A renewed interest in blogging stirred in me two weeks ago... (2000 words)
This journal is now called “In Rainbow Colors”. Besides its prominence in the My Little Pony Movies, rainbow imagery has come to be associated with aspects of LGBTQ2 movements in politics and society. My rainbow imagery does not derive from my involvement in such a movement. It’s quite the reciprocal: my involvement in such a movement, RMN, derives from my ‘rainbow’ understanding; so, the correlation is there, just not in the way you may have thought.
It must have been the ides of March. From naked perches along the highway to Holland, MI, legions of red-tailed hawks watched us pass in my Pontiac Sunfire. They are the symbol of my Creator’s eyes: watching. It had been a tough winter at the end of a tough year but I believed she and I were on the way to somewhere better. After a pause, she said to me “what if God really does see things in black & white?” I told her that God sees in rainbow colors. She did not understand. Something changed in her that day and I will never know the precise cause. Two months prior, we made a covenant to carry our partnership into marriage. That was her idea. A few months later, she was adamant that I not refer to us as partners. A matter of weeks before, we had been comfortable totally naked together; a few weeks hence, even holding hands was a conundrum to her. This journal is not about my personal laments nor is it an attempt to defend the physical or even the emotional and spiritual nature of our relationship. Our pace was questionable and I certainly had problems to resolve, not least of which was my dependence on her. Some of my issues were ‘third-degree ugly’. None should blame a woman for wanting better from her partner and I wanted to give her my best. There are a pair of exigencies here, however. First is whether it is fair to expect better from someone without partnering with them. The second is a question of God’s rods and cones: does God actually see in black & white? This is the topic I have written about in secret for two weeks now, unearthing too many thoughts to share on-screen.
She did all the ‘discerning’ without me. The black & white became her understanding of what God wanted, so that each decision carried the stamp of “God’s Will” and I, desperate to show her a better me, followed. Then I was told that men were supposed to be the spiritual leaders so I tried to lead. Then I was told that I wasn’t her husband and I could not tell her what to do. Every shade of love had become black to her, save for the idea of a perfect marriage. She had a vision of perfect man, cultivated since girlhood, to which she returned. That was white, to her, and she would not go near me anymore. At first, it was in the obvious ways (use your imagination) but then kisses became forbidden. Then hugs were wrong because they led to kisses. Then handholds were too much like hugs. Yet, I was a person who needed, deeply, to be affirmed through not just touch but through words. Eventually, she wanted to save “I love you” for her white-man; I decided to agree and hope that I could transform—-change into what she wanted. Going to sleep with guilt and inadequacy every night, I needed to feel acceptable. She told me to count on Jesus for my acceptance; I knew she was not wrong. Desperately, I wanted to feel like I had not made some critical mistake—-like someone else I know. I did not understand why I felt bad all the time. I still do not know why I had to feel so bad and why anyone I wanted to love so much could watch me feel dirty, like I was failing, all the time. Yet, I was determined to be disciplined and change the way I did everything, including faith.
The beginning of the end came right at the end of one of those happy days I have been trying to forget, the ones that make me feel like I really lost something. It was the first nice day of spring she and I had together and I took her down to Riverside Park so we could play catch and frisbee. As we were walking back, she mused that maybe we could set-up my hammock between the trees outside her new apartment in Grand Haven. That sounded like a wonderful idea—just like when we set-up a hammock between two trees at my Grandmother’s house the fall before or the hammock on her parents' porch where we had first discussed being ‘together’. I cannot make this stuff up. She changed her mind suddenly—-as if she remembered something. A few days later, I came across a passage in a book she insisted I buy: the author refuses to lay in a hammock with his fiancé. The book was by Joshua Harris –- be careful not to purchase such a book
This could be the part of the entry where I complain about the bad scholarship of the book and highlight how I studied interpersonal communication and I knew that it was quackery. The real ‘hitch’ is that I think the author wrote everything from the best part of his hyper-conservative heart. There were good things to be taken away, though as a whole it is a terrible book for couples. Yet, I played my part, trying to get to that black & white God that I thought I needed. At first, it was the black & white God I needed just to negotiate with her. Then, I was trying to sincerely worship that God. This was the God that was going to help me live in the world of bifurcations instead of diametric continuums. It is that safe world where you either eat ‘the forbidden fruit’ or you do not: the world where hammocks and cuddling are not allowed. Several arduous weeks later, she arrived with a smile on her face and all of the things she had borrowed. I was ready, with all that I had borrowed from her and a borrowed angel on my lap (a stray cat I named “Claire” who stayed with me that day and the day after—-cuddling). That day, she hugged me good-bye and climbed into a dented Jeep. She made a U-turn and disappeared over the crest of a hill to the West. I mean it. Every trace of her on the internet disappeared, too. I sent a birthday card and got no reply. She managed to do one, kind thing in her black & white world: to be completely gone. Whited-out. I have followed suit by not writing about her at all until this—and by being minimal here.
When I am not sleeping-in, I listen to a program called Mornings With Brant. Brant was broaching the topic of Bible-worship when he said something that reminded me of how I felt about Harris’s book. He said that Christianity was really about what Jesus did but that “it can be easier to relate to a book than a real, living being... a book is easier to control...”. Eliza turned to her conservative-lit rather than try to untangle my demons with me. I was tainted and she scrapped me—-perhaps she’ll find a mate who does things ‘by the book’ and be happy. I hope so, just as I hope I find someone who, like me, would light a buddy-burner* under the black & white books their ex forced them to buy and ceremonially dispose of this false doctrine. Literalists have missed the meaning of Genesis, chapter 3: its not history but an allegory for a struggle we have every day. It was not God who saw in black & white but us. The forbidden fruit, the knowledge of good & evil, is this all-or-nothing paradigm. We believed that if we could not be absolutely perfect and obedient, we needed to hang a curtain between ourselves and God. The fruit can be dealt with, it is the fig-leaves that keep us from God’s love. The temple curtain. As the Apostle Paul said “All things are permissible but not all things are beneficial.” Harris talked about keeping good boundaries and he was headed in the right direction; sometimes the right boundaries are less boundaries: torn curtains—not in romance but for all humanity.
Black & white had trouble holding me after she walked away. Black & white says you are a leper, so stay over there. Black & white says you are a gentile, so this Book is not for you. Black & white says you are unclean so you have to make atonement. Put your fig-leaves on, bitch. I’m not sticking-up for the forbidden fruit: sin is a serious problem. I am saying that fig-leaves, these safe bifurcations, are the lingering barrier. Sin is a serious problem that we need to address together, not from across barriers because we are afraid to make another mistake. The biggest mistake is to believe for even a moment that any discipline can replace Grace and Love in relationships. There is no book, not even the Bible, that replaces the living love of God passed from one person to another. There is no regimen that replaces being faithful to each other above our ideals. “In rainbow colors” is about Love.
...and if you believe Jesus was an aspect of God, you worship a God that sees in rainbow colors. Pharisees discredited him for associating with sinners like me and you. Silly Pharisees: yokes are for two! “My yoke is easy,” said Jesus, “and my burden is light” [Matthew 11:30] Jesus expected better from us but he was and still is a willing partner where others fall-short. So, I do not indict my ex here-- I merely make a point about what Love should be in The Kingdom of God.
