Faith in action

Tens of thousands of Buddhist monks in Myanmar are continuing peaceful protests today.

Tuesday's protests came despite orders to the Buddhist clergy to halt all political activity and return to their monasteries.

The junta sent 10 truckloads of troops to Sule Pagoda, a focal point of the protests, including the one on Tuesday. Troops had been discreetly stationed in Yangon for the past few days, said diplomats.

"They are in full battle gear and they have shields and truncheons. Since two or three days, you could see they are rehearsing anti-riot formations. I've seen them myself. You can hear them. They shout," said a Southeast Asian diplomat who spoke on condition of anonymity, citing protocol.

If the army opens fire on these monks, the country will quickly descend into a bloodbath of rioting and retaliation. Lets pray that the repressive government backs down.

Confronting patriarchy?

I won't rent you my time, I won't sell you my brain, I won't pray to a male god, cuz that would be insane ... and I will not rest a wink, until the women have regrouped — I am many things, made of everything, but I will not be your bank roll, I won't idle in your drive-thru, I won't watch your electric slideshow, I've got way better places to go.
— Ani DiFranco

I have to admit, I was struck dumb when I heard these lyrics at the Ani DiFranco show this weekend. I felt something in between the deep resonance of those lines, (shame?) and I recognized my complacency. I am bankrolling the Catholic Church, sending my daughters to a Catholic school, dropping my check into the basket each week. And I've done so consciously, because I've believed that I was called to be a voice on the inside — confronting the patriarchy around me. But I have to be honest — am I effecting any change at all?

For a time, I felt like my church was on my side in this battle. I found a sympathetic priest (now retired) and a prophetess against patriarchy (now deceased) to share in the struggle. I became a eucharistic minister, and remain so — now divorced (sin #1) and openly gay (sin #2). Of course I know that neither of these are sins, not in they eyes of the God/dess that I believe in — but there are days, days when I'd rather not show up at the table where so many people do hold these views.

I'm struggling. While my faith runs deep as it always has, I'm struggling once again with my place in a church that has felt less like home lately than it should. I can hear the chorus of why don't you just leave and I have a list of reasons why -- but I'm starting to see some holes there. I know that I've had a very difficult time coming out to church members, even though there are many in my community there. But how many were recently in a heterosexual marriage? And still, I believe that a big part of resisting patriarchy is simply showing up and continuing to be Catholic, resisting the assertions by the Vatican that my kind don't really belong. Church is local, I remind myself, just like politics. I just wish it were easier to envision my God/dess between those gilded walls — but the repetitive "Lord" and "He" squashes my imagination and squeezes the female Creatrix into a part of my brain that I can't access. I sit in my pew and try to conjor Her, to join "He" at the altar, but it is as if she is kryptonite and the church walls are lead — she just can't break through, save for small glimpses.

She comes through to me in the music, in the play of light through the stained glass as it bounces off the statue of St. Therese, in the voices of our lectors and cantors, in the Mother of God, and sometimes, from deep within myself. But she comes to me less when I'm in those walls then she comes to me without. She is in nature everywhere, in mothers everywhere, women everywhere, children everywhere. She is Wisdom and unconditional love, and peacefullness. She is in the smooth glass I collect at the beach, the kiss on my lover's lips, the sensousness and beauty of a burlesque dancer, the comfort for a child not my own, the sounds of our voices raised in song together and the warmth of our hands clasped tightly.

•••

It is Fall now, officially. The shift begins within, even before we notice hues change and new a new chill in the night air. We are ready, we say, ready to shed what is dead. Ready to fight harder for what sustains us. I am ready to accept change and even the little deaths that come, knowing that new life awaits me. Confident in new growth, always. But first, the long winter....

Louisiana...my heart watches

My gaze is fixed on Louisianna today, and the reasons are two-fold.

First, The Anglicans are meeting in NOLA, trying to hash out how they deal with 'the gay thing.' This is important, because it could be a preview to how my own church someday tackles (or doesn't)the issue. I wish I could say I was optimistic, but it looks like they could be headed toward schism.

