4.6.2018 Chaos

“When God began to create the heavens and the earth— the earth was without shape or form, it was dark over the deep sea, and God’s wind swept over the waters— God said, “Let there be light.” And so light appeared. God saw how good the light was. God separated the light from the darkness. God named the light Day and the darkness Night.

There was evening and there was morning: the first day.”                       Genesis 1:1-5

Creation, in the cannon of the Christian church it starts everything.

God creates out of nothing–ex nihilo– matter is created, joins into formless and shapeless mass–it is chaos. The water is impossibly deep and stretches over everything, it has no edges, no limits, its boundaries have not yet been drawn. It is over this chaos that the Spirit of God opens her wings over and coos to like a hen over her nest. Into this chaos the mothering God calls forth light–a flash, a second of brilliance and stars started burning across a galaxy that was in its infancy. This first step in bring order to the created is given names. You are Day, and you are Night.

Humanity comes only after Day and Night, Moon and Sun, Land and Sea and their creatures. In this first of Genesis’ creation stories Adam is made of mud and life is breathed into this new Creature–in Adam is all human potential–all features, abilities, races, genders and gifts. Adam is clay shaped by an artisan who can see all of the possibilities before any form takes shape, and with the second creation story as commentary on this mud-divine creature, God created, birthed, shaped all humanity to come in God’s image.

Our lungs are still being filled by God’s breath and our form were seen when God picked up the first bit of dust and smiled. As God’s reflection or likeness, we are called to create to hover and console in the midst of the chaos that is still formless around us. We can call out light where illumination is scarce. We can still name and draw out the truths of creation. We can also count on the mothering God to glide over and coo–to be our nurturing guide through deep waters and the chaos.

1st Draft 3.8.18

I have been known in my life to grab a hold of a definition that has been given to me by someone else and owning it. Told once that I looked good in hats, I took as an official edict of my attractiveness in headgear for all time. (but just to be clear, I do look amazing in hats) So, I know it is a delicate balance to wish some sort of definition on myself. But I have really want to be a mystic.

I read an article on female saints today. Uncompromising women who took oaths and saw visions. I want to be like that sometimes– to sit in contemplation of the Love of all loves, to see visions dance across my walls and to write great works for generations to unravel. Also, as far as I can tell all of them wore something on their heads. It seems like the perfect fit.

I am not a mystic saint, and certainly not one that will be canonized, or would fit any of the terms. Besides the obvious lack of Catholic devotion and still being alive and all, I have never performed a miracle and I have never been in a trance where I was wed to Christ or pierced through with arrows of holiness. Clearly, I am writing okay-works for instant consumption on the internet, so even that’s off the list. I did have a period of ecstasy with some queso and chips recently, but I digress. Mysticism has a place in nearly every world religion, it is a leading gift and yet a solitary one. It is a deep inward dive that listens for the voice of the Divine Love and through those images and experiences leads others toward Love–and who wouldn’t want that?

Mostly, I am not a mystic because, despite the fact that I am a very emotional person, my faith primarily runs through my intellect. I have studied Christian theology, I have read tomes from crusty scholars and written countless papers. (Plus this quiz online told me I am a sage, not a mystic, and clearly 15 questions can really get to the heart of my true self.) I think deeply about my faith, about how to explain to others how a multi-millennia old book has anything to say to actual millennials (and those other generations too), and to marry the deep rhythms of faith practice with work that makes faith alive.

I am exactly the woman I was created to be. I like to explore the ethics of why Jesus might have an opinion on your recycling or how your personal theology impacts the way you spend money, participate in your community, or treat your neighbor. I am not a mystic despite my best efforts to be silent and contemplative–and quite honestly when I engage in those practices I get twitchy or sleepy. Each person is called to live into the self we have been created as, and there is no shame in the kind of self we are. Not to say that sages, prophets or others should not engage in introspection and listening for the voice of God–we just don’t have to feel bad about it when we drift in thought to tacos or dancing or nod off to sleep. Sometimes, despite my best efforts, God interacts with me in a mystical way–but it is all God then and it is amazing–in those moments I am held in the hand of the Divine and clothed from head to toe in Love.

I know that there is a place in the universe for sages, plus if you do a quick perusal of google images brings up quite a few sages in hats.

via Daily Prompt: Uncompromising

1st Draft 3.6.18: I hope to never see you

*Trigger warning, assault

I can’t remember your face and that used to really bother me. I told a therapist once that I was terrified I would run into you in public spaces and I wouldn’t know that it was you, because try as I may I can’t remember your face.

I remember your hands a bit. I remember them fumbling with my bra straps and opening the condom. I remember the weight of you. In my memories I remember you occupying space and that you spoke and that you left my room so easily, but, where as the memory of so much of you was hid from my memories, the pain you left behind was not.