This could easily decay into a sermon but instead I will draw it to a close. I found faithfulness in the support of friends and colleagues. I received good advice, and plenty of bad, but nothing but encouragement. I heard “I love you” from someone other than my mother: my best guy-friend. My ex-girlfriend was right in a way she never knew: our affirmations should never come from a person. They should come from a community acting as the kingdom of God. We can find slivers of God’s love in one-another’s eyes much more readily than on the pages of a text ...think about that the next time someone uses a passage from a book to push another away —especially if that book was meant to bring people together. The lasting legacy of my ex's interpretation of God’s will is that “God” will empower someone to disappear whenever the shit in your life is too deep for their liking; it is not what she meant but she did not stay long enough to clarify. That does not sound like the Jesus I read about in the Bible, or my best-friend who forgave me for dating this woman (Thom), or my previous ex-girlfriend (Christie) who got dumped for her and STILL took me to the ballet because she is my friend and she understands what it means to care about someone. This is not the Jesus that inspires people like my friend Becca F., who tells everyone “I love you darling” without ever cheapening it. As Christians, we need to have some staying power: we cannot disengage just because life does not fall into two, neat categories.
If you give the rainbow a chance, you will find the universe is much more beautiful when it has not been divided simply into stars and void—-hot oblivion and cold vacuum. All of what we are exists in between—-and I believe that we are Loved. Just ask Claire the Cat, if you ever see her.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Thursday, December 30, 2010
The Color of Our Eyes
The Color of Our Eyes
On a restaurant deck by the river,
a lamp ignites with a stutter and I pluck a feather
from the railing to be tentative with, holding back
my answer, twirling it ‘tween my finger-tips ‘till
you fuse your gaze with mine
and say “I’m a good listener”.
An iridescent hint flickers from the feather
and the flash from your eyes floods my mind,
making a maelstrom reverie. I spin
into the quickly inking sky and see
blue. Blue like baby-boys’ bassinets
with Linus-like blankets snugly tucked.
That blue, like Dad’s denim work-shirt
fresh from the dryer but not folded.
Blue like Grandma’s upstairs carpet,
beside large and slightly-open windows,
like an inland sea in the solstice sun
floating, drowsing her furniture and
me upon its plush surface. Blue, yes,
like Traverse Bay in a camera lens or
a clear day framed in an open sun-roof. Blue
like lake and sky climbing into bed,
and eating juicy blue-berries off each other.
Your eyes unfurl sails of cerulean,
azure, perhaps, but not quite cobalt,
catching my masts, whisking my keel air-borne.
They are a blue painted in gentle, generous strokes
sweeping coolly over my face like Roy Hargrove playing
“Sitting On a Cloud”. Already I am wishing
upon stars like glittering sapphires.
I’m riding old Deneb like a swan’s tail
into dark blankets for Spica,
my new jewel in Virgo’s hand. I pray
I could borrow Orion’s boot, Rigel, rising high
in the night with a blue like yours. Yet
I’ve known a star like Sirius: dogged and
dragged low across the horizon with a glint of crimson
but still blue. It’s blue
like dingy fluorescents on a used party dress. It’s blue
like dried toothpaste on the sink that night. It’s blue
like her castaway Christmas bows in my closet. It’s blue
like polaroids of a beech trip, fading. It’s blue
like the chintzy upholstery on the for-sale love-seat
in the neighbors’ yard, by the burned ironing board.
Perhaps it’s darker, like the waning moon’s indigo beard.
Close your eyes and grasp my hand because I am afraid
of a blue like evening’s tint upon the snow
around a trail of footprints, leaving.
On a restaurant deck by the river,
a lamp ignites with a stutter and I pluck a feather
from the railing to be tentative with, holding back
my answer, twirling it ‘tween my finger-tips ‘till
you fuse your gaze with mine
and say “I’m a good listener”.
An iridescent hint flickers from the feather
and the flash from your eyes floods my mind,
making a maelstrom reverie. I spin
into the quickly inking sky and see
blue. Blue like baby-boys’ bassinets
with Linus-like blankets snugly tucked.
That blue, like Dad’s denim work-shirt
fresh from the dryer but not folded.
Blue like Grandma’s upstairs carpet,
beside large and slightly-open windows,
like an inland sea in the solstice sun
floating, drowsing her furniture and
me upon its plush surface. Blue, yes,
like Traverse Bay in a camera lens or
a clear day framed in an open sun-roof. Blue
like lake and sky climbing into bed,
and eating juicy blue-berries off each other.
Your eyes unfurl sails of cerulean,
azure, perhaps, but not quite cobalt,
catching my masts, whisking my keel air-borne.
They are a blue painted in gentle, generous strokes
sweeping coolly over my face like Roy Hargrove playing
“Sitting On a Cloud”. Already I am wishing
upon stars like glittering sapphires.
I’m riding old Deneb like a swan’s tail
into dark blankets for Spica,
my new jewel in Virgo’s hand. I pray
I could borrow Orion’s boot, Rigel, rising high
in the night with a blue like yours. Yet
I’ve known a star like Sirius: dogged and
dragged low across the horizon with a glint of crimson
but still blue. It’s blue
like dingy fluorescents on a used party dress. It’s blue
like dried toothpaste on the sink that night. It’s blue
like her castaway Christmas bows in my closet. It’s blue
like polaroids of a beech trip, fading. It’s blue
like the chintzy upholstery on the for-sale love-seat
in the neighbors’ yard, by the burned ironing board.
Perhaps it’s darker, like the waning moon’s indigo beard.
Close your eyes and grasp my hand because I am afraid
of a blue like evening’s tint upon the snow
around a trail of footprints, leaving.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Garland 1
In the interest of sleep, I will not be able to share all of my thoughts. These were those the rose to the surface first. Many of them are related to one another, having surfaced in a chain—like a garland of musings. I wove the garlands together.
What does the BCS have to offer us, Spartan Nation, when Paul Bunyan is safe on our campus? The season is won. Take that, UofM.
Blue eyes are not uncommon to me. I have a pair, myself. In interactions at work and church I look directly into pretty circles of faux ocean, ringlets like sky lights, and hoops of near-green and never think of any particular person. I would love if the world were filled with eyes of purple, yellow, orange, and the brightest greens—each with its own virtues and shades to explore. Yet brown eyes grab me by the heart and make me a fool, shaking loose old memories. Every pair was only one to me: most beautiful of all.
What if Adam and Eve were not the first homo sapiens but the first homo sapiens to commune with God? If so, I have not been giving them enough credit! They got it right for a while, before the species started this long detour. God came looking for them after their mistake but they over-thought the whole thing and stuck fig-leaves between themselves and God. The first curtain.
I became a 'member' of Blue Lake Public Radio yesterday. The more I listen to their programming, the more I realize that I am fundamentally changing. I started dancing to some flute music as I prepared to do my Monday-night job-search. Six months ago, I worried that I would be unworthy of love; now, I am content to know I will share my antics somehow... and it appears to only be getting better.