Second, I am thrilled to see that a story broken months ago, has now made front page news across the nation — as bus-loads of protesters arrive in the-town-that-the-civil-rights-movement-passed-over, Jena Louisianna. My heart is joins with the protesters today, as well as with the families and defendents in this case of an overreaching and racist criminal justice system.

funeral postmortem

I arrived about 15 minutes before the private family viewing time was over -- enough time, I thought, to view grandpa privately. I saw my cousins when I came in, eyes full of tears. There were hugs and hellos and then it was time. I made my way in and walked toward the casket. He looked terrible. Not every funeral home can work the magic I had come to expect on 'Six Feet Under.' He was pale and his lips were sucked in, as if he were trying to swallow them. The pic of him and my grandma was perched over his shoulder, a constant visual reminder of what he 'should' have looked like. I touched his hard hands but no thoughts or words came to me. Only the blank realization that this was not my grandpa -- not anymore.

•••

At the wake, I managed to tell a few of my 'big city' cousins that I was gay. They were happy for me -- totally cool with it, asking about my gf. Later that night, our family had reserved a hospitality suite at the Holiday Inn. I figured after a few beers and/or glasses of wine, I'd find the courgage to tell some of the more conservative members of the family. There were suprises all around. When I clumsily told a few of my male cousins by edging into thier 'what women really want' conversation, they were literally speechless. I had actually managed to shock them and as they grimaced, I turned to my brother who swooped in to save me from the humiliation. I owe ya one, bro. I felt so marginalized after that incident, that I went outside to get some air, and called T. Feeling like the new family pariah, I slunk back into the room to collect my kiddos and shuffle back to my hotel room. I was done with the family togetherness for the night. Then I was suprised by a couple of my aunts. My rather conservative aunt from a decidedly red state saw me come in and read my sullen expression. I told her that I was struggling -- and she comforted me, reminding me that our family really was pretty conventional in it's thinking, and that it would take time. As I said goodnight to another of my aunts, she vented to me about how someone had lashed out at her. She too was feeling marginalized. She pointed out that a lot of us feel that way in our family -- convinced that we are the outcast. Though I had never heard our family dynamics described in this way, I knew she had hit on some indidious underlying thing that we do to each other. So much judgement. It's really inescapable in our family. Some are good at faking it to slide by, no flaws detected. I was never so lucky.

•••

We made it the church in the morning with not a minute to spare. We quickly joined the others, cutting into the front of the line. I looked up at my cousins who served as pall bearers -- boys who were now men, attending the dead. The tears filled my eyes, but I choked them back. All the usual pomp of a Catholic funeral mass -- sprinkling the casket with holy water, lighting the Easter candle, the white burial cloth, the insense. Two of my aunts euologized their father and their stories of his life really set the tone. A man of science whose questioning of 'how things worked,' somehow led him down of path of faith and devotion. Stories of the Joliet prison riots, being active in civil rights, marching with Dr. King, and a lifetime of questioning. "Faith requires doubt," he told his children, "otherwise it'd be fact."

•••

Why is our family so judgemental? Why do we criticize each other so harshly? Marginalized is exactly what I had always felt. There is always a gauntlet of criticism I must face when I'm in presence of my family. I'm too fat. I smoke. I work for the communists. My tattoos are sick and depraved. I'm not enlightened because I attend a Catholic church. I profess a faith I don't believe in. (You can't pick and choose, you know.) I'm not gonna make it to heaven. And oh, now I'm gay too. Well, at least they thought my children were delightful and my haircut was just perfect. My aunt said that she thought it was in our genes -- this thing we do to each other. And I think it's also in our genes to think that we're the only one that this is happening to. But I see it now -- we were all doing it to each other. Even the cousins -- the generation that I had thought was free from the type of behavior we'd all witnessed from our aunts throughout our lives. Was this to be our family legacy?

•••

I'll miss you Grandpa Joe. After the funeral, we all insisted on going to the burial site; I guess they don't let people really do that anymore. The grave diggers were at work and I took a picture of them. You'd have been proud of us, learning something about the work, the process, of interning a body. But we all really needed to see you next to Grandma. Twenty-two years is a long time apart. I knew I couldn't leave the cemetary without seeing you lying next to her. We all needed that. I took pictures of the grave and surrounding markers, so that I could find my way back. We took a detour on our way home to the old house on 81st place. We told the Nigerian man that you sold the house to that you had died, and he remembered you fondly. The house never looked so great. I was flooded with memories standing there. Thanks, Grandpa, for always loving me, always teaching me, always guiding me. I trust that you will continue to do just that, from your new vantage point.

Make a hole in the sky for him....

