2014 - The Year of the boxes

I never thought I'd be gone so long. I'm sorry if I left you hanging, waiting for more.

What I thought would be a brief hiatus for my niece's wedding in early June quickly morphed into  a "trail of tears" through boxes; family dysfunction; more boxes; relocations; still more boxes; acute, chronic and terminal illnesses; even more boxes, and finally; reconcilations followed by... wait for it... BOXES. Although it doesn't seem possible, if you somehow missed the trail marker boxes you would certainly stumble over piles of laundry, uneaten veggies in the frig, small mammal-sized dust bunnies, unanswered emails, unreturned phone calls, unopened mail and broken promises "to get together soon."  I never saw any of this coming, as I guess most of us don't, and was neither prepared to parent my parent nor to talk with my sister about fear, courage and death. 

The past half year has taken an incredible amount of energy. Despite doing my best to eat well, I have lost 15 pounds. Yes, there was some physical labor involved: packing and unpacking boxes, loading and unloading vehicles and moving furniture (again & again). However, it was the emotional toil that caught me off-guard. I felt, and sometimes continue to feel, afraid, overwhelmed and deeply exhausted much of the time. Oh, and then there is the guilt. Guilt because I can't make my mom happy, my sister well, work enough hours, pay all my bills, honor all my commitments, or even get together with my friends. I just can't seem to do enough OR do enough RIGHT.

Since July I have read little, misplaced my unfinished collage, painted only when I could clear enough clutter from the dining room table, and written NOTHING other than necessary emails and a few Facebook status updates. Then I went on retreat, returning with the knowledge that I needed to carve out a place in my house, a creative space/sanctuary/studio/workshop. Clearly this space is now as necessary to my survival as food, water, and air.

My third floor has a front room that is crammed with STUFF.  In its piles of boxes and assorted clutter are the remnants of every job I've ever had, every unfinished project, every "not-so-bright idea", every item I thought I'd repair or repurpose. Hidden among cartons are bins of "left-behinds" from guests and friends who have passed through the room, along with remembrances of those who have passed on from this world. And it's truly UGLY, too.  Boysenberry (looked much better in the can) walls, windows that don't fit well, and a hole in the ceiling from an old roof leak. Not a place, in its current state, where you'd want to spend much time. For the moment it is dubbed THE ROOM OF SORROW AND BROKEN DREAMS because it is the place where I have STUFFED it all, literally and figuratively, for decades. 

Yes, (insert nod to Jenn here) I know the title must change, but for now it is important that I acknowledge the role that room has fulfilled both in my house and my psyche. It is a metaphor for my life, serving as a kind of physical "serenity prayer," changing/fixing the aspects I can, accepting the parts of the room that cannot change and the wisdom to know the difference. Some of this I will only learn as I go, but I must go. Hence I decided to challenge myself with writing nearly everyday about  unpacking; sorting and deciding what to keep, discard, repurpose or give way. I am hoping, insha'Allah, the next 365 days will transform both my life and The Room of Sorrow and Broken Dreams into a place/space beyond my wildest dreams. Both dangers and surprises lie ahead, of that I am certain. On the journey I look forward to hearing from you.

The Fight on the Doorstep

"The Fight on the Doorstep" Collage

The above collage was one of works that informed part of yesterday's post.  It was the first one I have  completed as adult without a clear goal in mind for the finished product. I allowed myself to pour through piles of magazines and stacks of paper choosing only images I was drawn to select. When I felt my working pile of paper was high enough I choose a background and then began to assemble a the smaller pieces to create the image you see now.

At first I thought of "The Fight on the Doorstep" as having political connotations about how the media can fill our hearts and minds with images of fear, danger and violence. This then creates an environment in which we become more willing to give up our privacy and freedom in subtle ways.

For the past few weeks the collage has been sitting in at my desk where I work a couple of days a week. Following yesterday's post I now think "The Fight on the Doorstep" is my inner struggle to keep the old me, the I can't because I am not _____", at bay.  The decades of old tapes and images that play through my mind want me to remain stuck where I am because that is where I have perceived I am safe.  Those thoughts are no less damaging to my psyche than subjecting myself to a barrage of media images of violence. I am resisting an inner environment in which I would become willing to settle for safety and thereby give up my potential for freedom, growth and adventure. 

Central Africa's Only Orchestra: Playing Beethoven in Kinshasa - SPIEGEL ONLINE

Every now and then I need a reality check. Most of the time I am fairly optimistic, but there are times when I get so caught up in my own world, thinking that my financial struggles are so difficult, that my house needs so many repairs, that there are so many things I need (or want).

