A day late's better than never, right? Joining again with Life:Unmasked to write into the open the things inside.
Today, I'm thinking about enjoyment.
Mostly I'm thinking about how hard it is for me to accept. By which I mean I tend to feel guilty for enjoying things. Then, because I know this is ridiculous, I feel guilty for being unable to accept the enjoyment.
The thing is, if you ask me, I will say that enjoyment is good. I will tell you that's what I believe. That I believe takes pleasure in our enjoyment of His gifts. That food is good, beauty is good, relationships are good, furry animals are good, crunchy leaves are good, hugging is good, laughing is good, reading is good, and so many other things are good, too.
But I read recently that what we truly believe is more accurately revealed in our actions than in our pat statements. And hard as this is to hear, it's true. If I say I believe that enjoyment is good, but I act otherwise, do I really believe that?
Let me differentiate a little between enjoyment and rejoicing. Rejoicing I really truly deeply do believe is good. I am learning to rejoice in all circumstances, in everything and at all times. I'm learning to love the act of giving thanks, of choosing to be glad. And it's changing the colour of my life. But rejoicing is a chosen response to that which is, or appears to be. Enjoyment is not quite the same. It is much less of a choice (although the choice element remains, on some level), and more of a reaction. I enjoy a good poem not because I evaluate its words and rhythms and sounds, but on a more more instinctive, reactive level. It's a more physical response.
And I can barely let myself think, much less type this: enjoyment is very often physical. And it can be good. Physical enjoyment can be a very good thing. There. I wrote it. I wrote it.
But can I believe it?
Can I believe that this body is a thing to be enjoyed and an instrument of enjoyment? Can I believe that this body - and all that goes with it - is truly good?
This is a consistent struggle - to see the goodness and glory of the body, and not to simply see and acknowledge it, but also to live and enjoy it.
I don't know why it is so difficult for me to accept this. I do know that so many mixed messages abound in our culture that it is easy to become confused. I do know that teaching in churches often glosses over our physical beings, or somehow makes them seem bad. I do know that somehow, in all of this, comes the fact of incarnation. If God became one of us, and lived among us, in the flesh, then the flesh is holy. This mortal flesh is holy.
My thinking about this becomes all entangled with my feeling. I cannot organize rational, clear thoughts or arguments about all this, but I do get frustrated. (Feelings, again!) I get frustrated with the difficulty of vocabulary, with the finitude of reason, with the strength of emotions, with the irrationality of it all. But my frustration clarifies nothing, and I'm left looking at my words with a sense of deja vu. I already said this! And am just as far away from understanding it! Gah!
But this mortal flesh is holy. Somehow, for some reason, the body is good. I need to keep reminding myself of this. I need to force myself to allow my behaviour to follow. I need to let myself enjoy things. To let myself feel. To let myself go into the realm of the irrational. And perhaps to acknowledge that unless I let myself into this irrational realm, I will be incomplete. I need to trust that, as my friend Hilary puts it, the mystery of us is "souls that meet bodies and dwell together in such a way that I don't know how to know one without the other." Yes. The soul goes with the body. The mind goes with the body. And I've been trying to tell myself this, trying to accept the Truth of it surrounding me, even while I keep fighting against it.
Can you hear my struggle? Can you tell how embattled I am? And can you tell me something, even some small thing, that will help me really believe the goodness in this physical bodily work of God's art?
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Killing the Trees of Isengard
Today, as I stood binding "The History and Appreciation of Wine" at work, they were taking down the trees on the bluff outside. It hurt. But I couldn't tear my eyes away.
Friday night, I watched The Fellowship of the Ring, extended edition, for the first time in years. My friends have a big screen, and good sound, and the detail blew me away. But out of all the difficult moments in the film, out of all the heart-wrenching events, one of the ones that hurt me the most was the destruction of the trees of Isengard. Each time a tree fell, the blow slammed through my belly. As they pulled the trees over, as the roots stretched and snapped out of the ground, my entire body tensed and ached. Each broken root tore at part of me. I arced my back, as if my muscles could hold the trees' life. But they fell, one by one, crashing, breaking branches as they landed. And if I hadn't had a friend to hold me, I probably would have cried out in deep pain, over and over. Oh, it hurt!
Then today, I saw real trees killed. They tied the tops to a crane, so nothing fell, nothing crashed - just the crescendo of the chainsaw, and another tree piece floated away. But it hurt nonetheless.
But there wasn't anger this time, just sorrow. They were cutting down the trees to make room for construction - a sign of the college's growth. Saruman cut down his trees to fuel furnaces to make weapons and creatures of evil and destruction. And that made me angry. How could he? How dare he?!? Even knowing the story, anger welled up. How dare he destroy life in order to bring about more destruction?
