I was walking home on Monday and then there were sirens and a crowd.
A woman stood at the corner, a hand over her mouth.
I asked: “What happened?”
The woman on the corner pointed – there was a body on the street, under a bus. The body had jeans and a gray sweatshirt, but we couldn’t see her head. We watched for movement. None. The woman next to me said: “Oh my god.”
Another woman walked up and asked: “What happened?”
I pointed. A body on the street. Not moving. The EMT knelt by her and then stood. Another ambulance and two fire trucks came the wrong way down the one way street. The EMT waved them to slow.
We watched. And I didn’t know if I should watch or if I should look away, walk away, and give the woman privacy. I felt stunned and frozen. After a while, I left and started walking home. They still hadn’t been able to extricate her from under the bus. At the time, I thought she had died, though later that night I learned that she had sustained severe injuries but would survive.
As I walked home, I started praying for her and her family. I thought, I hope it had been the best day for her. I hoped she’d thrown her arms wide in the morning, and couldn’t believe her luck. I hoped she was well loved. Please god, let her life have been wonderful and filled with joy. Hold her family close now.
Everything around me seemed so bright. It was that moment of late afternoon when the trees are silver veins in russet sky. A woman came out of a building, wrapping a scarf around her throat and smiling at her own thought. A spray of crows dipped and curled into the sky. And the world breathed: stay awake. Don’t miss this.
Sometimes I think that grief cannot exist without joy, that the divine spirit, that God, is a tensile alloy of these things: loss and wonder, crows and light, trees against the sky. And I’ve been grieving and praying for that woman who was hit. I am holding her in my heart, though I never saw her face. I am amazed at this fragile, fragile life, and all the more called to open my heart to this wonder, this breath, this now.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Sunday, January 16, 2011
On Prayer
In AA practice, when you resent someone, you are told to pray for them. I remember the first time my AA sponsor suggested this – I was highly ticked off and she said with her serene grin:
“Well, just pray for them to have everything they want and need to be happy and free. Do it in the morning and at night for two weeks.”
“No way,” I said.
When she first took me on as a sponsee, she had asked: “Are you willing to go to any lengths to stay sober?” At the time, I’d nodded my head, sure, yeah, any lengths, I thought.
Here was the payback: “Didn’t you say you were willing to go to any lengths to stay sober?”
I growled: “Yeah, but….”
“No buts. Go pray,” she said walked off.
I called one of my newly sober pals to bitch about my sponsor. She said; “Be careful, or you’ll have to pray for her too.”
My friend noted that her sponsor had said you didn’t even have to be nice about the prayer, you could just say: “Higher power, please give that $*%^^% everything she wants and needs to be happy,” and it would still work.
I tried it, including a few choice phrases. I did it for the requisite two weeks. After the first few days, I could use the person’s actual name. After a week and half, I actually meant it. After two weeks, I was stunned to realize I could be in the same room with the person and not only be almost totally serene about it, but also want good things for that person.
It was weird.
Over the years I’ve slowly learned how to pray. For me, it’s generally been a regular chat with the Spirit, with a few requests for help with my addictive behaviors. Sometimes it’s as brief as: “Help!” Other times it’s a long conversation. Occasionally, I even prayed for people I wasn’t angry with. But it wasn’t a habit or a practice, more of an on-the-fly, if I thought of it, kind of thing.
One of the oddest (and most moving) things that happened when I started to tell people I was going to seminary was that people would suddenly ask me to pray for them or their friends/relatives.
I mean, I’ve been asked to pray for people before, randomly in my life (mostly whist in Indiana), but this was somehow different. Maybe this sounds precious or whatever, but it felt like a kind of sacred responsibility – a kind of trust made tangible.
I don’t think being in seminary, or being a minister, means that those prayers somehow have more weight or anything. But I do know that more people have asked me to pray for them since I started talking about/going to seminary. I realize that praying for people is a regular Christian practice (at least in the churches I attend).
One of the sweetest moments for me in seminary so far was when I was flipping about something, one of my fellow seminarians said: “Uhm…do you wanna pray about it?”
I at first thought, oh god, no. But I then recognized this as an invitation to intimacy, or as an act of love and I said: “Uhm ok.”
We looked at each other awkwardly, kind of giggling, and she put her hand on my arm and started talking to God (or Spirit etc.) It was beautiful, and when she was done, I felt loved and safe and grateful.
