went through boxes, made trips to the dump, took other stuff to Goodwill and made some real progress on clearing the clutter and reducing what we'll eventually have to move. And we actually had fun (sort of) doing it. We enjoyed each other's company, we didn't snipe or complain -- it was just how you'd like a vacation to go.
We also did a couple of fun things together. We went out to dinner at a nice place on the water the first night, and we watched things my partner had recorded on T.V. at night. I played the piano a little, we ran the dogs, it was good.
Which makes me think expectations influence our experience a lot. I did not expect the week to be anything particularly special, except that we would be together, working on a joint project. And somehow because there was no pressure for the time to be "special," it was. We were productive, and I was very aware of feeling close.
Which, of course, made it hard to come back to Worcester. I did have a sort of epiphany, though: the fact that we were sad about parting meant we'd had a good time being together. Better that than to be secretly relieved to be leaving.
I keep thinking about this question of a house for us in Massachusetts. If I buy it before the other house is sold, there's no way to know when my S.O. will be able to move in with me. If I don't, we may end up house hunting under pressure when the other house finally does sell. For me, it comes down to a question of how much I trust my partner to do whatever it takes to sell the old house so we can be together.
We also did a couple of fun things together. We went out to dinner at a nice place on the water the first night, and we watched things my partner had recorded on T.V. at night. I played the piano a little, we ran the dogs, it was good.
Which makes me think expectations influence our experience a lot. I did not expect the week to be anything particularly special, except that we would be together, working on a joint project. And somehow because there was no pressure for the time to be "special," it was. We were productive, and I was very aware of feeling close.
Which, of course, made it hard to come back to Worcester. I did have a sort of epiphany, though: the fact that we were sad about parting meant we'd had a good time being together. Better that than to be secretly relieved to be leaving.
I keep thinking about this question of a house for us in Massachusetts. If I buy it before the other house is sold, there's no way to know when my S.O. will be able to move in with me. If I don't, we may end up house hunting under pressure when the other house finally does sell. For me, it comes down to a question of how much I trust my partner to do whatever it takes to sell the old house so we can be together.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
God in the middle
"So where is God in the middle of all this?" asked the spiritual director I went to see for the first time today. "All this" includes my move to Massachusetts three months ago to start a new job and be closer to my Dad who lives in Hartford. It also includes my living apart from my partner, who is still in our old house, which we planned to sell and buy a house in Massachusetts, my anxiety about my new job and about being separated from my partner, my worry over my aging and declining father, and so forth.
"I don't know," I said, "but I know that God is in the middle of it, because lately the lessons and hymns in church seem chosen especially for me." This is one of the ways I can tell that I'm dealing with what I euphemistically call an "opportunity for growth." Also, I have been forced by loneliness and anxiety to reach for the nearest source of support -- my church and the friends there. It is a fact that God does not play fair -- s/he will get you when you're down, because that's when you're most likely to let God in. And once you do, s/he won't ever let go, give up, go away, leave you alone.
You see, God views every single part of creation (including bugs, Yankees fans and Republicans) as God's own and s/he loves all of it, every bit. And what do you want to do with someone you love? You want to get close to them, physically and emotionally. You want to have them trust you and you want them to grow to their fullest potential. And for all of that to happen, you have to attend to your relationship. So when there's an opening in a vulnerable human heart, God is right there, offering us love and a way live with open hearts. And if we're vulnerable enough, we might just forget to be wary and accept God's offer.
And once we do that, we can never completely go back to our old ways. Once you have heard God speak your name and promise to be with you whatever happens, you can never not know that you belong to God again. You can be miserable, cold, lonely and afraid, but you can never forget that God has touched your life.
Perhaps the truest idea we have of God is as The Friend, the one who is there when you are at your lowest and who rejoices with you when life is sweet. I like to remember the line from "Fiddler on the Roof" that says "God would like us to be joyful even when our hearts lie panting on the floor." Yes, even then, because life itself is a blessing.
And one of the gifts of hard times is the way they can soften our hearts -- towards ourselves and others too. As Palestinian-American poet Naomi Shihab Nye says in her poem, "Kindness," "Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing." The lesson of suffering is that everybody hurts -- everybody. And the only thing that really helps is to reach out to another hurting person.
