Between Atwater and San Francisco

This past week has changed me. I’ve had two vastly different experiences of what it means to be church, and to do community. Their proximity clarified my calling.

I know that my place is with the exiles.

I’ve already written about Atwater last Sunday, and how it felt to worship in a church which was, though we weren’t sure of it yet, being stolen. I wrote about the courage I witnessed from the vicar, Fred Risard, and how it felt to worship in solidarity with a community that had refused to follow San Joaquin's former bishop out of the Episcopal Church. There are some things I’ve kept to myself, mostly, and I’m still processing how witnessing spiritual abuse—and, even if only glancingly, experiencing it—woke me up and galvanized me.

The following afternoon, Christmas Eve, I served at my home parish in San Francisco. St. A's was wonderful. Creative, loving, chaotic; its usual, joyful self. I love them and part of me would be happy in that sort of environment forever, doing community and playing with liturgy in the midst of active, involved, committed people.

But doing church in established parishes and doing church in exile are two different things. I need to be with the exiles. That's what's real to me.

This calling comes in bits and pieces. I've known since NOLA last spring that I'm energized by mission. (Before that, I was, but saw what I was doing in places like the Catholic Worker house as, simply, good work.) I didn't see this piece until I pulled up in the Apostle in Exile’s driveway on Christmas Eve night. She had worshipped with St. Francis in exile, meeting at a Methodist church in Turlock, 45 minutes or so down the Valley from her home. I asked her how it was.

She answered, "Wonderful." I said, "I know."

The Revs. Mark Hall and Kathy Galicia concelebrated. That is a huge celebration of freedom in San Joaquin, where women have never been allowed to be ordained. (Vic Rivera moved out of a tightly-held position, to help consecrate his daughter. John-David… we don’t need to go there.)

Being in Atwater last Sunday was just like talking to people on the street in New Orleans. Strange and horrible that this is the parallel—it's totally wrong, but it's right. Both groups have been harmed by the power structures governing them, in which they were always taught to place their trust. There is a real need for advocacy. They need to tell their stories. (I’m going back to NOLA in four days, to spend a month listening.) And these are the people—the marginalized, forgotten, mistreated—whom I need to be with. I think I'd be happy doing mainstream parish ministry—and it'd be so easy, if I were called to that—but I need to at least begin this, on the edges. I can't even say right now, why, other than that's where I belong. My place is with the exiles. They are my people.

There is a possibility I could do field ed in San Joaquin; I need to talk with my bishop, and meet with the person who brought it up to me. I joke about getting hives driving down the east side of Altamont; now I'm chomping at the bit to be a part of the rebirthing here.

I e-mailed much of this to a friend, and later copied it to my prayer group at church. I know that I have the blessing of my parish to do whatever I’m called to do. Right now, they’re helping me figure out what that calling is. I know how the vestry would respond to these paragraphs: "God bless you. Go. But why do you need the sacraments?" The only answer I have right now is, I need the tools to nurture community. I have to be able to take food to hungry people.

I know it isn't enough. But it's all I know, and I know it.

What started out as a quick reminder

…in case you, like me, need these from time to time.

There is always enough love to go around.

I’m not speaking glibly of intimate relationships; I don’t have the authority, experience, or chutzpah to do that. I don’t want you to be hurt by what I say, if you’re troubled about your own situation. But this is what happened to me:

A friend, whose caring I trust, did something yesterday that was actually pretty wonderful. But it inspired this weird jealous twinge in me. I knew it was irrational as soon as I felt it, but alas, the feeling was there.

After I got done saying to myself, “What in hell was THAT?!”, I breathed. I had an impulse to focus on loving them more—and I followed it. It worked; the twinge went away, and I felt more open, more loving, more the person I want to be.

I know what it’s like to really not have enough love. I remember that pain, that frustration, that terror. If that is you, right now, thank you for having read this far—I probably wouldn’t have, when I was there. What I can share with you is faith, that you will find a friend you can trust enough to start letting love in, and you will start daring to love back, and over time you will be transformed. You will give, what you’ve been given. You will be able to love yourself, and love the world.

I can say that because it happened to me—and because I believe with all my being that we were created to be whole.