I couldn’t even say the word for years. Rape. Date rape. Assault. I would call it a one night stand. I would call it a mistake I made. I held all that weight and guilt as my own, it makes sense that it would come out eventually. There I was in the arms of another lover, we were falling apart, in part because I was unraveling from the turmoil within. I started to sob, “I said no, I said no, I said no” the words tumbled out marked by tears. The lover had no capacity to hold it and soon he was gone.

But the word was out, and I could not go back. The questions changed once I gave it a name, once I called out the violation for what it was. No longer did I ask, “what sort of woman am I, that would let this happen?” Instead I was asking, “what sort of man are you, that you really thought this was the way to start a relationship?” What sort of person feels their right to be pleased trumps the right to hold onto a sacred sense of my being? What kind of person leaves scars with such ease and such precision?

For a while in my thoughts your were two dimensional. The flatness of your character made it easy to fold your faceless memory up and store you with the likes of other shallow villains. You must be bad through and through. You must have no spirit, no soul, no empathy, no goodness; because what sort of person does evil things? Evil ones, and as I am not evil that put me over here and you far over there.

But you are not a fictional character. You are real as I am real–and our realness is what put our lives in a collision course of choices, our embodiment is what made this wound on my heart possible. Our realness also makes it impossible for you to be a paper villain. While you do not have a face, you gave me enough details to know that you were part of a family. While I suppose it is possible that you were born from villains, it is more likely that you were just born as a son, trained in the family business, living in this city and  has hopes and desires and scars and triumphs.

From: Draft 2.20.18 “That is the thing about scars, about pain and about memory–in them is not always the easy labels of “right” or “wrong,” they don’t have villains with evil at the core of their being, or heroes with hearts of gold. In the vilest of my memories the one that hurt me is still nuanced, a person with soul and strengths (I assume), weakness and scars of their own, motives of love and motives of malice–what they did left marks across my heart, but who they are is more than the sum of the pain they left in their wake.”

Is this what forgiveness looks like? Is your face erased so that if I saw you, you would have a second chance to see me as the real person that you hurt? Or has my face disappeared too? Perhaps the wound on your soul and heart has been eased by the passing of years? Perhaps you have asked all the questions about “what sort of man am I?” Maybe you have repented and asked God to clear your account. Maybe.

But I still hope to never see you again.

2nd Draft 2.20.18

If you want to read the First Draft of this look here. Please comment below on what is missing, what is unclear, what is great, or what needs refining? I am looking to be better in all areas of writing and your assistance would be much appreciated.

 

I am asking that you take a close look at me. You will see that my light brown hair is colored to hide the ever increasing number of grey hairs, I tell myself that I am not ashamed of the aging, but I wrinkle my nose up in disgust as another breaks through my scalp. The skin of my face is pale, marked with sun damage, large pores and freckles and rises over high cheek bones,  I like it–it’s mine and it’s not likely to get ‘better’ or more youthful no matter what my skincare line promises. I have earned all of the fine lines by lost and misplaced sunglasses. I have been gifted the acne, in various stages of healing, by my ovaries. I have hazel eyes–those are a gift, too from my grandma through my dad. If your gaze was to drop to my shoulders, on the right is a large tattoo. It covers most of my shoulder blade and is a twisted pine clinging to a rock cliff with the sunrise or sunset behind.

Scars are always stories, and tattoos are the scars you choose. So the story goes like this:

In the land of Michigan, where a young man and a young woman met, fell in love and married, not long after they welcomed their first child. A girl with hazel eyes and big feet (she grew into them)–after four short months this new father and new mother and new baby moved from the land of Michigan to the plains. And then they would move in another year, three after that, six there, seven in another, and to another until this little girl with hazel eyes found herself a girl with average sized feet (I told you she grew into them) and a high school diploma. She set out in a economy car and moved and moved and moved and moved again until she was 27 she didn’t have the same zip code for longer than six months. Now if you imagine that this kind of moving sounds bohemian and adventurous, good on you—in fact stop reading, just go on thinking that I am some charmed roving soul. If your thought was, “that sounds exhausting” then please continue and perhaps put on the kettle, we may need the tea.

Migrancy or nomadic life is no blemish on my parents, they followed their own Divine path and it lead them from prairie town to seminary back to prairie towns. So hear me when I say that what they did was not wrong, but it did leave me with scars. That is the thing about scars, about pain and about memory–in them is not always the easy labels of “right” or “wrong,” they don’t have villains with evil at the core of their being, or heroes with hearts of gold. In the vilest of my memories the one that hurt me is still nuanced, a person with soul and strengths (I assume), weakness and scars of their own, motives of love and motives of malice–what they did left marks across my heart, but who they are is more than the sum of the pain they left in their wake. (But I still hope to never see them again.)

Moving left me with the inability to settle in and start sending out the oh so necessary shoots from my soul, so that my roots could tangle and mingle with the souls that shared it’s location. All of us are organisms that thrive when we are strong in our own understanding of self and strong in our connections with others who are also strong in their understanding of self. Like aspen groves we grow up lifting our life gathering leaves toward the heavens and below supporting each other in a network that feeds and sustains all. Well, that is the ideal sense, I think, we may act more like gnarled old oaks and grow tight in our grains and lonely in our post.

