if not perfect, at least better

Today's readings from Exodus (17:1-7) and John (4:5-42) were both stories about water. Our celebrant delivered another one of his densely packed and relevant zingers as he launched into the uncanny comparison between the political process in our country and the story of Moses.

He expanded: "The need for change" has been heavy in the rhetoric of all the politicians this year. The people have conveyed that message to their candidates, and although there has been debate on what change and why, and how much and what form it will take, no candidate has been stupid enough to say. "Things are just fine the way they are." Each contender wants to be seen as the agent of change, and therefore... get elected.

Moses was the agent of change for the people living in oppression in Egypt. He led them out and through the Reed Sea* and the jubilant song of praise on the banks could be likened to any celebration at party headquarters when the poll results are in.

Fast forward a few months and the people were dying of thirst. They were murmuring against their agent because the requested change didn't exactly meet their expectations. "Why did you bring us out of Egypt to die here?" Death is death. Better to have died with a full stomach than a parched throat.

For the Hebrew people, their new found freedom didn't look so good once they were dying of thirst. They had cried to God for deliverance from the oppressor Pharaoh, but on the edge of the barren wilderness they had to look for a new oppressor. Moses got the vote. Why was that? Was the price too high in the way of creature comforts? Too high in the sense of lost security? They had not had much in the way of comfort in Egypt, nor had there been security. What then, had they expected from change? Easy answer: that their lives be... if not perfect, at least better.

But in order for that to happen the whole concept of change for change's sake needs to be revised.

1. Change needs a goal beyond itself; change should be a means not an end.
2. We must carefully examine the difference between change from and change to.
   

It comes down to the whole belief (that I as a monastic struggle with on a daily basis): Life lived in the service of God belongs to God, not me. For God's chosen people, it was a concept they would forget and remember, forget and remember throughout their long and colorful history. They continue that work today. Me too. If I can't be perfect at it, maybe I can at least be better.

The question our celebrant raised (and one we should be looking to answer after November 11th) is this: What are we willing to trade for our freedom?


*Yes, it really was the Reed Sea... some translator got it wrong... a long time ago.

It works for me...

Every year when I have my annual physical my doctor asks, "Do you want a flu shot?" And every year I say "Absolutely not." She then gives me the at-risk spiel and I again tell her that I'd rather take my chances than get the shot and immediately get the flu. She doesn't believe me.

That's what has happened every time I've had a flu shot: I've come down with the flu. Within 48 hours. When you're in the military you don't have a choice. They line you up and crack! crack! crack! the staple gun-needle-shooter guys move down the line infecting everyone with the (supposedly) dead virus. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter; I get the flu.

Yesterday someone mentioned that this bug currently infecting Manhattan is a brand new strain, so the flu shots that people received were worthless. I laughed.

Last night the topic of antibiotics came up. Some sisters have been given them and some (who sound just as bad) have not. What's with that? One of our friends is a chemist. She explained that they are much more careful now about dispensing antibiotics because people develop immunities and then the antibiotic won't work when you really need it. We talked about the issue of completing the dose, something I'm notorious for not doing. Once I feel better, I hoard the rest of the pills against a future need. Uh oh. Busted. I was severely scolded and warned of the imminent dangers in doing what I do... she sounded like my doctor.

What can I say? One day butter is good for you, the next day it isn't. The rules are always changing in the medical field, as new technology uncovers a new twist or relationship not previously understood. It works for me doesn't seem to be a good enough answer when I'm confronted with experts that know the current rules but don't necessarily know my body.

I used to develop asthmatic bronchitis every time I had hay fever or caught a cold. Now I don't. Who is to say that my self under-dosing of antibiotics didn't cause this shift? It works for me.

last (wo)men standing

It's snowing here... has been since early this morning. It's not blizzard weather, but it is a steady soft downpour that's building up drifts. It doesn't look like our street has been plowed yet, which makes for a slippery downhill slide. Our "snow sister" is in her element. She starts praying for snow in August, and refuses to stop until the rest of us are so sick of winter we threaten her life.

Another priest was (yet again) relieved when I called last night to say we'd like to give her the day off. She was tending a sick child and thought maybe she was coming down with it too.

Well we are all now "down with it". One is totally horizontal and has been all week. The rest are in varying stages of intermittently vertical, and only two of us are even remotely "still standing". She and I are taking turns with the cooking, clean-up, doorbell and phone messages. She is making a doctor appointment for one elderly die-hard who still thinks this is just a "bad cold." We are muddling through.

