Ah gee

Lots of good stuff going on in the blog-world. I've been pretty absent from the rounds lately, but I did want to take a moment to say that Rich has had some really good stuff going up, and big juicy comments attending the posts. I'd also like to thank everyone for the comments you've been giving me. Liz Opp, most lately, has had some beautiful things to say and I'm holding them with me in prayer before I respond.

Okay, that sounds like part of an Oscar speech.

There's been lots going on with me. I've decided I want to try to go to medical school and become a psychiatrist, and this announcement has been greeted with such helpful and joyful enthusiasm from many of my friends that it's become a real source of joy and direction in my life . . . a big fat new one, and it's a pretty special time. "Look into Medical School" is the biggest loudest Leading I've ever heard, and whether it ends up in medical school or not, it's very exciting. I am reading what feels like thousands of books on the subject, and it's totally engrossing.

I wasn't going to post about this because it's probably nothing and so I figured when it turns out to be nothing, I'll feel stupid about having posted it. And then I figured, what better way to make sure it turns out to be nothing than to post about it, because the Universe does not turn down chances to make me feel stupid. Psych! Take that, Universe! So, I've been having some atypical migraines and other strange neurological symptoms, and the doctors want to rule out brain tumors and other nasties, so I'm going to go in to the hospital in a few weeks to get a bunch of scans and tests and MRIs and things done. I've been anywhere from mildly interested to completely terrified about it (I have an aunt who suffered from massive brain tumors and had a stroke) over the past week, which seems to have settled into a vague concern and an oversensitivity to my own mild symptoms. "Uh oh, I have a headache this morning! Headaches in the MORNING are a symptom of BRAIN TUMORS! Uh oh, I tripped over my shoelaces! Poor coordination is a symptom of BRAIN TUMORS! Uh oh, I can't remember the word I'm trying to say! Change in speech patterns is a symptom of BRAIN TUMORS!" Uh oh, I forgot why I went downstairs! Confusion is a symptom of BRAIN TUMORS! ad nauseum, etc.

I've been doing a little bit of spiritual flailing around about it too, like "Mortality, meet Amanda. Amanda--Mortality", and dealing with how my Catholic family would handle it if I decided to die a Quaker, what if a botched brain surgery turns me into a drooling, seizing vegetable and I want to be DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) and dealing with differing ethics around that concern, is there life after death, (I don't want to be reincarnated as that slug I accidentally stepped on yesterday), what if I freaked out and started wearing the brown scapular to cover my bases just in case I'm wrong about all this hell stuff and would that make me a bad Quaker. Etc., ad nauseum. Blah. So prayers around this would be appreciated. Even though I am sure it will turn out to be nothing, it’s probably a good spiritual exercise.


Also, I went to Mass at the Paulist Center yesterday. These are some of the "heretic priests" that I scorned as a child. I have to say I'm pretty fascinated. Growing up, and in my one year of Catholic College, the message I heard over and over again from priests and parishioners was always "If you don't agree with what the Church says about X, get out!" The idea that liberals were/are "ruining" the church is widespread, and it's a very emotional issue for many people-- and one I can well understand, having been in the middle of it before, and watching my friends and family struggle with it. For a silly example--if I was a member of a club celebrating the colour pink, and people showed up who were convinced that the colour blue was truly the best colour, I'd be horrfied if they tried to change my Pink Club into a Blue Club. I'd probably ask what they were doing in the Pink Club to begin with, and I'd wish they'd go start a Blue Club, if they couldn't accept Pink as the best colour. Because of this, when it became clear to me that there were issues with the Church's teaching that I could not reconcile with my God-Given conscience and reason --in Quakerese: my current Light-- I did what I'd been told to do. I didn't agree, so I got out. I went and found a Blue Club. I couldn't become a "cafeteria Catholic". I worked hard to reconcile my differences, but the mental gymnastics my self-apologetics required led me to feel that to stay in the Church would be a big fat hypocrisy.

Now I'm curious. This parish was full of deeply worshiping people who dedicate their lives to serving the poor and the suffering. They disagree with the Vatican on many things, (ie: they think blue is a colour that really should be looked at by the Pink Club) but they've chosen to stay in communion with the Church, and so far the Church has not cut them off. This decision to stay, and this calm in the face of severe conflict and tension is remarkable to me. The attitude seems to be "Christ came and told us what to do. We're doing it. What's going on in the institution comes second, always, to feeding the hungry, welcoming the lonely, comforting the afflicted." The politics of dissent are present but not primary. Because I'd just spent the week feeling scared and conflicted and kind of spiritually lonely I cried a little when we sang this song:

Will you let me be your servant,
Let me be as Christ to you;
Pray that I may have the grace to
Let you be my servant, too.

We are pilgrims on a journey,
We are travelers on the road;
We are here to help each other.
Walk the mile and bear the load.

I will hold the Christ-light for you
In the night-time of your fear;
I will hold my hand out to you,
Speak the peace you long to hear.

I will weep when you are weeping;
When you laugh I'll laugh with you.
I will share your joy and sorrow,
Till we've seen this journey through.

I know this parish would be looked on with disgust by any conservative Catholic, but I found it very healing to visit there. I didn't go to communion, and I didn't say the creed, but I still felt that my worship was valuable. I have an appointment to talk with one of their priests. I'm still a Quaker, but it might be nice to find a way to reach back and be "in communion" with the Catholic church. I want to know how they do in it the face of the anger and venom that is directed at liberals from some of the conservative quarters of the Church, as well as the anger and venom many liberals direct at the conservative factions. I mean, to be completely frank, the conservatives have the catechism and the pope on their side. If these liberal Catholics don't agree, why don't they leave? What's the point of being a "liberal Catholic" when it's kind of an oxymoron as far as canon law is concerned? I do believe in "one holy apostolic catholic church"--not in the way the creed means it, but in the other sense of catholic--universal. I believe in a universal church, which includes the Catholic church. So anyway, I'm babbling. But that was an important thing for me this weekend.

Patience

"Do not think time long, nor your sufferings long, for the Lord will lay no more upon you but what you are able to bear; yea, upon his faithful people. I know it, and am a witness for God in all my sufferings and imprisonments, and haling before magistrates about sixty times, about these thirty-six years.
George Fox ala Rex Ambler, again.

I am not a patient girl. I am a twitcher and a fidgeter and a ripper up of napkins. "Wait upon the Lord"? I can barely wait upon the email. Refresh is my favourite command.

I am beginning this post without much of a sense of where it is going, just a sense that I have a post and that little quote from George Fox. And the idea of impatience.

I spend a lot of time waiting, patiently or not. I am good in lines--lines do not bother me. There is knitting or reading or people-watching to be done. I am hardly at a loss to occupy my time in lines. But I spend a lot of time waiting for things to become clear, or to be revealed, or to happen.

Babble. I am impatient with myself and with my slow comprehension, apprehension of whatever bits of the divine are vouchsafed me.

And it's this: I am a Quaker who has a very hard time being still. Often this is not much of a hardship outside of Meeting for Worship. God is on the move and so am I. God is a movable feast, if ever there was such a thing, and no apologies to Hemingway because I've never been to Paris. I have little trouble meeting God on the run. In fact I would say that mostly I experience God as I walk and look out . . . walking in NYC is/was a distillation of that. There is a Presence, and it runs . . . runs through the world, and especially when one can apply a few moments of thought as one goes the Sacramental life sprouts up everywhere, (no waiting) instantly at hand to offer some glimpse of the Divine. But these glimpses of God remain that. I don't feel very far from God because God is always a glance away.

But a communion with God is a little further off.

I am waiting for some Big Things in my life. Events which (it seems from this perch in time) once I finally get to them will change everything, fix most things. My daily challenge and prayer is not to suspend motion until then, to keep living actively without holding my breath, and also not to fill up the interval with noise and nonsense to drown out the wait--to make this time matter, because it's just as real as the time to be, after the Big Things. And my spiritual life echoes the same pattern. I am waiting for some Big Thing to come from God, and it has become clear to me that until it does I am certainly either holding my breath or filling the time with noise, and that is not faithfulness.

"Wait" is a verb, and it lies somewhere in between those two.

Loneliness

"The loneliness thou speaks of I know. For do not think, darling, that it is confined to unmarried people. It is just as real in lives that have plenty of human ties, husbands, and children, and friends. It is the loneliness of this world life, the loneliness of hearts that are made for union with God, but have not yet fully realized it. I believe it is inseparable from humanity. I believe God has ordained it in the very nature of things by creating us for God's self alone. . . . Thee will accept it as a God-given blessing meant only to drive thee to God. Thy loneliness is only different in kind but not in fact from the loneliness of every human heart apart from God. Thy circumstances are lonely, but thy loneliness of spirit does not come from these, it is the loneliness of humanity. Therefore, nothing but God can satisfy it."
Hannah Whitall Smith, 1882

Last night nothing could make me sleep. I was staying the night with Pugsley at Jeff's house while Jeff was away at a retreat. Pugsley's dejection when Jeff is away is a terribly pathetic sight. His concept of time is limited. If Jeff is not home for dinner, Jeff is never ever ever coming home. A melancholy dog at the best of times, the pug spent his evening alternately staring imploringly at the door, begging it to let Jeff in, or imploringly at me, begging me to materialize Jeff, and draw him out of whatever hiding place I'd obviously stashed him. So I comforted the pug, who snuggled uncomfortably close to my substitute-for-Jeff form, and I stared at the ceiling, trying to sleep. I remembered believing when I was younger that insomnia meant you were needed, that you were being kept awake to pray for someone or something. I tried to pray.