As hard as I try to protect myself from pain, I can't avoid it. I can only embrace it or not. Embracing pain, and using it to connect with others, is the way of life, and the way of blessing.
"I don't know," I said, "but I know that God is in the middle of it, because lately the lessons and hymns in church seem chosen especially for me." This is one of the ways I can tell that I'm dealing with what I euphemistically call an "opportunity for growth." Also, I have been forced by loneliness and anxiety to reach for the nearest source of support -- my church and the friends there. It is a fact that God does not play fair -- s/he will get you when you're down, because that's when you're most likely to let God in. And once you do, s/he won't ever let go, give up, go away, leave you alone.
You see, God views every single part of creation (including bugs, Yankees fans and Republicans) as God's own and s/he loves all of it, every bit. And what do you want to do with someone you love? You want to get close to them, physically and emotionally. You want to have them trust you and you want them to grow to their fullest potential. And for all of that to happen, you have to attend to your relationship. So when there's an opening in a vulnerable human heart, God is right there, offering us love and a way live with open hearts. And if we're vulnerable enough, we might just forget to be wary and accept God's offer.
And once we do that, we can never completely go back to our old ways. Once you have heard God speak your name and promise to be with you whatever happens, you can never not know that you belong to God again. You can be miserable, cold, lonely and afraid, but you can never forget that God has touched your life.
Perhaps the truest idea we have of God is as The Friend, the one who is there when you are at your lowest and who rejoices with you when life is sweet. I like to remember the line from "Fiddler on the Roof" that says "God would like us to be joyful even when our hearts lie panting on the floor." Yes, even then, because life itself is a blessing.
And one of the gifts of hard times is the way they can soften our hearts -- towards ourselves and others too. As Palestinian-American poet Naomi Shihab Nye says in her poem, "Kindness," "Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing." The lesson of suffering is that everybody hurts -- everybody. And the only thing that really helps is to reach out to another hurting person.
As hard as I try to protect myself from pain, I can't avoid it. I can only embrace it or not. Embracing pain, and using it to connect with others, is the way of life, and the way of blessing.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
On public radio as therapy
Last time I wrote about an amazing story of a woman who was, more or less literally, saved by the love of her boyfriend.
Yesterday, I heard an equally touching, though much less happy, story on the NPR program "This American Life." It was an excerpt from the book "Voices from Chernobyl," written about 10 years after the nuclear explosion in that Ukrainian town. An actress read the story of a woman whose husband, a firefighter, was sent into the blast area with no protective equipment. Of course he soon developed deadly radiation sickness and went into the hospital. The hospital staff told the woman, "You must stop thinking that this is your loved one and realize that this is now a radioactive object that can kill you."
Still, she came to visit him. One day she saw on the table next to his bed an orange. He told her he'd been given it as a present and said he wanted her to have it because he knew how much she liked oranges. She was aware that it was dangerous even to touch the contaminated fruit, much less to eat it. But she took it from him. She told how when the two of them would go to sleep together before the blast, he would always hold her hand as he fell asleep. So she held his hand.
She said she did it because she didn't want him to think about death, and how horrible his death was. The story did not say what happened to the woman. So she allowed herself to be poisoned by radiation to keep her husband from being isolated.
This story completely blew me away. If I hadn't heard it, I might have said that only God could love like that. Of course the woman was terrified, but she took her husband's radiation-saturated hand anyway, and held it.
I shared this story, sobbing, first with my significant other, and then with another friend. And today it came to me that part of the reason these two stories hit me so strongly was that my relationship with my partner is the most important thing in my life, and we're not together right now.
I realized that it's OK to make our relationship the most important thing -- more important than work or being pragmatic or anything else -- because it's what I value the most. Because for me, when we're together, everything else is better, even if it's not great.
Love. I really do think it's the most important thing.
Yesterday, I heard an equally touching, though much less happy, story on the NPR program "This American Life." It was an excerpt from the book "Voices from Chernobyl," written about 10 years after the nuclear explosion in that Ukrainian town. An actress read the story of a woman whose husband, a firefighter, was sent into the blast area with no protective equipment. Of course he soon developed deadly radiation sickness and went into the hospital. The hospital staff told the woman, "You must stop thinking that this is your loved one and realize that this is now a radioactive object that can kill you."
