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.

Unsolicited church plug

The other good thing that my friend and I did last weekend, was worship at St. Bartholomew’s, Livermore. We were both taking breaks from our home churches (and she from her diocese). She’d been to St. Bart’s and I hadn’t; she knew it would be a good alternative.

It was. My friend introduced me to the rector, at the Peace. Carol (who reminds me very much of Julia Child in vestments) wore green Crocs, that matched her stole. She joked with me about how, if she’d known she had a third-year seminarian, she wouldn’t have praised academia so highly in her sermon. I told her I’d enjoyed it (which I had).

The building is structured in the round. Friend and I were sitting in the front, kitty-corner from the altar. Carol came over to us at the offertory and asked me if I’d like to carry a chalice. Surprised and delighted, I said yes. Of course a seminarian can carry the cup—but I’d never been invited, barely-met, to do it. (I had to be licensed, to bear the chalice regularly at home.) This struck me as incredibly welcoming.

Their liturgy had elements from the New Zealand prayer book, and was very similar to what I’m used to at St. A’s. It was enough like home to feel liturgically comfortable—but it was out of the city, away from the whole seminarian trip. The rector knew who I was, but I was also anonymous. And I don’t know the community, but they feel like a safe, nurturing refuge. (When I said that to Carol, she got it. They’re warm, in an easygoing way.)

Go there, to worship, or just to see the Stations of the Cross, if you can. There’s no text—there doesn’t need to be. They’re wood carvings, all involving hands in some position (holding the cross, hiding a face). Incredibly evocative. A member of the community carved them; his wife came and talked to us, as we were circling around.

I love my community. My home is very focused on being welcoming, and we do it well. But if I need a break, where I already know I’ll feel comfortable, this is an option that’s open to me. And to you, if you’re in the area. Go.

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.

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.

SF Bay Oil Spill Response Information

If you landed here via a search for oil spill cleanup info, you know that a container ship crashed into a tower supporting the Bay Bridge yesterday morning, spilling 58,000 gallons of oil.

I lived all but three years of my life on Puget Sound. I remember the pictures from the Exxon Valdez. If I'm claiming California, I'm also claiming the bay. I saw the article in this morning's Chronicle, and needed to do something.

I wrote to the Oiled Wildlife Care Network, centered at UC Davis, asking what ordinary citizens can do. Here is their reply, dated this morning:

“It is very important that the public not pick up oiled birds under any circumstances. We have a hotline, 877-823-6926, set up to report oiled wildlife. This information is disseminated to the oiled wildlife care network staff working in the field. At this time, we have very few birds in hand. As soon as that number increases, so will the need for volunteers. At that time, we will post a phone number on our web site for those who want to volunteer.

While there will probably be a responsible party for this spill who should cover the costs, donations can be made to the International Bird Rescue Research Center or the UC Davis Wildlife Health Center for ongoing wildlife spill response activities and rehabilitation.”

UPDATE:

OWCN is now posting a volunteer hotline number: (800) 228-4544.
Coast Guard information/update page is here. They also refer volunteers to OWCN.
San Francisco Baykeepers are taking names of potential volunteers, and have suggestions for what you can do in the meantime. They are also accepting donations.

(photo: SF Chronicle)

Radio silence

I have something looming very large in my consciousness right now. I’m feeling very, very angry and very, very hurt—and that’s just the beginning.

I also have an incestuous social circle. People who know me in real life read this, and many of them know each other. I can’t talk about it online. Even to allude to the reasons for my anger, even obliquely, even anonymously—would feel like a breach of confidence. I can’t work this out on the ‘net.

I also can’t be all happy-smiley, healing-earworms. I don’t have that grace in me, or hope. I don’t know when I will.

Until I can write, pray, feel, or think about other things besides school and this, I’m staying off the blog.

Peace to all, and please pray for me.

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.

Wild Geese

Why? Because I need to hear it.


You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

--Mary Oliver

Fun with politics

Ganked from Grandmère Mimi:

My Liberal Identity:

You are a Peace Patroller, also known as an anti-war liberal or neo-hippie. You believe in putting an end to American imperial conquest, stopping wars that have already been lost, and supporting our troops by bringing them home.

Take the quiz at http://www.fightconservatives.com/Inside-the-Book/What-Breed-of-Liberal-Are-You.html

Wanna play?

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.

Poem for today

I’m taking a feather from lj’s cap; she does this frequently, and I love the idea. I think I might make it an occasional feature; God knows I have plenty of prayer/poetry books.

(This is printed in Women’s Uncommon Prayers, p. 24. Poetry and Turabian citations aren’t going together for me.)

Today

Let me live today.
Let me be open to the miracle of this day.
Let me breathe the best of today.
Let me not miss the heart of today.
Let me find the gift of today,
hidden like a jewel in rubble of care, duty, and detail.

Let me pause to hear
the steady beat of the heart of God—
hoping, aching, sorrowing, expectant, patient,
despairing heart of God.

Listen, listen.
Do you hear it?
Ever so faint but steady, steady,
rhythmic organ, strong muscle,
thumping, beating, pumping, sustaining, encompassing,
wildly dancing heart of God.

Let me live this day, aware, open, listening, breathing, alive.

--The Rev. Virginia Going

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.

Saints, alive

These are some, with whom I'm in relationship, and who have given me particular gifts. I could have listed many more, and if I'd gone global, I'd still be writing.

Max, Apostle in Exile, St. Aidan’s, Calabash family, Olympia family, Craig and Cindy (in memory of Rachel), Pete, everyone at Traditions, everyone at the Bishop’s Ranch, Lizette, Sue, John, Margo, Mother Laura, Eileen, Jonathan, Jake, Marc, Nedi, Liz, Will, Sharecropper, lj, Juniper, Mimi, Grandmère Mimi, Jane, Garnabus and Fuego:

Thank you all for the gifts you give, to me and to the world around you. Thank you for your love, your commitment, your faith. Thank you for the ways in which you create community: sharing a sacred place in nature; calling out for justice; preaching and teaching the reign of God; loving and welcoming all people; changing the world from your kitchen table; adopting people into your family; deep listening, advocacy, and encouragement; opening your home to an internet acquaintance; reaching out to people in cyberspace. Thank you for being the kinds of mentors, teachers, family, and friends whom you are. Thank you for challenging, supporting, and nurturing the people whom you touch.

Collect for All Saints' Day, BCP 245:

Almighty God, you have knit together your elect in one communion and fellowship in the mystical body of your Son Christ our Lord: Give us grace so to follow your blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those ineffable joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who with you and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, in glory everlasting. Amen.