Our wounds are not separate from our wholeness. A Catholic friend said recently, “We are all wounded. And we all are part of the Resurrection.” It struck a deep chord with me. I wanted to escape the wounded parts of me for a long, long time. When I really started healing, I didn't anymore. You don’t grow out of pain, or out of hurt-child reactions. You grow through them. It is that growing, which transforms us. You will remember who you are, and who you were. That is where your love and your empathy will come from. That is the gift you can give.

There is always enough love to go around.

Grace

The wildest thing just happened.

I prayed for healing for the people who hurt me, before I went to sleep. I felt like I ought to, and I honestly could; it wasn’t any kind of a self-sacrificial thing. I did it at the same time as I give thanks for all the blessings of this life. I didn’t pray for me, but for them.

I had a dream last night, in which they showed up. When I woke up, I was able to love them, without feeling tangled.

Am I still angry? Still hurt, still grieving? Yes. But it's gentler, now. Love embraces everything else—and it's not any kind of spiritual/emotional martyrdom; it's real. It's not even that I'm forgiving them; I'd be short-circuiting too much, if I tried to do that now. I love them, because they're held by the same God as me.

I'm used to pure surreality in my dreams. They're not that way, anymore.

If you make a conscious decision to open yourself to God, know this: You will be different.

Epiphany

…or the latest in a series that shows no sign of stopping, for which I am both grateful and breathless.

I volunteered yesterday morning at my church; our administrator’s on a rare vacation, and we needed phone-answerers. It was a beautiful, crisp, sunny day in the city, and the drive back and forth across the bridge wasn’t bad at all, with a new favorite CD in my knockoff iPod. I got a preview of our Advent set-up, and I love it. Chatted with my rector a little, and did a bit of the MDG work I’m so jazzed about. Did some of the homework I’d brought with me.

Caught a quick lunch at Brewed Awakening (a wrap and carrot-orange juice), and raced up the hill to a counseling appointment. She asked me how I was.

I answered, “Back to feeling capable.”

Yeah. Back. to. feeling. capable. You’d have to have known me longer than this fall, to know how huge that is. I was a poster child for self-doubt, my whole life until recently. I could imagine capability, but never felt I had it. Being at the Ranch healed me of the anger and burnout I’d gone up there with, and helped me find some peace that is deeper than all of my brokenness. I came back here with the energy to do soul-work, and I’ve done it; focusing on courage, rather than competence, but knowing I was showing both. I was really knocked off my feet, at the beginning of this month; enraged and hurt, but I couldn’t even cry for two weeks. Then I spent most of Thanksgiving week at my best friend’s house, crying a little, laughing a lot, and regrouping. (She is family, in every sense that counts. If you, like me, have reason to look, you will find it.)

I had something to “regroup” back into. And I did it. I was a complete slug for about a week; couldn’t focus on my work, couldn’t create anything. Now, I can, again. I have my head back, and my heart. I feel strong, and I’m joyful.

I’m not done with the anger or grieving—but it’s work I can wrap my hands around. It doesn’t overwhelm me anymore, and I don’t resent its presence as work I have to do. There are layers under layers, and it takes time—but I know there will be an end to it. Through this whole ordeal, I never doubted my own intrinsic, whole self. Dear God, that’s tremendous. I’m rejoicing, not only in the sense of capability but in the return to it—and in the already taking for granted that it’s there.

Thank you, all of you who pray for and with me. Rejoice with me.

Alleuia, amen.

5 Things I'm Not Afraid Of Anymore

A twist on the meme below. If I’m going to talk about fear, I’m also going to celebrate the absence of it.

1) Anger

2) Loss

3) Grief

4) The idea that I’m not intrinsically “good enough”

5) Public speaking

None of these cause panic any more. I'm looking levelly at each of them. Of all of these, only (4) no longer exists—and that was a mountain in itself. Getting past the fear of each represents work, grace, love, and faith. I’ve learned so much about myself; I can do so much more than survive.

And I actually really enjoy preaching now. That process has always been transformative. I've learned to speak, to tell a story, to let the process transform me. I get to do it again at church in two weeks, and I’m really looking forward to it.

Alleluia, amen.