My dad called last night just after I got off the phone with a friend. As soon as he said, "I have some bad news," I knew what was coming next. Half an hour earlier, my grandpa had fallen in the kitchen, hit his head on the stove, and bled to death. And although my grandpa was 94 years old, it didn't stop the tears from coming in great heaving sobs, which woke my oldest daughter. We cried together, then I went to my CD player and put on this song for the patriarch of our family:

King of May

Farewell today
Travel on now
Be on your way
Go safely there
And never worry never care
Beyond this day
Farewell tonight
To all joy and to all the life
Go on go peacefully
We can't keep your majesty
Be on your way
Make way for the last king of May
And make a cardboard crown for him
And make your voices one
Praise the crazy mother's son who loved his life
Farewell today
Travel on now
Be on your way
Can't bear the very thought that we
That we could keep your majesty
Be on your way
Make way for the last king of May
And make a hole in the cloud for him
Raise your voices up
Drink your loving cup
To his long life
To his long life
Make way for the last king of May
Make a hole in the sky for him
And raise your voices up
Lift your loving cup
To his long life
His long life
And raise your voices up
Lift you loving cup
To his long life
To his long life
His long life
His long life
— Natalie Merchant

Senseless

“Of the Seven Deadly Sins, anger is possibly the most fun. To lick your wounds, to smack your lips over grievances long past, to roll over your tongue the prospect of bitter confrontations still to come, to savor to the last toothsome morsel both the pain you are given and the pain you are giving back — in many ways it is a feast fit for a king. The chief drawback is that what you are wolfing down is yourself. The skeleton at the feast is you."
— Frederich Buechner

I'm rarely speechless. But what can you say when a senseless act of violence touches your life in some small way? When people you no longer know — but should — amaze you, scare you, disappoint and disgust you, all the while while you are striving to love them again? When the tears fill your eyes at the contemplation of a soul so filled with hate and indifference, so blinded by drunkeness and anger — a soul crushing down on itself with the weight of it's own darkness? No words come.

I've known people in my life who have seemed to thrive on a limited diet of anger, bitterness and blame. Being around them is like drinking a steady dose of daily poison. I can't figure out what draws certain people into these relationships, keeps them there. Is it some camradarie of pain — as simple as misery loving company? The thrill of running with the 'bad' crowd? Do they feed off of each other, continually pouring out and filling up on a feast of rage? Does sharing the pain and anger make it any less, or only increase it?

I know a little about rage. I know that shame is it's constant companion. And I know it's never too late to let it all go. Forgiveness is the first step.

Reconciliation

So last night, my tween daughter called me from the babydaddy's house, wanting to come home a day earlier than scheduled. I saw this as a pretty good sign. She's been very loving since I picked her up, trying to say "sorry" in a dozen unspoken ways. I'm hoping that soon she will be able to verbalize her desire for forgiveness. She also asked me to take her to church to go for Reconciliation.
This is going to be a journey for all of us — and I trust that we will all be transformed by the suffering and pain that comes up for each of us. Because if there is any purpose to suffering, it's the transformative and redemptive nature of experiencing such brokenness — the deeper empathy that blooms, the barriers that melt when you realize that we are all in the same boat (globally) and the yearning for more compassion to grow in our hearts when we witness the deep pain that we cause others, particularly the people that we love most. My heart aches with heaviness and regret as I look into the wounded eyes of those I've hurt.
When we ask for forgiveness and are forgiven, we are at once humbled and grateful and healed. When we don't ask for forgiveness when we are deeply sorry, we get stuck in shame, the worst of all human emotions. This is the message of Anima Sola — she who chooses to burn though her chains are broken. Why hasn't she left? Because she is not done punishing herself. Because she is stuck in shame and has not realized that all she need do is sincerely ask for forgiveness. Instead she hopes that the fire will purify her, make her worthy of God's love again. But God does not bind her there, it is she who must choose differently — choose humility and ask for forgiveness.

And I say unto you, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.
For every one that asks, receives; and those that seek, find; and to those that knock, it shall be opened.

The diary incident

As promised, the diary incident: my tween daughter wrote an angry note in her diary and left if for me in the middle of the doorway. A trap had been set. I learned that she was quite adept at using expletives in their proper context, even if that content was in describing me. "Bitch." "Ugly." "Too fucking soon." Of course, she at first denied setting the trap, but last night admitted she set it there "to see if I would read it." So now she is using it as validation for her theory that I don't respect her privacy, can't be trusted, etc.