Still, she came to visit him. One day she saw on the table next to his bed an orange. He told her he'd been given it as a present and said he wanted her to have it because he knew how much she liked oranges. She was aware that it was dangerous even to touch the contaminated fruit, much less to eat it. But she took it from him. She told how when the two of them would go to sleep together before the blast, he would always hold her hand as he fell asleep. So she held his hand.
She said she did it because she didn't want him to think about death, and how horrible his death was. The story did not say what happened to the woman. So she allowed herself to be poisoned by radiation to keep her husband from being isolated.
This story completely blew me away. If I hadn't heard it, I might have said that only God could love like that. Of course the woman was terrified, but she took her husband's radiation-saturated hand anyway, and held it.
I shared this story, sobbing, first with my significant other, and then with another friend. And today it came to me that part of the reason these two stories hit me so strongly was that my relationship with my partner is the most important thing in my life, and we're not together right now.
I realized that it's OK to make our relationship the most important thing -- more important than work or being pragmatic or anything else -- because it's what I value the most. Because for me, when we're together, everything else is better, even if it's not great.
Love. I really do think it's the most important thing.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
On being saved by the radio
I was driving home from seeing my significant other today and listening to NPR. I heard an amazing story that touched me deeply. It was about two aspiring young artists who lived together in New York. One day they parted in the morning, each to their separate destinations, and in the middle of the afternoon the man received a phone call from the police telling him his girlfriend had been hit by a car while riding her bicycle and she was in the hospital.
He raced to the hospital and then called his girlfriend's parents. Soon, all three of them were around her bed in the surgical intensive care unit. At first she was completely unresponsive. She remained that way long enough that the doctors decided she was brain-dead and asked her parents' permission to harvest her organs for donation. They were to have a family meeting with the medical staff the next day. That night, the young woman's mother said goodbye to her daughter, whispering in her ear how much she loved her and that she would love her forever. In response, the daughter raised her arm, proving that her brain was functioning.
Still, it was very difficult for anyone to communicate with her. When people would touch her, she would respond, sometimes violently. But since she had been deaf before the accident and the accident itself blinded her, communication was nearly impossible.
After she stabilized, a decision had to be made whether to send her to rehab or to a nursing home. Since she could not communicate, the doctors were going to send her to a nursing home. Her parents arranged to take her home to a nursing home in New Orleans, telling her boyfriend only after the decision was made. The last night, he was sitting with the woman he loved and at 3 in the morning, he remembered reading online about Anne Sullivan and Helen Keller. He picked up his girlfriend's hand and wrote in her palm, slowly, one letter at a time, "I love you." She said "Oh, you love me. Thank you." She didn't know who he was, but she had received the message and responded.
He continued finger-spelling into her palm, and she kept responding; he called the woman's mother to come to the hospital and she what was happening. The young woman started saying "pull me out of the wall," and her boyfriend would write in her palm, "I can't." At this point she knew his name because he had spelled it to her several times, but she didn't connect it with his identity.
Finally, he and the mother got her to agree to put in her hearing aids, and he spoke to her. Instantly, she knew his voice and came back to full mental awareness and responsiveness. She was able to go into rehab, and is still there and making progress.
I was so struck by the fact that it was the boyfriend's persistence, born out of his love, that brought that young woman back. It was his overwhelming desire to reach her that made him keep trying things -- finger spelling into her palm, talking to her though she hadn't responded much to speech before, and he finally did "pull her out of the wall."
I am so grateful to be reminded of the enormous healing power of love -- it gives me hope to carry on.
If you want to listen to the Radiolab piece yourself -- and really, you should, they tell the story much better than I did -- here's the link: www.radiolab.org/2011/jan/25/finding-emilie/.
He raced to the hospital and then called his girlfriend's parents. Soon, all three of them were around her bed in the surgical intensive care unit. At first she was completely unresponsive. She remained that way long enough that the doctors decided she was brain-dead and asked her parents' permission to harvest her organs for donation. They were to have a family meeting with the medical staff the next day. That night, the young woman's mother said goodbye to her daughter, whispering in her ear how much she loved her and that she would love her forever. In response, the daughter raised her arm, proving that her brain was functioning.