It used to irritate the hell out of me when the fundamentalist people would mention that they were praying for me – generally to be cured of my lesbianism, I think. It felt like a kind of violation – I wanted to say: I don’t consent. But that experience stays with me when I think about praying for other people. It has seemed somehow arrogant to pray for people to get what I think they need. So generally, when I have prayed for them, it’s been a short: “bless so-and-so” or “please help person x.”
So I’ve been thinking a lot about my own spiritual practices lately and I decided maybe that I should make praying for people (that I’m not angry at) a regular thing. This of course brings to mind a Norman Rockwell-esque picture of the little kid in footie jammies kneeling in front of her bed, hands tightly clasped, saying “god bless mom and dad, and my brother, and the dog etc.” (Which really isn’t a bad practice, when I think of it.)
Anyway, I decided I’d pray for five people a day, just to test it out. I once heard a woman in AA describe her prayer practice as imagining a person wrapped in something warm and soft held up to God, and I always thought that was kind of lovely, so I tried that, but it wasn’t quite right for me.
What occurred to me was that when I think I know what I need, or what others might need, I sort of close off the path of inspiration. I charge ahead and get really focused on “getting it done.” This really hasn’t worked well for me. It appeals to my ego – oh, look how insightful I am! Or: Look how people need me. Or: I’m such a great big hero. Not my better self, really.
For some reason, I started thinking about love – what do you think about when you’re thinking about someone you love? For me, it’s those little quirks or expressions everyone has – their obsession for barbershop quartets, or how she lines all the books on the table just so. These images are a kind of emotion snapshot – this is how I love, this is who I love. So I started holding those images of people in my mind; holding those moments of love for that person up to God/Spirit/Celestial Wonder Dog. At first I started with the people I loved most. I didn’t stop at five – the images just kept floating into my mind, and pretty soon it wasn’t just the people I loved and liked, it was just random people, even a few that I don’t like so much. I had a glimpse of the interconnectedness of my life, a tapestry of love and possibility.
I don’t know if prayer helps the people you pray for, or if those prayer chains work, or whatever, but I know this: The day I started this practice was a day that had held a major disappointment for me; I was feeling really sad and stupid and not a little sorry for myself. Somehow though, sharing my love with God in this practice made me feel a sense of wonder, gratitude and connection. Kind of like an invitation to intimacy with God.
“Well, just pray for them to have everything they want and need to be happy and free. Do it in the morning and at night for two weeks.”
“No way,” I said.
When she first took me on as a sponsee, she had asked: “Are you willing to go to any lengths to stay sober?” At the time, I’d nodded my head, sure, yeah, any lengths, I thought.
Here was the payback: “Didn’t you say you were willing to go to any lengths to stay sober?”
I growled: “Yeah, but….”
“No buts. Go pray,” she said walked off.
I called one of my newly sober pals to bitch about my sponsor. She said; “Be careful, or you’ll have to pray for her too.”
My friend noted that her sponsor had said you didn’t even have to be nice about the prayer, you could just say: “Higher power, please give that $*%^^% everything she wants and needs to be happy,” and it would still work.
I tried it, including a few choice phrases. I did it for the requisite two weeks. After the first few days, I could use the person’s actual name. After a week and half, I actually meant it. After two weeks, I was stunned to realize I could be in the same room with the person and not only be almost totally serene about it, but also want good things for that person.
It was weird.
Over the years I’ve slowly learned how to pray. For me, it’s generally been a regular chat with the Spirit, with a few requests for help with my addictive behaviors. Sometimes it’s as brief as: “Help!” Other times it’s a long conversation. Occasionally, I even prayed for people I wasn’t angry with. But it wasn’t a habit or a practice, more of an on-the-fly, if I thought of it, kind of thing.
One of the oddest (and most moving) things that happened when I started to tell people I was going to seminary was that people would suddenly ask me to pray for them or their friends/relatives.
I mean, I’ve been asked to pray for people before, randomly in my life (mostly whist in Indiana), but this was somehow different. Maybe this sounds precious or whatever, but it felt like a kind of sacred responsibility – a kind of trust made tangible.
I don’t think being in seminary, or being a minister, means that those prayers somehow have more weight or anything. But I do know that more people have asked me to pray for them since I started talking about/going to seminary. I realize that praying for people is a regular Christian practice (at least in the churches I attend).
One of the sweetest moments for me in seminary so far was when I was flipping about something, one of my fellow seminarians said: “Uhm…do you wanna pray about it?”
I at first thought, oh god, no. But I then recognized this as an invitation to intimacy, or as an act of love and I said: “Uhm ok.”