My daughter(s) are struggling with me being gay, and sometimes I don't know how to help them. It hurts that their friends are grossed out and that they might suffer being teased at what I'd always considered a diverse and accepting school. They have other classmates with gay parents, for crying out loud! But none who were in a hetero marriage just a few short years ago. My oldest daugter is blaming me for "ruining her entire life and all of her friendships." I am telling her that SHE isn't "grossed out" by my sexuality, and that she needs to take a leadership position with her friends. And that even if they are grossed out, it doens't necessarilly follow that they will treat her differently or sever her as their friend. Sigh. At least that is my hope.

Part of the reason it took me so long to come out, (and truth be told, I suspect there are tons of school parents who have NO idea about me) was my fear of my children having to suffer the torment middle-schoolers seem particularly adept at cruely dishing out. I wouldn't go back to those days myself for all the money in the world.

And I'm missing the little girl who loved her mommy unconditionally, and wasn't embarassed and angry at me. I'm sure this is my own karma being worked out....

The Patroness of skeptics

In case you haven't heard yet, Mother Theresa's letters describing her intense torment and spiritual struggle have been compiled (against her dying wishes) into a new book, Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light.
While some atheists are crawling out of the woodwork to use these letters as "proof" that Mother Theresa was herself an atheist, people of faith are holding her up as an example of the struggle that each of us goes through with our faith, and the experience of the "dark night of the soul," that has been described by the mystic, St. John of the Cross.
I can't wait to read the book. And I just shrug off the ideologues who want to use Mother Theresa to prove whatever point they are trying to make. Something about knowing that Mother Theresa struggled such extreme spiritual darkness is so comforting to me. And if there is a true force of evil in the world, I can see it concentrating a lot of energy on making that woman suffer -- because of all the light that she brought into the world. I have no doubt that this book containing her letters will one day hold the same regard in the church as the writings of St. Agustine.
This kind of spiritual agony reminds us that none of us are ever free of doubt, and that faith always involves an ascent of the will:

I call, I cling, I want ... and there is no One to answer ... no One on Whom I can cling ... no, No One. Alone ... Where is my Faith ... even deep down right in there is nothing, but emptiness & darkness ... My God ... how painful is this unknown pain ... I have no Faith ... I dare not utter the words & thoughts that crowd in my heart ... & make me suffer untold agony.

So many unanswered questions live within me afraid to uncover them ... because of the blasphemy ... If there be God ... please forgive me ... When I try to raise my thoughts to Heaven there is such convicting emptiness that those very thoughts return like sharp knives & hurt my very soul. I am told God loves me ... and yet the reality of darkness & coldness & emptiness is so great that nothing touches my soul.

Even Jesus himself cried out on the cross, "My god, why hast thou forsaken me?"

Understanding the nature of suffering is the ultimate question of our very existence, the hingepin of all faith. And doubt is essential to our spiritual growth. I also hope that these letters hope to dispell the belief that Christians (generally speaking) follow blindly, never questioning. Anyone who takes faith seriously has confronted the darkness. And to know that the darkness surrounded someone as holy and blessed as Mother Theresa should serve to teach us all something about tenacity and stregnth. And when they name her a saint, she will forever be the Patroness of skeptics.

Heavy-lifting, Part II

Yes, yes, of course the desk got moved. I said it was gonna, didn't I? But, um, it wasn't exactly me who was channeling any super powers. I swear, dear readers, not an hour after posting the last blog post, my wrist was seering with radiating pain through my fingers and up to my elbow. A freak attack of carpal tunnels syndrome.
But fear not, for my more-than-super girlfriend saved the day, with feats of human stregnth I have seldom witnessed. I ended up getting my neighbor's boyfriend to help, and by golly, they moved that damn thing, which I would estimate at about 800 gagillion pounds.
Oh, and oh, if I haven't already mentioned, dear readers, why do you ask did I need to move such a hulking piece of furniture? Well, because my party of three has become a party of five -- as my lovely girlfriend and her sweetie daughter are moving in with me and my girls. Yes, yes, that's a whole lot of estrogen under one roof, but we're determined to make it work. So, stay tuned for more estrogen-overload related tell-alls (and remind me to tell you about this weekend's "diary incident," where I learned that my oldest daughter CAN indeed spell quite a few curse words. Ahem.) and blended family war-stories. Oh, and of course, lots more gushing about how head-over-heels in love I am.

