vulnerability

A friend recently pointed me to Brene Brown's TED talk on vulnerability and its relationship to human connection. It's worth your time. What she says about transparency and courage is worth your time..."to tell the story of who you are with your whole heart". Even when it's messy--especially when it's messy. It reminds me of what some of my students said last year about brokenness and living a beautiful life. If you struggle with perfection and control or if you panic thinking about being vulnerable (as I do), maybe you will relate to her message.

the margarita and gezelligheid

 One of my daughters and I spent a beautiful evening recently at The Margarita at Pine Creek thanks to the generosity of a good friend.  She was playing harpsichord with a classical guitarist that evening, so we sat as her guests at the musician's table. The food was outstanding, the atmosphere magical, the music lovely. I especially enjoyed the conversation with my friend, my daughter, and new friends, the guitarist and his wife. The talk ranged from Ravel to the anthropic principle, from Liszt to free will and determinism (the guitarist happens to be a physicist and "armchair" philosopher). It was one of those unexpected perfect evenings, when everything fits....warm companionship, the intimate atmosphere, the music, the food and wine, the weather (a crisp, fall evening). Beauty and community...a definite sense of gezelligheid. My daughter captured the evening well--hope to link her pictures when she posts.

friends

It's been lovely to soak in time with friends and family this summer...afternoon coffee at Agia Sophia where a good friend presented beautiful necklaces from a recent trip to Italy, outdoor poetry readings coordinated by a former student, and hiking one of the many spectacular waterfalls in our area.

listening to local poets read their work

                Dorothy Falls in Queen's Canyon

narratives and the practice of encountering others

Taylor (in An Altar in the World) titles her chapter on community "The Practice of Encountering Others." I found the chapter particularly insightful. She writes:

What we have most in common is not religion but humanity. I learned this from my religion, which also teaches me that encountering another human being is as close to God as I may ever get -- in the eye-to-eye thing, the person-to-person thing--which is where God's Beloved has promised to show up. Paradoxically, the point is not to see him. The point is to see the person standing right in front of me, who has no substitute, who can never be replaced, whose heart holds things for which there is no language, whose life is an unsolved mystery. The moment I turn that person into a character in my own story, the encounter is over. I have stopped being a human being and have become a fiction writer instead (p. 102)

How often do I turn other people, from my family and friends to those I may encounter in my daily life, into foils in my story? Every time I get mad because the person in front of me is driving too slow or I get frustrated because a family member doesn't see the dishes that need to be washed or the floor that needs to be vacuumed (as opposed to my asking for help) or every time I try to convince someone else that my thought on an issue is the only thought or the "right" thought, I become that fiction writer.

Taylor is not saying (and neither am I) that we should allow another person to turn us into a supporting character or a foil, to become a nominal character in someone else's made up story. We tend to call such behavior co-dependent or passive aggressive and actually de-values the humanity of both of you.

Rather, Taylor connects the ancient commandment of loving your neighbor as yourself to this practice of encountering others. If we value others as protagonists in their own narratives, we are loving them as we love ourselves. The goal, Taylor says, is to "love the God you did not make up with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind, and the second is like unto it: to love the neighbor you also did not make up as if that person were your own strange and particular self."  In other words, a valuable and unique main character, just as you are, just as I am, just as we all are.

Good Friday

I didn't attend a Maundy Thursday service this year, though for the past 2 years I have and have felt the weightiness of it. From a past year I wrote:
     Tonight was the Maundy Thursday service, my first. I didn't know exactly what to expect, though I anticipated communion and perhaps foot washing. Both were present. What powerfully struck me, though, what stunned and shook me was the emphasis of betrayal. Though the service was begun in contemporary praise, almost celebratory, the bishop's sermon emphasized that Judas accepted the footwashing of his master, ate the passover with his lord, all the while knowing he betrayed him, all the while perhaps even thinking how he would spend the 30 pieces.
     Then 4 basins were placed at the front, 2 in the center from which the 2 bishops wash and 2 at the sides for anyone else to use. This community quietly washed each others' feet...from the bishops washing the members' to the young men washing the bishops' feet...husbands and wives, fathers and children...friends. One of the most moving was a young girl, about 10 or 11, who took her daddy up to the side basin and washed his feet. She was weeping. She then crawled in his lap.

