Thank you

I woke up too early, tried to pray and couldn’t. So I wrote a thank-you letter instead:

I can’t possibly respond to everyone individually, even though I want to. Your e-mails, blog comments and Facebook posts have blown me completely away. Your love, grace, and perceptions amaze me. All I can possibly say is thank you. To each of you, to all of you, to everyone.

I asked you to tell me what I mean to you. You did. You tell me I am a light to you. You are and have been lights to me. And those who haven’t answered that specific request—I can feel your love, sense your prayers. I know how many arms embrace me; how many hands hold me up. And I know I couldn’t count them. I treasure my relationships with all of you.

You who receive me as family, thank you. Teachers and friends who challenged, nurtured, loved and supported me through seminary, thank you. You who keep me aware that New Orleans still loves me, thank you. All of you who saw the light in me before I could bring myself to believe there could be one, thank you. Thank you Trinity, for embracing and supporting me. All of you who have made the Ranch another welcoming home: staff and families, friends I have met there, thank you. Online friends whom I’ve never met in the flesh, but know through love, shared witness and time, thank you. Friends of Andee’s who love and pray for me, thank you. You who have given me gifts along the cancer road: love, hope, a rock, a circle of saints, hospital visits, your presence, prayers, and time, thank you. You who hosted, fed, and loved me on my walkabout in SoCal and Arizona: thank you, I love you, and I’m so glad I had that time with you. (Olympians, I still hope I can see you, and I love you so very much.) You who wrap me in love no matter what I’ve done, laugh with me and challenge me, stay with me in the rock tumbler and point my eyes to the love and consolation of God, thank you and I love you forever.

Thank you all for the gifts you freely and lovingly give. I’m so glad I share the planet with you. Gratitude for you keeps me connected to God. I go in and out of that connection, but I need it more than breath. Thank you for showing me so much love.

I know my prognosis in academic, statistical terms, thanks I suppose to journal articles I found while searching for melanoma brain mets and radiation. I’ll talk to my oncologist on Friday. I needed to make sure I said this, and I don’t know how long I’ll have the ability to. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Love always,
Kirstin

Thinking about penitence

I did something that inconvenienced a friend, about a week ago. It wasn’t a huge deal, not hurtful or intentional. But it bothered him enough to tell me about it.

I apologized. His response stopped me in my tracks. He said, “I will always forgive you.”

Today is the second day of Lent. Yesterday, we had ashes rubbed on our foreheads, to remind us just how finite we human creatures are. We read the Litany of Penitence, confessing our own personal sins and those of our species. We were absolved, and assured of God’s gracious help and love. And because we know that we were loved and forgiven before the world began, we celebrated the Eucharist, the feast which proclaims our reconciliation with the Love that creates, redeems, and feeds us all.

I know that my friend loves me, wherever and however I am. That depth of forgiveness was one of the clues. I didn’t feel painfully guilty about the mistake I had made, and I wasn’t beating myself up for it. My apology was along the lines of, oops, sorry, this is how it happened, forgive me. The generosity in his response struck me silent.

“I will always forgive you.” Always. Whatever it is you might ever have done. I love you. This relationship cannot be broken.

I know that he meant it. And I know that humans are fragile. We say things we haven’t thought through. We forget things. We break promises, all the time.

God does not. I don’t think of my relationship with God in terms of penitence. I say the Confession, raising my voice with everyone around me. I mean it, but I don’t wail and gnash my teeth. I ask God for forgiveness, when I know where and how I’ve come up short. I don’t beg for it. Reconciliation is a part of this relationship. I celebrate the gift of this love. Day to day, I’m probably not mindful enough of the weight of it.

God loves us all more than we can ever imagine. Witness: we are alive. My recovery from cancer teaches me all I know about love. Christ’s resurrection means what it means to me, because my own bones vibrate. The work I do in faith is all for justice, inclusion, loving the most forgotten. The core of my relationship with God is in the pulse of my own blood through my veins. All I know about joy, liberation, and power lives here.

