Category Archives: Wrestling the tigers

Thoughts on feeling

I’ve been wondering lately if some people are wired to feel things more deeply than others.  I have always thought that we all feel the same amount of psychic pain, though we have vastly different coping mechanisms.  Me, I have NO coping mechanisms, or maybe poor ones, but at least I’m not repressing my emotions.  I would LOVE to learn the skill of compartmentalizing my feelings (though my friends who can say it’s not that great), but no, I feel what I feel, when I feel it, and then I have to process it until it’s processed.  I haven’t even found a way of shortening that process.

Well, not really.  I’ve found ways, but they’re hard work.  Prayer is one way, and actually maybe the only successful one, though I do find that deep breathing along with prayer can be useful.  Lately my prayer word has been “trust.”  Someone suggested “trust” on the inhale and “God,” or “the universe” on the exhale.  I rejected the latter on the grounds that the universe conjures images of swirling galaxies, black holes, supernovas and endless black, airless miles — not really something I find trustworthy.  “God” is certainly the object of my attempted trust, but somehow it feels better to just say “trust” on the inhale and exhale.  Maybe even the word “God” has extraneous connotations for me.  But of course it’s God whom I trust, and it is God who is praying through me, the Spirit in me calling out to the Father, a process which is always happening, whether I’m aware of it or not.   “Trust” takes me out of the driver’s seat, a place that I’m terrified to be but always jumping into, and reminds me that Someone else is driving, that I can close my eyes, put my feel up on the dashboard and just wait to see where we’re going.

But this needs to be repeated, ad nauseum, and it takes a lot of mental effort.  I don’t know why I’m surprised.  Brother Lawrence would pause every fifteen minutes to acknowledge God’s presence, which works out to 96 times per day, not counting sleep which I don’t think he did much of anyway.  I’m no good at this kind of discipline, but I’m getting better at cutting short the whirl of anxieties in my head with a good deep breath and “trust.”

Where are we going, though?  Why did we pass that turn back there?  I thought I was supposed to turn there?  Breathe.  Trust.

What if I’m not dressed properly?  What if I’m not prepared?  Breathe.  Trust.

Maybe I should turn on the car radio?  Listen to some tunes?  Maybe I should listen to NPR?  What if something is happening I am supposed to know about?  Breathe.  Trust.

And so on, over and over, not day by day but minute by minute.

I am confused because his yoke is supposed to be easy and his burden light.  This past year has felt far from easy or light.  But Oh the peace in that moment of a deep breath and “trust.”  Someone else is driving.  Today I was trying over and over again to solve a problem in my mind, and it finally occurred to me that all I had to do was ask for wisdom, and trust that it will be given to me .   I need a lot less of a game plan than I thought I did.  My job is to put my feet on the dashboard and run my fingers through the wind.  His job is to drive.

Yours in the journey.

Stolen from a friend

Lately my friend Mark and I have been talking about the value of hope, and not, unfortunately, in a cheerful way. We both have illness that we have struggled with for a long time (he much longer than I), and agreed that it was easier not to hope than to hope and again and again be disappointed. It felt wrong to me, but that’s where I was. And still am to some extent. What about Philippians, suffering produces perseverence, perseverance character and character hope? Well, I may need character building, I’ll grant you, but I don’t really see that Mark does. Enough already.

Before I share the thing that cheered me (somewhat) up, I want to share the lyrics of a couple of songs that have been channeling my frustration and hopelessness.

“Because the keys to the kingdom got locked inside the kingdom

And the angels fly around in there, but we can’t see them.

But I’ve got a girl in the war, Paul, I know that they can hear me yell.

If they can’t find a way to help her they can go to hell.”

~Josh Ritter, Girl in the War

and

“I wish you would
Come pick me up
Take me out
Fuck me up
Steal my records
Screw all my friends
They’re all full of shit
With a smile on your face
And then do it again”

~Ryan Adams, Pick Me Up

I’m not really sure what that last song means to me, other than a hopeless resignation, but it is somehow very satisfying to hear him sing, “Fuck me up.” Like, I don’t care, do anything to me, it doesn’t make a difference at this point. A lyric from Ray LaMontagne did that for me last year,

“Well I looked my demons in the eye
Laid bare my chest said do your best destroy me
See I’ve been to hell and back so many times
I must admit you kinda bore me”

So this is how I’m cruising along, and I’m not saying that I’m doing badly: I’m getting things done, I’m officially on staff with IV, being paid for my job, and a lot of other things in my life are coming together, too. But there’s that lack of hope, and the feeling that I don’t want to hope. Then Mark finds this:

Let us in all the troubles of life remember – that our one lack is life – that what we need is more life – more of the life-making presence in us making us more, and more largely live. Let us rouse ourselves to live. Of all things let us avoid the false refuge of a weary collapse, a hopeless yielding to things as they are…he has the victory who, in the midst of pain and weakness, cries out…for strength to fight; for more power, more conscious-ness of being, more God in him. (George MacDonald, Unspoken Sermons)

I have been choosing the false refuge of a weary collapse, a hopeless yielding to things as they are. I repent. The victory is not in me being strong, the victory is in crying out for strength. More power, more consciousness of being, more God in me. May it be so, for me and for you.

I have been reading more Nouwen.

