4.3.20

Well I had all the best intentions, I wrote another draft on the 1st, but in some twist of fate the draft did not save–April Fool joke on myself, perhaps? Maybe its best it was a half baked thought, that was leading down to no true end and a lot more questions.

Yesterday I met with a psychiatrist for the first time in years, a wonder of telemedicine that I could be on the comfort of my couch and drink coffee while recounting my history of medications that have worked and the others that failed and my symptoms that have followed me around since at late grade school. It wrapped up hopefully, with a new medication addition and reminder from another professional that navigating the world on fire with additional support is good care of my self.

Since the disappearing draft I have been contemplating the crooked path of symbols of sacredness. Items that are both means of grace, but have sorted pasts of their own. I told my wife, “we often quote that God lead God’s people to ‘a land with vineyards that you did not plant,’ but if someone else planted the vineyard–that means that there are people who planted and are now displaced.” Displaced planters, those who broke up rocky soil and drew the lines, who pruned and grafted and watered and cared–these are the plans of those that wish to see it through. Yet another drinks deep.

Wine is in a lot of sacred spaces, Passover Dinners and Communion, gifts of libations at temples, feasts to celebrate weddings and it crosses trembling lips with a promise of warm calm for a moment. Song of Songs praises the Loved as being a goblet of wine. I have participated in some of these moments, I have held for a moment on my tongue the work of another. What is it to see the Divine in the glass and still to know that justice may seem off for another? Who am I to receive what the other has labored for?

I don’t have a great answer, after all the justice of food is a complicated one in our world. I know that I can make choices on what to buy and what to do without. I can hear the echos of sermons past that grace at all is given through the suffering Christ, who offers his body to feed those that did not labor, and his blood to quench the thirst of those that did not care for the vines. Sacred is not unencumbered by the complexity of our world–if anything it is a reflection of how joy and grief are not opposites but cooccurring realities–there is bitterness and comfort in every sip. So I will grieve and I will praise.

What sacred things do you find most complicated?

March 31, 2020

I will just start by saying that I assume there are other minds much more qualified to discuss what sacred practice looks like during shelter-in-place orders. I am not reading any of those great mind’s work. I am just trying to get this mind to work.

I have Major Depressive Disorder.

I have not had a job since October.

There is a pandemic.

Those are not cause and effect.

The choice to end my job was related to making a move to another state, and taking care of my kids, but then…one month stretched into many more and then into a pandemic.

The thing about MDD is that when I am structured, intellectually stimulated and more or less well rested, my meds can take me the rest of the way to nearly normal functioning. When I am stressed by change, inactivity and lack of sleep, well– all bets are off and I may spend the day on the verge of tears crying because I believe I am failing my wife, our kids, and the good Lord above.

Speaking of the good Lord, I have been deconstructing and reconstructing my faith for a bit here, and with winter and moving and MDD and vicious viruses (suggested emoji–>🦠 (this looks more like an ameba)) I have been in a bit of a lull on feeling the closeness of the Divine walking with me. I know from the touch points in my past that these are the moments that standing stones, memories of when the goodness of God was so tangible I could taste it like honey and drink it like communion wine, are of invaluable hope. It lets me pray, “I can’t feel you, but I trust that you remember me as I remember you.”

I am here to remember, to rest and to confess. I am here to share in the communion of memory, the baptism through boredom, the bowed head of grief, and ultimately for the resurrection from the weary. I am here to listen for the small voice that isn’t the asshole in my brain. I am looking for moments of sacredness and hopefully sanity in the midst of all of this that we are going through.

I have never been good at disciplines (ask my dentist and my running shoes), but with no intension, the malaise that rolls in extinguishes my will and steals my joy. But I am not promising to do great big things everyday–this isn’t a story about bootstraps–but I am setting my intention to look for the ebenezers that are in my house, my lawn, in my Love’s eyes, and in eating bread (because God didn’t limit carbs, so neither am I).

See you tomorrow.