Two sisters who are away traveling, are due to return Sunday night. They will be exhausted from their travels though, so not much help there. Oddly enough, the atmosphere is one of sweet congeniality and good will. I was pretty grumpy when I awoke, but have rallied over coffee, and am only occasionally racked with a coughing fit.

Sister is making soup again for lunch and I decided to try my hand at homemade pimento cheese. I found a recipe, all the ingredients and whipped up a batch. Grilled pimento cheese sandwiches with our soup... sounds like heaven to me.

Here's the recipe:
3 cups shredded cheddar (the orange kind looks more festive)
1 6 oz jar pimentos, diced, include the juice
1/2 small onion finely minced
1 cup mayonnaise
1 8 oz pkg cream cheese
1-2 TBLSPs Worcestershire sauce
1 tsp paprika

community of faith

As I've mentioned before, our little community is now down to one sister who doesn't (yet) have the bug. Most of us are coughing, sneezing, sniffling or some combination thereof... One has bronchitis and another goes for a chest x-ray today. (She may have pneumonia.)

Yesterday sister made us soup: a hearty barley for lunch, and chicken vegetable for supper. We've suspended all corporate worship for a couple of days and are only gathering (if at all) to eat. Some are having their meals taken to them on trays. Last night it came out, that while there was great relief that we had declared this bare-bones schedule, there was also a good deal of guilt and fear around the decision.

"In the old days..." this would not have been possible. The reverend mother/founder of our order was apparently a real stickler for performance at any cost. One sister related her story that once she had an ear infection and was in great pain. Another sister had suggested she find a substitute for her teaching duties and the reverend mother had said "NO! She will teach her classes today!" So she did.

The good old days were not always especially good. Our approach now leans in the direction of compassion over performance. Of course there will always be those who will take advantage of this approach, no doubt about it. But an overall suspicion that everyone will take advantage is just plain paranoid. We did not take on a life of service in order to shirk our responsibilities. And we did not all get sick at the same time on purpose. Our cook's grandmother did not die on purpose either, leaving us without a cook for the rest of the week. Stuff happens. We had two choices: scale back, or try to kill ourselves maintaining the fourfold Daily Office, guest ministry, and business as usual.

I answered the door yesterday to two guests who were checking in. They were not happy when I explained that the evening meal had been suspended. They had invited a friend to come for dinner to "chat with the sisters." I explained that during Lent we don't chat on Wednesday evenings anyway, except for Sunday, all are silent meals. They were unhappy about that.

This is one of the reasons we're scaling back our guest ministry. We don't exactly run a hotel, but people expect hotel amenities. And there are not enough of us (even when we're well) to give them that service. We are a community of faith. We can provide a clean bed and room, bathrooms and showers, and sometimes meals. It's a crapshoot.

The Dark Night of the Soul

Okay, I know this is a major cop out as blogging goes... but we are still all sickly here. We have an array of symptoms that range from the common cold to the flu to bronchitis. (Not a pretty sight.)

The other day I posted a song by Loreena McKennitt from her album Book of Secrets, and I also found this one from the writings of John of the Cross, called Dark Night of the Soul, from her album Mask and Mirror:

awwwww

Practically everyone here in the convent is sick. I was one of the last hold-outs to catch this uncommon cold thing that all of Manhattan has. But last night I felt that scratchy itchy sneezy coughing nose-running symptom and today it is full blown. Nyquil and I are going to bed. We all had an early supper, Vespers on our own, and each sister is suffering in silence in her own room.

This is my post. Take it or leave it...
I have no energy for profundity or platitude.
Night night.

selective memory

I think unless you have a photographic memory or enhanced auditory memory (where you can repeat entire conversations verbatim) that your memory would have to be selective. I have no clue how much RAM my brain contains, but the older I get the more data I lose. Now, only when something triggers an old memory can I call it up.

This happened just recently. Out of the blue I received an email from someone I knew a long time ago. I hadn't exactly forgotten him, but I certainly don't dwell on his memory every day. Woosh! Suddenly I remembered all kinds of things... how well he played guitar, how he sounded a lot like Neil Young when he sang, how he carefully wrote out the lyrics for me to a song I'd never heard before. I remember his little sports car that needed to be hard-wired to get it started, the long letters he wrote me, the return address on those letters, and a dozen more personal, intimate things about him I don't need to go into. (Sorry... some things are just none of your business.)

The point is this. I had not thought about him in ages. Now I can't stop. In addition to all the little specific details... I wonder what happened to him over all these lost years, and I guess I wonder why I wonder. He and I were a flash in the pan as relationships go... we weren't in love, but we were close as empty-hearted people sometimes find each other and become close. For a brief period in time we connected and buoyed each other up. It didn't work out and we both moved on.

