GalileON with your bad self.

You guys remember Galileo, right?

Back in the day, the Catholic Church [Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!] put him under house arrest. Galileo preferred his theory of heliocentrism to theirs: geocentrism. In other words, he was all like, “Whatever, guys. The heavenly bodies revolve around the SUN. Not the Earth. Duh.” And they didn’t like the cut of his jib. So he spent the rest of his life in confinement over something we wouldn’t hesitate to affirm today.

It gets me wondering. Because I am a deep thinker and an intense feeler. Despite my apparent extroversion, it is very easy for me to internalize things that I think and feel about myself, and I tend to get lost in my own thoughts. And the stronger a feeling is, the easier it is for me to accept it. But just because I believe something very strongly does not make it true. In fact, when it comes to believing something super negative about myself, my life, or how I relate to others, the opposite is almost always true.

Galileo wouldn’t stand for that kind of thing.

I like to imagine his staunch rebuttal of untruth whenever my self-esteem is down to critical levels.

Me: Oh, man. This is hard. No one except for me has ever been through this, and I will never survive.

Galileo: Wow. Um. First of all, calm down. Secondly, you’re not an anomaly. While there is a great deal of variance in human life, many circumstances are common to us all. And you’re probably not going to die. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. YOU’LL MAKE IT. I REFUSE TO BACK DOWN.

[or . . .]

Me: Man. I am a difficult person to deal with, and my friends are just around me because they’re nicer than average.

Galileo: It’s cute that you think that. But it’s WRONG. It is a FALSEHOOD. Your friends hang around you because everyone needs friends. Including your friends. 

[or. . .]

Me: I will never be able to handle the ever-increasing number of responsibilities in my uncomfortably grown-up life. I am starting to regret this job/apartment/career/major life decision, and am going to commence an uncomfortable-for-everyone self-loathing session.

Galileo: Seriously? This is getting ridiculous. Obviously, you wouldn’t be in this situation if you didn’t have the ways and means to get here. Things will work themselves out with time. And you shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help. It’s another part of the human experience. I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS. GIVE ME ONE OF THOSE OBNOXIOUS ANKLE MONITORS IF YOU HAVE TO. I STICK TO MY GUNS. I’M GALILEO.

See how easy that is? The next time you have a pressing thought that’s obviously bringing you down, ask yourself: is this true? If it is true, keep calm, eat some ice cream, say a few prayers, and revisit the whole thing later. If it isn’t true, [which is probably the case] go all Galileo on it.

Tell yourself the truth of the matter and stick to it. No matter what.

Make old GG proud.

He hath converted my soul.

I love my little green Psalter. It reminds me that to be a saint and a human being [or a saint and an artist, for that matter] is not mutually exclusive. With the Psalter’s help, I can have my pick and pray any one of more than a hundred different ancient prayers anytime I choose.

And [the good news for someone like me is] they run they emotional gamut; it seems like there is a Psalm for every sentiment, a prayer that reflects every mood or experience.

But I always come back to one of the simplest, most beautiful, and most familiar:

 

“The Lord is my shepherd, and I shall not want.

In a place of green pastures, there hath He made me to dwell; 

Beside the water of rest He hath nurtured me.

He hath converted my soul, he hath led me on the path of righteousness for His Name’s sake.

For though I should walk in the midst of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me;

Thy rod and Thy staff, they have comforted me.

Thou has prepared a table for me in the presence of them that afflict me.

Thou hast annointed my head with oil, and Thy cup which filleth me, how excellent it is!

And Thy mercy shall pursue me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord unto length of days.” – [Psalm 22 (23)]

 

It has been an uphill climb lately, for me, and for a lot of people around me. But this gives me so much comfort. To know I can pray with faith “He hath converted my soul”. To know that I can believe-whenever I say this prayer, and whenever else I choose to remember it-that G*d Himself has changed [and is changing] my soul. The poking and prodding of the crook is unpleasant at times. It’s unwelcome, it’s unwanted, and it seems to come from all sides. But it is keeping me on the right path. It is changing me.

One of my laments during this season of repentance is “I don’t know if I’m changing. I can’t tell if anything is really getting any better, or if I am really getting any closer to G*d.” I hope that remembering and saying this prayer will ease my distress. I am changing. And it can only be for the better. Because He Himself is the one changing me.

Easier to believe than see, granted. But then, true faith is rarely glamorous.

If G*d is changing me, then what is my responsibility? To keep near him, To not stray-in my stubbornness and shortsightedness-from His path. The Psalm reminds me He leads me to rest. He makes me lie down. He prepares a table for me. His Mercy itself chases me down. 

I am beginning to see that this Psalm is perfect for my frazzled, frustrated, exhausted, confused but sincere soul, as it sits just past the middle of Lent, longing for the Feast and for New Life. I must be humble enough to accept His guidance, yes. But I cannot forget to accept His Grace and Mercy in my determination to stay on the right path. 