     Then the greeting of "Peace to you" and the feast...communion given to us by these servant leaders, the Bishop saying: "Christ's body broken for you"as he placed the bread in my cupped hand.
     The service ended with sudden harshness. There was total silence, no background keyboard or guitar, no choral reading. We had just finished communion, and the bishops forcefully stripped the communion table and tugged off their robes. Only the cross was left at the front with a bare table in front of it. The bishop threw a black cloth over the cross and abruptly pushed over the table. It thudded as it hit the ground. He ran off stage and turned and looked at the sound of a stake being struck several times. Then he ran out of the room, a look of anger on his face. 
     There was no movement, no sound as we all realized the implications. We, who just washed each others' feet, who just participated in the Feast together, were all the betrayers. Every last one of us, from the Bishops to the young girl. We were all Judas. We left the church in silence, no benediction, no blessing.

Then a later year, another Easter this:
     I didn't understand before what struck me so forcefully this year: the act of footwashing is done by the betrayed to the betrayer, by Jesus to Judas, by Jesus to me.
     And we are called to do the same...to wash the feet of those who betray us and to allow those we have betrayed to wash our feet. I had this terrifying vision of the people I had betrayed washing my feet. Harder almost than Jesus ...with Him I know acceptance, I know vulnerability, I know He dived into the mess I was in and walked through it with me.

     But with others, I don't know if they really forgive...maybe because I don't forgive myself? Could I wash the feet of  people who have betrayed me? I hope so, I hope I do...Why is it so difficult to be that vulnerable with each other, when we are all betrayers of Him and each other?

     I do have more hope this year...more hope that it all is leading somewhere. More hope that there really is healing and maybe even restoration. And more assurance that we're not alone, will never be alone, no matter how lonely we sometimes feel.

     The pastor said on this snowy Easter morning, while huge flakes looking like doilies floated lazily down, that "more was gained in the Resurrection than was lost in the fall."

the fortunate fall...
And this year my thoughts are lingering on words from Taylor's book...the one about wearing skin. She says: 

     In the case of the meal, he gave them things they could smell and taste and swallow. In the case of the feet, he gave them things that were attached to real human beings, so that they could not bend over them without being drawn into one another's lives.

Then she imagines their thought process: 

     Wow. How did you get that scar? Does it hurt when I touch it? No, really, they're not ugly. You should see mine. Yours just have a few more miles on them. Do you ever feel like you can't go any further? Like you just want to stop right here and let this be it? I know, I can't stop either. It's weird, isn't it? You follow him and you follow him, thinking that any minute now the sky is going to crack open, and you're going to see the face of God. Then he hands you his basin and his towel, and it turns out that it's all about feet, you know? Yours, mine, his. Feet, for God's sake. (p. 44)

Salt on Pearl Street

Spent a relaxing day yesterday in Boulder with 2 good friends. Lingered on Pearl Street and ate lunch at Salt the Bistro where the philosophy is "the best food travels the shortest distance from farm to table". After enjoying a savory curry chicken salad and flat bread with gorgonzola and pears, I have to agree.

This but not this

Recently I came upon a writer and artist whose deeply reflective work has moved me.  Jan Richardson writes:

The challenge of creating a piece of art lies not just in deciding what to include but also in discerning what to leave out. Every piece of art involves a process of choosing: not this, not this, not this. I can only find what belongs by clearing away everything that doesn’t.This is no speedy endeavor.

On an intimate scale, it’s much like the kind of discernment that we see Jesus engaged in as we follow him into the wilderness on the first Sunday of Lent...

The devil’s temptations show that he knows the words of scripture well. Jesus’ responses, however, reveal that he knows more: he understands the heart of the sacred texts. And here in the wilderness, the one who has steeped himself in those texts begins to understand how the ancient words of God are to take flesh in him as the living and incarnate Word of God. Once, twice, and yet a third time: with every temptation, Jesus responds to the devil: not this, not this, not this. With each response he names what does not belong to him; with each answer he gains clarity about what he needs to empty himself of in order to be who he has come here to be.