So why does my heart ache now?

Here's something I found (I guess you have figured out that You Tube is my new favorite online toy) to enhance all those misty watercolor memories:

after dark

Our celebrant this morning is a friend/associate from England. She is always a little nervous about celebrating here because our liturgy is put together differently than the one she uses at home. All the components are there, but not quite in the same order. Her preaching, however, was magnificent, as she brought the two stories (from today's Old Testament and Gospel) together, and asked some probing questions. The heart of her point was this: Are we more like Abram or Nicodemus?

God spoke and Abram obeyed. And what God said was not especially plausible: "Pack up, travel far and I'll make you the father of a multitude of descendants." Yeah, right. Abram was doing well right where he was, he was in his seventies or thereabouts, his wife was barren (possibly post-menopausal). Yet he packed up and traveled. No questions.

Nicodemus, on the other hand, a prominent intelligent leader of his people, recognized that Jesus had something. Not wishing to sully his reputation by being seen with Jesus out in the open, he visits after dark and proceeds to question and argue. Which one are we like?

Don't know about you, but I am constantly questioning and arguing, only occasionally obeying. Oops.

Dante's Prayer

I posted a few days ago about my trip to Ireland in 1998. A friend asked to see the composites I had made in the depths of my despair... over a multitude of things... living here and not there, suffering the inattentions of a boyfriend with no clue, unemployment with no job looming on the horizon, and in general, the post-mountain-top-experience blahs.

I played Loreena McKennitt's Book of Secrets over and over (continuous loop) until I knew every word of every song on that album... but whenever Dante's Prayer would cycle through, I'd stop whatever I was doing on the computer and sing along:

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me...

So... for what it's worth, here are five of the original six composites (one got lost a few years ago)






I also found a You Tube video of the song if you're interested. What this song has to do with Legolas Greenleaf or Orlando Bloom is beyond me, but it was the only decent one I could find:

same stuff/different day

This posting every day thing is finally getting to me. By now everyone must know I am an INFP on the Myers-Briggs. I've never heard it called "Dreamer/Visionary" before... certainly nicer than "Almost Perfect: NOT!"



take your own test here

Happy Valentine's Day

Once upon a time Valentine's Day was absolutely the most important day of the year for me. More important than my birthday, even... because people generally feel compelled to remember you on your birthday.

For me, a Valentine was an expression of my worth... as a woman, or a potential partner, or as a person attractive or sweet enough to love. I put so much stock in this particular day I would be totally bummed out on years when I had no boyfriend.

On years when I had a boyfriend, I would put enormous pressure (on both of us) to make the day memorable. I wanted flowers, candy, a date, an expensive dinner... you name it, I wanted it. In my own defense, I was more than willing to give as good as I got, but that only made matters worse. I was so overwhelming in my effusive shower of gifts and affection, I scared them off.

What was with that? Insecurity... unreasonable expectations, pressure. What a waste.

Now I am a nun. (And it's Lent... no chocolate allowed) Wahoo! Having no expectations has got to be the most emancipating feeling on earth. I feel so sorry for all the guys I pressured or embarrassed or coerced on this day.

A toast to you, guys! You did your best (under ridiculous circumstances) and I have to tell you (and I'm sorry it's in retrospect) but I appreciate every single token of love you managed to express.

reality sucks/life blows

No it's not a rant... it doesn't mean what you think.

Reality... the reality of God, sucks the breath out of you. Sucks the life from you... the dense life of flesh and blood and guts and grime.

The whole theme of transcendence has been swirling about me for days. Transcendence/thinness/ the veil between the physical and the spirit... it's an interesting (and arresting) subject. That it would suddenly pop up in so many of my readings lately may have to do with the lectionary, but I doubt it. Even my so-called pagan friends are exploring the topic. "If you hear it twice, pay attention!" is an old expression. Okay God, I'm paying attention.

I have experienced thin places in the world. In Ireland, specifically. On the Aran Island of Inis Mor I walked a labyrinth, and that experience turned my world upside down. Talk about thin. In the short week I spent there I developed psychic power, connected with an old soul I knew but had never met before, came back to the states a broken, yet transformed woman. It was the beginning, or one of them, anyway. I was depressed for months and turned to my art for solace. Images from Ireland, photographs I had taken there, transformed themselves on my computer into multi-layered composites... glimpses of the thinness I had felt and seen.

As I've mentioned before, certain music thins the veil for me. There are many paths to the truth.