I was never this angry before. When I first saw the movies - even when I first saw The Two Towers, with Treebeard's horrified response to Saruman's behaviour - I was not this angry. I was sorrowful, to be sure. I couldn't understand how Saruman could make the decisions he made. But I was not angry.
Now, I am. Very very angry. I felt it building a pressure inside of me, and an ache and an anger, that, if given the power, would make him stop. How dare someone destroy something beautiful and good to bring about destruction? How dare they? I feel like the only proper response to this is anger. Can anger, indeed, be righteous? I often wonder this, I with the violent yet quickly cooled temper. Is it possible for anger to be good?
This brings to mind the story of Jesus in the temple, the one I've heard so many times, how Jesus overturned the tables, and drove people out of the temple with a whip. See, I'm used to hearing that Jesus was angry here. And that this justifies a "righteous" anger. But I just looked it up, and it doesn't say that Jesus was angry. Perhaps he was - perhaps he wasn't.
Do the Gospels ever specifically say that Jesus was angry?
Once. Only once. And the context surprises me.
Mark 3:3-5
"Jesus said to the man with the shriveled hand, 'Stand up in front of everyone.' Then Jesus asked them, 'Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to kill?' But they remained silent.
He looked around at them in anger and, deeply distressed at their stubborn hearts, said to the man, 'Stretch out your hand.' He stretched it out, and his hand was completely restored."
Jesus was angry because they were silent in the face of his question. They gave no answer. Which is lawful, to do good or to do evil? Which is lawful, to save life or kill? And they were silent.
This almost knocks me over.
This is huge. This is much bigger than my anger with Saruman for destroying the trees of Isengard. Jesus' anger is stirred by the silence and indifference of those who should know better. They should have known that good is better than evil. They should have known the saving life is better than killing. And yet. They wouldn't answer.
Why was Treebeard's anger stirred against Saruman? Not simply because someone had destroyed the trees, but because "A wizard should know better!"
Why was Jesus' anger stirred against the Pharisees? Because they should have known better!
I have every reason to be angry with Saruman, and to be hurt, deeply, with every effort to further evil and death.
This makes me wonder: am I angry enough?
Looking at the world today, at people today, at the ambivalence lurking and spreading everywhere - we live in a place where anything is acceptable. When people pursue evil, and destruction, and killing, we - I - sit back and merely say we wish they wouldn't do such things. WHAT?! "Oh, I wish that person weren't killing so many." Seriously? Is that all the response I have? Is that all the response we have? Where's the anger?
Because, honestly, I should be angry.
Yup. I just said it. And I think I mean it. Sometimes, I should be angry.
Maybe not when I'm watching a fictional movie. Maybe not when they're cutting down trees for construction. But maybe, sometimes it's good to be angry.
May God grant me the discernment to see when I should be angry, and the wisdom to know what then I should do.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Life: Unmasked: I Choose to Trust.
I'm doing something new today. My friend Hilary has been joining with Joy's Life:Unmasked on Wednesdays to share the deep, hard things of life. Because life can be hard. And I'm trying to stop hiding. So here goes.
I want to go home.
Last night, curled on my chair, tears slowly tracing down my cheeks, this coiled over and over and over and over in me: I want to go home. I just want to go home. Oh, God, I want to go home!
My gut knotted and tightened, my fingers clutched my pen and tissue, and I pressed my knuckles against my mouth as if to hold in the wordless cry trying to wrench its way out of my heart. The guitars and voices held me up, held me tight, pulled my facades away, peeling the layers back til my heart touched the air - but it's the wrong air! - and it hurts so much!
I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger, traveling through this world... but never home. Or home for so little time it slides away with the retreating waves.
What I'm missing, I realized as I inked words on a blue page, is the sense of freedom in belonging I felt with my family. And the sense of freedom in smallness I felt in the redwoods, and the joy at the Pacific's foam.
When I am silent, my friends, do you think it is because I have little to say? Do you notice the longing behind my eyes? Or have I done well enough at hiding it that you don't know what I think, or what I want to say, or what I want to be? It isn't true that I don't want to be touched. It isn't true that I'm fine, I'm fine, of course I'm fine. It is true that my trip home was incredible. It is true that I love my family very, very much. It is true that I... that I get lonely. I'm not self-sufficient. I'm not sufficient. I want you to talk to me, to listen to me, to hug me.
You ask why I live here, then, if I miss my family, and the redwoods, so very much. And I want to laugh in your face for the absurdity of the question. In the face of my longing for home, do you really think I live here by chance? It would be easier to be there. But my life is here. Here is where I discovered life, living, rejoicing, moving, being. If it were up to me, if my life were only mine, I would probably be there. But I am supposed to be here. I have been placed here, and I feel that very strongly. Why am I here? Because such God requires of me. Because such God gives me.