It is a sad state when we allow ourselves to value our institutions more than the concepts which they exist to further. I thought of this while I was eating my PBJ. Religions are vehicles of spirituality; schools, of education; governments, of the law. I tried for some time to think of the institution that influences society. All of the above... and more besides. Every institution is really meant for society-- but some have more business influencing society than others.
As I read the book of Numbers I notice the prescribed distances between the tabernacle and most of the nation and how few people actually communed with God. I noticed those who did were all Moses's relatives, the Levites. He probably trusted them to do things 'right', as he perceived God to be saying. For several hundred years after that, prophets wondered why the people drifted from God's will. Maybe because they were set out on the edge? Curtains need ripping.
The most surprising moment of the day was realizing that in spite of the neuroses, the bad habits, and the erroneous assumptions that my parents transmitted to me they still equipped me better than most to exercise empathy and humility. Most days, I feel as if someone else's parents would have done better. That is precisely what God intends to do, anyway. (He seems to have changed the font)
Religious leaders on the right and the left will tell you that God is constant. I agree. God does not change God's mind, they say, and so each command that is given to the Israelites in the Bible, by extension, is applicable to our species today. I disagree. Our species is maturing over time (the dirty word is 'evolving') and like a good parent God's approach has, too. No parent treats their kindergartner like their teenager and this is justified. Jesus did not visit the garden of Eden or the great flood or the exile to Babylon—the time was not right. People in Sodom and Gomorrah could not be responsible homosexuals and they were destroyed. Since then, we've grown—we worked our way toward Jesus. Does not each age deserve its own considerations? Just a thought?
Lou, my community band section mate, lamented the self-centeredness of the latest generation. He also cut straight to the kernel of the issue, which is that they are not fundamentally selfish. They simply do not understand the motivations behind generosity and community. I fear that our society has spent two centuries disassembling the mechanisms that keep us from disassembling—in the name of liberty? Individuality? Television?
Dream Woman visited me again last night. She was sitting on a red couch with her wine goblet in a tastefully decorated room. We were just about to sit down and listen to public radio together when I awakened, wishing we could have conversed longer. Dream woman used to hold me, kiss me-- sometimes try to take my clothes off! Now, she wants to smile at me, engage me, get old with me. She was a brown-eyed metaphor for the changes in my desires—
--and she looked quite familiar to me.
Moses wanted so badly to get things right. The minutia of spiritual life is written in his hand; each stage is painstakingly recorded, discerned—cognitively processed. It was the law. Its aim was to delineate God's will with no room for doubt. Also, no room for Faith. Jesus said "It's not I that accuse you but Moses". Did you ever notice that Jesus never wrote anything down himself except in the dirt with his finger? That's the guy I follow. When Jesus came down from the mountain, God was written on his heart-- not on tablets of stone.
I would not count on Dream Woman always preferring NPR to fanning her passions but it was refreshing; even 'cool' of her.
If MSU can beat Iowa, "it" is theirs to lose. Since we are talking about the BCS, "it" is a fluid concept right now.
The entry is not what I imagined it would be; no musical thoughts or thoughts about writing... I love it just the same. Have a good night!
What does the BCS have to offer us, Spartan Nation, when Paul Bunyan is safe on our campus? The season is won. Take that, UofM.
Blue eyes are not uncommon to me. I have a pair, myself. In interactions at work and church I look directly into pretty circles of faux ocean, ringlets like sky lights, and hoops of near-green and never think of any particular person. I would love if the world were filled with eyes of purple, yellow, orange, and the brightest greens—each with its own virtues and shades to explore. Yet brown eyes grab me by the heart and make me a fool, shaking loose old memories. Every pair was only one to me: most beautiful of all.
What if Adam and Eve were not the first homo sapiens but the first homo sapiens to commune with God? If so, I have not been giving them enough credit! They got it right for a while, before the species started this long detour. God came looking for them after their mistake but they over-thought the whole thing and stuck fig-leaves between themselves and God. The first curtain.
I became a 'member' of Blue Lake Public Radio yesterday. The more I listen to their programming, the more I realize that I am fundamentally changing. I started dancing to some flute music as I prepared to do my Monday-night job-search. Six months ago, I worried that I would be unworthy of love; now, I am content to know I will share my antics somehow... and it appears to only be getting better.
It is a sad state when we allow ourselves to value our institutions more than the concepts which they exist to further. I thought of this while I was eating my PBJ. Religions are vehicles of spirituality; schools, of education; governments, of the law. I tried for some time to think of the institution that influences society. All of the above... and more besides. Every institution is really meant for society-- but some have more business influencing society than others.
As I read the book of Numbers I notice the prescribed distances between the tabernacle and most of the nation and how few people actually communed with God. I noticed those who did were all Moses's relatives, the Levites. He probably trusted them to do things 'right', as he perceived God to be saying. For several hundred years after that, prophets wondered why the people drifted from God's will. Maybe because they were set out on the edge? Curtains need ripping.
The most surprising moment of the day was realizing that in spite of the neuroses, the bad habits, and the erroneous assumptions that my parents transmitted to me they still equipped me better than most to exercise empathy and humility. Most days, I feel as if someone else's parents would have done better. That is precisely what God intends to do, anyway. (He seems to have changed the font)
Religious leaders on the right and the left will tell you that God is constant. I agree. God does not change God's mind, they say, and so each command that is given to the Israelites in the Bible, by extension, is applicable to our species today. I disagree. Our species is maturing over time (the dirty word is 'evolving') and like a good parent God's approach has, too. No parent treats their kindergartner like their teenager and this is justified. Jesus did not visit the garden of Eden or the great flood or the exile to Babylon—the time was not right. People in Sodom and Gomorrah could not be responsible homosexuals and they were destroyed. Since then, we've grown—we worked our way toward Jesus. Does not each age deserve its own considerations? Just a thought?
Lou, my community band section mate, lamented the self-centeredness of the latest generation. He also cut straight to the kernel of the issue, which is that they are not fundamentally selfish. They simply do not understand the motivations behind generosity and community. I fear that our society has spent two centuries disassembling the mechanisms that keep us from disassembling—in the name of liberty? Individuality? Television?
Dream Woman visited me again last night. She was sitting on a red couch with her wine goblet in a tastefully decorated room. We were just about to sit down and listen to public radio together when I awakened, wishing we could have conversed longer. Dream woman used to hold me, kiss me-- sometimes try to take my clothes off! Now, she wants to smile at me, engage me, get old with me. She was a brown-eyed metaphor for the changes in my desires—
--and she looked quite familiar to me.
Moses wanted so badly to get things right. The minutia of spiritual life is written in his hand; each stage is painstakingly recorded, discerned—cognitively processed. It was the law. Its aim was to delineate God's will with no room for doubt. Also, no room for Faith. Jesus said "It's not I that accuse you but Moses". Did you ever notice that Jesus never wrote anything down himself except in the dirt with his finger? That's the guy I follow. When Jesus came down from the mountain, God was written on his heart-- not on tablets of stone.
I would not count on Dream Woman always preferring NPR to fanning her passions but it was refreshing; even 'cool' of her.