On days when I am particularly wistful I think, “I want to be a stream planted tree, I want deep roots and to be supported by my neighbors and to support them.” But moving made root dropping difficult. I whined and bucked at the fact no one gladly turned over the soil of the community and let me push my self down through dark and fertile  silt to nourish  my soul. I spent a fair amount of acrylic painting disterra’d trees, floating with no earth, but also no sky to look to for Life. I dated boys with families that cling to the land that their ancestors had turned over with pride and plow, but I could not even graft myself to their rootstock. Each move felt like another scar raised against my soul. Until my thirties I thought very little about what was necessary  to ‘be planted,’ I just wish that I had been. What great effort those around would have had to exert to allow me an easy planting, until I wrestled with my scars I resented them and their deep local roots.

Scars are stories and tattoos are the scars you choose. And I found myself at 30 years old faced with a thought and an image. A tree gnarled by the work of digging in, and growing where theirs is little soil, but the wonder of seeing so much of the heavens. Reaching out to the company of other misfit trees whose seeds have also been blown to this high place. We do not get the ease of the Michigan climate or the wideness of the plains. We are made by wind and journey and the rocks that we wind our strong roots around.

I carry the shape of my journey, and I would not push any to follow it themselves, but I can tell you when you stop trying to be easily planted and instead dig in, you will find the sunrise and sunset is sweet as we dig in to rocky home.

1st Draft 2.20.18

Well the very best place to start is at the top, I suppose. If I take that literally on my body we could start at my head. Take a close look and you will see that my medium brown hair is colored to hide the ever increasing number of grey hairs. The skin of my face is pale, marked with sun damage, large pores and freckles and rises over high cheek bones,  I like it–it’s mine and it’s not likely to get ‘better’ or more youthful no matter what my skincare line promises. I have earned all of the fine lines by lost and misplaced sunglasses. I have been gifted the acne, in various stages of healing, by my ovaries. I have hazel eyes–those are a gift, too. If you drop to my shoulders, on the right is a large tattoo. It covers most of my shoulder blade and is a twisted pine clinging to a rock cliff with the sunrise or sunset behind.

Scars are always stories, and tattoos are the scars you choose. So the story goes like this:

In the land of Michigan, where a young man and a young woman met, fell in love and married, not long after they welcomed their first child. A girl with hazel eyes and big feet (she grew into them)–after four short months this new father and new mother and new baby moved from the land of Michigan to the plains. And then they would move in another year, three after that, six there, seven in another, and to another until this little girl with hazel eyes found herself a girl with average sized feet (I told you she grew into them) and a high school diploma. She set out in a economy car and moved and moved and moved and moved again until she was 27 she didn’t have the same zip code for longer than six months. Now if you imagine that this kind of moving sounds bohemian and adventurous, good on you—in fact stop reading, just go on thinking that I am some charmed roving soul. If your thought was, “that sounds exhausting” then please continue and perhaps put on the kettle, we may need the tea.

Migrancy or nomadic life is no blemish on my parents, they followed their own Divine path and it lead them from prairie town to seminary back to prairie towns. So hear me when I say that what they did was not wrong, but it did leave me with scars. Moving left me with the inability to settle in and start sending out the oh so necessary shoots from my soul, so that my roots could tangle and mingle with the souls that shared it’s location. All of us are organisms that thrive when we are strong in our own understanding of self and strong in our connections with others who are also strong in their understanding of self. Like aspen groves we grow up lifting our life gathering leaves toward the heavens and below supporting each other in a network that feeds and sustains all. Well that is the ideal sense, I think, we may act more like gnarled old oaks and grow tight in our grains and lonely in our post.

I wanted to be a stream planted tree, I wanted deep roots and to be supported by my neighbors and to support them. But moving made root dropping difficult. No one gladly turned over the soil of the community and let me push my self down through dark and fertile  silt to nourish  my soul. I thought very little about what was necessary  to ‘be planted.’ What great effort those around would have had to exert to allow me an easy planting, but I resented them and their deep local roots.

I spent a fair amount of acrylic painting disterra’d trees, floating with no earth, but also no sky to look to for Life. I dated boys with families that cling to the land that their ancestors had turned over with pride and plow, but I could not even graft myself to their rootstock. Each moves felt like another scar raised against my soul.

But scars are stories and tattoos are the scars you choose. And I found myself at 30 years old faced with a thought and an image. A tree gnarled by the work of digging in, and growing where theirs is little soil, but the wonder of seeing so much of the heavens. Reaching out to the company of other misfit trees whose seeds have also been blown to this high place. We do not get the ease of the Michigan climate or the wideness of the plains. We are spades by wind and journey and the rocks that we wind our strong roots around. I carry the shape of my journey, and I would not push any to follow it themselves, but I can tell you when you stop trying to be easily planted and instead dig in, you will find the sunrise and sunset is sweet as we dig in to rocky home.