We looked at each other awkwardly, kind of giggling, and she put her hand on my arm and started talking to God (or Spirit etc.) It was beautiful, and when she was done, I felt loved and safe and grateful.
It used to irritate the hell out of me when the fundamentalist people would mention that they were praying for me – generally to be cured of my lesbianism, I think. It felt like a kind of violation – I wanted to say: I don’t consent. But that experience stays with me when I think about praying for other people. It has seemed somehow arrogant to pray for people to get what I think they need. So generally, when I have prayed for them, it’s been a short: “bless so-and-so” or “please help person x.”
So I’ve been thinking a lot about my own spiritual practices lately and I decided maybe that I should make praying for people (that I’m not angry at) a regular thing. This of course brings to mind a Norman Rockwell-esque picture of the little kid in footie jammies kneeling in front of her bed, hands tightly clasped, saying “god bless mom and dad, and my brother, and the dog etc.” (Which really isn’t a bad practice, when I think of it.)
Anyway, I decided I’d pray for five people a day, just to test it out. I once heard a woman in AA describe her prayer practice as imagining a person wrapped in something warm and soft held up to God, and I always thought that was kind of lovely, so I tried that, but it wasn’t quite right for me.
What occurred to me was that when I think I know what I need, or what others might need, I sort of close off the path of inspiration. I charge ahead and get really focused on “getting it done.” This really hasn’t worked well for me. It appeals to my ego – oh, look how insightful I am! Or: Look how people need me. Or: I’m such a great big hero. Not my better self, really.
For some reason, I started thinking about love – what do you think about when you’re thinking about someone you love? For me, it’s those little quirks or expressions everyone has – their obsession for barbershop quartets, or how she lines all the books on the table just so. These images are a kind of emotion snapshot – this is how I love, this is who I love. So I started holding those images of people in my mind; holding those moments of love for that person up to God/Spirit/Celestial Wonder Dog. At first I started with the people I loved most. I didn’t stop at five – the images just kept floating into my mind, and pretty soon it wasn’t just the people I loved and liked, it was just random people, even a few that I don’t like so much. I had a glimpse of the interconnectedness of my life, a tapestry of love and possibility.
I don’t know if prayer helps the people you pray for, or if those prayer chains work, or whatever, but I know this: The day I started this practice was a day that had held a major disappointment for me; I was feeling really sad and stupid and not a little sorry for myself. Somehow though, sharing my love with God in this practice made me feel a sense of wonder, gratitude and connection. Kind of like an invitation to intimacy with God.
Friday, December 24, 2010
PSR at Christmas
Meet me at the lion’s head stairway,
gather your heart into your cupped hands,
light leaking from between your fingers.
Caution tape and crows line the playing field.
Behind Benton, the blooming prickly pear
cluster – a crowd of clowns waving you on to the carnival.
Hanukkah lights and a short, stout Christmas tree, covered with ornaments
that fat Frank mistakes for tennis balls.
Pink flamingos nest in the ferns and
the caged tomato vine clings to the bars and waits for spring.
Away at Cal, the sheared London plane trees clench their knuckles to the cold sky
while the carillon plays holy, holy, holy.
gather your heart into your cupped hands,
light leaking from between your fingers.
Caution tape and crows line the playing field.
Behind Benton, the blooming prickly pear
cluster – a crowd of clowns waving you on to the carnival.
Hanukkah lights and a short, stout Christmas tree, covered with ornaments
that fat Frank mistakes for tennis balls.
Pink flamingos nest in the ferns and
the caged tomato vine clings to the bars and waits for spring.
Away at Cal, the sheared London plane trees clench their knuckles to the cold sky
while the carillon plays holy, holy, holy.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
In the interim, a few poems for the season.
Soon we'll return to theologies and adventures in seminary land, but for now, a few turkey related recipe poems:
Curried Turkey and Apple Soup
2 Granny Smith apples
cored, peeled, chopped
naked, trembling
waiting for the sweet of cinnamon
the heat of pepper and Tabasco
the slow comfort of curry.
And then, sleeping with the windows open in early September
the first time in the season you can pull up the quilt
and wake, in morning,
delicious.
Lemon Chicken Rice Soup
I forget which lover taught me the way
to soften lemons.
Drop the fruit and
press it gently to the floor, rolling it under the arch of your foot.
I remember the lover who taught me
to boil whole chickens.
And the one who showed me how to plant basil
and how her spatulate hands looked in the soil.