Here's some of what I've been reading:

... Spirit. It wasn't a strange place, but an additional dimension of the actual. (Jesus) saw it, and others could see it, too. It wasn't a cocoon uniquely reserved for him or a prize that only the named elect could attain. It was simply the more that always exists but isn't always experienced. —Tom Ehrich

...And so we go back and forth, catching tiny glimpses of heaven here and there amid the great swaths of life's daily-ness. For the most part, we're not built to behold heaven; we can't look God in the face for very long.
— Barbara Crafton

sometimes life blows…
and sometimes life blows me away

both
at the same time
—Pat Denino

Humankind cannot bear very much reality... — T.S. Elliot.

No one has seen God it says in the Bible, yet Moses supposedly saw God and it burned a glory into his face so bright and hideous he had to wear a veil. Bright and hideous? Oxymoron? Perhaps. Yet...

joke's on me

Yesterday (Monday) was my day off. Since we adjust our habits so much in Lent (no TV, no movies, for me, no video games, etc.) I had to look around for something to do to goof off. I am reading James Carroll's Constantine's Sword, which is way too dense and compelling to call goofing off. So I surfed the web and found this funny test based on the Myers-Briggs personality analysis. I'm always up for a laugh.

Almost Perfect- INFP
13% Extraversion, 53% Intuition, 13% Thinking, 46% Judging

So, you want to make the world a better place? Too bad it's never gonna happen. Of all the types, you have to be one of the hardest to find fault in. You have a selfless and caring nature. You're a good listener and someone who wants to avoid conflict. You genuinely desire to do good.

Of course, these all add up to an incredibly overpowered conscience which makes you feel guilty and responsible when anything goes wrong. Of course, it MUST be your fault EVERY TIME.

Though you're constantly on a mission to find the truth, you have no use for hard facts and logic, which is a source of great confusion for those of us with brains. Despite this, in a losing argument, you're not above spouting off inaccurate fact after fact in an effort to protect your precious values.

You're most probably a perfectionist, which in this case, is a bad thing. Any group work is destined to fail because of your incredibly high standards.

Disregard what I said before. You're just as easy to find fault in as everyone else!

Luckily, you're generally very hard on yourself, meaning I don't need to waste my precious time insulting you. Instead, just find all your own faults and insult yourself.

The other personality types are as follows...

Loner - Introverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving
Pushover - Introverted Sensing Feeling Judging
Criminal - Introverted Sensing Thinking Perceiving
Borefest - Introverted Sensing Thinking Judging
Freak - Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging
Loser - Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Perceiving
Crackpot - Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Judging
Clown - Extraverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving
Sap - Extraverted Sensing Feeling Judging
Commander - Extraverted Sensing Thinking Perceiving
Do Gooder - Extraverted Sensing Thinking Judging
Scumbag - Extraverted iNtuitive Feeling Perceiving
Busybody - Extraverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging
Prick - Extraverted iNtuitive Thinking Perceiving
Dictator - Extraverted iNtuitive Thinking Judging

take the test

The moral of the story is that we can always find a gem of truth in the rubble of any endeavor. This statement, for instance: You're most probably a perfectionist, which in this case, is a bad thing. Any group work is destined to fail because of your incredibly high standards. Alas, how true. I hear it from every angle. But what I hear is that my high standards are skewed toward performance rather than compassion, and that's the area of my focus for Lent. And all I wanted to do was goof off. (Very funny, God. Ha ha ha not.)

spin

Now the serpent was more crafty than any beast of the field which the LORD God had made. And he said to the woman, "Indeed, has God said, 'You shall not eat from any tree of the garden'?"
The woman said to the serpent, "From the fruit of the trees of the garden we may eat; but from the fruit of the tree which is in the middle of the garden, God has said, 'You shall not eat from it or touch it, or you will die.'"

Who told her that she couldn't even touch it or she would die? Not God. (At least no where in any of the accounts I've read.) God actually gave the command to Adam. Maybe Adam embellished it when he conveyed the message, adding his own spin. Or Eve did. Another thing... just being recently made, how did they know about death anyway?

The serpent said to the woman, "You surely will not die! "For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil."
When the woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was a delight to the eyes, and that the tree was desirable to make one wise, she took from its fruit and ate; and she gave also to her husband with her, and he ate.

Okay... here's the question: It clearly states that Eve ate first. Then she gave the fruit to Adam. Theoretically her eyes would have been opened first and she would have known about good and evil before he did. Yet she gave him the fruit anyway. Why? Does misery just love company? Or did he actually say " Hey! No way I'm going to sit by and let you be smarter than me. Hand it over!"

First Sunday in Lent

Most excellent sermon this morning! Sometimes everything fits together... old knowledge, new information, additional questions, sudden insights. When that happens I get a chill.

