Rebuilding

Met today with my priest friend in Lodi and their choir director, who's considering CDSP. We had lunch at a Thai place, and I talked about school. It was really kind of neat. I do love what I'm doing, and I have no doubts that it's right, even though I don't know clearly how I'll get to where I'm going.

I'm also happy for a break. I'm hanging out at the Apostle in Exile's house for a couple weeks, long enough to go to my friends' ordinations in SF before I'm due in Seattle. Yesterday, all I did was go online, wash dishes, and sleep. Resting, recovering. I'm better now.

And learning. I understood something the other night, and it's important enough to post here. Something had brought up old fears in me, and I was trying to tell her what I was going through. It was like looking around at where I had lived, and seeing Hiroshima. Exploded house after exploded house, splintered wood and broken glass everywhere. I was picking up random pieces and trying to hammer them together, not even sure which was my house, just working with my head down. Every time I looked up, the devastation seemed bigger. I couldn't see the end of it. I was alone, and all I knew was that I had to keep working. But nothing I was doing made any kind of dent.

We talked a long time. I don't remember what she finally said, or how I answered, but in the act of answering, I got it: I know, and have always known, that I'm called to be a healer. But I've never really known what it's like to be safe at home. (I haven't had abusive partners, and my parents and I are reconciling.) I've been hacking at houses, trying to do what I'm supposed to, but I've been missing three pieces: 1) I am not, and never have been, truly alone in the work that is mine; 2) Everyone is responsible for their own houses, and lots of people are out here with at least the sense to wear gloves, already; and 3) I need my own safe place to sleep, before I can be competent at helping anybody else. I need to find true and deep safety in myself, my God, and my community. Healing is a joyful thing; it's not supposed to relentlessly break your back.

Relief. I know what my work is, and I know I can do it. She asked where God is in this. God is, obviously, in friends who let you feel what you're feeling, who can hold you without holding in your hurt, who don't freak out because their love isn't a Band-Aid. God is also in these images. I could never have recognized the right kind of drills and hammers (counseling, spiritual direction, trust, and love) if I hadn't seen clearly the havoc I've been working with. I couldn't have seen that the help I need is all around me.

I think I might help out at Habitat this summer. Put some physicality into this whole vision, and give something that's truly useful in doing so.