When he emerges from this wild space, when he has completed this liminal time of fasting and praying and wrestling and waiting, Jesus has a clarity that could not have come otherwise. It has taken a long time, this emptying, this clearing out, this letting go of what doesn’t belong in order to find what does. But in taking the time, in venturing into that place, Jesus has found what he needs. As he enters his public ministry, he possesses a picture that is more complete, more whole. From discerning not this, not this, not this, he can now say, this.
(read the rest of Jan's thoughts and see her inspired art at The Painted Prayerbook).
I found myself thinking, "Yes...exactly". The choices that we don't choose ...and sometimes unchoose...are as important as the ones we do choose. Don't we all long for the certainty of "this" over the "not this"? And I wonder if the "this" is clarified even more (after the wilderness) as it is confirmed by our fellow waiters and wrestlers. To know your "this" and to encourage others in finding theirs....sounds lovely to me.

Rooms

So I've been thinking in the last few years about the changing nature of place and space. Of the intersection of mobile space with geographical place as we move through real places while engaging socially or professionally in virtual spaces. What effect does the place have on our interactions, if any? And how does interacting in virtual spaces affect our movement through, our awareness of interactions in real places? Is it possible to be present and engaged in 2 places, in 2 communities or more, at the same time?

And speaking of spaces...here's one that has changed drastically in one month, from clutter and laughter and music to this quiet place that still somewhat smells of the lotion that was used not that long ago. It used to be our oldest daughter's room, then the one who just married and moved to London...now it is a "guest room", but it feels like it's just waiting for someone to move in (don't think it will stay this way long!). It's nice to have the extra space, but I really don't mind that place filled with laughter and music and clutter.

The Office Wedding (Finally)

Pam and Jim's wedding. The episode was worth the wait. Maybe because we are in the midst of planning a wedding, I can relate to the fun and the tension in expectation. Typically provocative, leave it to this fictional "reality show" both to spoof and celebrate our obsession with a fictional couple and with social media. To celebrate humanity in community with all its messiness. I like how Richard Beck views this episode. He writes, "The most important point, for me, about The Office wedding is how Jim and Pam figure out a way to give it away to their friends." You can read the rest of his post here. No matter how my daughter's wedding actually turns out (and we have a "MeeMaw" in our family too!--doesn't everybody?), I hope they have a day of laughter and celebrating their chosen life together, with us their (quirky) family and friends.

The Visitor

I loved this movie...even the not so perfectly happy ending. At the beginning of the film, the main character, a college professor in NJ, Walter, just goes through the motions of his life. He is a visitor in his own life, a watcher...on the sidelines...after all, his wife has died. So Walter tries to capture something of his life, his wife, by taking piano lessons (she was a concert pianist). But he fails horribly at it.

When he is called to present a paper at a conference in NYC for a colleague, he shows up at his apartment there (which he hasn't been at since his wife died) only to find two young lovers, immigrants, who have taken over the place. The interaction between these characters, the unlikely friendship that develops, brings Walter back to life. The kinship that occurs between the man, an illegal immigrant from Syria, who lives so present in the moment that he often forgets time, and Walter who is so imprisoned by time, ignites Walter. The Syrian teaches him his instrument, which Walter takes to almost immediately....kind of a metaphor for finding his own rhythm, his own way even when there continues to be loss.

Fun Summer Hikes part 6--Lily Pad Pond

--in Breckenridge, Colorado where my good friends, Linda, Natasha and I spent a few days.

and also...

The posting below on liturgy and loss was inspired by my daughter's reflections on her experiences in India...the pain, the laughter, the smells, the proximity of real human suffering. She writes:

On Friday I began my morning shift volunteering at Kalighat, Mother Teresa's home for the dying. It is simple work, it is hard work, it is frustrating and it is joyful...As I walked by a bed, one dying younger woman with a shaved head, who is also psychologically handicapped, began pulling at my pants and smiling at me. I sat on the bed next to her and held her hands in both of mine. We just smiled at one another and I stupidly wasn't really sure what to do next...perhaps try and sing to her? Massage her hands and arms? Before I could make up my mind on what to do, she began to massage my hands, and my arms! I was so taken off guard that I started laughing, then she started laughing, her few rotting teeth showing through, and then the Sisters, seeing what was happening started to laugh as well. It was such a sweet moment. I didn't know if I wanted to continue laughing or start crying. Looking into this dying Bengali woman's eyes as she was caring for me, as our roles were reversed for a moment in time, was so real and so human.