Our celebrant this morning compared the stories from the Old Testament (Genesis 2: 5-17, 3: 1-7) and the Gospel (Matthew 4: 1-11)

Adam and Eve, sucked in by the serpent's promise that they could "be like God." And Jesus' encounter in the desert... where the three temptations were really the same thing. Turn these stones into bread... (transmute elements) Jump from the pinnacle... (defy the law of gravity) and become the ruler of the world (take God's throne.) It was this conscious (and different) response on Jesus' part that set him on his path to a different kind of ministry: that he accepted his human limitations, and agreed to cooperate with the Father.

She suggested that the desire to be like God is at the crux of most, if not all, of our problems as human beings. As her spiritual director advised her to remember: "God is God and I am not." Meditating on that, rather than focusing on what you can give up for Lent, unless that giving up points you to that understanding, is at the heart of the Lenten message. Especially this first Sunday in Lent.

Learning to cooperate with God, rather than escaping or thinking we can overrule Him is the unexpected, counter-intuitive way into freedom. She urged us to "put ourselves at God's disposal". Interesting choice of words... disposal.

Of course she was talking about the power to use something or someone, rather than a kitchen appliance for eliminating garbage, but so much of our language can be metaphoric. How many times do we "bewail our manifold sins" and as a result consign ourselves to the garbage heap? It would seem that too much emphasis on sin only creates more sin. Everything in moderation is my motto for Lent. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Transcendence, Darkness, Self-Indulgence

I visit a number of blogs on a regular (if not daily) basis, and came across a post by Melissa with a You Tube video of Jeff Buckley singing "Hallelujah." As a result, I researched the song; original words by Leonard Cohen (changed slightly by everyone else who's ever recorded it).

I listened to it about a million times... all the variations I could find on You Tube. The most haunting was a version by K. D. Lang. Jeff Buckley got my vote as the closest runner-up for most moving rendition.

Music can (and will) open me to the transcendent. I'd forgotten that somehow in the busy-ness of being quiet.

We keep a good deal of silence in our house most of the time anyway, but during Lent it intensifies. This silence is something I had to learn to love, but now take for granted. I put away the few CDs I brought to the community; they became distracting. But having wallowed in this particular song yesterday, I realize how much I've missed by eliminating this particular path to transcendence.

The other interesting piece of all this is we give up Alleluias for Lent. It's a liturgical practice of the church, not just our community. During Lent, the words of the mass: "Alleluia, Christ our passover has been sacrificed for us..." begin simply with "Christ our passover..." It gives a starkness and clarity to the worship. It also requires us to actually pay attention to what we're saying. (So easy to go on autopilot when the words are familiar.) So... having given up Alleluias, why was I so compelled to immerse myself in a song that has thirty-four Hallelujahs?

One easy answer: This song speaks to the brokenness of all our attempts to relate to God.

Lent, even though we're essentially still in the first few days, is a time for examining darkness from all the angles. It's so seductive to believe that we have it made simply because we understand God through the lens of Jesus Christ. No more need to ask questions, to grapple with injustice, to come to terms with what we've done (and keep doing) to His creation.

In my Lenten Meditation book there's a Lenten Action suggestion for each day. Yesterday's said to give up "just one self-indulgence for the day". Not such a bad idea, to ease into it. (You have to start somewhere.) But self-indulgence comes in many shapes and sizes. What if believing we're one of the 99 good sheep is a self-indulgence? What if... the cold and broken hallelujahs are actually the only ones that matter to God?

Frozen Grand Central

Only in New York

Discipline

I'm in a Lenten book club/meditation/blog group. It's one of my "add-ons" for Lent. (You know: add-ons versus give-ups.) It's a discipline, like Blog 365... a commitment to blog every day about the meditation we read in the book: Lent And Easter Wisdom: Daily Scripture And Prayers Together With Nouwen's Own Words. Today's meditation actually had to do with discipline, which for me can be a dirty word. That strikes me as funny, since I've got quite a few little disciplines going these days, yet I hate the whole concept. Go figure.

Four women with diverse Christian orientations met online a few years ago and formed a book club to read Ken Gire's Moments With the Savior. What a trip!

Back then I was new to the religious life (I'm still new by many standards) new to blogging, new to book clubs. The group moderator was a little hesitant about including a nun... the stereotypical pious wet blanket sort of thing. That didn't last. We found we were the liberals in the group, and I was about the farthest left you could get and still be called Christian. In fact some of our commenters strongly suggested that I was not only not Christian, but Satan incarnate. Okay, nobody actually said that, but there were times when the conversations definitely headed in that direction.