Still, it was very difficult for anyone to communicate with her. When people would touch her, she would respond, sometimes violently. But since she had been deaf before the accident and the accident itself blinded her, communication was nearly impossible.
After she stabilized, a decision had to be made whether to send her to rehab or to a nursing home. Since she could not communicate, the doctors were going to send her to a nursing home. Her parents arranged to take her home to a nursing home in New Orleans, telling her boyfriend only after the decision was made. The last night, he was sitting with the woman he loved and at 3 in the morning, he remembered reading online about Anne Sullivan and Helen Keller. He picked up his girlfriend's hand and wrote in her palm, slowly, one letter at a time, "I love you." She said "Oh, you love me. Thank you." She didn't know who he was, but she had received the message and responded.
He continued finger-spelling into her palm, and she kept responding; he called the woman's mother to come to the hospital and she what was happening. The young woman started saying "pull me out of the wall," and her boyfriend would write in her palm, "I can't." At this point she knew his name because he had spelled it to her several times, but she didn't connect it with his identity.
Finally, he and the mother got her to agree to put in her hearing aids, and he spoke to her. Instantly, she knew his voice and came back to full mental awareness and responsiveness. She was able to go into rehab, and is still there and making progress.
I was so struck by the fact that it was the boyfriend's persistence, born out of his love, that brought that young woman back. It was his overwhelming desire to reach her that made him keep trying things -- finger spelling into her palm, talking to her though she hadn't responded much to speech before, and he finally did "pull her out of the wall."
I am so grateful to be reminded of the enormous healing power of love -- it gives me hope to carry on.
If you want to listen to the Radiolab piece yourself -- and really, you should, they tell the story much better than I did -- here's the link: www.radiolab.org/2011/jan/25/finding-emilie/.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
On not buying a house
Recently, I made an offer on a house. To my surprise, the offer was accepted. It was a very nice house, with lots of lovely exposed wood inside, a beautiful stone fireplace, and a view of a nearby pond. All fine. except. Except I went from the happy-nervous feeling of taking a big (very big), but positive step in one's life to feeling increasingly anxious, worried, afraid, almost panic-stricken.
I had come to Massachusetts to start a new job, leaving my significant other behind in another state and the plan was that I would buy a house here, my s.o. would sell the other house, move to Massachusetts and buy me out of half the new house. I had thought I could afford the house I bought, even if it took a few months for the other house to sell. But when faced with the reality, I couldn't stop worrying about how long it might take the other house to sell, and what might happen in the meantime to bring financial disaster on both of us.
This morning I felt so anxious I thought I might faint. I think the worst part was the feeling that if something really bad happened it would be my own fault, for doing something stupid, i.e., trying to buy a house before the other one was sold. It's one thing to have bad luck, but making a disastrous, stupid and avoidable mistake was more than I thought I could live with.
So I talked to a friend and my realtor and decided maybe the intense anxiety I was feeling was a message: Step away from the house. You don't want to do this, and you shouldn't do it without wanting to.
I decided to rescind my offer, to walk away from the lovely house with the beautiful view, because I'm not ready for the level of risk involved in buying a house at the limit of what I can afford on the hope that another house in another state is going to sell and make the whole enterprise work out..
So, my significant other is disappointed, and I'm disappointed. But I think I will sleep better, knowing that I'm not taking a large and potentially catastrophic risk. And also knowing that when the signals get loud enough, I am able to listen to my gut.
I had come to Massachusetts to start a new job, leaving my significant other behind in another state and the plan was that I would buy a house here, my s.o. would sell the other house, move to Massachusetts and buy me out of half the new house. I had thought I could afford the house I bought, even if it took a few months for the other house to sell. But when faced with the reality, I couldn't stop worrying about how long it might take the other house to sell, and what might happen in the meantime to bring financial disaster on both of us.
This morning I felt so anxious I thought I might faint. I think the worst part was the feeling that if something really bad happened it would be my own fault, for doing something stupid, i.e., trying to buy a house before the other one was sold. It's one thing to have bad luck, but making a disastrous, stupid and avoidable mistake was more than I thought I could live with.