Recently I discovered a crack in my windshield. I let it go a few days. I was busy. It was the weekend. While I was taking a break from thinking about the windshield, the crack grew. On a Monday morning I called my insurance company. The woman who took the call asked, "Is the crack bigger than the space covered by a dollar bill?" Oops.  Now I learned that it would require replacing the entire windshield, not merely fixing the crack. "Let me check your coverage," she said and put me on hold. Coming back on the line she explained, "You don't have coverage for that, but we can get you a discount with the company that is our partner." Zing. I didn't see this one coming. I had replaced a windshield in a previous car and it didn't cost me a cent. When money got tight after I lost my business I reduced my car insurance without really thinking through the consequences. Penny wise and pound foolish, you silly woman, my inner dialog continued as I was informed that it would cost several hundred dollars (after the discount) to get the windshield replaced.  Hanging up the phone and lapsing into self-pity I see everything that is wrong with and in my life and I begin my "Litany of Lack" taxes due April 15, bathroom caulk needs replaced, kitchen sink needs a new faucet, wallpaper is peeling in the hallway, back yard is ugly, porch needs repairs, the clothes dryer is old, retirement funds virtually non-existent... I can go on like this for a while seeing everything and everyone (including me) as broken or not enough. I can become overwhelmed and paralyzed. I don't like living in this space, but it is hard, sometimes to find the Out Door. 

AND then, whack, with the holy 2x4, I come across something that reminds me just how lucky I am, just how much I have. And today, I was reminded that even my "Litany of Lack" is, itself, a LUXURY.  I have a roof over my head, hot and cold clean running water, plenty of food along with a refrigerator to keep it in. I sleep in a bed and drive on paved streets. I am rich. I have so much to be thankful for, including the space and time in which to write this.  And thankful for the "whacks on the head" that knock the scales from my eyes and the whine from my throat!

Today's reality check came to me by way of Der Spiegel International's English site. It is the story of Central Africa's Only Orchestra, Orchestre Symphonique Kimbanguiste and how these musicians manage to play Handel and Beethoven amid the rubble that is Kinshasa. I am grateful to be able to put my troubles, real as they are, into perspective.

Central Africa's Only Orchestra: Playing Beethoven in Kinshasa - SPIEGEL ONLINE

A more up-to-date posting can be found at Orchestra of the Age of Enlightment which also has links to the the Orchestre Symphonique Kimbanguiste website.

What I am giving up for Lent

"The real miracle is not to walk either
on water or in thin air, but to walk on
the earth" - Thich Nhat Hah, Buddhist Monk

This year, for Lent, I am giving up being constrained by the belief that I don't have enough - enough money, time, or talent. I am fasting from I-am-not-ness, not young enough, not attractive enough, not good enough. I am giving up FEAR, that unhealthy fear that blocks me from the miracle of walking on the earth. Saying I can't followed by the words because-I-am-not is expressly prohibited.

I have been slowly reading and savoring David Adam's little book "A Desert in the Ocean: God's Call to Adventurous Living." Adam, Victor of Holy Island (Lindisfarne), writes extensively on the Celtic tradition and has published numerous collections of prayers and meditations.  This short volume (123 pgs) is a series of meditations based on a poem attributed to St Brendan the Navigator. It asks, no truly, it INVITES, the reader to consider whether God is calling us to live more adventurously.

In the early pages of the book a passage caught my imagination and I have been turning it over in my mind ever since.  Adam's introduction suggests connections between the early Celtic Church and the Desert Mothers and Fathers, especially in their world/church view.  He outlines several of the reasons the Desert Mothers and Fathers moved into the desert: to get away from a church growing in status, to seek a life defined by something other than wealth or power, and to seek God in all things.  They were not running away from anything, but rather toward something, toward a great adventure.

They may not have thought of changing the world, but they were determined to change themselves; they were determined to die FOR something rather than OF something, to show that life had depth, was adventurous and worth living.   -- David Adam, "A Desert in the Ocean", pg 4 (Emphasis mine)

I had to stop and take a deep breath when I read those words.  Apparently having fallen into a trap of viewing "adventure" as one of those things you do/have when you travel to exotic places, try extreme sports, wear trendy clothes or eat unusual food; I assumed it was only for those who had time, money, few commitments, and courage. Typically, I don't see myself as much of an adventurer, instead counting myself lucky to live in the digital age with friends who allow me to live vicariously through them.

Still pondering this notion as I stepped into my neighborhood coffee shop this morning, my husband and I sat down with two young women, recent acquaintances through mutual friends.  As the conversation flowed from women mystics, to fixing buttons, to neighborhood gardens I was struck at how these young women are living adventurous lives. Megan is an artist and musician who easily draws-in others with her creativity. Hanni's desire (call) to create and foster community is a thread that seems to run through all she does: planting a sustainable urban garden, publishing a 'zine, or experimenting with communal living.  They are running toward things that make life worth living, not only for themselves, but by extension for the rest of us.  I am grateful for them.

