Communion

I'm compelled to reach out, but I don't know what to say.

I had a troubling afternoon. I faced something in my work today that is just a bit beyond me: my experience, my knowledge, even my skills I rely on to help bring about understanding. I have to confess that often when this has happened in the past, I've found a way move on, rather than face my inadequacy. (I find blaming something or someone else quite useful). But I kept trying today.

I didn't get very far, and I have to try again another day because I am on a deadline. I have to uphold my responsibility.

I'm afraid that this will happen again. That I won't be able to accomplish what needs to be done. I'm worried that my old friend "procrastination" will kick in and my anxiety will be given a chance to bloom with the extra time. I don't like the unknown-ness of that day and my ability to produce. Oh, in saner moments I know all will be well, but sanity doesn't really have a chance in the face of my fear.

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There a saying that goes "God only gives us what we can handle." I think that's a crock. Really? God gives me what I can handle?

It seems to me that we get more than we can handle on a regular basis, sometimes it's far more and sometimes it just teeters beyond our limit.

Last night, after I had a full and productive day at work, picked my son up, made dinner, and tried to have a nice conversation with my husband, I erupted because the constant drum of activity throughout my day finally crescendo-ed as my husband teased me. AHHHHHH! (I wish my yelling had been that benign). That little, loving, annoying jab pushed me right over the edge.

And then there are those awful circumstances that are far more than we can handle...I shudder to utter them. We know. We've born witness to women faced with what couldn't possibly be fair or just. Sometimes we are those women.

No. We cannot handle what comes our way more often than not. We think we do. We cope through constant worry, detailed planning, controlling who and whatever we can or conversely avoid, blame, procrastinate, and run away. And we become tired, frustrated, angry. Tied up in knots or disconnected from people and life. But by golly we managed it, didn't we?

To what end?

There are learning theories in education which define learning as a transformative process. In other words, we are not the same once we've engaged in the learning process.

When I "handle" what comes my way, am I transformed? Or am I constipated?

I just put my son to bed, and I sang to him a song that begins:
"Day by day, and with each passing moment, strength I find to meet my trials here."

"Here." I'm experiencing Communion.

A mysterious, strengthening, graceful power enters my life when I am open and when I share my life and myself with others.

That sounds trite, I think. But then again, how can I convey the mystery of connection and fellowship, especially with other women?

Or with the God of my understanding?

Communion is intimate. It is mutual. There is a baring of souls and a bearing of one another. Something transcendent occurs. We are more than our circumstances.

But we are empowered to live within them. And to live through them.

And we learn. We grow. We are ALIVE.


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So I am not alone and I am not limited to my own resources as I face my responsibilities at work this week. Hope refreshes my despondent heart, my spirit renewed.

We come from varying spiritual traditions, I'm sure. But I "stumbled" upon these words tonight as I sought something deeper and stronger than myself to face my life. They may ring true or metaphorical to you, but I offer them as a reminder to myself that the buck doesn't have to stop with me.

I cry aloud to the Lord
I lift up my voice to the Lord for mercy
I pour out my complaint before him;
before him I tell my trouble.

When my spirit grows faint within me,
it is you who know my way.


May the resources for our communion be made known to us each time we face more than we can handle. Thanks for being mine tonight.

Chaos

My son is crying, bawling, whining to get on the roof just like Daddy. He's inconsolable. Daddy's on the roof, so Mommy's the bad guy with her eye on the time-out chair.

I'm in the process of writing a paper that refuses to be written. Ideas (brilliant ones, I might add) are in some kind of traffic jam in my head, detoured past my fingers and thus the keyboard. Deadline in 36 hours-ish.

I thought a quick, much needed trip to the grocery store might make some room in my head for the thoughts to flow, but there wasn't any space in there for my grocery list so I roamed the aisles -not in one of those "I have this hour to myself to leisurely walk through the store and see what I want and need" modes. I cut off old ladies, made u-turns into displays, and backtracked 672 times to the fruits and vegetables because I kept forgetting potatoes. There's always something more interesting than potatoes to make one forget one needs potatoes!

