living on both ends - an exploration of best and worst

seeing through a glass dimly

I was raised in a family that dwelt and still dwells in realms of mythology. Most of my adult life has been spent seeking reality, and unraveling those realms of mythology that so tenuously undergirded my living structure.

Some days, I get really angry about this winnowing. It is a day-to-day choice to live free of resentments for the cost of this realm of mythology in time, energy, money and well-being. I see how the ongoing family mythologies have impacted my children, and that causes me pain and anger also.

But there are times when those mythologies still carried by others try to impact my well being in the here and now. Sanity looks like naming them as lies, and refusing to give them ground again. Some call this boundary work.

Creating a new world based on reality of the here and now, and discerning the necessary ways to appropriately protect it and live with grace in it is an ongoing task. One in which I often misstep, need to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again.

Offering grace to myself, and to those still immersed in the old mythologies, is key at this point. Humans only know what they are willing to know, and it is dishonoring to force light into another’s cage of myth.

Today, I am asking the Inner Teacher for guidance on points of contact when truth meets myth, and for how to stay in inner and outer peace when those worlds collide.

recoil

WORST

We shook on the bet last night. What was it about? How much was it for? Those immediately became inconsequential items. Because when L extended his hand to grab mine, the fit was imperfect, my fingers protested to the pressure, and I cried out in pain.

It wasn’t a full day, we went grocery shopping, finished up Christmas shopping, and cooked a bit. I was aware I was dragging, knew my joints were signaling that they were around, but I had no idea of the tenderness of my hands.

Neither did L. There are some who call autoimmune illness, especially RA and Lupus, invisible diseases. To look at me, you would not know that there days when it is hard to move, when the fatigue is thicker than molasses on a cold morning, when I hold my jaw a certain way and constantly remind my face to ease and soften.

The one constant about pain is that it causes an almost instinctive recoil response. People don’t want to hear about it, and when they cause pain they want to ensure they are never the agents of distress again.

I get that; I grew up with a sibling in pain. Memories of my toddler sons stumbling over her feet and the quick, sharp intake of breath to try and moderate the pain still grip my heart.

And yet L’s response of “I’ll never do that again” triggered another pain.

safe time

When they started showing up for dinner on a regular basis, I was pleased. They are lovely young women, open and fun, real and seeking what brings them life. They were intrigued by my 8 day silent retreat, not scared to ask questions, they seem interested by the honesty about the best and worst of life, love and relationships in which we try to live. And when the 17 year old comes down the stairs in the Philly rowhome and asks “Can they come over for dinner?" my want is to always say yes.

When one expressed her desire for us to have a Quaker moment before dinner a week or so ago, my heart took notice and I wondered what was happening in these times of connection, sharing and eating good food. Their presence, especially the presence of the one who is the girlfriend, creates space for the 17 year old to ask the hard questions about his dad. To ask for me to tell the hard stories. I am careful, listening deeply to that which is Divine in the room, discerning intently to stay with my Guide as I share both the hard and the good times again with a young man on the cusp of being an adult.

Yesterday afternoon, we spoke of “safe time”. The time when the boys could ask for us to listen without fear of judgment or punishment. Where they could share those actions or fears that are so hard to bring into the Light and oh so necessary to be bathed in the Light. The words fail me to be able to write of the need I see in their hearts and their eyes, to know of safe places. The desire is almost tangible, and when I named that safe places are necessary, she responded “But they are rare.” And we sat with that reality a moment before I started cutting the onions.

Then the other two friends came in, best friends to the 17 year old. They have named themselves the trio and the night is usually good when the trio is at our table. So we have the girlfriend, and the two best friends, and the family. And in the final dinner preparations, after the table was set, while we waited to pour the garlic lemon mixture on the cut up chicken bits laying on a bed of mushrooms, carrots, potatoes and onions, the namer of the trio looked at me and said, “Name the word or sentence you would use to describe each one of us.”

Whew! High risk high reward request, and I wonder in the moment if perhaps they see me as one will not lie, not soften my truth,. She wants realness and I see so much beauty and promise and longing. The room is full of ripeness and I hesitate.

“At the table,” she says. “Tell us at the table.” I smile, she will not give this up, and already I name her persistent in the best of ways.

Later, at the table, I name them all, along with my sons and L, my beloved mate. It takes a while, this seeking for the essence of who they are, and who they are becoming, in the context of our interactions. I make it through, and yet stumble on the one I know best. L how can I name your fullness to me in one word, one sentence?