But we are in Lent. This is the season for thoughtfulness. This is the time to re-commit ourselves to walking as closely with God as our hearts and minds and bodies ever can. This is the season to discipline ourselves, to open our souls to the work of the Spirit. This is the time to remember who we are as Christians and as humans. This is the time to say out loud, “I can’t do this on my own; please help me.” This is the time to build a shelter in the desert, to remember the sacrifice that came before the feast.

I thank my friend for showing me a glimpse of the God who loves and forgives us always, who holds us close in relationship and who will not let us go. And I thank God for love itself, for life and every blessing.

Thankful

First, last, and always, for life.

For the health I have—and for that which I will recover. For friends, teachers, and mentors who have walked with me through the past seven months—and for those who knew me only before. For old friends I'm back in touch with. For community: school, church, online, on the street. For A., and for her cats. For Max (who does not have TB). For good medical care. For everything that cancer has given and taught me. For realizing only recently that I’m shedding not only my heroes, but the need for them—and that is as it should be. For Bernice Johnson Reagon’s voice. For my own. For work that I love and can do, which keeps me connected to God and the world beyond myself. For the way my legs feel when I come in from walking in the city half the night. For friendly, forgiving drag queens. (How could I have forgotten meeting someone named Ruby Slippers?) For the man in a hospital bracelet who gave me communion—and for the one who threw my demons in my face just by existing. For the grace everyone gives me, to be where I am. For laughter, joy, and normal conversations.

For food, and shelter, and friends who share. For love all around me, and for the grace to see it. And once again, for life.

Adventures in an Elephant

Yesterday was not nearly as awful as the day before.

I woke up in better spirits, to begin with. IM’ed with a friend, as we’ve often been doing in the early mornings, and made plans to go to the Thursday healing Eucharist at her church (which I ended up not doing). Played around online for longer than I should have. Got up, got dressed, had breakfast.

Went over to the admin building to find out what I needed to keep my health coverage. (Linda, if you’re checking this, you were right.) The person in charge of these things is a friend. She was explaining to me: you can do this; you can do that; you can do COBRA (which God knows I can’t pay for), and I was getting more and more stressed—as all I’d needed was her first sentence. (“You have Kaiser, you need six credits.”) She must have sensed something was wrong; she asked if I was having a good day.

Uh, no. And I felt like I kind of went off on her a little. I probably need to go apologize, later. She means well, absolutely; we were just working at different paces, yesterday.

Got talking with someone who works for the School for Deacons (which was why I didn’t go to church). She approached me, already knowing where I was. Told me about her own health scare, and we talked about listening to our bodies. She has a gentle, healing presence that’s really good for me right now. I left that conversation feeling less afraid of statistics, and more trusting in my own body’s wisdom.

Went home and set myself to organizing/packing my bedroom. My next-door neighbor had given me four bags of clothes back in February, right about the time I got the flu. I’d never gone through them. I finally did.

There were two pairs of capri pants that I really like, that I can’t close right now. But I know they’ll fit me later in the summer, because I’m not going to want to eat. (Aside from the expected flulike symptoms, one of the possible side effects of interferon is anorexia.) I’m not going to starve myself—I’ve never been much of a dieter—but I know that for the most intense phase of this, at least, all I’ll probably want is crackers.

Damn curious weight-loss plan. (Yes, I know enough to keep myself fed, and to keep my electrolytes up.)

I posted the prayer call for Max and L, and got some really nice e-mails from friends of all of us. Thank you.

Went to coffee with a friend. Socializing is a different deal right now. She was her usual self; I knew I was really hard to pull out of me. I tried, but it took me awhile to connect with her, or to easily let her connect with me.

We have barbecues in the courtyard on Thursdays in the summer, so I went. This was the only one I’ll be able to go to; though I have permission to be here through next Friday, I won’t be. It was good to catch up with friends. Someone asked me a question, and I ended up educating my table about melanoma. They were really thankful to me for talking.

Guys, that’s what this blog’s been about for a month. I may not be able to answer if you ask me how I am, but I can talk about what’s happened to me. And I really, really appreciate you being there for me.