There was a destructive and miserable relationship in my life, long severed, which has been brought into my daily existence again by unavoidable necessity and circumstance. This person injured me grievously, and I still feel the ill effects of that time in my life deeply and daily. They've simply been raised to the forefront of my consciousness and kept there, and can not longer be repressed at will (as they have been for years). All this time, I've hated them--not a big angry burning hatred, but a small, cold, quiet hatred, an almost invisible hatred--one that could pass most times for mere indifference.

But other times, I've accidentally found myself wishing this person dead, not through any direct malice, but just because I wish I could have the weight of them off my soul. I've repented immediately, but the evil thoughts have left their mark on my heart.

"Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him."
1 John 3:15

There have been times when I've been able to forgive a little bit, and times when the hatred softens and gives way a little bit. I pray about it when I'm able.

Last night I was given the gift of prayer, and I was able to pray for this person with sincerity, and that was good, and my hate receded again, further than it ever has before. I prayed that they would find healing and guidance and love, and I meant it.

Today I received a communication from them, which along with the necessary business contained an admission of their pain and their guilt regarding this history. And as soon as I was done reading it (it was very short) I instantly felt such a sadness that I thought my bones might break.

There can be no reconciliation with safety--the best to be hoped for in this case is a quiet absence of hate and a quiet hope for their well-being. But once upon a time this person, capable of such destruction and malice and fury, was the person I held nearest to my heart, the person all of my hopes and prayers were for, even as the abuse mounted. The whole affair was misguided and ill-directed and blighted and should never, ever have taken place. It was a terrible time.

I don’t think there are any tears left to be shed over this matter, and soon the immediacy of it will be over and I can lay it by again. But while I am being purged of my hate I am being left with the dregs of some different and painful emotion. Being forced to see your monster as human is to share in God’s own wound, formidably painful.

And I’ve been feeling so lonely since last night, and lonelier since I read that note from them--not because I miss this person--God willing when this present time has passed they will never be in my life again--but I am feeling very lonely. It is almost as if I had stuffed the hole this person made in my life with that quiet gauzy hatred and now that it's being pulled out I'm left with an empty space inside, needing God to fill it.

Signing up.

Well, look who's blogging two days in a row? (shock/awe/applause)

For the first time in my two years of Quakerness, I may be feeling a leading stirring to actually commit. A little bit. Perhaps.

I'd been doing a bit of complaining about the lack of leadings in my life.

In the summertime, when I was a kid, my harried mother (needing some quiet-time in a house brimful of children) would push us all out the screen door with a plate of peanut butter sandwiches, latch it, and say "Play in the yard! Entertain yourselves! Unless someone is bleeding or throwing up, I don't want to see you back here 'til supper!"

And beyond that, she would not tell us what we were supposed to be doing. In a way, this freedom was great. While we were outside we weren't being asked "please wash the dishes", "please change a diaper", "please clean your room", "please do four pages in your math workbook". But it was also a little unsettling. After running around the yard a few times, catching ants in the compost pile, lying on the grass until we were covered in grass-prints, and hitting each other with sticks, we would run out of things to do. Then we'd go sit on the porch and look wistfully at the screen door. We'd examine our scratches and pick scabs to see if any of them counted as "bleeding". We'd imagine ourselves into stomache-aches.

I was kind of at this point just a few weeks ago. Like, "God! Please! Give me some homework! I'll load the dishwasher! Just let me inside!"

So then God says, "Fine, then. Why don't you start thinking about membership."

So I am. By the time I'd been at 15th Street long enough to think about joining, I moved. I've been very resistant about joining my current meeting because it's so big. And Big Meetings come with lots of opportunities for grumbling and a bad attitude, so meeting for worship is always an exercise for me, even if I feel I've spent the hour of "silence" listening to a lot of talking and I haven't been able to hear a peep out of God. It's give me a lot of opportunities to see my own shortcomings and petty impatiences and preferences/prejudices. Sometimes I visit another meeting that is not so big, and I really love that meeting. But I live at the Big Meeting. And moving into the third floor of Big Meeting has been an amazing thing. I'd kind of hardened my heart a little against the Big Meeting when I first came to MA. I decided quickly that this was not the kind of meeting I wanted, and I'd attend, but I'd hold out for something better before I signed up.

Living in the middle of the meeting, I've had a lot of fly-on-the-wall experiences, and a lot of conversations, and I've been extremely humbled to see all the powerful things that go on in the Big Meeting, and what life and stirrings of the Spirit there are all week long--that the Meeting is more than the sometimes frustrating First Day MFW. And I've become a part of the community, whether I really intended to or not. And I care about it now as a part of Quakers, and I like helping to take care of it by washing its toilets, so why shouldn't I want to help take care of it in other ways? And, as arose in a deep conversation with Friends last weekend, why shouldn't I let it help take care of me? It's already lending me a physical roof. Why not a spiritual one?

And there's some big message in here about larger connected issues but I don't feel led to plot it all out right now.

I don't think I am quite ready for the clearness committee about becoming a member. I want to think and pray about it with myself first. Sometimes a clearness committee for membership just looks like a welcoming committee, and that's good and important, but I want something a little more searching and testing. After all, I've been waiting and waiting for a leading, and now that I might actually have one, I'd like to do it justice. I want to find out exactly what this leading is asking me to do and if I'm hearing it right. I don't want to join a meeting just because I get a case of the fuzzie-wuzzies at coffee hour one day.

So may I please hear stories from you guys about joining meetings, not joining meetings, and stuff like that?

Thanks.

Inner Light. Like, way inner.

Hearken to the light within thee, and it will let thee see the secret places...; and as a prison without thee, so there is a prison within, where the seed of God lies; and as there is a threshing without thee, it will let thee see threshing within thee; chaff without thee, chaff within...

For the Lord hath a seed...if ye in patience all of you wait, and not matter the weather, the storms, the wind, the hail, the rain, when ye are to sow the seed, nor the rough ground that is to be tilled. For the husbandman waits patiently after the seed is sown; there is a winter before the summer comes...

Keep your meetings, and ye will feel the seed of God among you all, though never a word be spoken among you.

George Fox, excerpted by Rex Ambler and then further exerpted by me.

I've been thinking a little bit about "letting your Light shine before all men" and about the differences between my given share(s) of Light at different times. Inner Light Vs. Outer Light. About the Seed that might be rattling around in a prison inside me, or sleeping in frozen ground, or in my hand ready to be broadcast, or sprouting all green and misty...about everything in its season, a time to sow, a time to reap, a time to settle back in an armchair with seed catalogs, a time to blaze and a time to glow, a time to put up firewood and a time to clear away brush...the differences between hibernation or gestation or stagnation.

(There is also a discussion to be had another time about the difference between "The Light" and "The Seed", because I have a feeling they are often confused in people's minds (including my own.) For the purpose of this post when I say "Light" I mean, The Sense of the Presence of God in My Life and the things that go along with it--leadings, learning, growth, inspiration, movement etc.)

But things I am thinking about:

Exhibit A:
The big sparkly campfire of my Light in my first days in Quakerism, where anything was good fuel, when the light would blaze up with every new addition, every new message, every new book, every new idea, roaring and crackling and visible and giving off a great heat and wonderful for making hotdogs and s'mores. It attracted people, and there was a great deal of fun to be had feeding this fire and watching it. It would take a fire hose to put it out.

Exhibit B:
The current state of my Light, which is more like a small glowing ember. I sit close by it and warm my heart over it, and I have to be careful with it--if I heap too much stuff on top, it gets smothered and starts to smoke, and then the smoke gets in my eyes and lungs, and I cough and sputter and can't see, and I have the fear that if I heaped even more stuff on it, it could be put out. If it begins to rain it is necessary that I crouch over it and protect it, or it could be put out. I need to clear away the ash on a regular basis, or again, it could be put out.
If I hold something close to it, that thing may ignite, and will either burn off in a flash or if I am careful and the thing is good fuel, it will start to smolder alongside the first ember and can be added to the fire. I might be able to cook a potato with this fire, but I'd have to wrap the spud up first and bury it with the embers--and be ready to wait a good long time. The glow it gives off is hidden. You need to get really close to experience it.