All That You Have Is Your Soul

Pain is just pain. Grief bites (!), but you don't need to fear it. It cannot injure you any more. You will find people who can sit with you in it, who can hold you while you shake and cry and rage. And I really am sorry, but the only way out is through.

The only way into humanity, is fearlessly and open-hearted. This is true and honorable strength: knowing well your own demons, to wrap your arms around another while she learns to wrestle hers.

Love is a damned courageous thing to do. Keep at it.

If you are one of those who helped me learn these truths, thank you and God bless you. I will live them.

***
If you know this, sing it with me. For all whose literal story this tells, and for all who know that there is nothing else worth owning.

Thank you, Tracy Chapman. "All That You Have Is Your Soul," Crossroads, 1990.

Oh my mama told me
'Cause she say she learned the hard way
She say she wanna spare the children
She say don't give or sell your soul away
'Cause all that you have is your soul

Well I was a pretty young girl once
I had dreams I had high hopes
I married a man he stole my heart away
He gave his love but what a high price I paid
All that you have is your soul

So don't be tempted by the shiny apple
Don't you eat of a bitter fruit
Hunger only for a taste of justice
Hunger only for a word of truth
'Cause all that you have is your soul

Why was I such a young fool?
Thought I'd make history
Making babies was the best I could do
Thought I'd made something that could be mine forever
Found out the hard way one can't possess another
And all that you have is your soul

So don't be tempted by the shiny apple
Don't you eat of a bitter fruit
Hunger only for a taste of justice
Hunger only for a word of truth
'Cause all that you have is your soul

I thought, thought that I could find a way
To beat the system
Make a deal and have no debts to pay
I'd take it all, I’d take it all, I'd run away
Me for myself, first class and first rate
But all that you have is your soul

So don't be tempted by the shiny apple
Don't you eat of a bitter fruit
Hunger only for a taste of justice
Hunger only for a word of truth
'Cause all that you have is your soul

Here I am, I'm waiting for a better day
A second chance
A little luck to come my way
I hope to dream, I hope that I can sleep again
And wake in the world with a clear conscience and clean hands
'Cause all that you have is your soul

So don't be tempted by the shiny apple
Don't you eat of a bitter fruit
Hunger only for a taste of justice
Hunger only for a word of truth
'Cause all that you have is your soul

Oh my mama told me
'Cause she say she learned the hard way
She say she wanna spare the children
She say don't give or sell your soul away
'Cause all that you have is your soul

All that you have
All that you have
All that you have
Is your soul

Yay for solidity!

I saw my counselor this afternoon, for the first time since last spring. I was as honest with her as I’ve been with my closest friends. Neither of us denied anything about who I am or where I’ve been. And it was so completely validating.

Grief is grief, and I’m going to have to go through it, for this immediate issue and for what’s underneath. That’s the only way really to heal, and to turn the hunger switch off. But I really have come far, and I have a ton of good, healthy love and support around me. I know I can do this. It hurts, but it feels manageable.

I wish I had time to focus on it. I don’t. I’ve been a slug for a crucial few days, work-wise, and I’m so far behind now it’s not acceptable. But my mind feels awake again.

Yeah. Back in the land of the living. Thank you all, so much.

Ten-Twenty-Thirty

I don’t have time to do this, but I’m not getting done what I need to, today, so I might as well. Eileen tagged me for this awhile ago; Mother Laura did this morning, so I’m going to go ahead and play.

Ten years ago (1997): I was living in a house in the Westside Co-op neighborhood of Olympia with friends from college, working/volunteering at the co-op and working in retail hell, while I sorted out what I wanted to do. One of those friends’ fathers was (and is) an Episcopal priest. She attended church in town, sometimes. I was very involved with my interfaith community, but I remember feeling God poking at me. I was nowhere near being in a position to do anything about that, yet, but I picked up some practices that I held very deeply for awhile. I did a lot of writing.

The following year, I moved to Seattle and worked with homeless preschool kids. I also haunted the cathedral. I wasn’t ready to make the leap home, yet, but when I did (in 2003), those stirrings had always been there.