If MSU can beat Iowa, "it" is theirs to lose. Since we are talking about the BCS, "it" is a fluid concept right now.
The entry is not what I imagined it would be; no musical thoughts or thoughts about writing... I love it just the same. Have a good night!
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Highlight Reel
Against my judgment, I am relinquishing to my intuition and doing some writing-- though only in part. I say in part because I had a week and a half that was more than worth unpacking. It practically demands unpacking in eloquent ways. However, competing interests have brought me to this point: I am in the wee hours of the morning, having browsed Idealist.org for far-away jobs... and rapidgrowthmedia.com on the off-chance there would be a local job. I also blew some time completing an application to a job I am not sure I want. I might have done well to work harder on that application, actually, since a half-hearted effort might be a total waste rather than whole-hearted partial waste...
Nevermind... I'm learning not to make those distinctions any more.
*tries to remain awake* I am frustrated by my need for sleep. So, I will have to give you snippets and fail on a global level in order to produce something that is worth more than skimming. Why would I care? Because I am a writer now... but before I finish that thought...
I left my watch intentionally in the car in order to escape the disheartening sense of chronos that has plagued my life. So, the mid-point of my weekend retreat at Kinawind took place in a kayak on the most beautiful fall day in my memory-- a mid-point not because I can calculate the point where the weekend was half over but because I located it's natural trope-- a touch of kairos.
It was an unexpected provision of God-- or a quite intention jest on the Supreme Beings part. The entire weekend had been intolerably cold in the clothes I had selected but after a brisk morning walk with some other ex-staff-members, I found myself in what I consider and enviable position: stepping into a boat on a gorgeous day in a remote place with Fred Elmore--my former boss and one of only three men I sincerely want to become like. The clouds opened and the lake was filled with subtle ripples so that it glowed with the air-brushed images of frost-tinged boughs turned fiery yellow, orange and red. Well, the pines didn't cooperate... as is their way...
After a brief hiatus to see an old beaver lodge, I joined Fred and company heading west on Thumb Lake. Old Fred and I hugged the shore, watching for loons and enjoying a closer look at the brightening trees. After a while, we crossed a wide sand-bar and heard the sound of quarreling in the distance. Slicing across the water, I spied a pair of young men with oars trying to wiggle an old raft to the shore. They were not getting along well. As I drew closer, I recognized the shorter one. I recognized him but could not identify him-- I knew I had seen him. Not only that, I knew that I had cared about him! He was a kid I liked but I did not know how. I thought of every camper I had seen while I was at Kinawind (or tried); then I flashed through my Judson Collin memories. No... he looked somewhat like George but he was too old.
Fred and I asked them if they needed any help but by that time their coordination had improved. A man came onto their pier to guide them in-- he looked just old enough to be their father but his beard was gray. He, too, had something of the familiar in him. Then, a boxer ran onto the pier. Something was right about the boxer too. I could not place any of their faces.
Finally, Fred asked the man how Heidi was.
*click* *click* *click* The boy I like is David. The taller one is his non-identical twin, Drew. Their Dad is Jeff DeMoss and their dog is named Tunza. Tunza smells of fish, likes to give uninvited kisses and kicks vigorously when you rub his belly. Heidi DeMoss has a Masters in Christian Education. She recommended my ex-girlfriend to her church job-- in fact, my ex lived with them for a year. They are wonderful people who I will perpetually miss--- and I don't believe I was recognized. In fact, I preferred it that way. I made the "okay" sign and swung my boat back into the glassier parts of the lake. I started to paddle, unconsciously, away from the scene in deep thought-- away from memories of Ashley and into the beauty of that day. Later, I made a solo landing on "Froggy Island" and admired all of the mushrooms, there, that no one else was seeing. Mushrooms... we saw so many beautiful mushrooms, I wish I could dwell on only those. This, itself, is a mushroom to me-- the fruit of submerged associative networks. I fall in love and learn someone else's life and then when she has gone I am left with these experiences... but so seldom such a chance encounter with real people. I did not want it to go to waste. [room for expansion]
I saw the other living man I want to be more like. His name is David, too... and I like him. He taught me Writing Center Rhetoric, then hired me as a peer consultant a few months later. He was director before I left and left for another position at the university before I was finished. I made an appointment with Dave expecting to talk to him about how to start a degree in Writing & Rhetorical Theory. Before I made the journey-- and before I even made my trip to Kinawind, I felt a strong tug to seriously consider an MFA~ in spite of my own tentativeness up to this point, in spite of not having any promise of success... in spite feeling as if I've already cheated myself. No. I finally hit that point where... I am willing to take a year or two to just work on the portfolio, so long as I can make a living. I was ready to defend myself to Dave... for a little while. Just until he reassured me how much smarter it would be to go into Rhetorical Theory.
But Dave has an MFA... I had forgotten that. Our conversation took a turn I did not expect: I have his blessing. He wants me to keep him abreast. Also, he keeps a drum in his office (just saying).
Are these spots short enough? I am hot and tired... moving on...
Here's a short story: once upon a time, my boss gave me an RFP for a grant that is due at the end of this week. Rather than start immediately on it, I found other things that seemed more pressing. Then, I spent what felt like a prudent amount of time on research and planning, only to come-up empty and feel even more unsure. I e-mailed my boss for guidance. Instead, I received notification of a performance review he had given of me on the AmeriCorps website. He said almost nothing about my job as volunteer coordinator, focusing instead on how I just stayed busy but did not take initiative-- that i had failed to deliver on this grant. So, I had a meeting with him: face to face. It was actually a good talk; it felt like a real wake-up call. He said I was too caught-up in the minutia and that I failed to get the results the organization needed. He said my writing was excellent and I took things seriously... but that he didn't want to "shit-can" me. I seemed unable to work without close supervision. I was hurt but decided to finish the grant. I quit worrying about getting adequate support from research and wrote the damn thing MY way. I found that I liked my way. So does my Boss-- he high-fived me. So what the FUCK was stopping me in the first place?
I saw my spiritual director (this week was packed with revelations... shall I go on?) -- and he made some distinctions I needed. He said that it was possible to care without being attached. He also wondered if I was "becoming" my projects--- that I was letting these projects become representations of myself and, therefore, making myself anxious about their direction. We spoke of many things in this vein... but I wanted to take note of that distinction: attachment and caring are not synonymous.
I read an article on codependence. It made me sad first for myself and then even more for my mother. I finally saw that what afflicts me is not intrinsic. It is just a pattern so deeply rutted that it would appear to be part of my landscape. New paths can be blazed... flesh that out yourselves.
A young man named Elijah told me that I should take care of the little things and God would show me a big thing that would blow me mind. God has shown me several medium-sized things that added together are keeping me stoked. The time for bed draws near but I wanted to let you all know that the Wednesday nights remain intense. Mike Coller talked and prayed with me this week; I talked about how I was leaning toward believing that I am called to be a writer-- partly because I've actually known it for a while. I was hoping there was an "easier" way (that sentiment is getting more and more foreign as my true desire becomes clearer). Mike spoke-out in support... though he had a small prophesy of his own to share (*tingle*)-- he said he kept seeing me as a father-figure (*BIG TINGLE* --these are starting to look like more than coincidence... and I love it...). I commented that it might be a reassurance-- that it's not too late to become a good example again... or that I am wired for family life and I just got things out of order [room for expansion there, too] Excuse my patchy paragraph, folks... that's just how it's coming out tonight.