Heavy-lifting

Apparently, I'm not the only one doing my part to dismantle the patriarchy. But I have to admit, It's been pointed out to me recently that I've whined quite a bit about "needing a man" to do some certain things. No, not those things. Things that require heavy lifting and the upper body strength that I just don't possess. Things like tightening screws, moving furniture, and reaching light bulbs that remain out of reach when I stand on my step ladder.
In the past, I've "borrowed" the manly-man husbands and lovers of my straight girlfriends. And I haven't felt particularly guilty about not being strong enough to accomplish certain tasks. But the last thing I'm really wanting to do today is become some sort of damsel-in-distress and beg some dudes to come to my rescue.
I'm remembering my on-the-fly move over a year ago, when good friend R came down the block to help me move a bed. It took us far longer than it should have. We'd carry it a bit, chatting all the way, set it down until we caught our breath and then pick it up again. We shoved and strained to push it up the stairs, almost falling over at points. But we did it, and it felt good to know that in a pinch, us girls can get the job done.
I sent my youngest daughter to school this morning in a shirt that said, "Anything boys can do, girls can do better." I was literally tossing and turning all night, perplexed that I hadn't gotten any guys to commit to moving this massive desk out of my office today — even bitching at my girl friend for suggesting that we could do the job ourselves. It's heavy. Maybe too heavy. Definitely too heavy. But so help me goddess, if it takes me all friggin' day, we're gonna move that damn thing.
I'm going to channel my favorite super-heroine today (Wonder Woman, obviously) combined with the tenacity and strength of my grandma (who lifted a Buick when her baby was pinned under the wheel momentarily) and get this job done. I'm still half-hoping that someone (not necessarily a man) will come along and help us, so if you're in the mood to do a little heavy lifting and channel your inner super heroine, gimme a call today.

Becoming the pearl

I think I've gotten good at recognizing blessings in disguise. Because a lot of things have suddenly shaken me to my core, made me fear for my future. Financial problems. Medical problems. Health insurance problems. Babydaddy problems. Kid problems.
But I'm finding that it's in crisis mode when we pull together, tighten our ranks, and are forced to make bold changes. Changes that ultimately are for the better. It's in crisis mode that we move from dreaming big dreams to acting on them. Maybe its because we've got so little left to lose. But I suspect its because we're glimpsing all that is to be gained. Like the sand in the oyster shell that one day forms a pearl, all that irritation creates something to be treasured. It's an almost prophetic experience I'm having -- dealing with a heap of stress, but knowing that its serving some higher purpose.
But the crisis is only a catalyst, not what moves us to act. The love moves us to act.
My patience will be challenged, and grow. My empathy will grow even deeper. My willingness to keep talking, keep sharing, keep digging deep inside and choosing love -- all of this is going to grow. It's all part of becoming the person I was meant to be. And the best part is, I'm not alone on the journey.

random acts

Ever have those days where you are just overflowing with emotion? Where you've let so much in that it's multiplying and pouring back out? When you've let yourself submit to being loved, and it's filled you up more than you could have ever imagined?

This feeling, this is the core of all spirituality, I believe. It transcends religion. We are called to take the love that we receive and share it with everyone, not just the small circle of our loved ones. In doing so, we acknowledge that we are all one. What we share intimately with just one person can swell within us a love that can be shared with everyone. This describes not just our relationships with our lovers, but with our higher power. God loves us in this way, I believe. My only proof is the sense that I am healing when I'm feeling the love — and when I'm extending it.


Free Hugs Rochester NY and other Random acts of Kindness

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Yeah, I know....

It's been way too long since I've blogged here. Here's a list of my excuses, in no particular order:
• it's summer and I've been busy
• I've been spending my free time reading and writing elsehwere
• I've not really had anything that I wanted to write about recently.
• I'm still not sure if I've painted myself into a corner with this blog, which originally had a very limited focus.

Anyway, as noted, I have been writing, albeit not here. I wrote a feature article on the centenary of Frida Kahlo's birth that got published. (yay me!) And I've been doing a lot of journaling, mostly about cognitive distortions (of which I seemingly have many). So, hopefully I've redeemed myself somewhat and you won't take away my blogging credentials.

So, what else of interest has been going on? On July 22 we celebrated the feast day of St. Mary Magdelene at our church. For years, this has been an opportunity for the women of the parish to take a strong leadership role. I was skeptical this year when they decided to celebrate with a priest officiating, rather than a woman. We agreed on this decision because the feast fell on a Sunday this year, so we celebrated it during the usual 10am mass — which offered an opportunity for more people in the parish to become familiar with MM's story. And women played a strong role in the mass, so all said and done, it was really nice. Just different. I wonder what Delle would have thought of the big change this year. And I'm hopeful that next year, we'll return to our usual form -- with a woman at the helm and I will once again be able to participate in the multi-generational "consecration" of the bread.