I came upstairs, answered some e-mails, got chatting over e-mail with Padre Mickey for awhile. Two of my friends are going to do the Panama Project. He wanted to help them have a good experience.

I love summer evenings. Even in CA, it’s light late. I walked down to Elephant Pharmacy in almost full daylight, and back up the hill as the sun was setting. It was a beautiful walk; the colors were really out, in the flowers. The jasmine was heavy; I love that smell.

I needed some vitamin E cream for my scar, and sunblock I can wear every day (forever, now). I asked someone in the skin-care section, what she’d recommend. She was really helpful. She told me what she’s heard of that works, and what mainstream drugstores carry. And she told me about when she was little, how her mom used to break open a vit E capsule to rub on her sunburns.

She told me her own family history; her mom had a melanoma removed from her back. I told her what I think I’m going to be saying to everybody, forever: GET CHECKED. My oncologist assumed that I have a genetic predilection to this, and I don’t: skin cancer is nowhere in my family history. (My grandfather died at age 77 of a heart attack, in 1993. He had some things on his head that he was in the process of checking, if I remember right. Still, I’m a good deal younger than that.) My genetic risks are fair Northern European skin, and lots of moles. That was enough.

We talked for awhile, and she took me to the herbalist a few rows down, and we talked too. I didn’t really want to rub oil all over me; I hate the feel of that. So she walked me back to skin care, and I picked up some vitamin E cream. That was what I’d originally been seeking; the conversations were gifts. I asked her where sunblock was; she showed me, and left me to my own choosing.

I was muttering to myself, rather loudly, about prices. Another shopper came by, and we got talking. I told her why I was looking: I just had a melanoma removed; need something I can wear all the time. We got talking, I don’t know how, about health insurance. I told her, I’m at the GTU; we’re required to carry it, otherwise I wouldn’t have known. She hadn’t had that requirement, in her own grad program. I got to tell her what I keep saying, over and over: school has been wonderful.

And they are so wonderful, because I let them be. I didn’t shut my faculty out, as I had done in the past (with laughably minor issues, in perspective). I told them what was up, because there was no getting out of it. They were only too happy—and too ready—to support me. They’ve had my back all through this, and I don’t know what I’d have done without them.

They’ve given me so many gifts: trust, time, their own humanity, talking. My history as an inconsistent student never played into their response to me. They’ve been concerned for me as a person, and they’ve supported me completely through this. I can’t thank them enough.

The other shopper went on her way, and came back to tell me there was a sale on hats. I looked at them, but I already have a perfectly good one. I paid for my stuff, and left.

I walked back up the hill, past the Franciscan brothers (friends of school, and of me). I thought about joining them for Compline, but I was a few minutes late, and I really wanted to be home. So I sang out loud with my iPod, and noticed the flowers, instead. I put the goo on my scar when I got home, and my neck felt so much better.

I don’t care how visible it is, or isn’t. We all have scars, on our skin or on the inside. I wouldn’t be human, or be able to minister to other humans, if I didn’t. But I feel that stiffness every time I turn my head. I’m not going to be allowed to forget.

How to be community

I sent this out on all the CDSP e-lists, just now. I've been needing desperately to thank my friends, faculty, and others whom I don't even know except that they're praying for me. These words don't feel like enough, but they express something of the gifts these people have given.

If I didn’t bump into you at Baccalaureate and tell you, go here. One test remains between me and "no evidence of metastatic disease." It's a stain on the lymph node that was taken from me last Thursday (along with the tumor itself); I'll know for sure when I see the oncologist Tuesday. All my other tests: CT, PET, and other lymph node screens--have been clean.

I need to thank this community. All of you have held me in prayer, love, and hope. You have carried me through the past month.

Blog-friends have responded there. My friends on campus have held me, gone for walks with me, shared their own survival stories, and listened as my own terror became amazement at surviving this, marked in soul more than body. You’ve asked how I was, and cared about the answer. You’ve told me the things I’ve most needed to hear: that you love me and you’re praying for me. You’ve started conversations with me that began with my body, and wandered through sacred boundaries, strength, and deep self-care.