I argue with God. I ask Him "why?" And complain about being here instead of there, and He asks one simple question: "Do you trust Me?" How do I respond to that? I ask Him why my heart keeps hurting so much, and what it all accomplishes, and He asks again, "Do you trust Me?" I've been avoiding the answer. Do I trust Him? Do I? How do I trust Him? What if I want to, but don't know how? But He persists, requiring an answer: "Do you trust Me?"
Yes.
Yes. I must. I have to. There's no other option. I can't not trust Him. I don't want to not trust Him. And I'm here, aren't I? If actions are evidence of belief, then apparently I trust Him. I trusted Him enough to stay here after graduation. And I've seen His faithfulness in the past few years. Oh, how I've seen it! He is worth trusting.
Even now. Even last night, tears drying lines to my chin. Even now. Even this morning, amidst the long, deep conversation with a dear, wise friend. Even now. Even tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day, with all the unknowns. Even now, here.
Maybe my homesickness runs deeper than a longing for Northern California. Maybe, just maybe, I'm actually homesick for more of God. And the only way to find it - to find Him - is to answer 'yes' to His ever so simple question:
"Do you trust Me?"
I want to go home.
Last night, curled on my chair, tears slowly tracing down my cheeks, this coiled over and over and over and over in me: I want to go home. I just want to go home. Oh, God, I want to go home!
My gut knotted and tightened, my fingers clutched my pen and tissue, and I pressed my knuckles against my mouth as if to hold in the wordless cry trying to wrench its way out of my heart. The guitars and voices held me up, held me tight, pulled my facades away, peeling the layers back til my heart touched the air - but it's the wrong air! - and it hurts so much!
I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger, traveling through this world... but never home. Or home for so little time it slides away with the retreating waves.
What I'm missing, I realized as I inked words on a blue page, is the sense of freedom in belonging I felt with my family. And the sense of freedom in smallness I felt in the redwoods, and the joy at the Pacific's foam.
When I am silent, my friends, do you think it is because I have little to say? Do you notice the longing behind my eyes? Or have I done well enough at hiding it that you don't know what I think, or what I want to say, or what I want to be? It isn't true that I don't want to be touched. It isn't true that I'm fine, I'm fine, of course I'm fine. It is true that my trip home was incredible. It is true that I love my family very, very much. It is true that I... that I get lonely. I'm not self-sufficient. I'm not sufficient. I want you to talk to me, to listen to me, to hug me.
You ask why I live here, then, if I miss my family, and the redwoods, so very much. And I want to laugh in your face for the absurdity of the question. In the face of my longing for home, do you really think I live here by chance? It would be easier to be there. But my life is here. Here is where I discovered life, living, rejoicing, moving, being. If it were up to me, if my life were only mine, I would probably be there. But I am supposed to be here. I have been placed here, and I feel that very strongly. Why am I here? Because such God requires of me. Because such God gives me.
I argue with God. I ask Him "why?" And complain about being here instead of there, and He asks one simple question: "Do you trust Me?" How do I respond to that? I ask Him why my heart keeps hurting so much, and what it all accomplishes, and He asks again, "Do you trust Me?" I've been avoiding the answer. Do I trust Him? Do I? How do I trust Him? What if I want to, but don't know how? But He persists, requiring an answer: "Do you trust Me?"
Yes.
Yes. I must. I have to. There's no other option. I can't not trust Him. I don't want to not trust Him. And I'm here, aren't I? If actions are evidence of belief, then apparently I trust Him. I trusted Him enough to stay here after graduation. And I've seen His faithfulness in the past few years. Oh, how I've seen it! He is worth trusting.
Even now. Even last night, tears drying lines to my chin. Even now. Even this morning, amidst the long, deep conversation with a dear, wise friend. Even now. Even tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day, with all the unknowns. Even now, here.
Maybe my homesickness runs deeper than a longing for Northern California. Maybe, just maybe, I'm actually homesick for more of God. And the only way to find it - to find Him - is to answer 'yes' to His ever so simple question:
"Do you trust Me?"
Thursday, January 05, 2012
coming back to home from home
I just want to write. At this moment, snot pouring inconveniently, my head still a bit achy, the smell of paint boring into me, I want to write. (And for some reason, I keep typing 'right' instead.)
Maybe it's because I've been reading posts on writing, on its necessity, its struggle, its beauty (http://sittinthereoncapitolhil.blogspot.com/2012/01/dear-hilary-love-hilary-life-unmasked.html, and http://www.billycoffey.com/2010/01/writing-naked/). Maybe it's because I received two letters yesterday, both written in script, both well formed and encouraging. Maybe it's because that one short postcard I penned last night was a match, and the fuse fizzed all night, and now the wood is catching on fire. Maybe it's because words feed me, hold me, hurt me, help me, and right now I can use all the help I can get.