A slow boil
A simmer
A dash of Tabasco
1 small carrot diced fine
I remember:
Heat, amount, and the cut.
Cream of Broccoli Soup
The best way to eat broccoli
is to pretend you are a brontosaurus
chomping your way through the forest canopy.
Forget that the name brontosaurus
only exists in the popular imagination, and
was formally discarded by scientists in 1903.
Who needs scientists anyway?
You would eat them too
but you know that the brontosaurus,
by any other name,
is an herbivore.
Curried Turkey and Apple Soup
2 Granny Smith apples
cored, peeled, chopped
naked, trembling
waiting for the sweet of cinnamon
the heat of pepper and Tabasco
the slow comfort of curry.
And then, sleeping with the windows open in early September
the first time in the season you can pull up the quilt
and wake, in morning,
delicious.
Lemon Chicken Rice Soup
I forget which lover taught me the way
to soften lemons.
Drop the fruit and
press it gently to the floor, rolling it under the arch of your foot.
I remember the lover who taught me
to boil whole chickens.
And the one who showed me how to plant basil
and how her spatulate hands looked in the soil.
A slow boil
A simmer
A dash of Tabasco
1 small carrot diced fine
I remember:
Heat, amount, and the cut.
Cream of Broccoli Soup
The best way to eat broccoli
is to pretend you are a brontosaurus
chomping your way through the forest canopy.
Forget that the name brontosaurus
only exists in the popular imagination, and
was formally discarded by scientists in 1903.
Who needs scientists anyway?
You would eat them too
but you know that the brontosaurus,
by any other name,
is an herbivore.
Monday, November 8, 2010
On Turning 40: A Manifesto
Here’s my rule on my birthday: I only do things that make my heart say: hell, yeah!
I was a little surprised when my heart wanted to start the day writing (because I usually have to drag myself kicking and screaming to the page, though after I get there, I wonder why I fight it so hard). But I even went back for my little computer so I could sit in this coffee shop and write a bit about turning 40.
I was talking with two of my fellow seminarians, both women over 40, and one said she had called her Mom when she was 40 to ask if she would ever feel like a grown up. I laughed, because I have the same feeling. What does it mean, anyway, to be a grown up? I remember when I bought my house at 25 – part of me wondered: how is it that they are giving me all this money? Don’t they know how young I am? Later, when I had a professional gig in the big city, I kept thinking: don’t they know?? As many of my friends married and had children, I kept thinking, really? How did we get here?
Last night, a dear friend from Seattle came to visit me. I was trying to describe how I felt about turning 40. Now sure, it’s just another day in some ways, but I tend to think those “big” birthdays are a time to take stock, to review where I am and where I want to go. But I was saying: this is not where I expected to be at 40 – back in graduate school (again), single/unmarried, no kids, taking on extreme student loan debt. And seminary? Really? I said: I mean, I’m happier than I’ve been in a very long time, but it all just seems like I should be further along somehow. I figured being in recovery for so long, and therapy for longer, I shouldn’t be feeling so insecure, and I shouldn’t have to budget just to buy a new pair of boots.
Now, my friend is one of those women who is really successful – she is graceful, smart, loving, funny; and she’s beautiful, she has a great marriage and is doing very well in her downtown corporate gig. Later in the evening, out of nowhere, she pauses and says: You know it is because you’ve been in recovery (ie practicing this spiritual discipline) for so long, that you’re able to do this. She said: there is no way I could do what you’re doing, it makes me afraid just to think of it.
It was the best birthday gift ever.
I think I’ve spent so much of my life measuring myself against other people’s standards of success, I forget sometimes what is really important is learning your loves, and following what your love calls you to do, regardless of what it might cost and what it might look like. Maybe this is what I mean by being a grown up.
Coming to seminary, even if I couldn’t admit it at first, is the loudest “hell yeah” action I’ve ever taken. I came even though it seems crazy, even though it rocks everything that I thought I was, even though I suspect that it will makes my chances of having a hot lesbian love affair virtually nill. I’m here even though being here, and claiming Christianity, has complicated many of my previous relationships in ways I never would’ve guessed.
And I love it. And I love the idea of spending the rest of my life doing this work. Which is good, since I’ll be paying off my student loans till I’m 85. It doesn’t matter.
So here’s what I think I want for my 40s:
1. I want to never again apologize, equivocate, or dodge ownership of my life choices and the things I love.
2. For the big stuff, if it isn’t hell yeah, I’m not doing it. (There’s plenty of little things, like laundry, that just requires a:” yeah, I don’t want to wear dirty clothes or walk around naked.”)
