Faith is a fact.

I have a friend in another country who goes to church every day after work, sits in a silent old church in some old European country, and contemplates God or something especially cool. It seemed extreme to me when I first heard it, but I understand so much more now. We need ritual in our lives, sameness, things that do not change. This ritualizing of behaviors creates solidity in our souls, plants us into the ground, makes us feel safe in our own skin. Weird and definitely spiritual, but true. Take it or leave it.

In the wake of school shootings and marathon bombings, I hear stories of people reaching out in new and different ways. Today, while driving the freeway in between meetings across town from one another, I wondered if people are looking for God somehow in this reaching-out, and I thought about lighting a candle. I have another friend who lights candles regularly, also an awesome person. I so appreciate that she has created some kind of place for that. I don't think I have the room. Maybe I could put a shelf up or something.

Who knew I'd become more Catholic as I got older. It's strange and wonderful, and I'm glad my faith allows me to change over time, to go in and out of faith phases, just as I move in and out of food phases. I am still going to the panaderia every morning, and tonight I realized after my evening walk down the boulevard, that I could not go the rest of the day without eating ice cream.

So yeah, phases are good. Or okay, at least. Also ritual is good. I don't know if they are connected. Whatever. I won't figure everything out before I die, but I might figure out some things. Hopefully bread/ice cream phase won't put me in the grave sooner over later.

And I shall write.

Isn't this an amazing mug? I wish I could give it to everyone.

Esperanza means to wait -

Oh if I'd known this alternate definition,
I'd have suffered patiently,
to wait for healing, and precision

God exists within this pain -
she, triumphant in this waiting tumult,
years passing with each day

Inside my cold and wasting heart,
blossoms bud in silent reverence
for this Abba others cast away,
to ease their confusion, disbelief

I am quiet in my closet,
marking down with lines each day,
waiting for my esperanza - hoping God will find her way

I wrote this poem a few years ago, when life was bleak and I wanted something to hold on to. I was looking for God, or meaning. I was looking for a reason for pain. And I found that sometimes there are no reasons, that to truly accept the depth of evil, deep down in your soul, is suicide, and all we can do sometimes is love one another, and speak truth, and hold hands, and all that good mushy gushy hippie stuff.

Much love.

Coffee filters don't degrade quickly.

 

I have begun transferring dirt from the rotting pile to the dirt pile. I have a cement double sink outside and I use it to compost my crap. The coffee filters are ridiculous, but everything else seems to decompose pretty quickly. I'm going to have to start using the dirt for something, but I'm not much of a gardener. I'm more of a dirt lover, a maker of mud pies and the like. I don't know. I guess I just feel like it's a guaranteed failure. I kill plants, so I figure I'll just keep things from dying and never try.

If you know something is going to fail, is there really any sense in trying? I started an MA program 4.5 years ago, and it was clear from the beginning that I was not going to make it. I fell apart so often that I lived in an almost constant suicidal depression. I was in over my head before I even knew what was happening, and I was a pretty smart cookie. I grasped at anything and everything, used sex to cope, and in a kind of broken-down delusional state, was still left with an intangible determination.

Now here I am, all these years later, and I am a different person. Few people got to see the transition-it was ugly and I remember little of it. But I know that it happened, because I am alive. Somehow, in the end, I got composted. And like non-food products, I was pretty tough to break down.

The double bind

I really wish I could take this lot on a beach vacation :)

The web is full of women and girls telling the world how thin they are (or want to be), how clean their house is, how awesome their kids/husband are, and how much Jesus loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life. And in some ways, I'm totally into it. I like "miracle" recipes for carpet stains, and I think the female body is one of the most beautiful things we'll ever see. But I really hate it when I see anything along the lines of "You are single because God is busy finding the perfect man for you."

Maybe I'm subconsciously bitter, and taking it out on hopeful twenty-somethings who feel burnt by men. I really don't think this is the case. I just wish that all of this energy was put towards something more meaningful. Partnering is meaningful, but only to a point. There's a whole wide world out there, and sometimes it makes me sad to see loads of people playing into their aesthetic fantasies, showing off their "perfect" families and homes as if this is the point. It's not.

This isn't a finished thought. I haven't eaten breakfast yet, and I'm trying to recreate a thought that began last night after looking at Pinterest. People aren't evil, and they aren't intentionally oblivious, but sometimes they make me crazy. I can also be pretty judgmental. I'm trying to be an adult, and sometimes that feels awesome, and sometimes it feels really lonely. Here I am at the end of my education, and the beginning of my professional career, and all of my old friends are in a different place. They're happily married and nesting, and I'm living in a garage and freezing at night.