So I talked to a friend and my realtor and decided maybe the intense anxiety I was feeling was a message: Step away from the house. You don't want to do this, and you shouldn't do it without wanting to.
I decided to rescind my offer, to walk away from the lovely house with the beautiful view, because I'm not ready for the level of risk involved in buying a house at the limit of what I can afford on the hope that another house in another state is going to sell and make the whole enterprise work out..
So, my significant other is disappointed, and I'm disappointed. But I think I will sleep better, knowing that I'm not taking a large and potentially catastrophic risk. And also knowing that when the signals get loud enough, I am able to listen to my gut.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Stray thoughts
This blog has not had much attention lately. But now that Lent has begun I will write about the feeling I have had sometimes lately that I am a spiritual fraud and a hypocrite. I say I want to serve God, but I get impatient any time someone in the car in front of me doesn't go at the speed I want them to go, or do whatever I think they should do.
More importantly, I don't do anything to serve others, which is the main way we serve God. After all, it's pretty simple: "inasmuch as you do it to the least of these my brothers and sisters, you do it to me," Jesus says, putting himself squarely in the camp of the homeless, the marginalized, the unattractive -- the sort of people "nice" people avoid. And I haven't even managed to find a way to serve "nice" people by visiting the hospital, or helping in any of dozens of other ways.
To be fair to myself, I have only been in my new home for a relatively few weeks. I imagine I'll find some way to connect with others in time. Still, I'm only too aware of my own discomfort with strangers, and how hard it can be to believe I have something of value to offer.
I also know, though, that when I do offer myself, I am nearly always rewarded many fold. People -- especially people in the hospital -- are hungry for connection and appreciate any morsel of genuineness you offer.
It's funny. Sometimes I think if we could all just be openly the people we are inside, in the quiet times, there might be more harmony in the world than there is with everyone putting on masks of toughness and bravado.
More importantly, I don't do anything to serve others, which is the main way we serve God. After all, it's pretty simple: "inasmuch as you do it to the least of these my brothers and sisters, you do it to me," Jesus says, putting himself squarely in the camp of the homeless, the marginalized, the unattractive -- the sort of people "nice" people avoid. And I haven't even managed to find a way to serve "nice" people by visiting the hospital, or helping in any of dozens of other ways.
To be fair to myself, I have only been in my new home for a relatively few weeks. I imagine I'll find some way to connect with others in time. Still, I'm only too aware of my own discomfort with strangers, and how hard it can be to believe I have something of value to offer.
I also know, though, that when I do offer myself, I am nearly always rewarded many fold. People -- especially people in the hospital -- are hungry for connection and appreciate any morsel of genuineness you offer.
It's funny. Sometimes I think if we could all just be openly the people we are inside, in the quiet times, there might be more harmony in the world than there is with everyone putting on masks of toughness and bravado.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The gift of not knowing
I've been thinking about the value of uncertainty in our lives, especially those transition times when we are beset by not-knowing: not knowing what direction to go in, not knowing what we want or how to obtain/achieve it, being unable to guess what shape our life will take next. This is, to my mind, a deeply spiritual topic, in part because it is at these transition moments that we are most open (vulnerable) to God, spirit, the universe.
Not-knowing is a very hard and sometimes scary place to be, but it is such a gift, because it calls us to rely on the God within -- our true core -- rather than our habits, learned responses and routine patterns of thought. We get to move deeper into who we are and experience the exhilaration of trusting ourselves and whatever higher power we believe in. We get to be surprised -- maybe not always pleasantly, but pleasant or not, surprise wakes us up.
Not knowing humbles us, reminding us that our knowledge and control are finite (and small). It teaches us to beware of self-satisfaction and reminds us that our lives are profoundly connected to all other life. It teaches us to value our friends, and to know who they are.
In shaking up our settled beliefs and routines, not knowing can be exciting, even as it is also scary.
When Jesus tells his followers in Chapter 6 of the Gospel according to Matthew that they shouldn't worry about what they will eat and what they will wear because God feeds the birds and clothes the lilies, he is making a similar point, I think. He is saying, "God knows you have physical needs, but don't let them keep you from taking a risk to become the person God made you to be." Don't worry so much, for example, about being sensible and pragmatic that you can't allow yourself to hear God's call in your heart and follow it.