Jesus says in John’s Gospel that the sheep will hear His voice and recognize Him, and that He will be among them and Shepherd them (John 10). It is my hope and prayer that I am learning-as I wander through what feels like a wilderness-to listen to and follow not only his discipline, but His great love,

May it go with you also.

 

 

it takes all kinds.

I have been debating whether to write this for weeks now. And once I decided to write it, I turned over and over in my head the question of whether or not to share it with anyone [and everyone, as the case may be].

At the risk of sounding a bit Doom and Gloom, I have to level with you guys and say this is the hardest, weirdest, most difficult Lenten season I have had yet. There has been lots of uncertainty, sadness, fear, brokenness, and anxiety. There has been a little reprieve here and there. But even that seems strained and out of place.

So, if we haven’t talked in a while, forgive me. I haven’t known where to start, and I haven’t wanted to trap you under a fast-flowing stream of molten Sad.

It’s the strangest feeling; it’s not just introspection. It’s something like isolation. Lately, I feel like I am a million miles away from how my life used to be. And not in the inspirational, empowering chick pop kind of way, either. And I feel a million miles away from figuring any of it out. In spite of the love I know surrounds me, it seems the comfort of even my closest friends is still somehow out of my reach. My whole life has that feeling you get when you realize you are light years away from the stars.

Philo of Alexandria [or Plato, or your mom] once said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle.” Everyone. The guy that cut you off in traffic, the girl who is mean to you at work, the annoying close-talker seated next to you on the bus. Every single person you come into any kind of contact with has it rough in some way. Sounds kind of emo, right? But held up to the right light, it can be comforting to know we’re not alone, even though it is easy to feel that way when the going gets dodgy.

We’re all getting tested this time of year. Lent (and life, to an extent) seems to be the kind of thing where, if it’s not difficult, you’re probably not going about it the right way. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself lately.

But we have the solace of Grace to comfort us, even when it seems very dark. And when it’s difficult to discern its coming from Above, we can do our best to share it amongst ourselves. In other words, hang in there. I love you. You’re doing just fine.

O, Lord and Master of my life

Grant me not a spirit of sloth, meddling, lust for power and idle talk.

But grant unto me, thy servant, a spirit of integrity, humility, patience, and love.

Yea, O Lord and King, grant me to see my own faults, and not to condemn my brother,

For Thou art blessed unto Ages of Ages. Amen.- the Prayer of St Ephrem

Badvatar

I hate to admit it, but I was among the Close-to-the-Population-of-Earth number of people who went to the movie theatre to see Avatar. Or as some may call it, Dances With Wolves [in space!]. Or, as still others may call it, Fern Gully [in space!]. I enjoyed it the way one might enjoy a heap of grease-soaked diner food: it seemed like a good idea at the time, it was okay, I was satisfied in the moment, it took me forever to get through it, and once it had been a while, it didn’t sit well.

Why-you may ask-did I, of all people, spurn Avatar? After all, there’s a guy in a wheelchair in the main role, for goodness’ sake.

You’re right. The protagonist is in a wheelchair. He is also muscley and manly, and is completely emotionally unavailable. AND he saved an entire alien planet from mean, greedy white people. What’s not to like?

Again, I see where you’re coming from. And to an extent, I agree. But I feel like saving a planet, being a hero, and getting the hot Native Amer–I mean, alien–girl would have been sufficient for most movies of the White-Guy-Saves-Natives-From-Other-Different-White-People genre.

But no, the coup de grace for Wheels McFightsALot is still to come. After risking his life to save generations on the Home Planet of The Blue Man Group, his triumph is fully realized when he gets his Sea Legs back. By the end of the film, he can run and jump and play on the playground like all his other friends.

Really?

That’s what I’m supposed to take from this?

Oh, man. He doesn’t have to be in a wheelchair anymore. That was totally the BEST part of the whole MOVIE.

I understand.

It’s a fantasy.

It’s not bound by typical constraints.

But Avatar leaves me feeling suspiciously like I just witnessed a faith healing. . . on the set of Pocahontas [in space!].

Granted, I shouldn’t expect the guy who directed Titanic to come up with a small budget cult classic with minimal special effects and a predictable plot line, but I can never shake the sense of disappointment I feel when I hear someone call it a great movie.

At the end of the day, I have to cross my fingers and hope that people don’t really look at life the way they do in the movies. Because I do hope for my life to get better and better, but I do not equate that with typical extremities.

In order for a truly great story to be told, there have to be a few imperfections here and there. The guy and girl can’t really realize they’re in love until they’ve fought and spent time apart. The nation can’t truly pull together to defend itself without the impetus of a crisis. So why should a hero have to get his legs fixed? Why can’t he just be gnarly and awesome and heroic the way he is?