Then the persistent pursuer goes next. We have all experienced that slowing of time, when the protective walls surrounding our hearts are pierced and, for a moment, we dare to be real. It is a terrifying and holy moment, akin to falling into the hands of a living God, saved only by the truth of a loving God. And when she finished, L and the others joined in the chorus “now our turn”.

So each spoke, each gave, each received. A sacrament of knowing and being made known, in a place of safety, cradled by Living Presence. And once as we paused, I jokingly said “We need another Quaker moment of silence.” And they agreed, without the jest. It is the awareness that God is present, when Friends fall silent. And they named that also, without knowing the all of it.

Afterwards, we played Charades and I could not, for the life of me, act out Cheltenham for a place. But L guessed the 17-year-old acting out, syllable by syllable, Requiem.

containers

Mondays. The day I often write snail mail letters to my two oldest sons. Usually, I sit holding them in God’s presence for a while and then I write what comes up. Sometimes a story, sometimes news of home, sometimes a tale of our walks, but often remembrances of how much I have enjoyed being their mom.

Early this morning, before our daily time of retirement, Len awakened me with a cup of coffee and the news of the evening and day. After our readings, and our Divine query for the day, and our sharing of afterthoughts, I sat with the news a bit. Ambivalent. Many conflicting feelings. Cynical about how those who don’t like President Obama would contort their integrity to not give his administration any credit. And yet also not happy that his administration carried out the assassination that former President Bush had called for. A weird place.

I read my oldest’s facebook status: You know if your kidneys didn't work, and you knew you didn't have long to live but you desperately wanted to take down an imperialist power I think manipulating it into an unfunded guerrilla war in Afghanistan has to be damn close to the top of the "Most effective ways to kill an empire" list.

I read many status updates of those who I know were against both wars and were, as American citizens, further saddened by the nights events. I read admonitions not to gloat and not to rejoice. I read “In Judaism we say upon hearing of the death of someone like Bin Laden:"Ba'avod resoim rinah!" (When the wicked perish, there is jubilation!)” and “As we say in Judaism upon hearing the death of someone: "Blessed are You, oh L-rd our G-D, ruler of the universe, the true judge." I listened to two interviews with American Muslims happy that this defiler of their faith was gone.

Then I watered my climbing container rose, my shade containers, and I dared to fertilize them because they already are full of buds. The bathroom shines now, the wooden floors gleam, and the kitchen tile is spotless.

My middle son, the 18 year old and college freshman, and I have had a text conversation about a question on his final “Which of the judicial philosophies most accurately reflects the the true constitution? 1) Strict Constructionist 2) Living Constitution 3) Framer’s Intentions."

And in the midst of my vacuuming, I thought of Jesus’s words to Peter “He who lives by the sword dies by the sword.” And I thought of George Fox, taking the words of Christ at face value, leading to his statement that he “lived in the virtue of that life and power that takes away the occasion for war and all strife.”

Somewhere during the day, I realized that since 2001, my sons had lived with the hunt for Osama Bin Laden hanging over them (well except for 2006-2008 when then President Bush dissolved the group who was hunting him). Half their life’s as a citizen of a country bent on vengeance and rigid self-protection. I thought about my tendency to avoid my own roll of emotions by wanting to tell others what they should do and how they should feel. Tears came to my eyes as I remembered the words of a beloved Friend, telling of her family running to the air raid shelter during the Battle of Britian, her small hand clutched to her younger siblings stroller, thinking “I never want to be the cause of so much commotion and fear.”

There is nothing in me that can know what it is like to order the assassination of an outlaw, a man who was responsible for many deaths the world over. Fear and chaos though, have been almost life long acquaintances. In that world of fear and chaos, there was no room for holding conflicting emotions. Life was black and white, rigid and self-protective. There are days I need to remind myself I don’t live in that world anymore.

the violence of spring

The dogs and I went for a long walk today. Up north to Rittenhouse Square, down to the Chestnut Street Post Office to mail letters to the 20 year old and almost 19 year old, then west and back south to 23^rd and South for perishables at the grocery. By the end of it, Lucy was dragging, happy to be home, ignoring our neighbor on his stoop because she was so intent on being spread eagled on the cool kitchen tile floor. I listened to violins from the open windows of the Curtis Institute of Music, east of the Square, practicing for upcoming final recitals in their classes. Elway tugged as we went past Metropolitan Bakery, nose identifying that place where I often stop for a chocolate croissant and free doggie biscuits. Halfway through the walk it was time to take off my hoodie. Halfway through the walk I started thinking about spring in North New Jersey.