I am for the most part not disturbed by the change--in many ways is it a natural progression like the one from First Date to Long-Term-Relationship. I do wish that my current light was less fragile, had more of the stability and strength one might expect at this stage, but I think I am learning from the careful tending such a fragile thing requires. My lesson is to stay low and close to the ember, and love it, and wait to learn when and how it's to be used, and guard it, and share its warmth when I can, and not to envy other people's blazes and scorn my own measure of light. I do miss the campfire sometimes--I sometimes wish I was burning brighter and was better able to share my light with others. I don't want to keep the ember under a bushel. I want to make sure that I'm not hoarding it, and that I am open enough that the Spirit can blow it into flame at any time the Spirit's feeling into that. I feel the call to continue to increase my embers until I have a good solid bank that won't always be in danger of being extinguished, but I know I can only do this slowly and can't rush it. Giving into the temptation to rush it--to try heaping paper and pine needles on the fire because I miss the blaze and crackle (or, worse, because I miss the attention the blaze and crackle used to get me) would be deadly.

Good ways to spend a weekend.

Jeff's parents came for a visit and we went to the Cape. It rained and rained and until Sunday, and then we had to pack all the beaching into one day. But it was a lovely weekend anyway.


This is apparently a very common facial expression of mine.


She of little chin and he of much beard, and both of long legs manage to share the couch.


I bought a pirate kite and Jeff named it Prince Bonny Cutthroat. Our first attempts at flying him were not super successful.


I think this may be the beginning of a tantrum.


There was not enough water in the cove to float the canoe, (I told them boating at low tide was silly!) but it's a good picture anyway.


I decide to illustrate my point. No, the water doesn't get any deeper.


I rub it in a little more. Water still not getting any deeper! Also--safety first! Lifejackets in 4 inches of water! Go us! But seriously you guys, I would have had to lie face down and pay someone to stand on my head if I'd wanted to drown in this cove.


The Prince goes up!


And up!


I think we look a little too much alike in this photo. But this outfit seems like good default beach-wear for the plainish. I only got my face sunburnt!


Jeff shows Prince Bonny who's boss.


Backseat kite-flying is hard work.

Sanctuary

This poem's been haunting me:

"Heaven—Haven"
-A nun takes the veil-

I have desired to go
Where springs not fail,
To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail
And a few lilies blow.

And I have asked to be
Where no storms come,
Where the green swell is in the havens dumb,
And out of the swing of the sea.

-------------------------------------------------

It's G. M. Hopkins.

It's written by a Catholic priest, in the voice of a Catholic nun. I've been reading a book called The Burdens of Sister Margaret, which is based around a collection of letters writted from a troubled Dutch cloister in the seventeenth century. It's been reminding me that despite all romanticism, there really is no place like the one Hopkins wrote about. There is no permanent retreat from our storms, or from ourselves.

Last week's meeting for worship was hard for me. As I said to friends, sometimes meeting feels like a long time-out: "sit there and think about what you've done!" That's what I was doing . . . trying to open my heart to worship and to being led, and instead being visited by the memories of my troubles and failures. All in a row, Friends rose to speak of the peace and escape they felt in meeting. They said it was a blessing to leave behind their daily cares for an hour. I wrinkled my brow and read Hopkins in my mind. Never are my daily cares more near to me than in worship.

And out of the swing of the sea.

Jeff and I read Jonah together a little while ago.

Then the men were even more afraid, and said to him, "What is this that you have done!" For the men knew that he was fleeing from the presence of the Lord, because he had told them so.
Then they said to him, "What shall we do to you, that the sea may quiet down for us?" For the sea was growing more and more tempestuous.
He said to them, "Pick me up and throw me into the sea; then the sea will quiet down for you; for I know it is because of me that this great storm has come upon you."
Nevertheless the men rowed hard to bring the ship back to land, but they could not, for the sea grew more and more stormy against them.
Then they cried out to the Lord, "Please, O Lord, we pray, do not let us perish on account of this man's life. Do not make us guilty of innocent blood; for you, O Lord, have done as it pleased you."
So they picked Jonah up and threw him into the sea; and the sea ceased from its raging

Am I fleeing the presence of the Lord? I'm certainly not trying to. But the storm rages in my worship. Or instead of my worship?

In his prayer Jonah says:

You cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas, and the flood surrounded me; all your waves and your billows passed over me.

Have I been thrown overboard yet? Am I waiting for some fish to swallow me? I do know that to be "out of the swing of the sea" is not this Quaker's lot.

I don't think it is out of order that my daily cares are with me, on me, around me, in worship. My daily cares have nothing to do with schedules and budgets and to-do lists. I have easier ways to escape those than worship. My daily cares have to do with the state of my soul and the state of my faithfulness. I struggle not to let past mistakes derail present faithfulness, but these days I am tangled in the unavoidable messes of my not-so-distant past. I know that my best faithfulness right now is to dwell low and close to these issues. The shame and pain that I feel surrounding them are to be trampled down, but the issues themselves shouldn't be. It is hard to separate those two out. And I want a different task! I want a different ministry! I want a mission!

Instead I am asked to sit low and sort out my own soul. When I was younger I would sit in the barn and separate and sort a can of rusty old nails, and this feels much the same. Once taken apart and cleaned and categorized, the nails could be used again, for a bird house or a dog house or a stall, but as long as they sat in the can all tangled up with pennies and washers and bits of wire, they corroded. This job feels a lot like that, full of sharp points and tetnus and tediousness. Thing is, nobody asked me to sort out the nails. Probably no one would have noticed if the coffee can and the nails and the wire all rusted together into one big useless lump. And anyway, nails can be had for a few pennies a pound. This is different--these are the only nails I've got, and Someone needs them.

So right now I am carrying that rusty can around with me day and night, in meeting and out of meeting, into retreats and quiet places and storms and seas, all the same. I hope I'm making some progress.

Apostles of the Living Light

I just finished cleaning the meetinghouse after a late concert tonight. It was a wonderful accapella harmony group who sang many spirituals and some beautiful traditional songs. They also sang a lovely Wendell Bery poem put to music. They sang it as an Earth Day gift. The last time I consciously celebrated Earth Day I was cutting blue circles and wildly innaccurate squiggly green continents out of construction paper (1989?) but this gorgeous poem about trees lifted up my heart:

Slowly, slowly, they return
To the small woodland let alone:
Great trees, outspreading and upright,
Apostles of the living light.

Patient as stars, they build in air
Tier after tier a timbered choir,
Stout beams upholding weightless grace
Of song, a blessing on this place.

They stand in waiting all around,
Uprisings of their native ground,
Downcomings of the distant light;
They are the advent they await.

Receiving sun and giving shade,
Their life's a benefaction made,
And is a benediction said
Over the living and the dead.

In fall their brightened leaves, released,
Fly down the wind, and we are pleased
To walk on radiance, amazed.
0 light come down to earth, be praised!

In my childhood Canada spring was a time of mud and blackflies, and I didn't really understand the fuss about it. I am still an autumn-loving girl, but spring here is radiant, with blooming trees on every corner. This poem gave me a little breath of God.

Whine, Cheese, and a Girl Going Crackers

Well, I am sitting at the meetinghouse desk with a heating pad up my sweatshirt and nothing stronger than advil and tiger balm to staunch the torrent of my whinging. I’ll at least keep all whining parenthetical. (stupid patriot's day that makes things be closed!! stupid closed pharmacy! stupid prescription lying in the stupid closed pharmacy doing me not a bit of good! Boo hoo!) Everyone seems to be out/in for the night, so I could close up shop. But the internet access is calling me, and keeping me here. (Plus I'm feeling too lazy to find a new outlet for my heating pad. Waaah.)

I keep writing posts about why I'm not writing posts, but I haven't published any of them because none of them seem to be quite accurate. I'm not sure why I'm not blogging. I am not sure whether I'm more or less self obsessed than usual these days, nor do I know if my degree-of-self-obsessedness at any given moment contributes directly to the quantity or quality of my blogs. It's not that there's nothing interesting going on. Life continues to be lovely/catastrophic/mundane/annoying/nifty by turns. There are flowers everywhere.

(I miss my bike! Boo hoo!)

Sometimes I want to write a post because I have an urge to remind "the world" that I'm still here, I'm still questing, I'm still trying to be true, I still have things to say, I’m still cool. Sometimes I want to write because I want "the world" to remind me of these things. These don't feel like very good reasons.

Sometimes I don't want to post because I'm feeling too tired to worry about how perfectly faithful I'm being in this sentence or that. Sometimes blogging seems like one more way to mess up...a way that's easy to avoid. Sometimes I don't want to post because I wonder if this or that idea of mine is worth the headache it might bring me if someone disagrees or misunderstands. That's not very brave. And I don't know if not wanting to be bothered about something that sometimes feels very ethereal and optional is a failure of faithfulness. I can't tell if my vague guilt on this count is justified. It's never been that God's handed me some big message that I'm refusing to give to Pharaoh. This blog's never been like that, it's always been whatever I was thinking about at the time that I thought other people might like to think about, too.

(Should that last paragraph have been in parentheses? And do I need something to whine about in this parenthetical remark? That's easy--waaah, I'm out of Diet Coke and my sternum's cracked! Sniff.)

I’m not terribly interested in inulging myself in a long meta-think about why I’m not posting. It just sometimes kind of makes me sad that I’m not.