This time our blog is closed. Only we can read what we say and only we can comment. It should prove to be an enlightening (hopefully bonding) experience. Just us grappling with, and sharing our relationships with God. No cheerleaders or detractors to get us sidetracked. I'm looking forward to it.

not by bread alone

I've been reading up on the Stations of the Cross. It's one of the optional observances our community utilizes during Lent. There are lots of versions of this form of meditation; we use the standard Anglican form.

I have also been wanting to create my own set of abstract images for each of the fourteen stations for some time... (years actually) It's a project I've worked on, but never finished. While I've done a few, coming up with 14 has not been easy.

I was first introduced to the Way of the Cross way back in third grade, when I attended a parochial school for half a year. In addition to our daily memorization of the catechism, we trooped across the street to church once a week to walk the stations. Each was a large bas-relief niche set up high into the wall, and I was both fascinated and grossed out by the graphic rendering of Christ's passion. I remember the sister lifting us up to touch the crown of thorns on Jesus' head. The stone had been sharpened to such tiny points we could prick our fingers. It left an impression, even on those of us who didn't push hard enough to bleed. I also distinctly remember the smell of incense, and will associate that smell with Catholic churches for the rest of my life.

In the little book I'm currently reading, it states that the "Way of the Cross is a form of meditation which has been sanctified by the devotion of centuries." Now that's a scary thought. Something is sanctified by usage? Or by devotion? I don't think so. The Nazis were devoted to killing Jews... there was no sanctification there. We have been reciting the blood and guts war psalms for centuries too. War has never been sanctified.

I'm not even sure that this meditation will lead me (as the booklet suggests) "into a deeper union with Christ in his suffering". It might, but my suspicion is that only suffering does that. I think it is Christ's suffering that we should be looking to relieve, not redeem. And, since we live two thousand years too late to relieve his, we can only relieve it by relieving the suffering of each other.

Jesus said to Peter, "If you love me... Feed my sheep. Tend my lambs. Feed my sheep." Relief of hunger, one of the basic instincts of all life. That's what my deacon friend does at St. Bart's every day... he "just feeds people."

But hunger can be more than physical. It can be mental and/or spiritual. I remember when my kids were little and I stayed home every day, I definitely hungered for adult conversation. That was mental hunger.

Jesus spoke about being fed... not by bread alone... but by the food that would fill the spiritual emptiness. Lent seems to be a journey to find that kind of food.

Ash Wednesday

...this day isn't about ashes on foreheads, but personal stands against evil and a brave determination to live differently. —Tom Ehrich

Most of us know that on some level... that it isn't about the outward symbol we walk around town with today. When I was growing up, the only people who had smudges on their foreheads were my Catholic neighbors. (We must not have had any Episcopal neighbors.) And yes, I thought they were showing off.

This morning our celebrant had some excellent words about what Ash Wednesday is about: First of all, she said, it's about our mortality. We will die. Secondly, it's about sin. It's the day to get honest with ourselves about our motives, our secret agendas, our own very real hypocrisy in the face of what we profess to believe. But more important it's about our dependence on God... on this God whose breath created us, and whose heart allows us to turn back, to repent and start over.

So... today we confess not just our sins, but our dependence on God. We are dust. Yet God hates nothing that has been created... not even the dust.

Shrove Tuesday

Perhaps it is the pre-Lent funk... I hope it is the pre-Lent funk.

I am irritable. Some sisters are overworked, and as a result, their responsibilities have fallen through the cracks. I am supposed to be compassionate about that. I'm not especially. I am back to making my own to-do lists... as if it will compensate for my lack of compassion. (If I can't be compassionate, I can at least be responsible... what a Pharisee I am.)

I am also sick of picking up the slack. So this morning when the doorbell rang, I ignored it. (Let someone else get it, damn it...) This will just not do. I've been thinking a lot about what Lent will look like for me this year.

I had it in my mind at one point to give asceticism a healthy try. Don't knock it if you haven't tried it sort of thing. I considered giving up not only the required chocolate and ice cream our community's culture imposes, but also alcohol, non-dairy flavored creamer, butter, soft drinks and anything sweet or of the fast food variety... potato chips, pop corn, Taco Bell. I have no doubt that underlying this holy discipline lie some pretty unholy motivations: losing weight, for one.

Giving up sweets motivated by the desire to lose weight doesn't count. I'm not overweight. I'm just not slim anymore. I want to look better, not treat my body as a temple of God. My guess is that nobody's intensions are totally pure. Knowing that mine aren't is a bitch.