My faculty have made time for me whenever I felt like talking, and listened with absolute support and encouragement. You’ve held me as I cried, and you’ve laughed with me. You’ve answered frightened e-mails with reminders that I’m held in God, and in your prayers. You’ve excused me from group work I couldn’t focus on, and let me take incompletes as long as I need them—or finish something in the fall when I get back. You’ve let me leave class when I needed to walk, and forgiven an outburst when I hadn’t really slept in a week. You've told me strongly not to push myself; to give myself the time and space I need, and to let the community care for me. You’ve celebrated with me, when the news has been good.

These are only things I’ve experienced directly. I know you’ve done more than I ever will know; I know this web that holds me. I never knew the gift of this community, until I needed it. You've surprised me in the most wonderful ways.

Your prayer, love, and support have made all the difference. Words don’t come close, to thanking you enough.

Still, thank you. By your presence, you’ve helped me heal—and you’ve taught me how to be present with others. You’ve helped me to become more deeply human. These are enormous gifts. All I can do is pay them forward—and I will.

peace,
Kirstin

Sushi

Thank you, Susan!

Kirala. Yum.

I woke up to a really wonderful e-mail (thank you), and right now I don't have a headache. Going to breakfast, Magic Hands, chapel, and my pre-op appt. Anything I don't know before 2 p.m, I hope to find out then.

In between, I'm going to try to work on papers.

In a better frame of mind today. Must be the clothesline. :-)

Thank you, Mimi!

Mimi and Grandpère had an extra copy of this CD. She gave it to me, because I love her city so much. I’m rocking out to it right now. It got here today, on Mardi Gras.

Feeling “homesick” in a good way. I lived there only for a month. Everything in me wants to go back. Before I went, I’d have told you that I didn’t like jazz all that much. That’s because I equated it with public-radio, New-Agey stuff. I heard a lot of street musicians in New Orleans, and their music is not that. Real jazz is an expression of the vivacity of that city. If I heard it in San Francisco or Seattle, it wouldn’t sound the same. This music is so organic to that place, and it’s a place I’m thoroughly in love with.

This CD makes me sad; it also makes me happy. It’s fun to listen to. And it inspires me to pray for New Orleans all over again; for the resurrection in the devastation, the lotus in the mud. (Yes, I spent years with Buddhists, though I never became one. The imagery fits.)

I want to go back. I want to support the spiritual rebuilding, if not the physical. I pray that I can. There is so much work to do.

One of the things I’ve been thinking of, is starting a chaplaincy for homeless people. Too early to tell, whether that’s a call, or a dream. I know there is need for it, though—and not only in NOLA, but every major city. The need there is so great, but there is desperate poverty in my own back yard, though I live in an area known for its affluence. We shall see what comes of this idea.

Anyway, thank you again, Mimi and Grandpère! Oh, and if you buy this for yourself (or a friend), a portion of the proceeds goes to the New Orleans Musicians' Village.

I'm safely back in California

Wide-eyed and wide awake, though my body thinks it's after midnight.

There's so much I need and want to do—for school, self, and ODR. I'm not even going to share my to-do list; it's frightfully long. I have to hit the ground running tomorrow.

Thank you all for your prayers for me. Please keep them up, for New Orleans. Pray for all forsaken and forgotten people. Pray for resurrection, wherever it be found.

And thank you to all the people of New Orleans—people who became my friends, and strangers on the streetcar—who told your stories, answered my (sometimes achingly naive) questions, took care of me, and shared your love of your city with me. Thank you for your generosity, and for your sacred trust. Thank you for everything you do, to bring justice, peace, and reconciliation to your home. Your work will always inspire me.

Peace be with all of you, and healing, with your city. I will do the best I can, to help you.

Blog Blessing

(Graphic lifted from Paul, for the same reason he changed it: the original was too small to read.)

I got tagged three days ago, and nearly missed it entirely. I've been so busy with the San Joaquin craziness, that I haven't been keeping up with my blog-friends who are blessedly not involved in this. Fran tagged me with a blessing.