Things have been fairly quiet in my world these days, even before falling off my bike. (I was wearing a helmet! It didn’t help! Waaah.) I’ve been doing some reading that’s been useful, and some reading that's been silly. I’ve been knitting some sweater:



(And since I fell off the bike I’ve been lying in bed a lot! Poor me! But how can I really whine when I have such a handsome boyfriend who wears things I knit for him even when it's too warm for them and poses all cute while I stand on a table and take endless numbers of pictures of him? How? Like this: Poor me! Some of my torso is broken!)

One lovely thing that’s happened lately? When my friends heard about the accident, I think every single one called. One morning I had five phone calls within an hour and a half. For a chick that sometimes likes to sit in the garden and eat worms, or sit in my bedroom and mope about how I have no friends, it was humbling and made me thoughtful, and it made me feel less like whining and more like rejoicing. (Don’t rejoice with a cracked sternum! It hurts! Waaaaah! Boo hoo! Poor me!)

Thank you, friends! And thanks to everyone who left me loving well-wishes on here, too. (And now I am going to go find some more advil. For my poor broken bones. Sniff.)

Oof

So, I've had a few posts in the works, but some have expired out of their usefulness before I put them up, and one I really did like just disappeared into the ether.

But I just wanted to say hi and I'm alive(ish)... I crashed my bike yesterday and broke my sternum and a rib, so I'm laying pretty low. Prayers for fortitude appreciated! It is probably too hard for me to stay in one position long enough to attend formal worship tomorrow, and I'll miss it, so company in spirit will be very welcome.

God bless you all!

Hello

So I am really not blogging much, am I?

It's not that there's nothing going on...just that most of it is very internal. I am struggling, but not in a bad way, I don't think. Since I miss blogging and all, I thought I would take a clue from Rob and just share tidbits.

1.) In my thrilling life I have nearly weekly dates with the dentist. After years of no insurance, I'm finally wrestling what's left of my teeth back under my control. I keep having this reccuring image of my mouth as a monstrously expensive, prodigiously ugly Faberge Egg, all enamel and porcelain and precious metals. Just wanted to share that.

2.) I am taking a class on evolutionary anthropology and it is HARD! I thought I would mostly be looking at pretty fossils and chimps and coming up with neat explanations for why humans do this or that. Instead I am soaking my head in terms like Australopithecus habilis and trying to write a paper that is due any minute now. Instead, I am sort of blogging. With zero deep thoughts. About protohuman hominids or otherwise. In fact, this is the scariest paper I have ever had to write, since it's not really asking for my opinion. In the past every paper I have ever written was only asking for my opinion. Me = Big on Opinions, Small on Facts. Ay.

3.) Much of my inward work has been in the arena of opening myself up to fellowship and friendship. While in moments of social desperation and an excess of company I can look like an extrovert, I'm really not. Sometimes laying an army of insecurities down one at a time feels like a fulltime job, especially since they often spring back with little warning. I would rather be lonely than risk ridicule or rejection, and not a lot gets accomplished from that place of fear. This is a slow process with lots of backsliding that is complicated by things like depression and stress, both of which tend to trigger the isolating reflex.

4.) I love to knit. I really do. This is the best thing that's happened to me in a while, this learning to knit.

5.) My family is having a really tough time, and it's hard for all of us. Please pray for them. And me, that I can be supportive and loving and helpful from so far away.

6.) I read some good Quaker fiction, for the first time: Impassioned Clay by Stevie Davies. I found it a beautiful, painful book that caught me into its world and kept me there even when it was an uncomfortable place to be. I have a small stockpile of Quaker Nonfiction near my bed too, but cannot seem to pick up anything but the bible (not exactly non-fiction, but you get the point), so I am letting that be for the moment. I have zero pangs of conscience about continuing to read good novels even when I cannot bear to so much as blink at Bownas et al. It is amazing, some of the soul-snarls that I have had worked out me in the past, just by the reading some good, life-filled fiction.

7.) And poetry:

It dropped so low in my regard
I heard it hit the ground,
And go to pieces on the stones
At bottom of my mind;

Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less
Than I reviled myself
For entertaining plated wares
Upon my silver shelf.

--Emily Dickinson

8.) Jeff is home from the FWCC Section of the Americas Gathering. I managed to go to pick him up at the airport twice. For one trip. Because I do not do well with details. Or itineraries. While he was gone it was cold and dark and windy and it even snowed. Now it is sunny and warm. Coincidence? Well, probably. But welcome home, Jeff! He said I could share his pictures with you. They are pretty great.

Serenity

There was a shortlived but wonderful show on Fox some time ago called Firefly. It must have corresponded to one of the many times in my life that I've been without a television, because somehow I missed it entirely. When I was finally introduced to it on DVD, I fell instantly in love. It was a silly space-bandit sort-of-sci-fi series by Joss Whedon. I never got into any of his more famous shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but this one caught my imagination in a special way. When a movie based on the series came out last year, called Serenity (the name of the space bandits' ship), it was a great event. I found myself looking forward to the movie with childlike anticipation. I could hardly remember ever being more excited to see a film. *cough*travestyofstarwars*cough*

When we saw the film, I was enraged and horrified to see my favourite character die a stupid, senseless death right before the end. His death didn't move the plot forward, he didn't die in any heroic way, it was just...

Well. It's become a running gag among the friends who went to see the movie how upset I was about this. For weeks *cough*months*cough* after I saw the film, I'd blurt out non-sequiturs about this character's death. Other people praised the death scene, saying it was just like life, that it pointed out how senseless most death is, that it was the way things worked in the real world.

"Not my world." I'd think. I leaned into the joke, becoming a caricature of indignant grief. I railed against Joss Whedon in a way that most people reserve for an unjust creator. If I was Joss Whedon, this would never have happened. If I were Joss Whedon, I would do things very differently. If I were Joss Whedon, I would change things. Stupid Joss Whedon.

Why am I blabbering about defunct sci-fi?

This morning I was in the kitchen of the Friend's Center as the weekly A.A. meeting was winding up. People had moments of revelation over donuts. They cried at the drop of a hat. (or, more like it, at the drop of crumbs all over my freshly swept floor). They hugged each other constantly. They were so intense. They spouted slogans at each other without irony, and what was worse, they accepted being sloganed at without irony. Someone would lean in, fix the other's gaze, and repeat a well-worn phrase. The other person would react with shock and awe as if they'd just been offered a new and profound truth that would change their whole life! I found myself unreasonably annoyed. I didn't know what it was that was triggering such irrational irritablity and ill-nature. I was suprised to find so little compassion running in my bloodstream at that moment. As I washed dishes I lectured myself and tried to turn my attitude around, reminding myself how good and brave and strong these people were to be working so actively at improving their lives. From the other room I could hear them recite another slogan in unison. I cringed. Finally, the Serenity prayer. I cringed a little more, involutarily.

In my childhood I spent a lot of time around people in Recovery. I read most of the A.A. canon before I was ten, just because it was around, and I read everything that was around. I've seen the twelve steps help people make amazing changes. So what was my problem this morning? Why the sudden anger and distain for something so overwhelmingly positive?

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.

Okay, let's take the middle part first. I'm cool with the middle part. I've got lots of courage. I will change any damn thing I can. If I can change a thing, I'm there. Look, I'm changing it right now. No problem.

But I hate the first part. (And I hate the third part.) I have no serenity. I claim to want serenity. I checked out Zen--they are supposed to have lots of serenity. But I it turned out there was one thing I didn't like about Zen. They didn't want to change anything. Or something to that effect. I didn't stay long enough to figure it out.

And now I'm a Quaker. Once again, serenity. Serenity/Peace, Peace/Serenity. Really?

serene
adj 1: characterized by absence of emotional agitation; "calm acceptance of the inevitable"; "remained serene in the midst of turbulence"; "a serene expression on her face"; "she became more tranquil"; "tranquil life in the country" [syn: calm, tranquil] 2: completely clear and fine; "serene skies and a bright blue sea"

Etymology:

serene
1508, "clear, calm," from L. serenus "peaceful, calm, clear" (of weather), of unknown origin. Applied to persons since 1635. Serenity (1538) is from O.Fr. serenite, from L. serenitatem (nom. serenitas) "clearness, serenity," from serenus.

Hmm.

The things I cannot change.

Oh my God, I hate the things I cannot change. There are so many things in my life that I hate, that I want to change, that I work very hard to change, that I pray for God to change. I do not want the wisdom to know that there are things I cannot change, things that God cannot change, things that God and I cannot change.

I can't be serene in the face of that.

I had a little nervous breakdown, realizing all of this today. I realized I was angry at the A.A. people for the circumspect way they were going about changing, for their firm belief that if they applied a certain set of proven principles, rules, and slogans to their life, things would change. I saw the futility of so many of my own efforts at change. I saw the seemingly immovable things that are in the way of the life I want to have. I saw how my faith in rules and slogans has been betrayed, and how I've had to let go of so many of the things I was sure would change my life for the better. I resented the placid faith that I was projecting onto the A.A.ers, because it is one that I have lost, for better or for worse.

I've been purged this year of so many of my ideas about an omnipotent God. I have no hands but thine. So often I look at my hands, or worse...at other people's hands, and I think, well then, if that's the case, God is totally screwed.