I came home to "fun" in the yard, which included dog-poo on the bottom of my son's shoes. Frozen foods sweat and meat spoiled, as I tended to that. Forgot which bag the eggs were in, but by some miracle I didn't break one in my haste to unload and de-poo.

Speaking of poo, the dog hasn't been walked in three days. His behavior is atrocious, but he can't help himself. He's the last priority in the busyness this week.

I take that back. My ferns, once lush even sensual and inviting, are shriveling in the arid heat produced by my electric thermostat. No amount of watering or fertilizing (my black thumb butt got to a store, purchased, and actually used the stuff on these plants-my previous efforts have left me with drawers full of old unopened fertilizer sticks) can possible restore their vitality.

So I turn my attention to humans. I have two dinners going, one for a dear friend who's whole family is sick with the flu. Let's be honest. I'm never going to win an award for my cooking; I keep us nourished in the most spartan but balanced of ways. But we are nourished. I panic a bit when I cook for others...and so I am panicking: will the chicken be cooked all the way through? How does one know that if one doesn't own a meat thermometer and so resorts to cutting the meat at eight different points before she decides something is done? One can't really resort to that when one is trying to pull off "I do this all the time and its no big deal to send a meal to show my support and love." (Actually, you have no idea how much I love you if I offer to bring a meal over to you! It's deep, abiding, profound...)

And my own family is having pot roast in the crockpot. Simplest meal in the world; just throw it in with some veggies potatoes and liquid: ta-da! WHY IS MINE DRY!?!?!?!?! Beef, the meat that puts a smile on my husband's face...such a seemingly simple gift for him. I'm in knots every time I make it because I'm pretending its not a big deal and yet I have no idea what the magic words are that I'm supposed to say over the crockpot to get the meat to tenderly fall apart while everyone oohs, aahs, drools and turns away the gravy. (don't even get me started on gravy!)

I'm missing some workshops at a major education conference in town this weekend because I'm swamped and exhausted from the busyness of the week.

Things could be worse. My husband and I could be at odds (what a lovely way to put stomping and slamming the door!)

This is my life today. It feels chaotic...I'm perpetually behind the eight-ball...stuck in the process of life...most things simply beyond my control: So I am left with little to do but accept life on life's terms today.

But, for a moment, I just want a sense of myself and a sense of peace. As I forked potatoes, I cranked this diddly courtesy of Bach and Yo-Yo Ma. I put the fork down, closed my eyes, and let the cello's tenor uphold my soul for a moment. I took a few deep breaths.

I am here. God is here.

It's just one of those days. But there was a moment of peace, and somehow I also connected with all of you.

Microwave just beeped. Another deep breath in my circle of quiet...exhale...and...

I'm off to face the rest.

Her own decision

This week, I offer a song sung by Alison Kraus, one of my favorite musicians. It's called The Scarlet Tide; she sang it for the movie Cold Mountain. The link to a video with the music and lyrics is below.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kwl08VdIeFs

Several years ago, I found this song and couldn't stop playing it. As I learned the lyrics, I began to weep toward the end of the first verse and through the second verse...every time, without fail. Here are those lyrics:

...Man has no choice when he wants everything.

We'll rise above the scarlet tide,
That trickles down through the mountain
And separates the widow from the bride

Man goes beyond his own decision,
Gets caught up in the mechanism
Of swindlers who act like kings
And brokers who break everything
The dark of night was swiftly fading,
Close to the dawn of day
Why would I want him just to lose him again?

We'll rise above the scarlet tide,
That trickles down through the mountain
And separates the widow from the bride.