3.Recognize, welcome and support other people in their “hell yeahs”
4. Stop judging my insides based on other people’s outsides.
5. Celebrate all the quirky things I love that make me, me.
So that’s what I want to say today. Now: a massage, shopping for shiny new boots, some deliciously lame romantic comedy, time with my dear ones, and a good deal of playing hooky.
I was a little surprised when my heart wanted to start the day writing (because I usually have to drag myself kicking and screaming to the page, though after I get there, I wonder why I fight it so hard). But I even went back for my little computer so I could sit in this coffee shop and write a bit about turning 40.
I was talking with two of my fellow seminarians, both women over 40, and one said she had called her Mom when she was 40 to ask if she would ever feel like a grown up. I laughed, because I have the same feeling. What does it mean, anyway, to be a grown up? I remember when I bought my house at 25 – part of me wondered: how is it that they are giving me all this money? Don’t they know how young I am? Later, when I had a professional gig in the big city, I kept thinking: don’t they know?? As many of my friends married and had children, I kept thinking, really? How did we get here?
Last night, a dear friend from Seattle came to visit me. I was trying to describe how I felt about turning 40. Now sure, it’s just another day in some ways, but I tend to think those “big” birthdays are a time to take stock, to review where I am and where I want to go. But I was saying: this is not where I expected to be at 40 – back in graduate school (again), single/unmarried, no kids, taking on extreme student loan debt. And seminary? Really? I said: I mean, I’m happier than I’ve been in a very long time, but it all just seems like I should be further along somehow. I figured being in recovery for so long, and therapy for longer, I shouldn’t be feeling so insecure, and I shouldn’t have to budget just to buy a new pair of boots.
Now, my friend is one of those women who is really successful – she is graceful, smart, loving, funny; and she’s beautiful, she has a great marriage and is doing very well in her downtown corporate gig. Later in the evening, out of nowhere, she pauses and says: You know it is because you’ve been in recovery (ie practicing this spiritual discipline) for so long, that you’re able to do this. She said: there is no way I could do what you’re doing, it makes me afraid just to think of it.
It was the best birthday gift ever.
I think I’ve spent so much of my life measuring myself against other people’s standards of success, I forget sometimes what is really important is learning your loves, and following what your love calls you to do, regardless of what it might cost and what it might look like. Maybe this is what I mean by being a grown up.
Coming to seminary, even if I couldn’t admit it at first, is the loudest “hell yeah” action I’ve ever taken. I came even though it seems crazy, even though it rocks everything that I thought I was, even though I suspect that it will makes my chances of having a hot lesbian love affair virtually nill. I’m here even though being here, and claiming Christianity, has complicated many of my previous relationships in ways I never would’ve guessed.
And I love it. And I love the idea of spending the rest of my life doing this work. Which is good, since I’ll be paying off my student loans till I’m 85. It doesn’t matter.
So here’s what I think I want for my 40s:
1. I want to never again apologize, equivocate, or dodge ownership of my life choices and the things I love.
2. For the big stuff, if it isn’t hell yeah, I’m not doing it. (There’s plenty of little things, like laundry, that just requires a:” yeah, I don’t want to wear dirty clothes or walk around naked.”)
3.Recognize, welcome and support other people in their “hell yeahs”
4. Stop judging my insides based on other people’s outsides.
5. Celebrate all the quirky things I love that make me, me.
So that’s what I want to say today. Now: a massage, shopping for shiny new boots, some deliciously lame romantic comedy, time with my dear ones, and a good deal of playing hooky.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Overheard at Seminary #2
"You know, when you learn Spanish, it's all like: 'how are you' and 'my name is.' In Hebrew? one of the first phrases you learn is: 'whole burnt offering.' "
Why reading the annoying psalms is part of my practice, or: Psalm 4, Part One.
When I first started meditating on the psalms a year and a half ago, I skipped the ones that irritated me. This was a necessary thing for me. At the time, I was trying to open my heart to a religion whose most visible proponents labeled me an abomination and who were, in my opinion, raging hypocrites and self-righteous assholes.
Coming to believe in anything spiritual is a process for me (we’ll talk about what I mean by “belief” some other time, for now: I don’t mean a mindless/willful insistence on a comic book superhero “god” that will act like a celestial vending machine and beat up anyone who doesn’t agree with me).
When I made the decision to really explore Christianity, I had to put a lot of my knee-jerk reactions on hold. Look for the things that open your heart, I told myself, don’t pay attention to the other stuff, for now.