I've also found myself pondering questions of empathy and healing lately. I'm wondering to what degree does empathy play a part in a person's healing? Does "feeling" the pain of another make you a more effective healer, or is more detachment what is required? Or are these just different approaches, inherent to the healer's gifts/traits/personality and neither is more effective? And if you are the empathic sort, I'd love to hear stories about how to protect yourself from becoming overwhelmed. I have several friends in healing professions. Some have described becoming "the machine" to get their job done, while others have told of crying while giving an elderly person in pain a massage. This intrigues me, as I often wonder if I'm too empathic for my own good.

Yeah, I know, this is a rather rambling post, but I just wanted to get the ball rolling again. Thanks for indulging me.

My buddha nature...or not.

This friend of mine had this great Buddha story: the Buddha is walking along with a friend and encounters a scorpion stuck in the crevice of a tree. As he reached in to free the scorpion, he is stung, just before the little critter scurries away. His companion asked, disbelieving, "why did you stick your own hand in to free the scorpion?" The Buddha replied, "I can change my nature no more than the scorpion can change his."

For awhile now, I've gone back to this story when I've reached out compassionately to "scorpions" and occasionally got stung. And I've pushed myself to keep true to my own better nature, sometimes regardless of the impending sting.

But now I have some questions for the Buddha: would he keep rescuing the same scorpion over and over if it kept wandering willy-nilly into harm's way? And if the sting was lethal? Or if the scorpion went on to sting others close by, particulary loved ones? Does there come a point when it is fruitless to keep rescuing this scorpion? Or is the Buddha's nature that one-sided, that it truly is his only option to stick his hand in to be stung over and over?

If that's the case, I'm happy to say I'm not a Buddhist. I might be slow to try new tactics, always striving to deliberately choose love and kindness, but if that's no longer working and the same problems keep arising, I think there comes a time to try something different. Because some scorpions are not just scorpions. And sometimes, it's probably best to let them get out of their own mess.

Jesus was quick to point out that you shouldn't waste your precious energy on people who aren't receptive. "If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, shake the dust off your feet when you leave that home or town." Sometimes, what we have to give is too precious to waste on scorpions.

breakthrough

The past few weeks have brought confrontations and tricky-to-navigate situations with some key people in my life. I always end up triggered on so many levels. But this time, perhaps because I've walked these winding roads for so long now, I recognize and see these processes for what they are. I'm stopping myself in my own tracks and getting my bearings a lot quicker than I used to be able to. I'm no longer blindsided -- and really, how could I be -- when the patterns have repeated for a lifetime. Whether its just time that brings this clarity or something else, I'm not certain.
But I've felt a major shift. I'm changing in big ways. I'm not the same person I was even 4 months ago. I am healing.
This morning my eyes welled with tears for a brief moment (uh, hello Spirit) when someone's loving words hit me like a ton of bricks, forcing me to drop my self-depricating words in the dust and let them whither forever from my soul. And the moment they slipped from my tounge unsaid, I felt 10,000 pounds lighter. I felt loved -- by myself, for the first time in ages.
Today I claim all the love that is mine, and as I feel it fill my soul, heal my heart, I pour it out again on those who have loved me unconditionally. There are no words to express my graditude and my love for you.
A Sr. at my church once said that she had observed that most people don't really believe that God loves them. Really truly in their heart and soul, they feel abandoned. Thank you for pointing me back to the source of all love -- which flows abundantly through the universe for us all. We are all so very loved.

Solstice

Today marks the Summer Solstice, the longest period of daylight during the year. It's definitely Summer. Here in Chicago, it's been pretty blazing hot, and thankfully, I got my air conditioners in just in time. (Thanks, T!) There's a ton going on this weekend: first, on Saturday, a dream come true. I'll be attending the Crosstown Classic where I'll (hopefully) witness the Sox get their collective asses kicked by my beloved Cubbies. I've got a good wager going on this game that involves public humiliation and body massages. Who could ask for more?
On Sunday I'll be at the Chicago Pride parade. This year I'll be with a much larger crowd than I usually attend with, which will be a blast. I think it's impossible to come to a Pride event and be anything but happy and in a partying mood -- but we shall see. I'm certainly not gonna let anyone cramp my style on that day!
The Solstice seems like a good time to reflect on the last year, the many changes and transformations, what has brought growth to my life, as well as a good time to tap into the creative energy that is abundant at this time of year. Whether that be a new project, basking in the sunlight, transforming a relationship, or simply putting out some positive thoughts to manifest at another time, you can't go wrong by tapping into Solstice energy.