It’s been a rough few weeks: challenges at work, at keeping the apartment in order, and in my family; emotional low points, friends coming and going and changing themselves; adjusting to a new job, living situation, and parish simultaneously. Not to mention this time has generally been one of intense introspection and self-work, in terms of Faith.

I haven’t written because I haven’t been able to think of anything to say. There haven’t been any stories from my life I could package well for you; nothing I could tie up in a pretty bow.

Then again, perhaps that’s the way it should be. After all, my life isn’t Last of the Mohicans [in space!] Perhaps the best st0ries are the ones with the flawed hero, the messy conflicts, and the uncertain ones. Let’s hope so, for my sake.

Pandemic

So, as it turns out, I might be a tad sensitive [I prefer emotive: makes me sound like an artist]. I can admit I have cried at commercials, made for TV movies, and terrible pop-country songs. So someone like me saying “Dude. __________ totally makes me cry.” might not qualify it as truly, universally sad. However, there is one storyline that gets me every time. Peter [flipping] Pan. Gah.

That story/every adaptation of it makes me cry-without fail-on every encounter.  It’s like being hit by a Poignant Throwing Star. It just comes at me with Truth and Warming-of-the-Heart on every side. It happens so fast. And before I know it. . . BOOM. It’s lodged in there, and it gets to me. I am a weepy mess before those kids fly past the First Star to the Right.

Peter Pan is the fast train to Cry Town because it is a Double-Edged sword of Sad.

Peter is happy being a boy, but we know he is missing the joys of adulthood: family, relationships, renting a car, the satisfaction of knowing you ordered and paid for (and can now eat) a delivered pizza, all on your own. He will never know what it’s like to get older. To learn more. To strengthen and weaken, to overcome new obstacles.

And Wendy? She leaves Peter behind. And childhood. No more pirates and face paint. No more food fights or mermaids. No more endless strings of carefree days. Like the boys of Neverland, in her own way, part of her is lost.

for the first time in years, I am starting a job. It is part-time. But it in my field. That, and some other circumstances lining up just so, are allowing me to [at the same time] move back out of my folks’ house and in to my own place. I suppose it can be as true for blessing as it is for hardship: when it rains, it pours.

Tonight, it hit me. I am thrilled about this new set of responsibilities (and opportunities to grow and become more ‘myself’). But I am also scared to death. It is the first time in a while I have felt like I don’t know what to expect, like people are counting on me, like now-more than ever-I am going to have to fend for myself. And there is joy in that, in continuing to ‘grow up’. There is exhilaration and freedom there. But there is also fear and mourning.

In a matter of days, my whole outlook seems like it has been turned upside down. My college life, my teenage years, and the days of never having to worry about a good dinner [since mom is cooking] seemed so far away. Like another life. The past is an age away. The present is uncertain. And the future I spent so many years hoping, praying and searching for finally seems to be around the corner. The jarring part is, even at close range, I have no idea what it looks like.

Perhaps the biggest irony of growing up is that I am afraid to do it. Here I am, trembling on a new threshold, anxious in every way. And all the time, the child in me is strong and defiant. She tosses her hair, puffs out her chest. She taps her toes impatiently and scoffs at my cowardice, as if to say “What’s your problem? It’s only an adventure.”

in case of Mayan Apocolypse.

Okay.

It is probably safe to assume that people like me-with the attention span of a hummingbird, and an equally overdeveloped guilt complex-should not focus too much time or energy on resolutions for the new year [or on how I may have dismally failed to keep the ones from years prior].

But now the Mayans are going all Televangelist on me and telling me it’s going to rain blood and explode badness at the end of 2012. That means I need to set at least one goal I can feel good about. You know, just in case I get thrown down some kind of Doom Pyramid. [To be fair, the Mayans were a little intense. They probably looked forward to that sort of thing.]

S0. If things are going to get a little Kubrick by the end of next year, I might as well take every opportunity to Carpe Year, as it were. Don’t fret. I don’t plan to throw responsibility to the wind and give over to Bacchanalia. And I don’t mean to pull a Thoreau, quit paying taxes, and become a forest dweller. I just need to continually engage in pursuits that make me feel whole and happy, while I have the chance.

My resolution for the year? Be creative. I mean, embody the term; redefine it if I have to. . . it is high time to push my creativity to the limit. Challenge it. Grow it. Do whatever it takes to more fully participate in it.

Because, along with being in Sacred space, being in creative space gives me peace and joy. It makes me feel like I am more fully myself. It shows me new parts of myself. It humbles me and makes me proud. It gives me crystalline awareness of the human and the Divine.

While taking part in a collage night a few weeks ago, my friends and I adopted a new rule: The answer is Yes. Should I give FDR giraffe legs? Yes. Should I place the words “The Strangest” across an American flag? Absolutely. Should I give Baby Buddha robotic hands? Of course you should.