Twenty years ago (1987): I was in the fall of my senior year of high school, beginning an argument with my parents that would last all year, because they wanted me at a traditional college and I wanted to go to Evergreen. This was solved at my grandparents’ house, probably that spring. My grandfather had retired from a job with Health, Education, and Welfare (DSHS now, but education was his thing). He interrupted with, “Evergreen—that’d be really good for you.”

Yahtzee.

Other than that… AP classes, hanging out with geeky friends (Knowledge Bowl and Hi-Q), deep discussions about spirituality with my French teacher after school, generally having a good time while chomping at the bit to leave that town. I knew in December where I’d go to school, so the pressure was off me early.

DioOlympia’s youth programs (HYC and Search; the first of which has always existed and the latter I believe is resurrecting) were enormously formative. I didn’t realize the full value of a safe, nurturing place for questions until long after I’d aged out.

I wasn’t really a rocker, more of both a pop kid and a folkie, influenced by spending part of every summer at Girl Scout camp. I managed to listen to a lot of both Holly Near and U2.

Wrote a lot of poetry. I pretty much stopped when I went to college; the medium wasn’t mine, anymore.

Thirty years ago (1977) I was in second grade. Probably reading a lot, and avoiding math. My best friend lived two doors up from me, on our cul-de-sac; we were two of only three kids our age on our street. We also were the two slowest runners. She had red hair, and gorgeous brown eyes that I was jealous of. She was the second of four kids in an evangelical-Christian family (her baby brother was born after they moved); I was an only, and an Episcopalian. (Though I had no idea what that meant yet, our beliefs were clearly different; she was genuinely afraid of going to hell for lying.) I don’t remember now what we had in common, but we were pretty much inseparable. She moved across town the following year, and we lost touch. I haven’t heard from her since bumping into her parents when I was home from college; we were 19. I don’t know where she is now, but I know her kids are teens. Our lives took really different directions.

I also remember my teacher moving away, and getting a new one mid-year. My first second-grade teacher told me not to write my name in cursive, because I wasn’t supposed to know it until third. (Really. She could tell it was me; that’s the point of writing your name, yes?) Her replacement apparently liked me; I had her again in fourth and sixth.

I don't know who to tag; this meme has been around for awhile. Play along, if you want.

Redemption, as it comes

I spent the weekend with a friend, soaking up unconditional love and recovering some sense of perspective. It was the best place I could have been.

I told her that I knew God was with me—but I couldn’t figure out where, because I couldn’t find the redemptive value in this anger and hurt. [I still can’t speak directly of what happened a week ago, in the context of a different relationship. There’s no way to do it without violating confidences.] I’ve been thinking about redemption, ever since.

This relationship is absolutely solid. My friend has seen the worst in me, and the full range of all that I am, for two and a half years. She’s seen me hit crises and grow through them, more times than I can count. She let me lean on her, because she knew I wouldn’t always. We relate as equals now—and I can still go to her when I need to. I didn’t fall apart over the weekend, but it would have been okay if I had.

How do you get to that level of love and trust? You work for it. It takes time, and patience. You have to be willing to be open; you have to be able to forgive the other’s weaknesses (or not see them as needing forgiveness, to begin with). You have to love fiercely and defiantly; you have to be willing to let yourself trust. You have to be committed to the path, and paths, you’re walking. You have to be present.

I asked her to take off her friend-eyes and look at me objectively. I feel stronger than I had before the summer—but from inside myself, it’s hard to quantify the change. I asked what she sees in me that’s different.

Her answer? Courage, confidence, and joy. Even through the hurt, the shock, the bafflement, the seething of this present moment.

Why? Because of the questions I’m asking. Because I can take teasing, and God-talk. And because I’m still able to smile.

She’s right; I hadn’t known it was obvious. And I know that what is in my core is mine. It can be grown, and nurtured into fullness. It cannot be taken.

I’m also thinking about who I am and what kind of friend I want to be. I don’t think I could love everyone, indiscriminately, that selflessly. I’m just not good at two in the morning. But I do know I still want to rush headlong at the world. I still understand ministry as, essentially, love. I still get excited when I think of myself as being given over to God, part of this cosmic relationship that includes and embraces every living being. I’m still open to life.