I can’t stop. I got the book, Beloved, at the book tables at my conference last week, and it came with the CD of Nouwen’s conversation with Philip Roderick. I listened to it twice, once driving to Dubuque, Iowa from Chicago, Illinois (more on that later, when Graeme and Aaron send me better pictures to post than my cell phone pics), and again driving from Dubuque, Iowa to Chicago, Illinois. Now I am reading it, and marveling at how different an experience (and oddly, to me, more powerful) reading Nouwen’s words is to listening to him speak. Here is a passage that struck me particularly on both car rides:

“Augustine says, ‘My heart is restless until it rests in you, O Lord.’ You can say that much of what we are doing is to find some solution for our loneliness. On a very deep level, we know that if we want human beings or human structures to solve our loneliness, we can quickly become extremely demanding and obsessive. If you use your relationship to solve your loneliness, you can quickly find yourself being very clinging and oppressive. This is why loneliness often leads to so much violence. You want somebody else to take that loneliness away and it doesn’t work. You can see how quickly people’s behaviour starts becoming violent — kissing is a loving behaviour, but it becomes biting before you know it. Listening becomes overhearing, and looking tenderly becomes looking suspiciously. Precisely when they come out of loneliness, all these gentle things become violent things very quickly…

“Solitude is a discipline in which you deal with your loneliness in a way that it doesn’t destroy you or others, but instead becomes a place to discover the truth of who you are. You are created by a God who wants all your attention and who wants to give you all the love you need.”

Nor’easter

Snow in Boston, and I was able to express a part of myself I haven’t in years.

Beauty, freedom and healing. That is what this snow represents to me today. And that it clung to each branch and twig, piling up to an inch thick in places: A miracle of balance and beauty!

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I don’t know if the pictures can communicate the hushed greyness of the day, everything muffled and stilled by the snow: The cars still unshoveled, the heavy branches of the bushes forming arches over the sidewalks.  The clothes of the people walking by were the only bright colors in a peaceful dim closeness. Voices carried as if distance had been compacted; it was impossible for me not to look into the eyes of everyone I passed. Some looked back, and with some I shared a secret smile. You can always tell those people who are noticing the same things you are.  Since I was a kid I could tell.

Redecoration

She had been saving for years. It was her dream vacation and her excitement at being in Scotland was only slightly exceeded by all the anticipation. She went alone, but told herself she preferred it that way – more freedom to come and go as she pleased. She didn’t meet anyone – the other guests at the hostels were much younger than she, and mostly trying to drink as much as possible and have sex with each other – but she spent the two weeks revising her fantasy of the rough-edged but gentle Scot who would fall in love with her and carry her away to his ancestral castle.

Two days before she was due to return, she felt an unexpected sinking in her heart. On the plane ride home the feeling spread as a kind of numbness to her chest and arms. At Kennedy, as she jostled with the crowds watching their luggage come out of the wall and grabbing it off of the conveyor belt, she found herself crying. She tried to tell herself she was just tired, jet-lagged, but she knew better. It was a wonderful trip, she insisted firmly, but the wall of damp heat outside the sliding doors of the airport hit her like someone slapping a hysterical woman. Not wonderful enough, said the sticky cab seat. The disconcerting mix of good and bad smells from the city streets added: Not wonderful enough to change you.

The cab pulled up to the door of her apartment building, and the driver announced the fare. For a moment she sat there, unable to lift herself and her luggage out of the back seat. Finally, prompted by annoyed glances from the driver, she dragged herself out, and to the lobby, to the elevator, found her key on the ride up and pushed open the door to her apartment.

There was music playing. Loud, Spanish music that made her start to sway despite her confusion. She looked down and instead of her heather-blue runner saw a brightly colored throw rug, and unfamiliar shoes. She took a step backwards. She must have gotten the wrong apartment. For a full minute she stared at the number on the door. 314. This was her number. Could she have the wrong building? But her key had worked.

She stood perfectly still for several more minutes, while one fast, joyful song finished and another just like it started up. Then, leaving her luggage in the hall, she stepped again into her apartment, through the front hall and into the room that served as her kitchen and living room.

Everything had changed. Her furniture, her decorations were all gone, and in their place were other, brighter and more modern things. The walls, off-white before, had been painted deep reds, blues and greens, a different color for each wall. The kitchen counters were piled with food, much more food than she ever kept in her kitchen and everything, even the bowl of fruit, seemed chosen for its color. She heard voices in her bedroom, but she was not afraid. The energy flowing through her, like the music playing, was quick, ready, powerful. She walked into the bedroom, pushing open the half closed door.

Two dark, laughing people turned towards her in surprise, smiles still frozen on their faces. They were both half dressed, and the man seemed to be in the act of spinning the woman around in a dance. The man yelled something in Spanish, and she turned, not afraid but full of life, joy, purpose. She walked out of the apartment, past her luggage in the hall, and rode the elevator down to the street, to the corner where there was a pay phone. She dialed 911, pushing the buttons almost fondly, and tried to keep her broad smile out of her voice when someone answered.

“Someone has broken into my apartment,” she said confidentially, as if sharing a secret love with a friend, “Actually, they’re still there.”

Several hours later she stood again in her apartment, this time with a detective. They had tracked down her landlord, who verified her identity, and the two dancing people were at the police station being questioned. She was showing the detective photos of her apartment, taken a few months ago to send to her mother in Maine.

You say you’ve been gone two weeks?” he was saying, looking at the pictures and then the apartment over and over. “They must have moved in right away. God knows how they got a key – the lock’s not broken. Maybe you forgot to lock it, or maybe they know a locksmith who could have made one. They seem to be crazy: So far we haven’t gotten a straight story out of them, but it doesn’t seem like they’re homeless. They must have spent thousands of dollars to redecorate. Your old stuff is probably long gone. You can sue them for damages, but who knows if they have money to pay you or not. Or you could sell this stuff, it isn’t junk, it’s probably worth a lot. Are you okay? This has to be unsettling.”

She shook her head, meaning neither yes nor no, meaning that, actually, she was fine, everything was fine for the first time in a long time. Her apartment, her life, had been baptized with music, color, sex. As the detective went on talking she ran her fingers over a thick oil painting on the wall. She would not redecorate.