Why does a song about war make me weep? Well, obvious reasons aside (war not good!), I heard this song at a time in my life when I was learning that I had "intuition"...a little voice inside of me, gently prodding and calling me to a healthy, self-loving, full life. As I discovered that such a voice existed, I also began to recognize the "mechanisms" outside of myself, which serve something - I'm not sure exactly what - but definitely not me. For me, these were/are social expectations, religious expectations, career expectations, how to be a good mother, good friend , good person, good blah blah blah. Things that act upon me. Things that propel me in particular directions and that on the surface seem "right." I found myself going in these directions and I found my soul compromised and my physical body exhausted. Could it be that the things which we "should" do are not always healthy for us?

This song painted a vivid picture for me of the not always conscious choices we make because we are caught up in the tide of... well, what is your tide? In this song, the tide was war, and a man's disregard of his "own decision," because he was caught up in the mechanism of whatever social tides were at work for war, resulted in a scarlet tide...in death and sorrow for his loved ones. He listened to the "shoulds" rather than the little voice within himself. Didn't work out so well for him or for his loved ones.

I wept when I realized that my resistance to some of the "shoulds" in my life was not a reflection of a bad, weak or irresponsible person. On the contrary, that resistance often came from a stronger, more loving version of myself who recognized healthy conditions when she saw them. I could count on myself, in a sense, if I could get to that voice to guide me, rather than the tides that compelled me or told me the "right" thing to do. I felt freed. I was grateful.

I guess my point is that there are so many things we "should" do and we "kill" ourselves doing them. Maybe we don't have to. Maybe peace, sanity, serenity are within us already as a loving voice guiding, supporting, prodding, leading us through our very full lives. Maybe we only need to lend an ear. Maybe taking a moment alone and apart is the most loving thing we can do for our loved ones.

So I offer this three minute song. May its beauty be a balm to our souls, washing over us in a stolen moment. Given three minutes at a time over time, our little voices within just might become loud enough for us to hear over the din of the tides.

An introduction

I love the quote under the title of this blog by Madeleine L'Engle (A Wrinkle in Time, Swiftly Tilting Planet, etc). So far, as a woman in my 30s, I've come to understand that a woman's life is a busy one. There's always something to be done for someone who loves me, who I love, or who at least expects something from me. Expectations real or simply in my head of who I need to be, who I should be, and who I want to be. I feel tugged by love, by obligation, by guilt, by hope, by desire, by responsibility. Don't get me wrong. I want my life as it is in many ways; nevertheless, a host of complexities come with this life, perhaps by virtue of it being a woman's life.

In a deep part of me, I crave stillness. L'Engle calls it quiet and peace, but I think we mean the same thing. Just a bit of time to myself. To check in. To make sure that the outside me is in harmony with the inside me. I don't think that I always know what I'm looking for. More often than not, these moments happen by chance: a quick walk with the dog at night because we forgot about him all day, finding myself alone at the breakfast table with a cup of tea, a sentence from my nightly read speaks to me...And in those moments, it's as if I take a deep breath, my mind quiets and I just "am." I want to be more intentional about those moments because I find myself renewed in some way. My tongue is less sharp...my goals a bit more focused...the squeaky wheels greased. It's as if I live with more grace.

Ironically, one of the best ways I've come to that stillness of being has been in the midst of other women. Laughing. Listening. Weeping. Talk, talk, talk, talking. It's the meet-me-at-the'bucks (yes, that is slang for you-know-what coffee place), a long weekend with old friends, the quick how-are-you in passing outside the grocery store, or the familiar chat with moms and sisters. The scene and combination of women doesn't seem to matter, in a sense, because it's always rich. Even when it's light-hearted, it does something for my soul. When it is more, my soul receives profound things, like wisdom, empathy, and companionship that assures me I am not alone.

So it seems to me that the circle of quiet can be created by "outside" me connecting with "inside" me or by women coming together.

Hopefully, this blog can become a way for us to be more intentional about finding these moments. I would like to post once a week for a year (inspired by Julia and Julia, of course). I'll share my thoughts but also things I've read and seen that might be food for the soul (or for a laugh!). I hope you'll do the same.