When it comes to Being Creative, if I ask myself “Should I try this?”, I am starting to understand the answer should be yes. [I'm not saying that every single impulse has to be indulged and obeyed, or that every endeavor will be successful. There's just no reason I should limit myself in an area where everyone is meant to drop the limits.]

How is this goal going to be quantified? I’m not sure. But the nice thing about having a resolution completely based in creativity is that my approach can be, too.

I have been thinking on this for a while. And the glimpses of freedom and joy I have felt while immersing myself in creative projects is something I had to make a bigger part of my life.

I have basked in the love of my friends and family long enough to know that you guys will not only support me and hold me accountable, but that many of you will jump on the bandwagon [which undoubtedly resembles the bus from Magical Mystery Tour] and join me in my foray.

And knowing how talented so many of you are, and how much you inspire me, we seem to be well on our way.

Look out 2012. Look out Mayans. We’re painting this town red. Or blue. Or decoupaging it. Whatever. We’re making it beautiful and sparkly and awesome. And in that way, we are claiming it. We are promising to make it new.

so. what’s wrong with me?

In an older post, I described a near-miss I had at a faith-healing service a few years ago. While many might assume an experience like that is just a fluke, being approached by those who fancy themselves to have healing hands is commonplace for me.

In fact, many such hands have been laid on me. Many earnest prayers and supplications have been offered on my behalf. Many concerned glances have been cast my way. I have been approached [and often 'prayed over'] in churches, in college dorms, passing through downtown, in cafes and in parking lots; most often by complete strangers. To put it another way, many well-meaning, kind people have spent a lot of their time making things kind of awkward for me.

Late Wednesday night, a trio from a well-known religious organization here in town approached me, asking if they could pray for my healing. I conceded that, yes, they’d be welcome to pray for my much-needed spiritual healing. But I pretty much stopped there.

This sparked a 20 minute dialogue about healing, complete with an emphatic “I just don’t agree with that” from the young man who said he had the gift. I don’t think I have made another person that uncomfortable in a long time.

To sum it up, they were baffled. I don’t want to be healed? What gives? I am-after all-a Christian who believes God can do anything He chooses. I believe He can give us “life, and abundantly so” (John 10:10). So, why not ask Him if He can throw in a patched-up brain and a working set of legs?

I’ll tell you why not.

The problem I have with faith-healing is not the faith. I have been given that gift, by Grace and the example of others.

The problem I have with faith-healing is not the healing. I certainly believe healing and other ‘big’ miracles are possible.  Scripture, and stories from the lives of the Saints, have many examples of people seeking-and receiving-relief from their intense sufferings through Jesus.

Of course, these people sought and called out to Jesus in despair, identifying and owning a need for healing. Jesus not only had the compassion and the ability to heal them, but the respect for their free will and their dignity to ask them “Do you want to get well?” (John 5:6)

I would appreciate being asked the same question when it comes to my own circumstances. [Before I emphatically answer "No, thank you."]

The first [most selfish] reason I decline prayers for physical healing is that I like my life the way it is , and would not want my circumstances to be drastically altered [other than with a job and a place of my own; in that area I admit, I remain discontent]. Without having a disability, it is very unlikely that I would have the friends I have, the passions I have, the same quirky sense of social awareness, or my startling and dark sense of humor; all of which I am deeply grateful for.

I would not look how I look, say the things I say, or think how I think. I would draw different conclusions about challenges. I would learn different lessons. I would have completely different talents, weaknesses, and strengths. I would not be who I am. I am not being some kind of martyr. I just enjoy things the way they are.

And even if I was physically healed: who’s to say I would continue to rely on God and others in the way that my circumstances teach me? Remember the healing of the 10 lepers? Only one returned to thank Jesus for changing his life. Who’s to say that I would remember to lean on God, if I was delivered from my physical and emotional distresses? Not to mention to suffer is to truly live a Christian life. We all have crosses to bear. We all have thorns in our flesh. Some you can see, some you can’t.

Honestly, I find the whole insistence that I be physically healed bizarre. It seems to completely disregard both my spiritual needs and my strengths. Or worse, it equates how I am doing on the inside with how I am doing on the outside. This is completely illogical and dangerous for how we relate to one another. If everyone was treated this way, many of my friends with typical bodies and appearances would never be prayed for, and might never be healed or delivered from suffering. God forbid.

So, consider this my Public Service Announcement. There is a healing I need. [It's the same kind we all need]. I need the kind that comes with forgiveness, with peace, and with Communion with God. I need the healing that can be experienced in the love of a friend, or the beauty of Creation. And, that we might all receive this healing, I humbly ask for and offer prayers.

The rest of it, I can do without.