But also, I think Jesus is advocating a way of living that is open, available to the moment and vulnerable. He's saying it's more important to engage authentically with other people than to make sure you have dinner on time or never miss a night's sleep. I'm nowhere near living in this way, but I wish I could be. In my own way, I try to be as open as I can.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
DOMA vs. the divine
I read yesterday in the New York Times that the U.S. Justice Dept. will no longer defend the indefensible Defense of Marriage Act. I'm glad for this (small) step, and hope that it will lead to larger ones, like the federal government's fully recognizing all legal marriages.
Marriage has been a civil institution for probably longer than it's been a religious institution, because the purposes of marriage as an institution are primarily civil -- keeping the property in the family and knowing who was entitled to inherit it. There is no actual religious purpose (i.e., nothing that makes one a better practitioner of any faith) served by marriage. Of course the church's (especially the Roman Catholic church's) purpose of making more members is served by having people married in the church, but that's really a secular purpose -- power and self-perpetuation -- not a religious one per se.
For perhaps a couple of centuries in the West the idea of marriage for love has gained widespread currency, though in many cases marriage was more about power and position for the well-to-do and about survival for the poor, especially in rural areas.
It is true that the Hebrew scriptures and the New Testament have some things to say about marriage, but they are more prescriptions about how people who enter into the civil contract of marriage should behave than rules for a religious rite. Some people say God established marriage, but anyone who thinks Adam and Eve were married in any but the common-law sense is just a ninny. They were the only two people on earth, for heaven's sake -- of course they got together!
I do see a value in the church's solemnizing the intimate relationships of its members. It helps support those relationships and encourages a sense of commitment between the partners. It also raises up the role of God in such relationships, which I think is important for the long-term health of any partnership.
But we must not confuse the church's role of blessing and celebrating a marriage with the state's role of authorizing and regulating it. Only the state grants a marriage license, and only the state grants benefits to its citizens on the basis of their marital status. These are not prerogatives of the church, nor should they be, any more than the state should tell churches which marriages to recognize.
At heart, I think people who oppose marriage for gays and lesbians are afraid that a group of people they despise will become as good as them in the eyes of society -- one less group to kick around. It's also about taking away the "thou shalt nots" of old fashioned, conservative belief and replacing them with a more reflective, relativistic code based on Jesus' two great commandments: love God with everything in you and love others as yourself. You can't love others and enforce a doctrinaire set of rules.
You can't love others and deny them equal rights.
And you can't love God and demand that God fit into your tiny little pigeonholes.
Marriage has been a civil institution for probably longer than it's been a religious institution, because the purposes of marriage as an institution are primarily civil -- keeping the property in the family and knowing who was entitled to inherit it. There is no actual religious purpose (i.e., nothing that makes one a better practitioner of any faith) served by marriage. Of course the church's (especially the Roman Catholic church's) purpose of making more members is served by having people married in the church, but that's really a secular purpose -- power and self-perpetuation -- not a religious one per se.
For perhaps a couple of centuries in the West the idea of marriage for love has gained widespread currency, though in many cases marriage was more about power and position for the well-to-do and about survival for the poor, especially in rural areas.
It is true that the Hebrew scriptures and the New Testament have some things to say about marriage, but they are more prescriptions about how people who enter into the civil contract of marriage should behave than rules for a religious rite. Some people say God established marriage, but anyone who thinks Adam and Eve were married in any but the common-law sense is just a ninny. They were the only two people on earth, for heaven's sake -- of course they got together!
I do see a value in the church's solemnizing the intimate relationships of its members. It helps support those relationships and encourages a sense of commitment between the partners. It also raises up the role of God in such relationships, which I think is important for the long-term health of any partnership.
But we must not confuse the church's role of blessing and celebrating a marriage with the state's role of authorizing and regulating it. Only the state grants a marriage license, and only the state grants benefits to its citizens on the basis of their marital status. These are not prerogatives of the church, nor should they be, any more than the state should tell churches which marriages to recognize.