The pivotal moment was on Friday at the praise concert. I had a great week on trumpet and my tone continues to gain power even as I grow my improvisational capacity (which reminds me of yet ANOTHER thing... that I'll share another time). Sitting next to the new piano player, I lifted up my hands as the Latino band that followed-us began their set. I am not a hands-lifter by nature. That's a new practice, for me, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who doesn't flat out get that sense "my hands should be in the air right now". Wait to feel that way... then DO IT. It's cool but not if it's fake; never if it's "I wonder if it would be more religious if I..." Nope: don't try to be religious. Wait to be spiritual. Anyway...
When I lifted my hands, I got an image in my mind of an alter with a beam of high-frequency light striking it like a giant sword. I wondered if that was an image I was intended to use in one of my unwritten books. I got a tingle. I asked God if I should chase 'the ninja'-- my name for inertia. I got a big tingle.
That night, I became a career writer.
Still some bad habits to kick, though! That's okay...
Nevermind... I'm learning not to make those distinctions any more.
*tries to remain awake* I am frustrated by my need for sleep. So, I will have to give you snippets and fail on a global level in order to produce something that is worth more than skimming. Why would I care? Because I am a writer now... but before I finish that thought...
I left my watch intentionally in the car in order to escape the disheartening sense of chronos that has plagued my life. So, the mid-point of my weekend retreat at Kinawind took place in a kayak on the most beautiful fall day in my memory-- a mid-point not because I can calculate the point where the weekend was half over but because I located it's natural trope-- a touch of kairos.
It was an unexpected provision of God-- or a quite intention jest on the Supreme Beings part. The entire weekend had been intolerably cold in the clothes I had selected but after a brisk morning walk with some other ex-staff-members, I found myself in what I consider and enviable position: stepping into a boat on a gorgeous day in a remote place with Fred Elmore--my former boss and one of only three men I sincerely want to become like. The clouds opened and the lake was filled with subtle ripples so that it glowed with the air-brushed images of frost-tinged boughs turned fiery yellow, orange and red. Well, the pines didn't cooperate... as is their way...
After a brief hiatus to see an old beaver lodge, I joined Fred and company heading west on Thumb Lake. Old Fred and I hugged the shore, watching for loons and enjoying a closer look at the brightening trees. After a while, we crossed a wide sand-bar and heard the sound of quarreling in the distance. Slicing across the water, I spied a pair of young men with oars trying to wiggle an old raft to the shore. They were not getting along well. As I drew closer, I recognized the shorter one. I recognized him but could not identify him-- I knew I had seen him. Not only that, I knew that I had cared about him! He was a kid I liked but I did not know how. I thought of every camper I had seen while I was at Kinawind (or tried); then I flashed through my Judson Collin memories. No... he looked somewhat like George but he was too old.
Fred and I asked them if they needed any help but by that time their coordination had improved. A man came onto their pier to guide them in-- he looked just old enough to be their father but his beard was gray. He, too, had something of the familiar in him. Then, a boxer ran onto the pier. Something was right about the boxer too. I could not place any of their faces.
Finally, Fred asked the man how Heidi was.
*click* *click* *click* The boy I like is David. The taller one is his non-identical twin, Drew. Their Dad is Jeff DeMoss and their dog is named Tunza. Tunza smells of fish, likes to give uninvited kisses and kicks vigorously when you rub his belly. Heidi DeMoss has a Masters in Christian Education. She recommended my ex-girlfriend to her church job-- in fact, my ex lived with them for a year. They are wonderful people who I will perpetually miss--- and I don't believe I was recognized. In fact, I preferred it that way. I made the "okay" sign and swung my boat back into the glassier parts of the lake. I started to paddle, unconsciously, away from the scene in deep thought-- away from memories of Ashley and into the beauty of that day. Later, I made a solo landing on "Froggy Island" and admired all of the mushrooms, there, that no one else was seeing. Mushrooms... we saw so many beautiful mushrooms, I wish I could dwell on only those. This, itself, is a mushroom to me-- the fruit of submerged associative networks. I fall in love and learn someone else's life and then when she has gone I am left with these experiences... but so seldom such a chance encounter with real people. I did not want it to go to waste. [room for expansion]
I saw the other living man I want to be more like. His name is David, too... and I like him. He taught me Writing Center Rhetoric, then hired me as a peer consultant a few months later. He was director before I left and left for another position at the university before I was finished. I made an appointment with Dave expecting to talk to him about how to start a degree in Writing & Rhetorical Theory. Before I made the journey-- and before I even made my trip to Kinawind, I felt a strong tug to seriously consider an MFA~ in spite of my own tentativeness up to this point, in spite of not having any promise of success... in spite feeling as if I've already cheated myself. No. I finally hit that point where... I am willing to take a year or two to just work on the portfolio, so long as I can make a living. I was ready to defend myself to Dave... for a little while. Just until he reassured me how much smarter it would be to go into Rhetorical Theory.
But Dave has an MFA... I had forgotten that. Our conversation took a turn I did not expect: I have his blessing. He wants me to keep him abreast. Also, he keeps a drum in his office (just saying).
Are these spots short enough? I am hot and tired... moving on...
Here's a short story: once upon a time, my boss gave me an RFP for a grant that is due at the end of this week. Rather than start immediately on it, I found other things that seemed more pressing. Then, I spent what felt like a prudent amount of time on research and planning, only to come-up empty and feel even more unsure. I e-mailed my boss for guidance. Instead, I received notification of a performance review he had given of me on the AmeriCorps website. He said almost nothing about my job as volunteer coordinator, focusing instead on how I just stayed busy but did not take initiative-- that i had failed to deliver on this grant. So, I had a meeting with him: face to face. It was actually a good talk; it felt like a real wake-up call. He said I was too caught-up in the minutia and that I failed to get the results the organization needed. He said my writing was excellent and I took things seriously... but that he didn't want to "shit-can" me. I seemed unable to work without close supervision. I was hurt but decided to finish the grant. I quit worrying about getting adequate support from research and wrote the damn thing MY way. I found that I liked my way. So does my Boss-- he high-fived me. So what the FUCK was stopping me in the first place?
I saw my spiritual director (this week was packed with revelations... shall I go on?) -- and he made some distinctions I needed. He said that it was possible to care without being attached. He also wondered if I was "becoming" my projects--- that I was letting these projects become representations of myself and, therefore, making myself anxious about their direction. We spoke of many things in this vein... but I wanted to take note of that distinction: attachment and caring are not synonymous.
I read an article on codependence. It made me sad first for myself and then even more for my mother. I finally saw that what afflicts me is not intrinsic. It is just a pattern so deeply rutted that it would appear to be part of my landscape. New paths can be blazed... flesh that out yourselves.