I've learned how small and diffident God can seem. I've finally come to understand the gruesome side of "free will" and seen that actually, yes, my almighty God can be thwarted. We can thwart God. We thwart God every day. I can thwart God. God knows how often or in how many unimagined ways! Or worse, other people can thwart God, and I won't be able to do a damn thing to change it.

It burned me up.

Jeff listened to my tantrum, not unlike the one I'd had when my pet character was so ignobly impaled in the film. He pointed out that everything I said was true, but that the important thing was that God isn't thwarted in the end. In the end, God wins. Love wins. Life wins. Things change. Believing that=faith.

Crucifixion/Resurrection et al.

Argh! Bah! I always want to read the last page first. I read articles backwards.

In meeting last week I gave a message. A psalm rose to my mind:

As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God.
My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When shall I come and behold the face of God?
My tears have been my food day and night, while people say to me continually, "Where is your God?"
These things I remember, as I pour out my soul: how I went with the throng, and led them in procession to the house of God, with glad shouts and songs of thanksgiving, a multitude keeping festival.
Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help
and my God. My soul is cast down within me; therefore I remember you from the land of Jordan and of Hermon, from Mount Mizar.
Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your waterfalls; all your waves and your billows have gone over me.
By day the Lord commands his steadfast love, and at night his song is with me, a prayer to the God of my life.
I say to God, my rock, "Why have you forgotten me? Why must I walk about mournfully because the enemy oppresses me?"
As with a deadly wound in my body, my adversaries taunt me, while they say to me continually, "Where is your God?"
Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my help and my God.

My message was about desert, and about rushing water. About manna from heaven and not turning stones into bread in your impatience, but waiting to be fed. About how the landscape of your soul is transformed by the flood of the spirit, fixtures and buildings and earth washed away, and new features arising.

And I think I ignored every word of it after it came out of my mouth. Where is this living water? Where is this living God? The movement of God at times feels like water-torture, one slow drip at a time, slowly wearing away stone, s-l-o-w-l-y changing it. Over eons.

I am not afraid of the torrent. "I pant", says the psalmist. "I thirst", says the Christ. "Me too!" I whine. I'm not afraid of the flood...I long for it.

What I fear is the waiting.

Oh, ironic Quaker Amanda!

And I wonder, do I need more Water, or do I need to be softer Stone? Neither? How do I change? How am I being changed? How long do I have to wait? How on earth can I find serenity when there are things outside of my power to change, things that desperately need changing, things that must be changed? And I'm not even talking about the Big Things that need to be changed--things like war and injustice and poverty, at least not yet. I'm talking about horrible little banal internal things that I can't seem to change. How can I accept that there is a difference between what I can and cannot change? How can I remain peaceful, clear and calm?

I am finding shocking comfort in the old testament. For every jubilant shout of praise there is an equal and opposite cry of longing and pain.

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I bear pain in my soul, and have sorrow in my heart all day long? How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?
Consider and answer me, O Lord my God! Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep the sleep of death,
and my enemy will say, "I have prevailed"; my foes will rejoice because I am shaken.
But I trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.
I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me.

There is little serenity in the psalms. There are moans and supplications, there are wishes for vengance. There is gloating and grieving in equal, gorgeously human amounts. But the serenity, when it is to be found, always comes tagging along at the end, and it always comes paired with the word "trust", "hope" or "faith".


Sigh.

So

I've been reading some Isaiah lately. Today at meeting while I was reading Isaiah (I often read the bible a little to settle my mind into worship), some words triggered a memory, and the chorus of this song rose up in me. It's a very beautiful hymn that I used to sing with the nuns when I was discerning my vocation with them. I got home and looked up the rest of the lyrics:

I will come to you in the silence,
I will lift you from all your fear.
You will hear My voice, I claim you as my choice,
be still and know I am here.

I am hope for all who are hopeless,
I am eyes for all who long to see.
In the shadows of the night, I will be your Light,
Come and rest in me.

Do not be afraid, I am with you.
I have called you each by name.
Come and follow me, I will bring you home;
I love you and you are mine.

I am strength for all the despairing,
Healing for the ones who dwell in shame.
All the blind will see, the lame will all run free,
and all will know my name.

I am the Word that leads all to freedom,
I am the peace the world cannot give.
I will call your name, embracing all your pain,
stand up, now walk, and live!


Here is the reading from Isaiah 42:


But now thus says the Lord,
he who created you, O Jacob,
he who formed you, O Israel:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by name, you are mine.
When you pass through the waters I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.
For I am the Lord your God,
the Holy One of Israel, your Saviour...

...you are precious in my sight, and honoured, and I love you...

...do not fear, for I am with you;
I will bring your offspring from the east,
and from the west I will gather you;
I will say to the north, 'Give them up',
and to the south, 'Do not withold;
bring my sons from far away
and my daughters from the end of the earth--
everyone who is called by my name,
whom I created for my glory,
whom I formed and made.'
Bring forth the people who are blind, yet have eyes,
who are deaf, yet have ears!
Let all the nations gather together,
and let the people assemble.



I don't know that I have much to say yet beyond sharing those with you...

For God is a God at hand

I've been having a lot of trouble blogging lately. Things are well in my world, but the blog's been pretty quiet. The Young Adult Friends' gathering last weekend was powerful. At some point I'd like to write more about our experience there...soon, maybe.

Well, like I said, I'm feeling quiet. But I wanted to lift up some extracts from George Fox's letter to Lady Claypole, Cromwell's daughter. Phrases from it have been rising up in my mind all this week. They seem perhaps relevant to the weekend past...as well as to life in general.

I am separating the closest approximations to paragraphs that I can make out, for easier reading. Sometimes I find the thick blocks of text from George a little hard to dive into.



"Keep in the fear of the Lord God; that is the Word of the Lord unto thee. For all these things happen to thee for thy good, and for the good of those concerned for thee, to make you know yourselves and your own weakness, that ye may know the Lord's strength and power, and may trust in Him. Let the time past be sufficient to every one, who in anything hath been lifted up in transgression out of the power of the Lord; for He can bring down and abase the mighty, and lay them in the dust of the earth. Therefore, all keep low in His fear, that thereby ye may receive the secrets of God and His wisdom, may know the shadow of the Almighty, and sit under it in all tempests, storms, and heats.

For God is a God at hand, and the Most High rules in the children of men. This is the word of the Lord God unto you all; what the Light doth make manifest and discover, as temptations, distractions, confusions, do not look at these temptations, confusions, corruptions, but at the Light which discovers them and makes them manifest; and with the same Light you may feel over them, to receive power to stand against them. The same Light which lets you see sin and transgression, will let you see the covenant of God, which blots out your sin and transgression, which gives victory and dominion over it, and brings into covenant with God.

For looking down at sin, corruption, and distraction, ye are swallowed up in it; but looking at the Light, which discovers them, ye will see over them. That will give victory, and ye will find grace and strength; there is the first step to peace...

...So in the name and power of the Lord Jesus Christ, God Almighty strengthen thee.
"G.F."

I just got a phone call

from my mother. My grandfather has died. I never met him, but he was somehow always a presence in our life. I remember being very small and watching my father's slide-shows of his visit to Argentina, and how fascinated I was by and how loving I felt towards the stern, noble face of my Abuelo in the pictures, and how much I have always wanted to meet him. I am grieving for my father, who can't go home to Argentina for the funeral. I am grieving for the long separation he has endured from his family, and I am grieving for all of us who did not have the chance to know this grandfather. I beg Friends to please hold my whole family in the light. This is really really hard for the family in North Carolina, and for the family in Argentina, and for me out here in MA, all of us unable to comfort each other except by long distance.

My mother wrote more about it here:
Mum2Twelve

I was lead today to this beautiful prayer from The Authorized Daily Prayer Book, a book of Jewish prayer. I don't care how much my particular theology meshes with it, it is a prayer of great majesty and comfort. And before I give you the prayer, I will give you a tiny snippet from The Candle, The Lantern, The Daylight by Mildred Binns Young (which I have a lot to blog about, later.)

"And I am no longer reluctant to use prayers written or spoken by others and learned by heart. They begin in others, but by using them we root them in ourselves. We make them our own and when the heart is unable to open towards God, these prayers can act as keys. Once the heart is open, it finds its own words until that moment comes when it needs none."


’O Lord and King, who art full of compassion, in whose hand is the soul of every living thing and the breath of all flesh, who killest and makest alive, who bringest down to the grave and bringest up again, receive, we beseech Thee, in Thy great loving-kindness, the soul of our brother who hath been gathered unto his people. Have mercy upon him, pardon all his transgressions, for there is not a righteous man upon earth, who doeth good and sinneth not. Remember unto him the righteousness which he wrought, and let his reward be with him and his recompense before him. O shelter his soul in the shadow of Thy wings. Make known to Him the path of life: in Thy presence is fulness of joy; at Thy right hand are pleasures for evermore. Vouchsafe unto him of the abounding happiness that is treasured up for the righteous, as it is written, Oh how great is Thy goodness, which Thou hast laid up for them that fear Thee, which Thou hast wrought for them that trust in Thee before the children of men!