I’ve been really hurt. I’ve also called on the love of several good friends, this week. They have given it without reservation, as time, truth, hugs, listening, and laughter. I honor what these gifts have taught me. I choose to learn what I need to learn, grieve what I need to grieve, and be both honest and gentle with myself. I choose to keep my heart open, and connected. In this is resurrection and redemption. This is the only way I know to be whole.

Looking for a mantra?

Do you need a healing earworm? Here's one of mine. I learned it from the community I was part of before I went back to church; most of the kids there went to an alternative elementary school in Olympia, and some of the adults were in the parent band. They taught us this song. The tune is really simple; not much more than a chant, really. I think if you Google it, you might find audio samples online.

My Roots Go Down

My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down.

I am a pine tree on a mountainside
I am a pine tree on a mountainside
I am a pine tree on a mountainside
My roots go down.

My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down.

I am a wildflower reaching for the sun
I am a wildflower reaching for the sun
I am a wildflower reaching for the sun
My roots go down.

My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down.

I am a waterfall skipping home
I am a waterfall skipping home
I am a waterfall skipping home
My roots go down.

My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down.

I am every living thing
I am every living thing
I am every living thing
My roots go down.

My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down, down to the earth
My roots go down.

"You do not have to be good."

The tape is playing again. Not, “I’m not good enough”—because thank God, I genuinely believe that I am—but “I don’t know how to be good enough,” in response/reaction to my perception of another’s expectations. I don’t know how to be anything other than who I am. And I know how unreasonable it is to try. But I still want to.

I want to keep something; I don’t know if I can. Above that, I need to be true to me.

I know how far I've come; I'm holding on to that faith, in God and in me. Pray with me for courage, for endurance, and for listening to wisdom.

Rapid growth—as much as I'm thankful for it—is damned disorienting. It's also disorienting, when you think you're past something—and you're not.

Back in the boat, again.

Proof, positive

Yesterday was interesting. I damn near aced a quiz I hadn’t done the reading for. Caught BART into the city after class, to help with the food pantry at St. A's. I’d never done that; it was really fun. Aside from the Ranch, I haven’t done any volunteer work at all since May. This got me outside of myself, interacting with other people. Actually doing ministry. How about that?

Adopted-mom goes once a month or so. I’m going to keep it up—it’s too much fun, and too good for the world, not to.

Ran around with Calabash family all afternoon, and back to church with them in the evening, to the pet memorial service. That was really an experience. It was interfaith, between us and a Buddhist cleric, and beautifully done. It took me to a place in myself, that I don’t think I’ve ever been to.

The topic of pets takes me directly to childhood. I was thinking of my grandparents’ dog (who died when she and I were both ten), and a cat we had from when I was around eight, into college. I wasn’t really grieving them, though—I was just grieving. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t fall apart at all. I just was in a deeply quiet place. A self-sufficiently quiet place. I got lots of hugs, and I wanted most of them—but I wasn’t feeling like other people had to hold me up. At a different time, I would have fallen apart on the people I was closest to. Childhood-grief and guilt would have torn me up. I didn’t, and it didn’t. I said, I’m okay and this is what’s up, and they hugged me—but I didn’t lose my own strength.

When my friend Michael cut his leg on a nail in NOLA, our friend Judy described the healing process. She said it had to granulate; the cells closest to the bone had to regrow. I think that might be what’s happening. I absolutely knew I’d be loved through this—and I absolutely was, in ways that surprised me—but there was something deeper going on. I chose to go to that grief, and stay with it. I wasn’t swept there. I had support on both sides of me, when I wanted it. Between times, I just let myself feel, and watched other people. I didn't go to grasping. I wasn’t in a “Help me” place; it was more, “You get it. Thank you.” Part of my quietness was awe: “oh my God, I really am all right.”

I wrote a month ago, “I’m trying to figure out how to be responsible about this love-trust-need conflation I have going, and how to grow through and beyond it.”

I really think I’ve done that. Because it isn’t happening. It’s no longer a question of being responsible—the conflation no longer exists. It just isn’t there. I have bones now.

Yay and alleluia, ever yet again.