A young man named Elijah told me that I should take care of the little things and God would show me a big thing that would blow me mind. God has shown me several medium-sized things that added together are keeping me stoked. The time for bed draws near but I wanted to let you all know that the Wednesday nights remain intense. Mike Coller talked and prayed with me this week; I talked about how I was leaning toward believing that I am called to be a writer-- partly because I've actually known it for a while. I was hoping there was an "easier" way (that sentiment is getting more and more foreign as my true desire becomes clearer). Mike spoke-out in support... though he had a small prophesy of his own to share (*tingle*)-- he said he kept seeing me as a father-figure (*BIG TINGLE* --these are starting to look like more than coincidence... and I love it...). I commented that it might be a reassurance-- that it's not too late to become a good example again... or that I am wired for family life and I just got things out of order [room for expansion there, too] Excuse my patchy paragraph, folks... that's just how it's coming out tonight.
The pivotal moment was on Friday at the praise concert. I had a great week on trumpet and my tone continues to gain power even as I grow my improvisational capacity (which reminds me of yet ANOTHER thing... that I'll share another time). Sitting next to the new piano player, I lifted up my hands as the Latino band that followed-us began their set. I am not a hands-lifter by nature. That's a new practice, for me, and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone who doesn't flat out get that sense "my hands should be in the air right now". Wait to feel that way... then DO IT. It's cool but not if it's fake; never if it's "I wonder if it would be more religious if I..." Nope: don't try to be religious. Wait to be spiritual. Anyway...
When I lifted my hands, I got an image in my mind of an alter with a beam of high-frequency light striking it like a giant sword. I wondered if that was an image I was intended to use in one of my unwritten books. I got a tingle. I asked God if I should chase 'the ninja'-- my name for inertia. I got a big tingle.
That night, I became a career writer.
Still some bad habits to kick, though! That's okay...
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Strange Orbit
"Jerusalem! Jerusalem! How I long to gather you under me like a mother hen gathers her chicks..."
When my eyes opened, I was swimming in perfect silence. There was no sound of bubbles rushing over my ears or the distant rumble of outboard motors. No muted calls from birds above the surface or the low grating of water rushing over boulders. There was no sound of my lungs wheezing, even though I was not holding my breath at all. In fact, I could not feel anything either. No sand brushing against my chest, no horse-flies landing on my back, no cool water tightening my scrotum. Nothing I associated with swimming was there at all. No pier covered with sea-gull feces, no smell of stale algae on the sea-wall, no Grams waiting up the hill with goldfish crackers—no Buck with a long, cane fishing-pole.
I swam through a translucent, barely heterogeneous field of red. In every direction I turned there was the same rusted crimson. I knew where I was, though I do not know quite how. Looking into the distance, I could just barely see her silhouette. She did not paddle. She soared ahead of me-- and when I stopped flailing like I was under-water, I soared too—
I pulled-up, knowing that the haze below me must be at least a mile thick and the same throughout. With a click of my heels, I triggered the tiny jets in my space-boots and ascended. I was much deeper into this cloud than I had imagined: the layers began to get thinner and thinner but I wondered if there ever would be a true surface. As my suit lifted out of the fog, I saw the outline before me doing the same, leaving a trail in her wake like a sky-liner. Behind her, the gargantuan yellow orb of Saturn came into focus. I noted how much brighter it seemed from this distance: almost unstreaked by cloud bands, buttery hued, glowing in the light of an unseen sun. Come to think of it, I think that Saturn was the Sun—if the Sun had a smoky, glass-globe like the lamp in my bedroom. Suddenly, I breached the surface of the cloud ring like a humpback whale. In the next moment, panic ensued—now, I was on the edge, trying to rest on the surface without sinking back into obscurity. Instead, the momentum from my boots set me adrift: losing the surface and drifting into void. Then, I turned around...
It was a bed; a cross between the biggest king-size you can imagine, a set of 1960's retro rockets and a magic carpet. I say so because it had a head-board and footboard, about eight blue flames emanating from its stern and an abundance of Middle-eastern designs. On this most mystical craft, my beloved sister Molly was lying in the arms of a woman. The woman appeared to be comforting my sister. She impressed me as the most maternal woman I had ever seen—she was breathtaking yet warm. I knew that she was one and the same with the figure I was chasing in the red-cloud. Momma? Not my mother... too tall... no freckles or glasses... long, straight hair... brown eyes, of course, just like my mother (brown eyes are maternal in my sub-conscious).
I climbed onto the bed, suddenly unburdened of my space-suit and in my pajamas. I crawled toward my sister and rested with her—cuddling her like I never could in real-life. I thought "Now I don't have to be alone any more... we don't have to be alone..."
—all of this was after receiving the phone call from my sister at 6:30 AM. She called for lack of anything better to do, since there was a drunk man outside her door. He was convinced that he was at his own room. He was not. Once the RAs came to cart him away, my sister discovered he had drooled in several places on the floor...
I told her not to let him in (duh), then returned to my slumber-- and my dreaming. All of this was Sunday morning—-after Friday and before our lives were about to change yet again. It was not until that evening that I figured-out who the woman in my dream had to be.
Not Mom... not some future wife-figure. That was God. God is our Mother~ every good characteristic of motherhood ought to be something that God has. That's a backward way of justifying the comparison—as if mothers had those characteristics and God purloined them later (not the case?). ...of course, the God portrayed in the Old Testament does not always seem so maternal. I think (these are my personal feelings, not a Biblical argument) that they got Her all wrong... that She/He has to be more like the image Jesus conjured just before he entered Jerusalem to be arrested: "Jerusalem! Jerusalem! How I long to gather you under me like a mother hen gathers her chicks...". I needed to be plucked from outer space, like a lost sheep/coin/son... but didn't know why yet... (nor that it would be subject of the sermon later that morning...)
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
New Year Tomorrow
I do not believe I have made the effort to describe my therapist to you, my readers. Setting aside that I have not taken time to journal very much at all, I think that you are missing a color from the palette of my life.
My therapist is a serious African American man in his early thirties who works from an office on the third floor of a hospital building on Lafayette street. Other than being older, darker and clean shaving (literally, his entire head), he appears to be just like me—same height and build. On the inside, we may be a little different (or more than a little). My more liberal, Christian friends tend to believe that I should quietly seek a different Christian counselor but a local non-profit is paying and I am interested to learn all I can from this man. He's conservative but very caring; I need the exposure to break my prejudices.
Dr. L Forrest noted to me this past Friday that the Jewish Holiday of "Rosh Hashanah" was to occur soon—about forty minutes from when I write this sentence. This is the Jewish New Year; I decided to do some light reading about the holiday. The date begins a ten-day period of introspection and repentance that ends in Yom Kippur. I was pleased to note that blowing a shofar was integral to the celebration, since I am a horn blower in my own ways. In any case (since links are provided), my therapist certainly assigns more ceremonial significance to the day than I have, having never heard of it, but I hate to dismiss the opportunity to make such a seemingly-ordained intra-psychic transition. In plain words, I think the Real Spirit can intercede at an opportune moment. When Dr. Forrest suggested that I use this time to make some spiritual goals//resolutions, I was receptive. I have often found myself coming to the precipice of a life transition, furtively glancing at my watch for some significance. Today, I nearly missed my opportunity during my lunch-time "pace" around the block. "Nine seven ten... that doesn't make any sense. Wait... waaaait... tomorrow is that Jewish New Year. There we go."