So... I've been rethinking the whole Lenten journey. (I was already rethinking it before today, but Shrove Tuesday especially requires a decision.) Tomorrow it starts. I need a plan. More importantly, I need a change of attitude. It's the area of relationships that I need to work on, not denying myself a bunch of foods that aren't especially good for me anyway. To work hard at seeing the face of Christ in every person that ticks me off... now that would be a worthwhile endeavor. The nice thing about living in community, is that my sisters will support me through the process... I won't be doing it alone.

Happy Birthday: Hortense Caswell Hall R.I.P.

My aunt was about three years older than my mother, who was twenty-eight years older than me, so if she were still alive, she'd have celebrated her ninety-third birthday today. She died several years before my mother, of complications brought on by her generation's penchant for heavy smoking and even heavier drinking. [She liked her Manhattans, and although she gave up smoking, (unlike my mother) she still suffered from the effects.]

I idolized my aunt when I was a teenager. She was everything my mother wasn't... wealthy, sophisticated, interested in art and antiques. She gave lavish parties, had her friends over to play bridge. She had been a nurse, and still filled in occasionally at her local hospital. She had the whole outfit: white dress, white hose and shoes, starched cap with black band. Nurses don't dress that way anymore, just as most nuns don't dress in habits. We sometimes bemoan the passing of the "uniform"... the clothes that confer a recognized status, a familiar and comforting illusion.

As a child I vowed (again and again) I would not grow up to become my mother, but I did. While I am uncomfortable with the term flamboyant to describe myself, it's definitely a term I'd use to describe my mom. She liked loud colors and bright prints, She bleached her hair platinum blonde and laughed a lot. While my aunt played bridge, my mother went bowling.

My mother and aunt were rivals, but they were also close friends. When blood needed to be thicker it was... my aunt (and her wealth) rescued us when my dad deserted us, her bankroll funded my mother's purchase of a beauty shop in the boondocks of New Hampshire, and her sense of family brought us to her house every Thanksgiving and Christmas to celebrate together. She was the Episcopalian. That and a love of tissue paper with sparkles are the tangible things I have to show for her considerable influence.

I am (occasionally) wiser now than I was at fourteen, when my love affair with my aunt's view of the world was so at odds with my relationship with my mom. Much of my aunt's sophistication was pretense... an effort to seem to be more than she was... My mother was exactly who she was... if you didn't like it, well "tough titty" to use her expression... one my aunt would have deplored.

I owe my life to both influences. They are inextricably mingled... one in my DNA, the other in my environmental conditioning. I think of them both in heaven... chatting over their afternoon drinks. My aunt raises her Manhattan: "Well at least she's an Episcopalian, Helen. You owe me that." My mother smiles as she sips her Whiskey Sour. "Yes, but she hates bridge and likes to bowl."

the moment passes

The feast of the Transfiguration is actually celebrated in August, yet we always hear the story again the last Sunday before Lent:

Peter said to Jesus, "Lord, it is good for us to be here. If you wish, I will put up three shelters—one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah." —Matthew 17:4

As many times as we Christians read this story, do we ever stop making an idol of familiarity? I cannot count the times church people have responded to a new event — from contextual crisis to their own individual angst — by grasping at familiarity: declare the new wrong because it is new, fit the new into old categories, greet the new by reenacting old conflicts, treat the Word as an icon to be treasured because it never changes, rather than as a lance to the heart bringing God into this very day. —Tom Erich

The Transfiguration is many stories within the story... deeply packed, full of different meanings for different people. (Or different meanings at different times for the same people, or all of the above.) For Jesus perhaps it was an anchor, what self-help seminars call a resource state. Our celebrant this morning had a different take on the story than Tom's. Both are important, I think, as we move forward into Lent.

"If the picture is in a frame. it goes on the wall." she said. She was relating a story from her own childhood, her own heritage, where, because of humidity and culture, in her grandparents' home, all framed photographs were hung up high, near the ceiling. "You had to look up," she went on, "much as the disciples had to look up to the scene of Jesus talking with Elijah and Moses." She went on to point out that in Matthew's Gospel, Peter is not scolded for wanting to memorialize the event he has just witnessed. The moment passes, and Jesus is there alone with them again.

The moment passes. So much of my dealings with God and Spirit can be summed up in those three words. I am honored with glimpses, blessed with instantaneous understandings, given the benefit of peaceful moments... but they are gone before I am sometimes even aware they were there. Coming back to earth isn't easy; of course we want to frame the picture, the feeling, the remembrance of who we knew ourselves to be in that moment.