Read more here: http://www.lightsontheshore.blogspot.com/

loss part 2, liturgy and community

One of my daughters asked me recently why I liked the liturgy of the International Anglican Church where we've been going for the past year. It is a big change from the Evangelical megachurches we've been a part of for about 15 years. She wondered if saying the same words aloud week after week would cause them to lose their meaning. You would think so. But the opposite was true, is true for me. Through the painful healing process of this last year, the words were LIFE to me....sometimes the only life I could hold on to...week after week hearing and saying the same words with others is reassuring. You don't feel so alone. You start to believe that "the God who will come is the God who has long since come before."

"The Almighty and merciful Lord grant you absolution and remission of all your sins, true repentance, amendment of life, and the grace and consolation of His Holy Spirit." amendment of life...

And the weekly participation in the eucharist is also restorative. Each week the bishops hold up the bread and wine and say, "The gifts of God for the people of God. Take them and feed in your hearts by faith and with great thanksgiving!" Then you stand and row by row move to the front where the pastors and leaders place the bread into your cupped hands, look into your eyes and say, "The body of Christ broken for you," then you drink from the cup and hear, "The blood of Christ shed for you." Others have drunk from that cup, and sometimes the person dips the bread instead of drinking, so you might find a few crumbs in the cup. You know you are not alone. And it's messy, maybe even unsanitary. But it's also sacred.

--just like loss, just like healing;

just like life.

Loss

Funny how loss is, it feels so final, like a period. Not like an exclamation mark, not that exciting, just dull and aching. Just a period. But does it have to be? can't it be a semicolon--not the end of the story, never the end of the story...maybe a part of the story, a connector to something else

But what? that's the risk.

You think you are alone in loss. But you're not, and when others sit with you, cry with you, pray with you, rage with you, you start to heal. you heal because you are not alone and someone else loves you enough to live the pain with you. That's risk because it's messy. and it's real life.

it's opening my eyes


The real life that's been here all along and that I almost missed. An amazing family who has walked this road with me, through their own pain, thier own loss. I know they want to run sometimes. But they don't--they risk and stay and we plunge in again

It's risky to love people enough to really hear them. riskier not to. then you would have nothing to lose. and that would be the real loss.

gezelligheid

A Dutch word that means a feeling of coziness, but more than that...it carries a social connotation that exudes welcome and peace and lingering and warmth and relief from stress, from hurry. A gezellig person is one who takes part in this lifestyle, who goes to places, who creates places that are socially cosy, whether a garden or a brown cafe, the supper table or the living room hearth.

Certainly the aesthetics of the place play a part. In the Netherlands and Belgium, the brown cafes are such places, with their candlelit glow, their rich and varied beer served with a 4 inch head, each in its own unique glassware. Foam topped amber. And close, intimate table arrangements, so close you're likely to rub shoulders and knees and elbows with those around you. But the person or persons play the greater part. Beauty and Community create gezelligheid. A community that is unhurried, that enjoys lingering over the beer and conversation, and always makes room for one more.

The word carries as well a sense of loss, of past alienation and closed doors, that makes the communal nature that much sweeter. Especially for Americans. What I found compelling about the lifestyle of the people of Amsterdam is that it seems to be part of their daily routine, that leisurely remaining for hours in their brown cafes. And though we try for it at holidays like Christmas and Easter, it's scarce here...stifled perhaps by modernity. Gezelligheid is not eating burgers in the car on the way to gymnastics or basketball. Nor is it pizza while watching TV or texting. But it seems to be longed for again in postmoderns. And emerging in communities of faith, like organic churches, missional churches, and ancient future churches.

Gezelligheid reminds me of Lewis' joy or sensucht. Maybe it's because I've only experienced that joy when I was with another person or people, usually over good food and drink and rich conversation, sometimes in companionable silence in nature, sometimes, but not often enough, in liturgy and at His table. Always a sense of timelessness breaks through and allows a glimpse of the Ultimate "welcome into the heart of things." When, as Lewis says, "the door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last." And stay open forever.