Walking

I keep going back to the story I preached about: Jesus healing the paralytic. What this really feels like, though, is much more primal. It’s like a baby learning to walk. I can walk, now—but I haven’t fully realized that I can. I keep looking around in total amazement, thinking, “Wow. I’m standing up!”

The event that triggered this work-time is only that event. In retrospect, I’m honestly thankful for it. (The others involved were completely forgiving; I think they’d be okay with me admitting that.) The issues resolving are so much deeper than that particular anxiety. I wrote that I don’t know how to be solid. I don’t have to know it. I can feel it. I’m me—but I don’t think of myself as broken. This new reality is more embodied all the time.

I used to think, reflexively, “I’m not good enough.” I don’t remember before I thought that way, and I think I stopped last week. Now, I can barely remember what that felt like. I don’t feel superhuman, and though this reads really self-absorbed, it’s not an ego trip. I feel as capable as anybody else. I’m showing it, also: I’m on top of the personal stuff, and looking my teachers in the eye. If you know me, you know how huge all of these things are.

My friend laughed at/with me for bouncing. I couldn’t stop laughing, talking on the phone, but I didn’t and don’t feel particularly bouncy. I feel grounded. And becoming more so, all the time.

A teacher I worked with three years ago used to tell me he could see my wings. (He was a cross between Obi-Wan Kenobi and Buddha, and was just that way.)* I couldn’t, then, but I appreciated his vision. Now, what I know I have is legs. I can feel the strength in them. I’ll get to flying, when and if that’s my experience. For now, this strong, stretching body is more than enough.

Yay and alleluia, yet again.

*I gave him this link. He wrote back, "Yoda, always, I wanted to be." Okay, P., Yoda, you are. The least I can do, it is. :-)
You, I owe much to.

Thinking about solidity

I’m in a really great place. That which I’ve been working for was crystallized for me last week at the Ranch: trust, love without grasping. I’ve been making these insane leaps of progress, understanding and experiencing flashes of where I need to be. I know that I am past the panic that precipitated this soul-work, and if I have questions, I can approach them from a place of deeper wholeness. I’m not doubting myself at all, in the moment. I feel confident, and I can say that I’m genuinely happy now.

I know that this is God’s work in me. I'm only beginning to ask how to sustain it. It’s all so completely new. The people I’m close to are rejoicing with me. My community supports me in this work, and trusts me to do it. I’m as committed as committed can be. I have been the walking paralytic. The next step is to lose the “paralytic” identity, and just walk, because humans do.

When I was… 23 I think, my parents, grandmother, and I went to Cannon Beach, OR, for Christmas. I think it was the winter after my grandfather died. I almost didn’t go with them; the deal was that I could if I didn’t “rock the boat.” That meant conform to absolutely everything: I got yelled at in the grocery store for expressing a preference of salad dressings. We were there for a week, and one night I couldn’t take it anymore. I essentially snuck out, and walked into town and back. It was raining off and on, and so windy on the beach that it was hard to stand against it. I walked down the beach into town, and along the streets back up the hill. I remember stopping under a dripping, windswept tree, alone in the dark, and just standing there, breathing. I did an impromptu visualization, connecting my own roots to the earth. I was trying to tell myself, you will be okay.

A year ago, I asked my friend Max to teach me how to speak slowly. She taught me a meditation. Here’s how you do it: Take off your shoes. Stand on the earth if you can; on the floor, if you have to. Bend down and breathe into your back, feeling your muscles relax and expand. Stand up, touch your stomach, breathe with your diaphragm. Consciously, until you get the rhythm and feel of it. Then… visualize your legs and feet as roots, pushing down through the subfloor, into the soil that supports, feeds, and nurtures you. As you inhale, slowly, draw water through those roots, up through your body. Hold it briefly with your diaphragm, then release it up through your lungs, and exhale, letting your breath fall as air back down to the earth.

Repeat, until you know you’re grounded.

I didn’t need to do it at the Ranch, but it’s a good practice while I’m in the city, and I’ll take it up again.

Yes, I’m doing great—but it doesn’t feel real, yet. I’m working on knowing how to walk, until the motions are just as natural in a windstorm. Right now, I only can talk about it in metaphorical language. These are new skills, and the weather is fine. I know I can claw my way out of just about anything. When I have had to do that, I always could. But I’d really rather keep myself steady, so I don’t need to unsheath my claws at every incline.