’O Lord, who healest the broken-hearted and bindest up their wounds, grant Thy consolation unto the mourners: put into their hearts the fear and love of Thee, that they may serve Thee with a perfect heart, and let their latter end be peace.

’Like one whom his mother comforteth, so will I comfort you, and in Jerusalem shall ye be comforted. Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon withdraw itself; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.

’He will destroy death for ever; and the Lord will wipe away tears from off all faces; and the rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth: for the Lord hath spoken it.’

"The End of Words"*

"I believe it is important to say more about what we can affirm, what we have experienced, what we do know experimentally--and correspondingly less about what we don't believe, cannot accept, or find offensive. A vocal ministry that never rises above these negatives will rarely be helpful in building up the community."

--Tom Gates "'Beyond What Words Can Utter:' Thoughts on Religious Language" Opening the Scriptures: Bible Lessons from the 2005 Annual Gathering of Friends. Quaker Press, 2006 p.22


*_{The name of this extraordinary article and the title of this post both come from a Penington quote: "And the end of words is to bring [us] to the knowledge of things beyond what words can utter. So, learn of the Lord to make a right use of scriptures: which is esteeming them in their right place, and prizing above them that which is above them."}

A Moment with Merton

Photograph of Merton in ball cap by Ralph Eugene Meatyard
© Meatyard Estate

"Whatever I may have written, I think it all can be reduced in the end to this one root truth: that God calls human persons to union with Himself and with one another in Christ, in the Church which is His Mystical Body. It is also a witness to the fact that there is and must be, in the church, a contemplative life which has no other function than to realize these mysterious things, and return to God all the thanks and praise that human hearts can give Him. It is certainly true that I have written about more than just the contemplative life. I have articulately resisted attempts to have myself classified as an "inspirational writer." But if I have written about interracial justice, or thermonuclear weapons, it is because these issues are terribly relevant to one great truth: that man is called to live as a child of God. Man must respond to this call to live in peace with all his brothers and sisters in the One Christ."

Edited to add, for clearness sake, before the message of this quote becomes bogged down in semantics...

...too much angst over the difference between "A Christ" and "The Christ" becomes tedious once you realize that both are contained in the phrase "One Christ." Let's take a clue from Merton and bend our minds eastways for a moment as we consider the meaning of unity and of being united to God. And remember that "Christ" simply means "anointed". That's far more interesting to think about. One is annointed with Chrism, which means "oil mingled with balm". Oil...a source of Light and food. Balm...comfort, healing.

Hmm. There's lots there.

Adeste Fideles

It's the end of the day some call Christmas. All in all it was a good day. Even the blog scored...I got a digital camera for Christmas and can now proceed to photoblog the living daylights out of you.

I haven't got a lot of deep thoughts. It's been a good few days of snuggling and squabbling with various brothers and sisters. As always, the ridiculous excitement of the little ones upon seeing me is humbling and lovely and a little sad. I went to Mass with the family last night. I listened carefully to the readings, and looked at the Liturgy of the Hours for Christmas. It was interesting to notice that some of the readings strictly associated with Christmas in the Church are the ones that I hear repeated over and over all year by Quakers. So much so that we might be desensitized to them, a little. I've been spending time with them today, trying to let them penetrate a little deeper into my understanding, trying to penetrate a little bit deeper into their truths. These days, meditating on snippets of scripture seems to occasion the deepest worship. For someone who's been bible-allergic in the past, it's a wonderful re-discovery. Reading these verses in the particular context of Christmas and all of its stories and metaphors is powerful.

Christ is here! That's the message of Christmas. God is among us, and these readings speak to the reality of this presence. In prayer with these verses, traveling through the promises, through the longing, through the discovery of the Light, I've been filled with joy and gratitude at the gift we've been given in the presence of God among us. Emmanuel. I've felt again the call...adeste fideles, come all ye faithful. I've felt the call to come to the manger, to adore and give thanks for the manifestation of God's promise...a God to dwell among us...a God to cradle. The importance of the literal existence of a virgin-born god-child in Bethlehem two thousand odd years ago seems to fade away in the magnitude of the Truth that God has given godself to us and dwells with us.

All of these verses are taken from the readings for the Christmas masses, or the Liturgy of the hours for Christmas day.


In days to come the mountain of the Lord's house shall be established as the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it.
Many peoples shall come and say, "Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob; that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths." For out of Zion shall go forth instruction, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem.
He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.
O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord!

------------------------------------------------------
Then a shoot will spring from the stem of Jesse,
And a branch from his roots will bear fruit.
The Spirit of the Lord will rest on Him,
The spirit of wisdom and understanding,
The spirit of counsel and strength,
The spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.
And He will delight in the fear of the Lord,
And He will not judge by what His eyes see,
Nor make a decision by what His ears hear;
But with righteousness He will judge the poor,
And decide with fairness for the afflicted of the earth;
And He will strike the earth with the rod of His mouth,
And with the breath of His lips He will slay the wicked.
Also righteousness will be the belt about His loins,
And faithfulness the belt about His waist.
And the wolf will dwell with the lamb,
And the leopard will lie down with the young goat,
And the calf and the young lion and the fatling together;
And a little child will lead them.
Also the cow and the bear will graze,
Their young will lie down together,
And the lion will eat straw like the ox.
The nursing child will play by the hole of the cobra,
And the weaned child will put his hand on the viper's den.
They will not hurt or destroy in all My holy mountain,
For the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord
As the waters cover the sea.
Then in that day
The nations will resort to the root of Jesse,
Who will stand as a signal for the peoples;
And His resting place will be glorious.


-------------------------------------------------------
O God, you are my God, I wait for you from the dawn.
My soul thirsts for you, my body longs for you.
I came to your sanctuary,
as one in a parched and waterless land,
so that I could see your might and your glory.
My lips will praise you, for your mercy is better than life itself.

Thus I will bless you throughout my life,
and raise my hands in prayer to your name;
my soul will be filled as if by rich food,
and my mouth will sing your praises and rejoice.
I will remember you as I lie in bed,
I will think of you in the morning,
for you have been my helper,
and I will take joy in the protection of your wings.

My soul clings to you; your right hand raises me up.

---------------------------------------------------------------

Out of the depths I have cried to you, Lord: Lord, hear my voice.
Let your ears listen out for the voice of my pleading.

If you took notice of our transgressions, Lord – Lord, who would be left?
But with you is forgiveness, and for this we revere you.
I rely on you, Lord, my spirit relies on your promise;
my soul hopes in the Lord, more than the watchman for daybreak.

More than the watchman for daybreak, let Israel hope in the Lord:
for with the Lord there is kindness and abundant redemption.
He himself will redeem Israel from all its transgressions.


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In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God,
and the Word was God.
He was in the beginning with God.
All things came to be through him,
and without him nothing came to be.
What came to be through him was life,
and this life was the light of the human race;
the light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.
A man named John was sent from God.
He came for testimony, to testify to the light,
so that all might believe through him.
He was not the light,
but came to testify to the light.
The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.
He was in the world,
and the world came to be through him,
but the world did not know him.
He came to what was his own,
but his own people did not accept him.

But to those who did accept him
he gave power to become children of God,
to those who believe in his name,
who were born not by natural generation
nor by human choice nor by a man’s decision
but of God.
And the Word became flesh
and made his dwelling among us,
and we saw his glory,
the glory as of the Father’s only Son,
full of grace and truth.
John testified to him and cried out, saying,
“This was he of whom I said,
‘The one who is coming after me ranks ahead of me
because he existed before me.’”
From his fullness we have all received, and grace upon grace.

A penny for your thoughts, your books for a penny.

It's an unmatchable winter day here. The sky is that soul-stretching blue that lets in all the vitamin D and lifts you about a half inch from the ground whenever you look up at it. I always this of one of the few of Frost's poems that had always "found" me:

Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)--
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.


Yep. It's my favourite colour, apologies to my greying pink teddy bear.

I feel funny today, not bad, just funny. It's such an odd time. I've been wearing myself thin with the silly Nutcracker costumes and work and the same old no-money thing. I feel like I could use a day or so of sleeping before I head out to North Carolina. When I get back to Cambridge, I'll be moving to the meetinghouse. I've met the roomates and picked out my room. (I think I'll be painting it blue, it's a dreadful yellow at the moment) The money panic will cease, for the first time in my life. I've learned to live a lot more simply but I still dribble money wherever I go. I've been reading old Quaker biographies where much is made of the account-books of Quakers, and also old Disciplines where the queries on money and money-handling go on for pages and pages. This is one little respect where I have a lot of room for Quakerly improvement.

I think there's some strange sort of rebellion in the bleeding of small amounts of money. I can scratch and howl for rent, and be within an inch of having the phone turned off, and still go buy a burrito when I've got rice and ramen and mac-and-cheese waiting for me in my cupboard. Or buy the pretty book in the window when I have hundreds at home and millions in the library. I think it's a dishonest way of tricking yourself into thinking you don't have to think about it. But you do have to think about it.