At heart, I think people who oppose marriage for gays and lesbians are afraid that a group of people they despise will become as good as them in the eyes of society -- one less group to kick around. It's also about taking away the "thou shalt nots" of old fashioned, conservative belief and replacing them with a more reflective, relativistic code based on Jesus' two great commandments: love God with everything in you and love others as yourself. You can't love others and enforce a doctrinaire set of rules.
You can't love others and deny them equal rights.
And you can't love God and demand that God fit into your tiny little pigeonholes.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
On falling short of the mark again and again
Today's gospel reading was from the Sermon on the Mount. Jesus tells his followers that it's not enough not to murder, that if they are angry with a brother or sister, or insult someone, they are as guilty as if they had killed that person. He adds that refraining from adultery means not just staying out of beds you don't belong in, but not indulging in lustful thoughts about someone who is not your spouse/partner.
He's telling people they must follow not just the letter of the commandments, but the spirit. After all, if you stop short of killing someone but you still hate them or treat them badly, that is not really acting the way God wants us to act.
Elsewhere, Jesus neatly sums this up when he says the greatest commandment is to "love God with all your strength, all your soul and all your might" and the second-greatest is to "love you neighbor as yourself." If we truly love someone, we will not usually treat them with disrespect or do things to harm them. Sure, we may sometimes say hurtful things to people we love, but later we apologize and make up with them.
But it is so hard to catch ourselves in the heat of the moment and not say the hurtful thing, or not do that which might be gratifying in the moment, but could lead to years of regret. Big things and small, every day, we do and say things that are not loving to others -- that is, not in their best interest.
And it is a fact of the subjective nature of our reality that we really can't help doing and saying some hurtful things -- we can only try to reduce the number of such things and to repair the damage for those we recognize after the fact.
I am comforted by the idea that even my wanting to do right, to act in a loving way, matters. That even if I mess up a lot -- and I do -- the fact that I care about how I affect others, and want to do better makes some difference.
Another comforting thought is that God can use even my mess-ups and mistakes to bring about something good. God is the essence of creativity, and uses all the material to hand -- much of which is human fallibility, evil, misjudgment, etc. to bring creation back to its original state of perfection.
He's telling people they must follow not just the letter of the commandments, but the spirit. After all, if you stop short of killing someone but you still hate them or treat them badly, that is not really acting the way God wants us to act.
Elsewhere, Jesus neatly sums this up when he says the greatest commandment is to "love God with all your strength, all your soul and all your might" and the second-greatest is to "love you neighbor as yourself." If we truly love someone, we will not usually treat them with disrespect or do things to harm them. Sure, we may sometimes say hurtful things to people we love, but later we apologize and make up with them.
But it is so hard to catch ourselves in the heat of the moment and not say the hurtful thing, or not do that which might be gratifying in the moment, but could lead to years of regret. Big things and small, every day, we do and say things that are not loving to others -- that is, not in their best interest.
And it is a fact of the subjective nature of our reality that we really can't help doing and saying some hurtful things -- we can only try to reduce the number of such things and to repair the damage for those we recognize after the fact.
I am comforted by the idea that even my wanting to do right, to act in a loving way, matters. That even if I mess up a lot -- and I do -- the fact that I care about how I affect others, and want to do better makes some difference.
Another comforting thought is that God can use even my mess-ups and mistakes to bring about something good. God is the essence of creativity, and uses all the material to hand -- much of which is human fallibility, evil, misjudgment, etc. to bring creation back to its original state of perfection.
Friday, February 4, 2011
On being a blessing
We never know when we have blessed someone, when we may have been the very person they needed at a given moment. I have been reminded of this fact twice recently, both times when I was driving around my newly re-adopted hometown in Central Massachusetts. Yesterday, I was forced to take a detour on my way home because a house that had collapsed from the weight of snow on it was being demolished and the street was closed off. I wasn't sure how to get home, so I stayed on the street I was on, hoping another place to turn would come along. Eventually I stopped at a gas station to ask directions. The clerk behind the counter gave me one of the blankest looks I've ever had the misfortune to have turned on me. Lucky for me, her customer was able to tell me the way, and it turned out I was very close to home.