Suddenly, whack, I am hit over the head with the "Holy 2x4" as a friend calls it. God wants us to live an adventurous life, to LIVE and DIE for something, not just merely live and die! Adventure, me? This is not to say that my current life doesn't have depth or meaning, its just that I think there could be more.  There IS more, if only I will embrace it.  What if I went to sleep each night with the intention of being open to the work of the spirit in my dreams, knowing that the day, God's day, starts while I am asleep? How might my life be different if I woke up every morning with excitement and anticipation, thinking, What adventure will I have today, continuing God's work in the world, the work begun in my dreams? Is not this our real work, the work of the baptized, the work we followers of Jesus are called to do - to live and die FOR something?

On Hoarding, Quicksand, Grace and Writing

My dining room table is covered with half-read newspapers, books, unopened mail, notes and that Sunday School project prototype I'm gluing. There's a stack of cookbooks on the floor and a pile of unshelved CD's in the corner. The desk is scattered with receipts needing to be organized. Littering the floor are enough cat and dog toys to make someone think a toddler lives here.  

The state of my dining room is a mirror to my mind, to my soul. For me, trouble in mind equals dirty dishes in the sink and stacks of paper on the table. I can't decide where to put things, what to keep and what to discard, what I'll never use again and what will be essential to me later. What if, what if, what if...

I have to write a blog post. I have to be at work in ten minutes. I have to clean up. It's driving me crazy. Someone's coming over later. I could cram it all in the closet. The closet is full. Why do I hang on to some of this stuff? Ack, I should be on an episode of "Hoarders." 

It's all a little overwhelming at the moment. I'm a little overwhelmed at the moment!

I sit on the couch and stare into the dining room, my mind as cluttered as the table.
I am scared. I am procrastinating. I feel that familiar paralysis begin to set in. First the body and then the mind. This is territory I know all too well. The surface might look solid, but there is water flowing underneath making the soil of my life loose its friction. I tell my inner hiker to stay on the path for there is quicksand all around.

Is this a good title? Where should that paragraph go? Am I on the right track? Is this where the Holy Spirit is leading? Should I be looking for a "real" job?

Too late, I stepped into it. My husband always hikes with a stick, but I don't know where mine is today. The sand covers my ankles and gently pulls me in. It might not be too deep. If I retrace my steps, I could back out of this now.

Should I spend more time with mom and sister? Can I pay these bills this week with what's left in the bank account? Can I afford health insurance? What if I get sick?

In a flash, I'm up to my knees and sinking fast, but if I just try to push on I'll be okay. Solid ground is just up ahead.
 
Will I ever finish that scarf and beading project idea I started? Can I ever retire? The bathroom needs painting. I never should have torn out the kitchen floor without a plan to replace it. I never get anything done. I never finish anything.

Cue the Ennio Morricone Spaghetti Western soundtrack as I'm sucked down to waist level. Flailing around with my arms I forget everything I've ever learned about quicksand. My inner hiker is in panic mode only now.

My business venture failed. Should I delete this sentence? Will anyone read it?  Does it matter? Why did I commit to doing this? It's too hard. Will I ever write anything again?

As I sink up to my armpits, I feel that choking anxiety in my throat as the quicksand of self-doubt presses around me. Desperately I thrash about for something, ANYTHING, to hang onto. What will I do? How will I survive?

GRACE. Those moments of GRACE that save me. 

Unbidden in conversation my friend John says, "Your writing is a wise testimony for others. Don't worry about it. Just let it FLOW from the Spirit through you." And he prays for me right then and right there where we are standing.   

It dawns on me. I remember that I am denser than water, denser than quicksand. What I learned comes flooding back. I CAN FLOAT, spread myself across the muck and FLOAT.  I'm not out of this yet, but I'm not sinking.

Having Saturday morning breakfast with Bob, I tell him I am trying to follow my heart. "You seem calmer, happier somehow," he shares. I worry aloud that I won't ever be able to put fingers to keyboard again and have it make sense. Smiling, he quips, "So does Salman Rushdie!" 


GRACE. Looking up I see a low hanging branch. Was it always there? I paddle slowly, but steadily, toward it.

My sister, who has a gift for making beautiful handmade cards, gives me a card of encouragement about manifesting dreams and not letting age, resources or timing limit one's vision. On the back she printed a Bible verse from Habakkuk, "Write the vision, make it plain on tablets..."  She checks in on me to see how I am doing with my "Vision Board."

GRACE. AGAIN GRACE. I can see what looks like solid ground.

I read these words, "...without knowing it I can let myself become overwhelmed...I have believed the lie...I have given up fighting...I have felt sorry for myself," written by my younger and wiser friend Aletheia over at [according to aletheia].


MORE GRACE. I reach the branch, climb out of the pit and onto the path again, astonished that I did not realize that sometimes I can CHOOSE to NOT be overwhelmed. Like Aletheia, this is, now, one more thing I DO know.


Special thanks to Doug Gelbert, author of my favorite Doggin America and Bark in the Park series of books, from whom I learned SOME of what I know about quicksand. If you like hiking with your dog visit Doug's website
http://www.hikewithyourdog.com/