I sold some books today. I do not think I have ever, ever parted with a book before, unless I was giving it to a dear friend. But I am moving and need the room, and it's Christmas and I need the money. This morning I went through my bookshelf. Anything I would not read again, anything I'd put off reading for more than a year, anything that was not a classic or a reference or a sentimental treasure went into a pile. I made myself go over them several times, each time getting a little stricter. I loaded the 40 pounds of book into bags and staggered off to the subway, swaying under all the words hanging from my back. When I got to the bookstore, I felt hot and pale as the clerk looked at my little stacks and chose the ones he wanted. I felt vaugely guilty as I redeemed my little slip for $31.80, but it was good. It's always good to part with stuff. It was surprising. He took many of the books I didn't think he'd take, like a chewed up old terrible terrible Woody Allen book, yet another copy of Chocolat, my mildly ratty Brecht for Beginners, a creepy and haunting Japanese novel that kept me awake for weeks, and some bad science fiction, and didn't take any of the ones I thought he'd jump on...a mint copy of Memoirs of a Geisha and well-kept hardbacks of all the terrible Oprah's Book Club selectios I regularly rescue from boxes on sidewalks. I still have about 25 lbs of book here.

But at the end, I had $31.80 to add to my $1.79 balance in the bank. I was struck by how very relative money is. When I was five, a dollar was a nearly unimaginable treasure. When I was ten, it took five to make me feel rich. At fifteen, fifty dollars was a kingly sum. These days, when I'm feeling flush, I'll spend forty in a day on dinner, some beer, and a movie. When I am fishing for the quarters in the couch, $31.80 seems like a fortune.

It struck me that the early Quakers would be very displeased with this attitude. A dollar is a dollar is a dollar, and I shouldn't discriminate between them just because of the size of the group they're hanging out in.

I don't make very much money at all working my 20 hours a week, but when I am trading my time for rent, I'll have more at my immediate disposal than I ever have. I'm planning to pay off a few small older debts, finally catch up with the student loan, and save, and all that good stuff, but I also feel like this will be the time of all times to start handling my money like an adult--now that 95% won't automatically go into that old staying-alive game. The Quaker ladies of old kept a little notebook where they recorded all transactions down to a penny. These days, we've got budgeting systems and computer programs and all that stuff, and I'm going to get that started with that in the New Year. But I think I will start with a notebook. I think it's very interesting that I'm so squeamish about this...

Anyway, I hate money, but I love books. The homeless books I didn't sell will be "released into the wild" via the bookcrossing project. (urging you to commit random acts of literacy!)

A book is not only a friend, it makes friends for you. When you have possessed a book with mind and spirit, you are enriched. But when you pass it on you are enriched threefold.

Henry Miller
The Books In My Life (1969)

Well, well, well.

23 years ago today, I was born.

1 year ago today, while I was living in Brooklyn, pouring coffee for strangers in the East Village, I got an adorable e-mail from an adorable boy and the first flutter of a hopeless crush was born.

Today, I am 23, and I share a city with that boy. And he even likes me. :)

Many thanks to everyone who sent me their wishes and prayers today. I had a good day. And it's been a very good year.

"Too many are willing to die for war and too few are willing to die for peace." - Tom Fox, CPT hostage in Iraq

Tomorrow is the deadline for the lives of the CPT workers, including Quaker Tom Fox, being held in Iraq. They've been close in our hearts in these last few days.

There is a wonderful article on Salon called Love your Enemies. You don't need to suscribe to Salon to read it, you just have to watch a short ad, usually for Law and Order or something. The article excerpts a statement drafted by Tom Fox and others before their capture about what they would do in the face of a hypothetical kidnapping:

"CPT will attempt to communicate with the hostage takers or their sponsors, and work against journalists' inclinations to vilify and demonize the offenders. We will try to understand the motives for these actions and to articulate them while maintaining a firm stance that such actions are wrong ... We reject the use of violent force to save our lives, should we be kidnapped, held hostage, or caught in the middle of a violent conflict situation. We also reject violence to punish anyone who harms us ... We forgive those who consider us their enemies, therefore any penalty should be in the spirit of restorative justice rather than violent retribution."

The sheer humanity and strength of true Christianity in this statement blinds me with tears of hope and with tears of shame. Hope and inspiration in the fact that there are people who are living out Jesus' radical message of love and forgiveness, and shame that I rarely act with that much forgiveness and peace in my little daily trials.

There was another quote in the article that I found especially sane and moving:

Kindy knows pacifism isn't a shield in a war zone. But dying in pursuit of nonviolence is a worthy sacrifice to Christian Peacemakers. Kindy says he suspects and hopes that, whatever happens, Christian Peacemakers will maintain its presence in Iraq. "One of the things we need to learn from the military is that there are risks that are important to take -- risks worth putting our lives on the line for," he says. "If, in our peacemaking, we can't have that same level of commitment, that would be sad."

I was also moved in another way, reading this:

The litany of horrors Fox kept hearing -- coupled with all the other torments visited on Iraq -- clearly got to him. On his blog, he wrote about trying not to simply shut down in the face of so much anguish. "The ability to feel the pain of another human being is central to any kind of peace making work," he wrote. "But this compassion is fraught with peril. A person can experience a feeling of being overwhelmed. Or a feeling of rage and desire for revenge. Or a desire to move away from the pain. Or a sense of numbness that can deaden the ability to feel anything at all."

He continued. "How do I stay with the pain and suffering and not be overwhelmed? How do I resist the welling up of rage towards the perpetrators of violence? How do I keep from disconnecting from or becoming numb to the pain? After eight months with CPT, I am no clearer than I [was] when I began. In fact I have to struggle harder and harder each day against my desire to move away or become numb. Simply staying with the pain of others doesn't seem to create any healing or transformation. Yet there seems to be no other first step into the realm of compassion than to not step away."

Fox didn't step away. The day before he was taken, he wrote a brief missive, posted on the Web site Electronic Iraq, titled "Why Are We Here?" He concluded, "We are here to root out all aspects of dehumanization that exists within us. We are here to stand with those being dehumanized by oppressors and stand firm against that dehumanization. We are here to stop people, including ourselves, from dehumanizing any of God's children, no matter how much they dehumanize their own souls."

To outsiders, such faith can seem naive or even foolishly reckless. Rush Limbaugh, for one, was pleased by the Christian Peacemakers' kidnapping, saying, "Well, here's why I like it. I like any time a bunch of leftist feel-good hand-wringers are shown reality."

I was very sad to read Limbaugh's quote, and as I felt a tide of anger rise up in me at his callousness and flippancy in the face of pain, I was called back to centeredness by Tom's words:

We are here to stop people, including ourselves, from dehumanizing any of God's children, no matter how much they dehumanize their own souls.

I wish there was some way I could give some of that loving spirit to Rush Limbaugh, to keep him from dehumanizing "lefties", to keep him from dehumanizing himself. I realized that I must not dehumanize him in my own heart, no matter how good a job he seems to be doing on his own soul. May I not step away or turn my face from the ugliness, so that I may step into the realm of true compassion. I pray for peace for Rush Limbaugh, for the kidnappers, and for our friends who are so surely being held up in the Light as they suffer for all that is good, all that is beautiful, true and holy. They are suffering for the truth that war and hatred and pain are not the ultimate reality, that there is something greater, a Divine that yearns and broods over us, longing to have us restored to peace and harmony and love, longing for our salvation, teaching us the way to peace, the way to pull ourselves up out of the hells that we have built. These four men have refused to be blinded by the false "reality" that the world would have us see and despair at, and instead have turned their eyes to the deeper hidden truth of the triumph of Love, and have offered their lives in witness to that truth. All the differences of religion and ideology and language stripped away, this Divine principle of Love is what remains, and is what must be guarded and cared for by the Children of God, even to the point of laying down our lives. Like many of us watching this witness from afar, I am thrown into deep reflection about how seriously I myself take this responsibility in my safe and quiet life.

I take up John Woolman's prayer:
“There is balm; there is a physician! and oh, what longings do I feel that we may embrace the means appointed for our healing; may know that removed which now ministers cause for the cries of many to ascend to Heaven against their oppressors; and that thus we may see the true harmony restored!”

Some things

Thing 1.) My blog is 1 year and two days old today! Wow, time flies.

Thing 2.) I donated blood today! I was very scared after the great Drain-and-Faint debacle of 2001, but after a few chicken-outs, I made it all the way in this morning. This time it didn't hurt at all. (I mean, the needle stick stuck but last time it hurt the whole time.) I weigh a good 20 lbs more than I did in 2001, so now I feel I've discovered the secret of painless bloodletting - get chubby! Anyway, I'm very proud. I'm drinking non-diet coke. And I have a sticker that says "Hug me, I donated blood today!" So if you see me, do.

Thing 3.) I finally lurned how to purl (thanks Sol for the kre8tive spelling suggestion!) and I'm thrilled. Knitting is so much fun now, I think I'm becoming an addict. (For amazing knittingness see my friend Pauline's blog in the sidebar, she's my hero) I am making an awesome hat in a pretty shade of green. (not so fancy as the one on the site). I had to unravel it all once due to a bizarre mistake, which was sad, but take 2 is going strong. Circular needles are fun! Pictures to follow.