Are the daffodils still blooming? Is the dogwood out? Did the columbines in my old garden survive the winter? Are the hybrid musk roses on the pillars ready to be wrapped and pruned? Is the clover lawn green and full of bees? And the ferns, have they unfurled or are they still wrapped tightly waiting for a more inviting climate to release their fronds? Did the borage self sow so that hairy borage plants line the walks?

Philadelphia is a lovely city. Yes, it is. But North New Jersy, Morristown New Jersey, is stunning in the spring. Today, I missed the beauty of where I used to live.

Tonight, L and I walked home from a meeting. The air was soft, the humidity level still tender. We walked past lit up windows, through full chairs placed outside pubs and restaurants. I said "hi" to a dog that looked just like Gable, the German shepherd mix I got my senior year in college and who lived until the year my divorce was final. The fairy lights were wrapped around the trees and my feet slowed as I walked past the chairs full of strangers. I don't know any of their names, once in a while, I recognize a face. But still they are neighbors here in the city of Brotherly Love.

Tonight, red and blue lights in my windows, rotating atop the black and white cruisers outside my house.

words

Words have never failed me. For years, they taught me how 'normal' people live. They helped me defend my little corner of space, loudly and vigorously defending all who dared to intrude. For delight, I savored the ones – ubiquitous, ostentatious, fecund – that roll around in my mouth and burst forth. Then, I found Friends. I fell in love with silence. Not the punishing silence of contempt, annihilation, shame, and judgment. But the embrace of a silence that totally exposes me and totally accepts me, encased in a Light that is penetrating and healing. When spoken out of the silence, words are distilled, clean, and have a different texture and tenor than what I have known before.

I'm trying to find my words again. To be honest with my life-long love affair with them. To listen deep in the Silence so I can be faithful to the truths that are revealed. It is connection to that which is Eternal I know in silence. It is expression of that which I find in words.

It would be easy to say that words are failing me now. It would be easier to say that I am failing my words. The hard part is staying with harnessing the words until they say what I mean. Harnessing my attempts until what the words want to say become clear.

A year ago, we took the TV off the wall in Sojourn. It was the beginning of the end of the long wait, and the beginning of the move to Philadelphia. In August, Sojourn unsold, we moved to Solace, our new home on Fitzwater St. The only surety I have is that the move was rightly led and rightly ordered. Sojourn is occupied by renters; the fall passed in a blur of sickness, pain and struggle. The emotional wear and tear on the 17 year old is painful to watch, and yet I am so proud of his resilience and bravery. It is a beautiful thing to watch a young man be held accountable to what he is capable of learning, not the minimum standards for test taking.

What I lost:

-A house full of teens home from college, stopping by to recount their triumphs and, perhaps, give a wee glimpse into their struggles. Retelling the stories with a different perspective.

- a garden that gave me health and beauty and, often, a reason to get up in the morning.

-a neighborhood we know, with neighbors who fit.

-a front porch that dreams are made of and on.

- a meeting that taught me why worship is essential to everything I am as a Friend. That a moment of silence and centering and listening restores balance and peace. And that life and well-being is not about controlling what comes at me, but about accepting the reality and that offering that reality to Jesus often reveals the abundance that I didn't know was there.

-History. I lost the shadows of young boys that grew to be young men in that old house. Of afternoons by the pool. Of hearing the sounds of late night games. Too many nights staying up late waiting for teen agers to walk in the door. The despair and angst of college applications. Or not. An emergency room that I knew intimately. The space where I spent the majority of my time as a parent.

- Connections. What I lost was connections – to the past, to the present. In some ways, to the future.

What I gained:

- I avoided the tragedy of holding onto a time and a place that is over.

- A city I love.

-A new sense of my country's history, and the part Friends played in the birth of that country.

- Opportunities to make new connections.

-a deep appreciation for the meeting that birthed me as a Quaker.

- A delight in L's growth in his new place of work and his sense of well-being.

- a better diagnosis and a better long-term treatment plan.

- walkability to chores and restaurants.

-access to decent (not good but decent) public transit.

-choices.

Fifteen years ago, a friend told me to write a letter to God to "make my requests known". It was soon after my divorce from the boys' dad. It was also a time of choices, of letting go and new beginnings. I think tomorrow I'll see if I can find the words to make my requests known, to name what I desire in this new life.

-

Dog days

Sojourn is emptying out her bowels – and all other areas we have inhabited. A 40 ft truck sits outside her front porch, a crew of five has been packing and loading all day. The rooms, of course, are huge. Dust scattered, wood floors gleaming and bare. The rocking chair my parents gave me for me 20^th birthday is wrapped and on the truck. My mother-in-laws table, crayon marks on the underneath from various nieces and nephews, is being taken apart and wrapped for placement. Soon, my oakleaf hydrangea pots, black eyes susans, and other containers will go on the truck.