The idea is to tag those who have particularly blessed you, so that they may know you hold them in thought and prayer. Fran adds, "And what better thought than that at Christmas time, right? You can read about the origin of this blog blessing here."

Well, it's only the second day of Christmas, so I'm not too terribly late. In the spirit of the Incarnation, who has shown me Jesus?

Many, many people. Paul and Mimi got tagged when I did, so I can't re-tag them. I've re-discovered this week that my heart is with the exiles, and with those who work in solidarity with them. I thank these people for modeling clear, strong faithfulness in struggle, rebellion and resistance:

Aghaveagh
PseudoPiskie
Liz

Thank you, to so many more who have held me in prayer, nurtured my strength, and celebrated as I found my voice.

God with us, and in us, and around us

Emmanuel Award

"God With Us"

In a consumer society it is a blessing to read blogs where the writer's main focus is God. Where they express their love for their faith so visibly and joyfully. In a cynical world it is refreshing to see so many blogs which are generous, giving, who care about others and demonstrate what being a Christian is about, loving God and loving our neighbor.

Through their faith, lives and spirituality, they bring God to us, they in essence make God visible, "God with us."

This Award goes to all the faith filled blogs who make evident 'Emmanuel'- God with us, with Joy in their hearts.

Please share this Award with Christian blogs that focus on the real meaning of Christmas, the birth of our Savior.

Peace, JOY & Merry Christmas

Episcopollyanna nominated me for this award, along with Eileen, who does a lot more to foster community than I do. I went to her place to thank her, but I've been still thinking about passing it on. Part of me wants to play the game; nominate two others and keep it going. I certainly could pick two, if I chose. They'd probably feel just as flattered, and undeserving, as I.

I'm happy to have been included in this; glad that a small gesture of mine (truly, it was just a couple of comments) went to her heart. But I also know how it feels to not be in the in-group.

Truly, God comes to me through so many. I'm happy to have embodied that love, at least virtually, for those for whom I do that. But because I don't want to bruise the feelings of any who know they've gone out of their way for me, and because so many of my internet friends show me Jesus, I will just hold this, and smile, and say THANK YOU to everyone who shares the presence of God with me. May we all love the world, so well.

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.

Thanksgiving Leftovers

Okay, I did something just like this two days ago. But Max tagged me for this meme, and I love Max and am thrilled she’s back in blogland, so I’m playing along.

Here are the rules, from John at SmuloSpace (the same guy who brought you 5 Things I Dig About Jesus):

• Write down five things that you're thankful for.
• Tag five friends who you'd like to see participate in this meme.
• (Optional) Include a link to the original at SmuloSpace in your post, and then visit the post yourself and place a link to your completed meme in the comments section so John can keep track of the thankfulness running around the blogosphere.

My answers:

1. Friends, both internet and face-to-face. Family, mentors, teachers, companions. For supporting me; sharing the journey with me, telling the truth in hilarity and love. For hugs, dim sum, high-fives, and prayers. For loving me absolutely, no matter what I do—and for helping me to come to love myself. For being with me in struggle, and in celebration.

2. The Bishop’s Ranch. The place and the people are magical, holy, healing. I am so thankful that I got to work there last summer—and that I get to go help out whenever I want to.

3. Music. Played on a guitar or a flute or a boombox, sung gently as a lullaby or shouted in the car. For playfulness, catharsis, and joy—and even for the most annoying ear-worms. For moments that make me sing, and for people to sing with.

4. The welcoming, loving, creative community that makes up my parish. I’m crazy about them.

5. God. For deeply calling me, tickling my thirst and never completely quenching it. For love beyond all imagining; coincidence that isn’t; all healing and all grace. For everything given, that I never would have known to ask for. For the will, born of love, to serve creation. For life.

Tagging:

Byzigenous Buddhapalian
Eileen
Grandmere Mimi
Russian Orthodox Mimi
Fuego

For these things...