I don't mean to make light of the day, just my tendency to look for a silly convergence like that: evidence that this transition is indeed ordained. I spent all lunch time in a fog about the future—how I would become a creative writer, an educator, a family person, a pink elephant, a Man of God (wait, was I trying to be one too many things?). My need to knead such multifarious elements together has long frustrated my desire for perfection—and it is a pregnant subject. I have conversed with God, half stewed for the better part of an hour as I worked my way around the corner of Straight and Chatham three times. To distill that conversation, I knew that I needed to have a regimen... but I decided that having a plan was the worst thing I could do. I am under considerable pressure from myself and extended family to have a plan. My best efforts to have such a plan have always backfired and left me worse for wear... regrettably, much worse than if I had winged-it~ the irony, of course, is that I am supposed to be Christian and Jesus very clearly told us to wing-it. "Today's worries are enough for today...". He didn't say live recklessly... without any principles. He said don't count those chickens before they hatch (well... that's a paraphrase). I am winging this entry but I'm going to take the opportunity to tie-back to Rosh Hashanah: that holiday is meant to be a ten-day plan for atonement. It may be no mistake (and skeptics bare with me, I mean you no offense) that this morning's devotional mentioned the torn curtain from after the crucifixion—symbolically indicating that we need not stand on ceremony to seek that atonement. Yet, that is a digression...
I know many of these things, cognitively. Transforming them from conscious to intuitive is like trying to wrangle a walrus coated in cheap massage oil. Perhaps a seal or otter—cuter image. Too often, I have tried to solve the problem with itself; meaning, I have failed to see that my constant 'strategizing' is partially responsible for the knots I am tied-in... yet I am forever plotting that winning strategy. Even now, I am feeling a little frustrated by the passage of time: what makes this entry worth my attention as opposed to a story or a phone call? Thus, I am remain divided and do neither...
What I need for spiritual goals are simple principles—simple enough that I can either do or not do them. Co-dependent principles: I either do them all or none. Over-simplification? Of course! But I am in the habit of over-thinking, according to my sister. So, I got-out a post-it note and, after a brief prayer, came-up with my spiritual goals:
2. A sustained thoughtful reading of the Bible {I realized I haven't attempted such a thing in ten years—my perspective has changed sufficiently to justify such a reading}
2. Live in Trust; rest in God; let goi of time {easier said than done, but huge}
2. Speak-out in Faith and without doubt {I need a lot of the first two before I can do this well}
1. Stay in frequent communication with God and do not be discouraged {Love the Lord your God...}
1. Love all. {Love your neighbor}
Some part of me wants to apologize for being so transparent. Another, to state defiantly that I do believe as I do. However, I am simply saying that this is where I am: my Rosh Hashanah goals... or my Torn Curtain Goals, if I can't get it together in ten days. I think I can, with help.
Edit-- see my continuing thoughts as the clock strikes midnight but the journaling carries on.
My therapist is a serious African American man in his early thirties who works from an office on the third floor of a hospital building on Lafayette street. Other than being older, darker and clean shaving (literally, his entire head), he appears to be just like me—same height and build. On the inside, we may be a little different (or more than a little). My more liberal, Christian friends tend to believe that I should quietly seek a different Christian counselor but a local non-profit is paying and I am interested to learn all I can from this man. He's conservative but very caring; I need the exposure to break my prejudices.
Dr. L Forrest noted to me this past Friday that the Jewish Holiday of "Rosh Hashanah" was to occur soon—about forty minutes from when I write this sentence. This is the Jewish New Year; I decided to do some light reading about the holiday. The date begins a ten-day period of introspection and repentance that ends in Yom Kippur. I was pleased to note that blowing a shofar was integral to the celebration, since I am a horn blower in my own ways. In any case (since links are provided), my therapist certainly assigns more ceremonial significance to the day than I have, having never heard of it, but I hate to dismiss the opportunity to make such a seemingly-ordained intra-psychic transition. In plain words, I think the Real Spirit can intercede at an opportune moment. When Dr. Forrest suggested that I use this time to make some spiritual goals//resolutions, I was receptive. I have often found myself coming to the precipice of a life transition, furtively glancing at my watch for some significance. Today, I nearly missed my opportunity during my lunch-time "pace" around the block. "Nine seven ten... that doesn't make any sense. Wait... waaaait... tomorrow is that Jewish New Year. There we go."
I don't mean to make light of the day, just my tendency to look for a silly convergence like that: evidence that this transition is indeed ordained. I spent all lunch time in a fog about the future—how I would become a creative writer, an educator, a family person, a pink elephant, a Man of God (wait, was I trying to be one too many things?). My need to knead such multifarious elements together has long frustrated my desire for perfection—and it is a pregnant subject. I have conversed with God, half stewed for the better part of an hour as I worked my way around the corner of Straight and Chatham three times. To distill that conversation, I knew that I needed to have a regimen... but I decided that having a plan was the worst thing I could do. I am under considerable pressure from myself and extended family to have a plan. My best efforts to have such a plan have always backfired and left me worse for wear... regrettably, much worse than if I had winged-it~ the irony, of course, is that I am supposed to be Christian and Jesus very clearly told us to wing-it. "Today's worries are enough for today...". He didn't say live recklessly... without any principles. He said don't count those chickens before they hatch (well... that's a paraphrase). I am winging this entry but I'm going to take the opportunity to tie-back to Rosh Hashanah: that holiday is meant to be a ten-day plan for atonement. It may be no mistake (and skeptics bare with me, I mean you no offense) that this morning's devotional mentioned the torn curtain from after the crucifixion—symbolically indicating that we need not stand on ceremony to seek that atonement. Yet, that is a digression...
I know many of these things, cognitively. Transforming them from conscious to intuitive is like trying to wrangle a walrus coated in cheap massage oil. Perhaps a seal or otter—cuter image. Too often, I have tried to solve the problem with itself; meaning, I have failed to see that my constant 'strategizing' is partially responsible for the knots I am tied-in... yet I am forever plotting that winning strategy. Even now, I am feeling a little frustrated by the passage of time: what makes this entry worth my attention as opposed to a story or a phone call? Thus, I am remain divided and do neither...
What I need for spiritual goals are simple principles—simple enough that I can either do or not do them. Co-dependent principles: I either do them all or none. Over-simplification? Of course! But I am in the habit of over-thinking, according to my sister. So, I got-out a post-it note and, after a brief prayer, came-up with my spiritual goals:
2. A sustained thoughtful reading of the Bible {I realized I haven't attempted such a thing in ten years—my perspective has changed sufficiently to justify such a reading}
2. Live in Trust; rest in God; let goi of time {easier said than done, but huge}
2. Speak-out in Faith and without doubt {I need a lot of the first two before I can do this well}
1. Stay in frequent communication with God and do not be discouraged {Love the Lord your God...}
1. Love all. {Love your neighbor}
Some part of me wants to apologize for being so transparent. Another, to state defiantly that I do believe as I do. However, I am simply saying that this is where I am: my Rosh Hashanah goals... or my Torn Curtain Goals, if I can't get it together in ten days. I think I can, with help.