I can imagine what it’s like to be solid. I think I know how to get there: just keep practicing courage, until the need to do so drops off. Essentially, keep doing what I’m doing now. I suspect I won’t feel the shift; it’ll simply stop being a question.

My friends will know I’m there before I will. You’ll know, when I stop writing about it.

Filling up and spilling over

…it’s an endless waterfall.

I’ve been doing specific soul-work, with a specific provocation, and with a specific goal in mind. The effects of it are sprouting everywhere.

I have a teacher now, who taught me both Early and Medieval Church History two years ago. I was struggling a lot: what am I doing here; why aren’t I better at this (“I used to be ‘gifted’; what happened to me?”), grating against the academic and personal judgements of others. It was a really difficult time, and when I got behind in his class then, I was too afraid to talk to him about it.

I e-mailed him yesterday morning, saying I know I didn't do X and this is why; it’s a one-time thing and won’t happen again. He wrote back, “OK, thanks for telling me.” I went to class and looked him in the eye. I didn’t need to hide anything. He was totally open and friendly back.

I had a crisis last spring, when I came back from NOLA and couldn’t/wouldn’t get it out of my head enough to prioritize school. I made my peace with another teacher about a month ago. I don’t have her now, but will again in the spring. The anger, guilt, and fear are totally gone. We are completely fine now, and I know she respects me. I wrote her last week, saying thanks again for being open to that. She said she’s glad we’re eye to eye again too.

You do soul-work because you’re provoked by feeling horrible. Often when you feel better, you stop. Even in the beginning of this current time, it wasn’t a crisis. I did this work and school together, and I got both of them done. I never felt like I was having a breakdown. The more I’ve worked through, the clearer the next step has been. I’m doing great now, and I still know what’s in front of me. It doesn’t scare me at all. It’s just more work, more learning, more practice. I can get my hands, and my head, around it. It’s not overwhelming.

I’m feeling like I’ve never been in this particular skin before—but it’s home. I’m more comfortable in, and with, myself than I remember being. I have more confidence than I’ve ever had. The reflexive “I’m not good enough” is NOT happening. That’s been lurking in my darkness forever. My darkness, right now, is not there. There is light in all corners; some of them are dusty, but I can see them.

Yay for God, yay for the Ranch, yay for me, and yay for the people who love and support me.

Finding home, in myself

I went to church yesterday, and spent the rest of the day with adopted family. I hadn't gotten to hang out with them in about a month; either they or I had been busy or gone. It's a month, that a lot of personal work has happened in.

We had a really good time. I was in a quiet mood, but I haven't laughed that much in ages. And I kept noticing things in myself that were different—nothing huge, but lots of significant small things. I'm in a different place—a stronger, more secure, more authentic place—and I've never been here before, but it feels like home.

They saw it too, from the first second they saw me. I went to the Ranch, did everything I did there, and came back looking visibly healthy.

Yay and alleluia.

The march on Saturday was great, or at least the parts I attended. I met Bishop Marc and the rest of our group at Grace Cathedral, and we marched, singing, down the hill to the Civic Center. I stayed for a few of the speakers: a student leader, Code Pink, Tom Ammiano, and my bishop—and then my homework called me, and I left. (I don't know where Dolores Park is, or even if I just spelled it right, and didn't feel like navigating Muni as well as BART to get home. Also, I'd just come from a retreat center out in nowhere, and was feeling crowded out in the city.)

As I was leaving, others came in; the labor contingent was huge, and the total number of marchers was something like 10,000. I'm really glad it happened, and that I got to be part of it, and on a different day I'd have stayed for everything.

Monday. Ugh. Gotta go.

Back in Berkeley

…and exhausted. I woke up way earlier than I needed to, this morning, and couldn’t go back to sleep. (I’d been thinking of going on a sunrise hike, but it was way foggy until after lunch.)