It's hard to know that I waited ten years to tell the person I loved how I felt, and he just walked away.

An addiction to thrift?

 

So I read a blog post this morning that talked about thrift addiction (i.e. the addiction to thrift store shopping). I've been wondering lately if I have such an addiction, and this blog post really hit me hard. I resonated with the idea that I thrift for therapy. I go thrifting at the end of a long day: I walk the aisles; I comb through racks; I talk to my crazy thrift store friends. I freely admit it. I know I do it. I do it intentionally. And I haven't run the numbers, but I think I'm in the black overall.

Here's my take on this, if we're going to use the word addiction to describe the things we use to define us, that consume our time and energy, and give us purpose in life. The word addiction has a negative connotation, yet we all use it freely. People say they're addicted to their Diet Cola of choice, but I don't stress about that. People say they're addicted to running, to a particular sport, to a place they like to go (e.g. Yosemite), but I say that if it isn't harming anyone, then it isn't a real addiction.

Thrifting can be an addiction if it comes between you and people, if it distances you from those you love. I mentioned once that I feared that someone I loved would ask me to give up thrift entirely, and that I would be challenged to let go of something I didn't think I could live without, because it permeated every part of my life. Honestly, I don't know if I could, and that scares me. I wouldn't define it as an addiction, but I have allowed it to become something I depend on to the point of dependence.

Scary, but is it wrong?

A life of thrift

"You're blessed when you feel you've lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you. You're blessed when you're content with just who you are - no more, no less. That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought."

Matthew 5:4-5 (The Message)

Thrift means never having everything you want, all at the same time. Thrift means sacrificing what you want for the greater good. Thrift means being content with who you are, no more, no less.

 

Living a life of thrift means not selling your soul, the invaluable, intangible part of you.

My mind is blank

I don't have anything in me right now. I don't know why, but I'm very tired and my mind is blank. I added two blankets to my bed because it got so cold last night. I have a lot of work to do this week for school, but I haven't done it yet.

Maybe my mind isn't blank. Maybe it is very very full.

We are never alone

"Jiddu Krishnamurti, one of the most revered spiritual teachers of [the 20th] century, once asked a small group of listeners what they would say to a close friend who is about to die. Their answers dealt with assurances, words about beginning and endings, and various gestures of compassion. Krishnamurti stopped them short. 'There is only one thing you can say to give the deepest comfort,' he said. 'Tell him that in his death a part of you dies and goes with him. Wherever he goes, you go also. He will not be alone.'"

Larry Dossey (The Sun,  Feb. 2006)

Theology and Sexuality

This weekend, I am taking a class on Sexual Addictions. I'm taking it, not because I need the class for any requirement, but because I don't feel like I have any sense of what sexual addiction is about, whether it is different from other addictions, and if so, how and why?

I would really like to write about the theology of sexuality, like dissertation write about it. I have come to such a different place in my heart through my years at the seminary. But I feel like it's off-limits in a way. For example, there are women writers who write about sex and theology, who even do it well. Yet, in spite of this, the podcast I received this week, that we were to listen to before class, mentioned ZERO women. You read that right, zero. I was offended. I still am.

But there's something about women writing about sex that seems like too much to us. Men talking about sex can be academic, scriptural, biblical, etc. Women talking about sex could be emotional, laden with the possibility for innuendo. Women are seen as sexual objects and are thus even at greater risk for being misunderstood and vilified for their brashness. We read the words, but we see breasts, breasts, breasts. Yikes.

This (i.e. writing about theology and sexuality) is not my calling in life right now, though it is a passion of mine. If I have a "calling", I don't know what it is.

[Sidenote: Now that I'm in my final year at the seminary, I'm flooded with this language of calling. "Has he been called?" "Have they called her yet?" "We've decided not to call you." I'm not a fan. Calling is by God, no? So for something that is God-driven, we throw our weight around an awful lot on the issue.]

I wish we could talk about sexuality more freely. I wish that we weren't still wrestling with the topic of gender (and by we, I mean a large percentage of the Church). We're still talking about ordaining women, when we should be talking about issues of justice in our larger environments and the Church's effect on the World. But there we sit in our small churches, arguing about women in the pulpit. Bleh. It makes me crazy.

So I enter this weekend with hope that I will be surprised, but concerned that I won't be. Updates later.