Edit-- see my continuing thoughts as the clock strikes midnight but the journaling carries on.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Kairos
I feel embattled, as I have this entire day. I want this entry to be insightful while I simultaneously want it to be over. I know that it should be written but I wish I were writing something else. It warrants being written yet I will only be able to touch upon its subject matter. I want this entry to be momentous yet it is about the very moment that it desires to be...
The word 'Kairos' has its origins in Greek. Chronos is the form of time with which we are all so familiar. As my spiritual director said to me Thursday, that kind of time is a "commodity" that we "parcel". I confessed to him that time has become my idol, though I hadn't any clue how that came to be. We agreed to blame society, he and I. Then we started talking about Kairos—the fullness of time. That word has sat on the back of my tongue ever since. I find it an entertaining irony that my entry titled "kairos" seems to be coming at what would seem an inopportune moment—days after this discussion with Gerry.
It will not surprise you that I have chased Chronos. It is the 'American' condition. For too long I have envied those who are much better at that chase than I am: organized, driven, capable of intuiting just how to do something most efficiently. Those visions of perfect chronos management appealed to the perfectionism that had gone to seed in my mind since early school days—quantifiable bench-marks for success. But I failed utterly. I am twenty-four years old with no clear career track, no wife, and an absent-minded nature. If chronos were puss, I am covered with open sores. It oozes out of my skin and I lose it forever.
This concept of Kairos came as a subtle relief to me—and an affirmation of another tendency in myself. Thursday, I left work an hour before my session with Gerry so that I would not be late. Half-way to my destination, I realized how early I was going to be. I thought about time and how it had become my idol. I wondered what I would do, nonetheless, during those extra fifteen minutes. The moment itself was momentous. I climbed from my car and sat on an embankment over-looking a wetland and began to say an open-eyed prayer. I found Kairos—the sense that I was in the right moment doing just as I needed to be doing.
My addiction to chronos continues, though. You readers are spared my long internal monologue about how I spent my time today because it is almost midnight and I know that I cannot fully tackle this. Instead, I want to tease at the beginning of these thoughts—
The image of a boulder in a stream. Gerry said "why don't you plug that image into your mind a few times this week; see what happens." –not knowing that a day will not pass for at least a week without my thinking about that boulder. Upstream is the entirety of my past, down-stream is a bend in the river that I cannot see past. There, on the down-stream side of that boulder RIGHT before the future is a back-eddy where I can put the nose of my kayak and cling to that boulder indefinitely.
The Kairos I found while I researched on the internet is about seizing a moment but the Kairos Gerry was speaking to me about is like that boulder in the stream. He keeps stressing "being" as opposed to "doing." So, perhaps I was right to drink whiskey and watch "Rush Hour II" on Thursday night, rather than seize the moment (perhaps not) because this thought carries on and to fold-it-up neatly in a journal entry would not bring it to life as I had hoped.
"Whenever something happens or you have a thought, John, I notice that you feel compelled to do something with it. That's not necessarily bad but... do you think it is okay to just take the experience in and then let it go? There is worth in that, too..."
As I often say in my hand-written journal (when I get to it) 'many thoughts'. Kairos is just one dimension of 'Waiting'. My mind is splitting in eight different directions again, trying to do something with all of my complex thoughts and emotions.
When Gerry mentioned the boulder, he was not trying to describe Kairos. He was trying to get me to stop being completely absorbed with either my thoughts or emotions, running back and forth between them. He is trying to get me to dwell inside my soul.
I am afraid I have left more questions instead of answers. As I said, I think I would rather be writing something else—so when will that occur? Perhaps that time is nearing.
*unsatisfied*
The word 'Kairos' has its origins in Greek. Chronos is the form of time with which we are all so familiar. As my spiritual director said to me Thursday, that kind of time is a "commodity" that we "parcel". I confessed to him that time has become my idol, though I hadn't any clue how that came to be. We agreed to blame society, he and I. Then we started talking about Kairos—the fullness of time. That word has sat on the back of my tongue ever since. I find it an entertaining irony that my entry titled "kairos" seems to be coming at what would seem an inopportune moment—days after this discussion with Gerry.
It will not surprise you that I have chased Chronos. It is the 'American' condition. For too long I have envied those who are much better at that chase than I am: organized, driven, capable of intuiting just how to do something most efficiently. Those visions of perfect chronos management appealed to the perfectionism that had gone to seed in my mind since early school days—quantifiable bench-marks for success. But I failed utterly. I am twenty-four years old with no clear career track, no wife, and an absent-minded nature. If chronos were puss, I am covered with open sores. It oozes out of my skin and I lose it forever.
This concept of Kairos came as a subtle relief to me—and an affirmation of another tendency in myself. Thursday, I left work an hour before my session with Gerry so that I would not be late. Half-way to my destination, I realized how early I was going to be. I thought about time and how it had become my idol. I wondered what I would do, nonetheless, during those extra fifteen minutes. The moment itself was momentous. I climbed from my car and sat on an embankment over-looking a wetland and began to say an open-eyed prayer. I found Kairos—the sense that I was in the right moment doing just as I needed to be doing.
My addiction to chronos continues, though. You readers are spared my long internal monologue about how I spent my time today because it is almost midnight and I know that I cannot fully tackle this. Instead, I want to tease at the beginning of these thoughts—
The image of a boulder in a stream. Gerry said "why don't you plug that image into your mind a few times this week; see what happens." –not knowing that a day will not pass for at least a week without my thinking about that boulder. Upstream is the entirety of my past, down-stream is a bend in the river that I cannot see past. There, on the down-stream side of that boulder RIGHT before the future is a back-eddy where I can put the nose of my kayak and cling to that boulder indefinitely.
The Kairos I found while I researched on the internet is about seizing a moment but the Kairos Gerry was speaking to me about is like that boulder in the stream. He keeps stressing "being" as opposed to "doing." So, perhaps I was right to drink whiskey and watch "Rush Hour II" on Thursday night, rather than seize the moment (perhaps not) because this thought carries on and to fold-it-up neatly in a journal entry would not bring it to life as I had hoped.
"Whenever something happens or you have a thought, John, I notice that you feel compelled to do something with it. That's not necessarily bad but... do you think it is okay to just take the experience in and then let it go? There is worth in that, too..."
As I often say in my hand-written journal (when I get to it) 'many thoughts'. Kairos is just one dimension of 'Waiting'. My mind is splitting in eight different directions again, trying to do something with all of my complex thoughts and emotions.
When Gerry mentioned the boulder, he was not trying to describe Kairos. He was trying to get me to stop being completely absorbed with either my thoughts or emotions, running back and forth between them. He is trying to get me to dwell inside my soul.
I am afraid I have left more questions instead of answers. As I said, I think I would rather be writing something else—so when will that occur? Perhaps that time is nearing.
*unsatisfied*
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)