L was home for a few hours this morning to help the packers understand the garage sorting – most of it stays here, ready for the neighborhood garage sale in mid-September. He's back on the road, back to work. The 18 and 16 year old are off with friends, they will be home tonight to help me clean and straighten, and again tomorrow night to do it again. The 20 year old is at work, 30 miles from here, in the place he now calls home. I'm trying to write a report, and on hold with the appliance store salesman from whom I want to buy a washer and dryer.

The lamb pups are asleep at my feet, worn out from the constant movement and their own anxiety.

It's a full day.

 

faithfulness

Faithfulness. Perseverance. Insular. These are the words and themes that keep speaking to me. At this time. In this place. Yesterday, the 18 year old and I journeyed to Rutgers The State University of New Jersey. While he met with an adviser to pick out first semester first year classes for one with an undeclared major, I wandered the campus and tried to get a feel for this place where the 20 year old lives and the 18 year old will soon call home.

A young male student stopped me and asked if I would be interested in participating in a bible discussion. I smiled, said "I don't think so" enjoying the solitude and the insularity. I didn't want to interact with anyone. But there was something inside that kept nudging. So when the second young man asked me if I wanted to join in on the bible discussion about to start, I replied "Maybe" and then left to feed the meter. Maybe a sense not as strong as a leading, but a little more persistent than a notion led me to return, after feeding the meter, and join the circle on the grassy ground.

I listened as they discussed the beginning verses of Matthew 4. Soon, the 18 year old came and found me, I excused myself and we drove home. He full of schedule planning and future deciding angst, moderated by his personality that is not an over the top emotional one. Me, thinking about my silence in the discussion and the tenor of my time, sitting on the ground listening. It is a passage, to me today, about faithfulness. Being true to the process. Not taking short cuts.

The 18 year old has been watching the show "Weeds" on Netflix this summer. It is too dark for me, yet I watched the season 5 finale the other day and one line the main female character said in an aside has stayed with me. Repeating in my being. "We're all broken."

Often, when I lose my center of compassion, I return to the Jesus Prayer – "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner" I often add to it "Teach me the Way of mercy."

This morning, I realized that yesterday I was free from my usual weightings of "where are those sharing theologically? Are they in a solid place? Where is their brokenness and how is it presenting in this discussion?" Instead of running with those gerbils of analyzing and judgment, I was just listening.

We are broken, to live in this brokenness I need mercy, ergo, I must extend mercy. Mercy always comes to me from the Divine. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner. Teach me the Way of mercy.

L says I have a flair for stating the obvious.

 

weaving narratives

It has been a tender evolution. One who believes narratives are static and rigid moving to one who understands narratives are fluid and impacted not only by the past but also by the present experiences and understandings. Right now, the theme of the narrative of my life that is very present to me is perseverance and an acceptance that nothing or no one has been able to destroy me yet. Not that I am indestructible, but that I am tenacious. I hold onto life. Actually, it is more than I hold onto life, I hold onto my power, even when it is only remnants that I am able to own. And if that seems strange, I don't have the language or the ability to soften or make it more digestible. It is a celebration that the essence of who I am, who I was created to be, has not been destroyed and is coming more and more to life.

There are so many threads in this coming to life, that of understanding the illusion of control I lived in was deadening to my soul and others, that of intending to embrace the unknown, that of awareness of my fear, and holding it in the Light so the Divine can reveal to me how vapid it is. Yesterday was a hard day physically. Working in the garden, which often brings relief, brought more pain and nauseousness. By 5:00 PM I had acknowledged that there was nothing I was going to be able to do and to just sit and read. Even the computer was off-limits as my neck and back were too tender to be held at the needed angle.

I don't understand it, but there is such beauty in acceptance and yielding to reality. There are those in my life, prior and present, who have encouraged and modeled to not accept the reality. To not name the truth of pain or suffering; to live in the myth.

There is no life for me in the myth.

developing kindness as a spiritual discipline

WORST- Kindness is not an attribute that comes naturally to me. Protecting of the weak? Yes. Compassion to those who struggle? Check. Moving from a place of kindness? Not at all. Slowly, let me add an adjective there, very slowly I am trying to develop an innate sense of kindness. I tend to move more from an innate sense of judgment and I am learning that judgment and kindness are not good friends.

The edge of the prophetic, for me, needs to be tempered with kindness. L gets kindness. I know very few people who do.