Community, in strange and likely places
Sunlight blinking through autumn leaves
Places, and people, of refuge
Birdsongs
Water, rocks, and wind
Music
Friends’ voices
The ability to be peaceful, alone
All the things that challenge me
Shelter, food, and the means to care for myself
Education
Self-confidence and strength; the more because I’ve fought for it
All those who love me, and all whom I love
Being part of creation, swirling around the heart of God
Grace everywhere it is found (which is, everywhere)

…I am thankful.

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

RGBP Friday Five: Think About These Things

From RevGalBlogPals:

Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. (Philippians 4:8, NRSV)

Friends, it's nearly Thanksgiving in the U.S. and it's the time of year when we are pressed to name things for which we are thankful. I want to offer a twist on the usual lists and use Paul's letter to the church at Philippi as a model. Name five things that are true, honorable, just, pure, pleasing, commendable, excellent or worthy of praise. These could be people, organizations, acts, ideas, works of art, pieces of music--whatever comes to mind for you.

Oh, easy-peasy. I love gratitude posts, especially when I’m feeling it enough to write them.

1) True: The friends, teachers, and others, online and face-to-face, who have helped me through this recent trouble. I’m not naming you; you know who you are. You can see the grace of what you’ve done in me. Thank you for being open, for offering your presence, for doing your own work, and knowing your limits. Thank you for loving, and for not being afraid. Thank you for feeding me dim sum, and for giving me time.

2) Honorable: What’s filling my head right now is the work that Mimi, Ray, and so many others have done to rebuild New Orleans. Gutting houses, not knowing when or if they’ll be lived in again, is a sacrifice of hope, love, grief, and sweat. I also honor all the people I met there, embracing joy, celebration, and beauty in the midst of devastation. Or simply getting out of bed in the 9th Ward every day, and doing what they had to do.

3) Just: Ultimately, the Kindom of God. I’m reading Sr. Helen Préjean for a paper I’m writing, and thinking about her work for economically poor people and against the death penalty. I’m thinking also of a quote from +Katharine, again in New Orleans, “When the saints go marching in, it’s going to be with every last one of us.” And I’m thinking of my own Bishop Marc speaking against the war in Iraq. These people, and many others, embody a vision of God’s justice that makes my soul shout.

4) Excellent: All of creation. Some online friends and I have been discussing where we’d like to live, given the choice: mountains, water, city, other. It’s making me geographically homesick; I grew up with my feet in Puget Sound and mountains all around me. The Cascades and Olympics have long given me strength. But I’m also absolutely struck by the beauty of the San Francisco Bay. The very small work I did, publicizing cleanup efforts, made me feel more connected here. I also resonate deeply with the power and vastness of the ocean. And I am absolutely and forever in love with the Bishop’s Ranch. (Thank you Paul for posting pictures!)

5) Worthy of Praise: the Holy One. For all beauty, love, transformation, connection, and existence. For all that I rejoice in, and for all that challenges me. For this holy, fragile Earth we walk on, and for the stars that show us how tiny we are. For every rock, tree, and flower, and for every living, loving, breathing thing—and for the deeply-felt privilege of participating in this cosmic relationship. For the Incarnation, for raising us up, for making us whole.

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.

Signs of hope

I normally get about 15 hits a day on my blog. I posted the PSA about oil spill cleanup around 10:30 this morning. As of now, I’ve had 117 visits today. Easily a hundred were looking for ways to volunteer. A good quarter of those came from a surfer forum.

I’ve also had e-mails thanking me and asking if I know any more. Everybody wants to do something.

This says a lot for people’s understanding of their place in creation, their love of the bay, and connection to the earth around us. That is a very good sign.

I learned a lot from following my impulse. Never underestimate any human being. And don’t put people into boxes. People understand our impact on the earth. Those who play in the water know how precious it is. Those who want to tread more lightly will look for ways to do so. We all just need directions, steps; easy, plausible actions.

Thank all of you, for being outwardly-directed. It is so very easy not to be. Thank you for choosing the harder thing, the responsible thing, the true and life-giving response to this disaster.

By your presence, you spread hope.

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.