Because sickness is watching me. Standing too close, draping its unpleasant arm across my shoulder, using the top of my head as a chinrest. I am homesick. I am heartsick. I am bodysick. I am soulsick. (No. Not 'I am,' but 'I am fighting not to be.') It's only been a few days since I returned to the East Coast, and I miss my family something terrible. So much. So so much. It hurts. And I haven't seen many here, yet, haven't had many hugs, haven't done much except shiver in the bitter cold outside and cook to distract myself inside. (The cooking went well. That was a blessing. And it warmed the kitchen substantially.) And my body is at odds with me. I know I deserve this, the way I treated it, the toll the traveling and sleeplessness took. But I want it to heal faster. I want it to prove to me that it's happier than it was a year ago, by recovering more quickly now. (Patience, especially with myself, has never been a strong point. Parentheticals, apparently, are.)
Ah, me. This January, there are too many moving, unfocused parts. And my heart is sore within me. Last night, as I told the chiropractor that I would have to stop getting adjustments until I can save enough to afford it, I almost burst out crying. (I didn't. And he said they'll try to work something out with me that I can afford. Which almost made me cry again...) Driving home, I just wanted to keep going, find a dark cliff by the water, curl up, and weep. Instead, I made dinner, and wrote my sister a postcard. That helped.
The most difficult part of going home is always coming back.
I don't like this sadness. I don't like the fever. I don't like the homesickness. I want to rejoice, to give thanks, to be filled with joy. So I am thankful today isn't as cold as yesterday. And I am thankful that my experimental chicken noodle soup turned out spectacularly. I am thankful my bed is warm. I have food to eat, a place to live, and friends.
And this too shall pass. The chaos will subside. January's uncertainty will give way to direction and clarity. God will guide and provide. The homesickness will never quite go away, but I can live with it. My family is a phone call away. They have a mail box. And it is such a blessing to have them. Blessing... There are many blessings. Rejoice anyway, little one. And hope.
And all shall be well, and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.
Maybe it's because I've been reading posts on writing, on its necessity, its struggle, its beauty (http://sittinthereoncapitolhil.blogspot.com/2012/01/dear-hilary-love-hilary-life-unmasked.html, and http://www.billycoffey.com/2010/01/writing-naked/). Maybe it's because I received two letters yesterday, both written in script, both well formed and encouraging. Maybe it's because that one short postcard I penned last night was a match, and the fuse fizzed all night, and now the wood is catching on fire. Maybe it's because words feed me, hold me, hurt me, help me, and right now I can use all the help I can get.
Because sickness is watching me. Standing too close, draping its unpleasant arm across my shoulder, using the top of my head as a chinrest. I am homesick. I am heartsick. I am bodysick. I am soulsick. (No. Not 'I am,' but 'I am fighting not to be.') It's only been a few days since I returned to the East Coast, and I miss my family something terrible. So much. So so much. It hurts. And I haven't seen many here, yet, haven't had many hugs, haven't done much except shiver in the bitter cold outside and cook to distract myself inside. (The cooking went well. That was a blessing. And it warmed the kitchen substantially.) And my body is at odds with me. I know I deserve this, the way I treated it, the toll the traveling and sleeplessness took. But I want it to heal faster. I want it to prove to me that it's happier than it was a year ago, by recovering more quickly now. (Patience, especially with myself, has never been a strong point. Parentheticals, apparently, are.)
Ah, me. This January, there are too many moving, unfocused parts. And my heart is sore within me. Last night, as I told the chiropractor that I would have to stop getting adjustments until I can save enough to afford it, I almost burst out crying. (I didn't. And he said they'll try to work something out with me that I can afford. Which almost made me cry again...) Driving home, I just wanted to keep going, find a dark cliff by the water, curl up, and weep. Instead, I made dinner, and wrote my sister a postcard. That helped.
The most difficult part of going home is always coming back.
I don't like this sadness. I don't like the fever. I don't like the homesickness. I want to rejoice, to give thanks, to be filled with joy. So I am thankful today isn't as cold as yesterday. And I am thankful that my experimental chicken noodle soup turned out spectacularly. I am thankful my bed is warm. I have food to eat, a place to live, and friends.
And this too shall pass. The chaos will subside. January's uncertainty will give way to direction and clarity. God will guide and provide. The homesickness will never quite go away, but I can live with it. My family is a phone call away. They have a mail box. And it is such a blessing to have them. Blessing... There are many blessings. Rejoice anyway, little one. And hope.
And all shall be well, and all shall be well,
and all manner of thing shall be well.
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