labels

I've been thinking a lot the past few days about how we choose to define ourselves -- both positively and negatively, as well as how other's define us. On the positive end, what is a source of pride or self-confidence for us? On the negative end, what limits us or constrictively labels us? I think that fighting such limitations has been one of ways in which I've defined myself (how's that for a paradox!) Such is true for most activists. Activists are defined by the fight, and are motivated by a variety of emotions and values. I've struggled to keep my motivations based in love, rather than anger -- which isn't always easy given the state of our political lansdscape and general state of things.
But what I'm more interested in today is how we choose to let others define us -- and how that limits us. There are many labels that one might apply to me: mother, lesbian, catholic, artist, lefty. At one time I was also: wife, straight, and pagan. Clearly, there's been some big changes on that front. But to what extent was the labeling itself something that had to be overcome? And to what degree do we acquiesce to other's expectations, thus allowing them to define us? And seeing how the lines are not always clear when change happens in life -- at what point in the process to we confront the need of other's to label or define us? This seems like a particularly challenging thing when we are defined in negative terms. When other's labels no longer serve us, how do we go about in getting other's to accept the changes we are making, or at least respect the new choices we've made? And if we continue to choose to allow others to label us, then hadn't we just better get used to living up to those labels, in lieu of living a more authentic life? The choice is yours, and mine....

off-balance

I've had something that I can only describe as a choking sadness these last few days. A heaviness in my chest that is only relieved by silent tears escaping — until I choke them back again.
The seven month anniversary of the passing of my dear Delle just passed, and I wonder if that is what has sent me reeling. I know that on the 2nd, I sat again and listened to The Deer's Cry and that is when the tears began. I've been off-balance for days, in an almost constant state of near-tears. Perhaps I am more spiritually depleated than I've let on. Perhaps my tank is really near empty, and my guages have just been off.
And I can hear Delle's voice, quoting her grandmother and telling me, "Tears are the hallmark of the Holy Spirit," and I believe that to be true. So, what do these tears want me to recognize, to submit to, to pray into?
I'm listening to John Horan today, a fellow Gertrudian, and letting his wisdom seep into my soul today. And he's brought up my favorite John Shea poem, one that I'd like to reshare, because it's just a really good meditation.

A Prayer to the Pain of Jesus

When crutches were thrown away
did Jesus limp
after the running cripples?

Did his eyes dim
when Bartimaeus saw?

Did life ebb in him
when it flowed in Lazarus?

When lepers leapt in new flesh,
did scales appear
on the back of his hand?

The gospels say
Jesus felt power go out from him
but neglect to say
whether at that moment
pain came in.

Did the Son of God
take on ungrown legs and dead eyes
in the terrifying knowledge
that pain does not go away
only moves on?

John Shea
The Hour of the Unexpected
Allen Tex.: Thomas More, 1992

Love is my religion

Someone said to me the other day, that when you're in a relationship with someone, it becomes your religion. It mirrors, and somewhat replaces, your relationship with your higher power. Perhaps that's why I haven't had the slightest urge to blog here lately -- although I feel very guilty about it. And I have to admit, I have been noticably absent from the 7th pew on the Mary side of St. Gertrude's church for the last several Sunday masses.

But if that's the case -- that we put all of our spiritual energy into our relationship -- is that just too much for someone to take on? I'm not saying that we elevate our lovers to the status of god/desses or anything like that, but does anyone in a relationship knowingly take on that kind of spiritual responibility? Then again, if love is what we're all here for anyway, wouldn't God/dess want us to be focusing on those key relationships? Afterall, we're not charged with living our lives in the church pews -- but out in the world. We honor our faith in the way we live our lives, and yes, the way we choose to extend love.

So maybe it's a good sign that I've been so in love that I haven't been to church very much. I surely don't feel spiritually depleated. And as far as this blog goes, I'm reminded that I want to push myself to write about more than relgion in a narrow sense, but in a very broad, living-my-daily-life sense, so I'll try to get back on track here, if I indeed have any readers left.