Any Soldier

I had a bit of an opening the other day. I was feeling really emotional, imagining the terror, suffering and hope that must be in the brave hearts of the CPT hostages, if, God willing, they are still alive. Because one of them is Quaker and two of them Canadian, I was able to identify with them instantly. They became "us", our own.

And somewhere in questioning myself about that, about my heightened grief over a few of the thousands of people suffering in Iraq every day, just because they have identifiers that make me feel I somehow know, and therefore love them, I thought about soldiers.

For all my talk of furthering the cause of love in the world, it struck me that I have not been very loving to soldiers. I live in fear that the military might get my "little" brother, who's 18, handsome, incredibly fit, with a testosterone streak a mile wide. Recruiters are salivating over him. In my anger and fear over my brother's possible not-too-distant fate as a pair of boots in the Eyes Wide Open exhibit, I've been channelling a lot of negative feelings towards every representation of the military I see. I shudder at the sight of servicemen in the airport. I gag at recruitment commercials and sneer at posters. I want to spit whenever I see some dignitary in a pristine suit gingerly patting dusty soldiers on the back and telling them what a good job they are doing. Aside from some vauge anger and sadness on behalf of all the members of the poverty draft, a few tears when 60 Minutes shows me a weeping family mourning their lost son, and a certain twinge when I see the faces of soldiers that should still be playing Dungeons and Dragons or cheerleading, I haven't had a lot of sympathy for the kids out there. There's been a lot of judgement in my heart. Somewhere deep inside it seems I want to believe that they are all a little bit twisted, or just plain stupid. "They must like it," I thought. "They must like being pawns of a capitalist power- and vengance-mad administration. They must like being used to help continue to tear apart the lives of people that have been strife-ravaged for so long." Aside from giving lip-service to "Support our Troops - Bring them Home" there has not been a lot of love in my heart for soldiers.

Suddenly, in some combination of thinking about the Christian Peacemakers and my brother, I was able to to open my heart to the humanity of each of the soldiers out there, and to long for their happiness, safety, and healing. I was convicted of my anger and hatred and found that God had no use for those emotions in me. My heart was made tender.

There are thousands of reasons a child might enlist in the military. When I think of some of my own wounds that brought me to my own terrible choices in the past, I recognize them in the faces of soldiers I see. A need to be needed. A need to be respected. A need to prove to myself that I was grown-up. A need to prove to others that I was grown-up. A terrible need for acceptance and belonging. A powerful desire to make my life matter somehow, anyhow.

I found a website called anysoldier.com. A lot of kids without families, or with terrible family situations, turn to the military as a way of gaining a family. That means a whole lot of kids out there with no loving support behind them. The harsh arms of the armed forces are the only comfort they've got, and the armed forces aren't very good about sending some TLC. I read stories of soldiers, 18, 19 years old, who watch the mail clerk pass them by every mail call. They see cards and packages carrying love and prayers and warmth from home cherished by their fellow soldiers, but go to bed empty handed. They are forced to see and do terrible things every day, and they are alone. Anysoldier.com takes requests from soldiers over in Iraq. The #1 request is for letters and prayers. #2 is for food (many of them are in mobile units far away from mess halls). They also ask for everything ranging from babywipes to shampoo to socks to bibles to videogames and CDs. One soldier said "I never knew it got this cold in the desert, we only get one pair of long underware and we never know when were going to get to wash it if you get my drift...."(sic)

One letter that really brought home the humanity of the soldiers out there was this, a letter from a soldier named Miguel, coincidentally the same name as my beloved brother:

Hello everyone;

I am sending this letter to as many of you as I possibly can to explain what I am doing and am involved with here in Afghanistan.

In the last month or so I have adopted some 12-16 kids that gather every day at the front gate of our base. They come to beg for the garbage that our soldiers leave behind, and I literlly mean "The Garbage". They empty the garbage cans and take the garbage to their houses. They use the garbage to rumage through for something eatable, to burn for cooking fuel and to burn for heat. You may think that this is unusual or once in a while, they come each and every day and they will fight amoung themselves for the garbage.

They come with no shoes ragedy clothes and filthy as can be. One day I found out that the cook threw away all the food that was left over from our breakfast every morning at our own military dinning facility. I went and ask him if he would give me the food so that I could give it to the children rather than throw it away. He not only said yes, he went the extra and porvided me with the plates, utencils drinks and anything I needed for the kids. I asked him the same thing the next day and he said yes. This has now been going on for 3-4 weeks. Every day I take our left over breakfast (still eatable for any one) and feed the children. In feeding them, I have taught them some English words. They have to wash their hands and face every morning with baby wipes that we provide for them. At first I would wash everyone's hands and faces, even feet, now I just hand them the wipes, mention the word "face, hands " and they repeat the words with me and clean themselves. The older ones (8-10 years old) help out and clean the little ones (11/2- 2). I have used the words "the little ones" so often that now they are "the little ones" even to the locals.

Some how things are coming up and are multiplying daily. Just 2 days ago, someone told me to go to a certain container and see what was in there. I found a container full of cases and cases of fortified cookies, clothing, cooking oil, and blankets. I have sence moved everything into a container that was provided to me by the Camp Comander. He has been absolutly wonderful and gracious with me. Anything I want and need for the children, I get from him.

For months while I attended my duties at the front gate, I would walk from my tent to the front gate along with my dog to take care of clearing the vehicles coming in to the compound. About 4 weeks ago when some friends of mine left, they left me their pick-up. It has been invaluable and a great blessing for all the activities. Without it I could not do what I am doing. Thank God for little favors. Unfortunately the clothing is for adults but the rest is adaquate for the children.

I would like to see if you are interested in adopting one of these children and while I am still here you can take a part in reaching out to the Hearts of these children. I know that we will not winn the Hearts of the adult population for so many reasons, but I feel that America still has a chance in the future generations of this country starting with this small "little ones" generation...

I would like to provide for everyone of them the following;

1.) a small childs backpack.

2.) a pair of shoes (preferably tennyshoes) the appropriate size.

3.) a tooth brush and a tube of tooth paste

4.) a bottle of shampoo (no tears preferably)

5.) a hair brush

6.) a set of appropriate clothing for the individual

7,) some kind of lunch pale or tupperware for them to carry home some extra food. There are days that even after feeding them all they want I still have to throw away food which I would rather not.

8.) a small childs thermos for drinks

This Saturday, I am bringing all the children into the camp and we are going to bath each one of them. A female soldier will assist me in bathing the little girls. I have purchased some new clothing and new shoes for all of them which we will provide for them. We have no underware so feel free to add some to the list. After the shower, we will cloth them and take them to the first aid station, the medical staff will check them out and attend to them. After that we will take them to our dinning facility, sit them down and feed them breadfast as much as they want. We have blankets, toys, beeny babies, candy, fruits, and other items that we want to give them before they go home looking like a million bucks. Their own family won't recognize them when they arrive.

He even specified "no tears" shampoo so it won't sting the little ones' eyes! It's something my Miguel would do.

I've felt very funny about this. It isn't sexy for a liberal 20-something to send care-packages to random soldiers. A friend who writes letters to marines says she cringes everytime she gets one back that says "We're glad you support the war" because she really, really doesn't. But she says she feels like the people come first. Last night I thumbed through motorcycle magazines and racks of beef-jerky, and for the first time in my life I tried to think like a soldier. It was a bizarre and strangely moving experience. This anonymous boy I was making up a present for became fleshed out and human in my eyes. I hoped he like peanut butter. I fussed between Sports Illustrated and Popular Mechanics. I wondered if cherry chapstick was too girly, and worried that he might hate sour candy. I picked out some paperback mystery novels about boxers and gangsters, and wondered if I was stereotyping this guy. A stranger and I in the stationary store struggled to find a holiday card that wasn't too religion specific or covered in fluffy animals and glitter. I wondered if a card that said "Peace on Earth" was laying it on a little thick.

And I wrote a little letter, saying in essence "I was thinking about the war, and how we can get you guys back safe and sound. At the moment all I can do to help you guys is do my best to increase the amount of love in the world. So here's some love and candy. I'm praying that you are happy and healthy, and that you can come home soon. I hope these things help keep you smiling until you do. Hope you don't mind getting mail from a tree-hugging Quaker like me."

Like most things I tend to find myself called to, it seems somehow homely and completely random. But I think it is important that these well-meaning kids who are not monsters, but doing their very best to be heros of some sort, know that those of us who oppose the war and decry the policies of our nation also have great love in our hearts for them, and that as individuals, and especially as individuals with that of God in them, they are precious to us. If you'd like to send a package to a soldier, you can find a recipient on the anysoldier.com lists, and send a "flat rate box" available at the post office, as heavy as you like, for just $7.70. The website also has important information about customs, packaging, military addresses and what you must not send.

And if you do send something, write to them with tenderness, without being patronizing or preachy. You don't have to disclose your politics, but if you are a Quaker, don't be afraid to tell them so.