Then this morning, I was going to work, making my way through the narrow, snow-clogged streets of a blue-collar neighborhood and traffic in both directions came to a complete halt. I began to feel quite claustrophobic and was filled with panic. I put my car in park, got out and walked over to a vehicle trying to go in the opposite direction.
"Would you just talk to me for a minute, this is kind of a scary situation," I said to the young man behind the wheel. The woman next to him, whom I imagined to be his girlfriend, looked like she thought I was some kind of nut. But he talked to me in a calm and friendly way, saying he had seen a broken-down school bus behind him that was blocking traffic.
His kindness in talking to me for just a couple of minutes made me feel enough better to get back in my car, and soon the frozen traffic began, ever so slowly, to creep along. Just moving made me less panicky, and I was fine for the rest of the trip to work.
These two people turned up at moments when I needed help, and they blessed me with their presence.I am encouraged, thinking about them, to hope that I, too, have blessed others without knowing it.
Then this morning, I was going to work, making my way through the narrow, snow-clogged streets of a blue-collar neighborhood and traffic in both directions came to a complete halt. I began to feel quite claustrophobic and was filled with panic. I put my car in park, got out and walked over to a vehicle trying to go in the opposite direction.
"Would you just talk to me for a minute, this is kind of a scary situation," I said to the young man behind the wheel. The woman next to him, whom I imagined to be his girlfriend, looked like she thought I was some kind of nut. But he talked to me in a calm and friendly way, saying he had seen a broken-down school bus behind him that was blocking traffic.
His kindness in talking to me for just a couple of minutes made me feel enough better to get back in my car, and soon the frozen traffic began, ever so slowly, to creep along. Just moving made me less panicky, and I was fine for the rest of the trip to work.
These two people turned up at moments when I needed help, and they blessed me with their presence.I am encouraged, thinking about them, to hope that I, too, have blessed others without knowing it.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Something to get off my chest
This blog will be exactly what the title suggests: the musings of the author (a very minor saint, indeed) on religion and spirituality, from a Christian perspective, because the author is a Christian (or tries to be). Not one of the ones that don't like you if you're not Christian too, just an ordinary, live-and-let-live Christian.
Anyway, I have had something on my mind for a while: I heard a quote from the movie "Winter's Bone" that says, "Never ask for what ought to be offered." Now this bothers me very much. After all, just because you think something "ought" to be offered, why does that mean that the person who has what you want also thinks it ought to be offered. Why does everyone have to have the same attitude about it? How can someone else know you want/need something if you don't tell them?
And if you really do need it, I can't see that it's wrong to ask, or that your dignity is more important than getting what you need.
Jesus certainly doesn't encourage people to value their personal dignity above their ordinary needs.He says, "seek and you shall find, ask and you shall receive, knock and it shall be opened to you." I think it's important to remember that the person in the movie who expresses this prohibition on asking for things is a child -- one in a desperate situation who is trying to survive emotionally as well as physically. Perhaps this insistence on her sense of dignity is necessary to her ability to carry on, but it is not what a mature person does.
A mature person knows that her needs cannot be met by others unless she communicates them. Never mind whether it "ought" to be offered. If it's important and you need it -- ASK!
'Nuff said
Anyway, I have had something on my mind for a while: I heard a quote from the movie "Winter's Bone" that says, "Never ask for what ought to be offered." Now this bothers me very much. After all, just because you think something "ought" to be offered, why does that mean that the person who has what you want also thinks it ought to be offered. Why does everyone have to have the same attitude about it? How can someone else know you want/need something if you don't tell them?
And if you really do need it, I can't see that it's wrong to ask, or that your dignity is more important than getting what you need.
Jesus certainly doesn't encourage people to value their personal dignity above their ordinary needs.He says, "seek and you shall find, ask and you shall receive, knock and it shall be opened to you." I think it's important to remember that the person in the movie who expresses this prohibition on asking for things is a child -- one in a desperate situation who is trying to survive emotionally as well as physically. Perhaps this insistence on her sense of dignity is necessary to her ability to carry on, but it is not what a mature person does.
A mature person knows that her needs cannot be met by others unless she communicates them. Never mind whether it "ought" to be offered. If it's important and you need it -- ASK!
'Nuff said
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