My critical thinking friends might describe this as a willingness to be brainwashed, but it’s not like that. It’s more of a choice to be open and to pay attention to the things that bring out a strong reaction. And it’s only a first step in the process.
The thing is – stuff like religion (or spirituality/relationship with the divine), or love, or family, or identity – are things that usually matter to people on a deep level. As such, when injury happens, rejection or reaction to those things/people/institutions is pretty fierce. I remember a time, back in the early 80s, when I started realizing I was gay; I remember the heartbreak I felt when I thought I could no longer have any kind of spiritual life. This heartbreak hardened into an intense hatred of the religious right and its brand of “Christianity.” (I put that in quotes because I think they are not actually Christian, as the religion they practice bears little resemblance to what Christ actually talks about.)
Of course, over time, I recovered an openness to the divine (or God/the universal flow/creator/etc). I realized that the televangelists and so-called moral folk filling those huge mega churches did not own god.
Back to Psalm 4. The first verse goes like this:
Answer me when I call, O God of my right!
You gave me room when I was in distress.
Be gracious to me, and hear my prayer.
Now the first time I read this, I instantly labeled it irritating and skipped over it. But I love Psalm 3, and they are right next to each other, so I’d always finish loving 3 and crash into that ridiculous first line of 4. The psalmist sounds like a stalker girlfriend, or my mom when I was 5: “Answer me when I call!” And: “O God of my right” sounds so…arrogant. Like you have some special right to God1?
I’ve been doing this practice for a while now and a lot of my fellow seminarians (and the professor/pastor types) talk about engaging with the stuff in the Bible (or I’d argue, with anything) that really bugs you because your passionate response can lead to insight or action. This mirrors what one of my spiritual guide-folk once told me: “Pay attention to where your resistance is.”
The psalms, which are essentially poems that were written (or more accurately, collected from oral traditions) across hundreds of years, are a record of the wide range of human emotions. And they are a record of the very human relationship of a community with the divine. When I pray the psalms (by memorizing, meditating on them and speaking them), I have to use words that I’d rather not use. In some ways, it forces me to recognize emotions of my own I’d rather ignore. And the repetition of the words hammers through my various defenses.
For example, this morning I tackled Psalm 4. Inhale. Answer me when I call, O God of my right. Wince. Exhale. You gave me room when I was in distress. (The translation of this is having room, as in not being trapped or hemmed in). Ok. Inhale. Be gracious to me and hear my prayer. Exhale, huh? Repeat.
For about 45 minutes I sat with this verse. Slowly, I began to identify that my big problem with “Answer me when I call, O God of my right” was tied up in a deep pain of my own. My first thought: who does this guy think he is? Led to: wow, she’s pretty confident that the universe is listening. Led to: That’s pretty audacious, to call on the universe and think it’s your right. Which led to: Well, sure I think people should be able to confidently call on the universe/God to help them in times of need. Which led to: but what about me? Why don’t I think I have the right to call on God (or, the loving universe) and believe she/he/it would welcome and support me? And then I kinda cried. Hate that.
One of the things I’ve always struggled with is my actual right to exist. Sounds silly, but frequently I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Or if I should, I should be really, really quiet, and draw as little attention to myself as I can. There’s often that little voice in my head that hisses: Who do you think you are, anyway? You have nothing important to say. You don’t count. Other people can ask for help, but not you. You don’t deserve help (or love, or happiness, or, or, or…).
I sometimes react to this by thinking: well I don’t need help/love/sense of belonging anyways. But I think this is my reaction to heartbreak: withdraw, don’t ask, try not to need. All of this, of course, works against my having an expansive, loving life. It also keeps me from asking for justice – either for myself, or for other people.
This realization makes me wonder how much of my resistance to the “annoying” psalms is related to my perception of who wrote the poem and where they are speaking from, and to whom. And this makes me angry with the religious right and their historical ilk (again) for appropriating a religion that is based on the love of god, personal transformation and social transformation, and perverting it into a religion of oppression and smug self-righteousness. Not that I have any opinions on that….
------
1Now, there are some people who really don’t like the idea of a “person” god, and I totally get that. When I say God, I really don’t mean Papa (or Mommy) in the fluffy white clouds. My reality is that God/Spirit/Universe/Celestial Wonder Dog/Big Giant Spiritual Reality is way too big for me to wrap my brain around. So, I’m going to just use the word God here. (Please see previous entry on what I mean when I say that.)
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