What I’ve done today:

• Hosted breakfast
• Packed my stuff and cleaned my room
• Went to lunch (wasn’t hosting)
• Wandered for close to two hours through the creekbed, Gina’s Orchard, and what I think of as the back way to the peace pole—it wouldn’t really take that long, but I walked slow and stopped a lot, both praying and taking pictures of October
• Said bye to the staff until next month; I have to coordinate my rota and syllabi to see when works best to go back
• Drove for two hours; first past the wineries and through Sebastopol (thank you Sean), and then in bumper-to-bumper traffic all the way through Marin
• Called "Calabash family" to tell them I was safe (they worry about my car, with reason) and to ask when I'm serving at church; laughed when I realized it'll still be October, and I already knew I wasn't scheduled
  
• Picked at dinner; I miss real food too much
• Found missing church rota, in a pile on my floor; picked it up
  
• Put my suitcase on my bed, intending to unpack it—which I will do before I crawl in
• Checked e-mail and messed around some more with Firefox

I need to organize myself for tomorrow; I have reading that I never got to, and I’m going into the city to march for peace with my bishop. That’s really why I came back today.

I’m academically behind now, but no more than usual, and it’s not insurmountable. I did the soul-work I needed to last week, and I don’t regret any of it. If anything, I ought to have walked more. Every time I opened myself, something amazing happened. God and that place are a powerful combination.

Do I still have snags? Yeah. But I understand them better now. And I know what I need to do, when they come up.

Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.

Reconnection

I am having a fantastic time here. Busy, yes—doing things I love. Being outside, meeting people, sharing this place with them.

I was walking out of the refectory after dinner, on my way to run some errand for somebody, when I realized I’d forgotten how happy I am. I was momentarily startled by the verb tense—then realized it was spot on. This place, this work, these people bring me back to… if not who I am, then a place in me that I haven’t been visiting enough.

I feel really, deeply drawn to mission work, calling-wise. But if I could do this forever, I would.

There has to be a way to weave them together, or to do that with this spirit. I can feel myself glowing. That’s being alive.

You have to pay attention, to what gives you joy. :-)

My day got better

I was really draggy all morning; physically and existentially tired, and tired of wrestling. Oddly enough, what snapped me out of it was going to class.

My Monday afternoon class is Christian Theologies of Judaism. It's discussion-intensive--five students and one faculty--and I hadn't finished my reading, but I'd done enough to participate. We had a really lively discussion: sin and how each faith deals with it; theologies of the cross; incarnation; whether what we believe and teach matters, or if it's all down to action. It turned out to be really fun.

Went from there to Evening Prayer; the Daughters of the King chapter here presented a healing liturgy they'd put together. There was time to be individually prayed for, and I had hands laid on me. I can't remember exactly what my friend said, but they were just the right words: about strength, courage, dependence on God, and being a conduit of love for the world. I walked taller, after that.

Exactly. I think I know how the paralytic felt.

All I want to do now is sleep. See the timestamp? I can't, yet--but I'm feeling much better. More alive, more myself, happier than I've been in awhile.

Alleluia.

A note from the belly of the fish

I don't know if today's and yesterday's postings make sense, outside of myself. I hope they do. I'm posting for two reasons: accountability, and in the event that others have been or will be where I am. I'm both looking for light, and offering my own.

Tired, and feeling down today. I’ve been working too hard on the personal stuff—thinking too much, trying too hard. I need to rest and regroup. I don’t know how to do that, without dropping it completely—and that’s not an option.

I feel like hibernating, but even if I could, it wouldn’t be good for me.

I know that the people I care about, who know about this struggle, respect what I’ve been up to. More than that, they love me for who I am. I know that ultimately, by other humans and by God, I’m forgiven for stumbling. I talk about being “met with grace and patience”—and I am. I need to learn to give all these things to myself.

I either drive myself impossibly hard, or I let go completely. I need to find a balance.

I also don’t want to be “about” struggle. Right now, though, I have to focus on this.

And on the reading I need to finish for class, and on a presentation for tomorrow… I could not have carried all these things a year, or two, ago—which is why I didn’t. It’s set before me now because I am able to get my work done. I’ve finally figured out how to do school, and I’m enjoying it. I just wish I knew better, how to be whole.

Even writing that, I know that I am. I just need to learn to live into it. I’ve been physically standing taller; I can feel it. There’s a way of walking, that I don’t yet know.

I know that I will.