But even a framed picture is only a two-dimensional reminder of whatever experience we had which suffused every particle of our being. As Barbara Brown Taylor has said, "...reality is not flat, but deep."

And it is this very depth that familiarity cannot capture. So, as Tom says above, we resort to what we know in our fear of what we cannot know fully. To embrace the new will mean to embrace the cross. To understand the Word of God to be an organic, evolving, transforming process, rather than words on a concrete tablet is to see the safety nets removed as we venture forth on the precipice. "...a lance to the heart bringing God into this very day" is what we can find during Lent... if we're willing.

update

She changed her mind. On her own... no bullying by the medical establishment. This time her surgery was brief and successful... a kink in her intestine was easily straightened out (unlike last July when six inches had to be removed) and all seems to be well. Thanks for your prayers.

Does this give new meaning to the term "twisted sister"?

quandry

Just last week one of our elderly sisters sat on the couch and declared, "No more surgery!" She went on to elaborate that she had lived a full life, had always had tons of energy... getting up before 5:00 every morning and going to bed after 11:00 at night. She was fed up with feeling exhausted all the time and attributed this to the major surgery she underwent last July. "Seven months!" she said, "and I'm just now beginning to have a little more stamina. So, no more surgery!"

We all heard her say it. In fact, some of us had heard her say it several times these past seven months while she struggled to slowly regain her strength and appetite and mental faculties. Last night she was back in the hospital with the same condition that required the emergency surgery in July. Today we are all on pins and needles. Will the doctors be able to treat her without surgery? What if they can't?

I've often declared myself, that if I ever come down with cancer I have no intention of undergoing chemo. I've used much the same language as my sister... I've lived a full life... blah blah blah. I have no certainty that I won't change my mind if it should happen, but I want the right to make the choice. My sister wants that right. Yet we don't want to lose her either. We are all praying for a less-invasive treatment that works.

gloriously more than enough

My bloggy friend pat is an artist, a poet and a dancer. She has many descriptions for who she is and what she does. One of her recent poems is my new favorite:

in the vastness of the ocean
does each wave have a name?
maybe
maybe not

it is enough to know I am part of the ocean
in fact, it is gloriously more than enough
in fact, it is outrageously grand
and I feel it in my bones
on my skin
flowing through my blood
whispering in my heart
silently dancing with my soul
I am part of the ocean
rising, falling, crashing,
breaking up continents
floating seeds
dancing and whirling
singing, shouting…

oh. hi. I didn't know you were here…

Wanna dance?

I loved her poem and sent an email with a (somewhat) smart-assed credenza. She loved my credenza and posted it to her blog. We "danced". What a lovely thing. In my heart I think this is what God had in mind for his/her creation... that we dance and sing and share our ideas/experiences/viewpoints without judgment or critique. We are all facets of the same diamond, all fragments of the same hologram. we are one.

gag... tagged

Oh what the heck. I made no New Years resolutions about memes this year (although I may give them up for Lent). So my daughter-in-law tagged me to list either: seven famous or infamous people I have met, or seven weird things about myself. Now I have seen some famous people (from a distance) but I am too polite to harass/meet them, and the infamous ones are best left to worry whether I'll actually tell the tale on my blog using their real names.

So that sticks me with the weird things... now weird, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. So I'm going to classify unusual as weird... surely I can come up with seven. It's a very holy number, after all. How's this?

Seven Weird Jobs I Have Had:

1. Beginning at the beginning: my first job at age 15 was elf. That's correct. I worked in Santa's toyshop (store that sold toys) as an elf at Santa's Village in Jefferson, NH. I wore red tights, a little green dress with a mini-skirt and a huge pointy collar and pointy-toed bootlets that we ordered special from the shoe store. I worked there five summers before moving on to my next weird job.
   
   
2. I am a Vietnam vet. I was a U. S. Navy photographer. I lived in fear of ever having to go out and actually shoot anything important. (Not shoot as with a gun... shoot as photograph.) I used a speed graphic (heavy as hell) with real flash bulbs. Most of my Navy career was spent in the color lab at NAS Jax processing slides and print film... anyone ever heard of E3? My last experience with slide processing was E6. For all I know they are up to E12 by now.
   
   
3. I worked as a sandwich maker for one day in the Navy Exchange. You had to lay the bread slices out ten across and five deep. They stacked up like this: one slice, tuna, two slices, tuna, one slice. They were cut on the diagonal and boxed so you didn't actually get the whole sandwich; you got two halves of two different sandwiches. I was too slow and got fired the same day.
   
   
4. I worked for an audio visual production company producing multi-image slide presentations. (Twenty-one projectors was my personal best.) Long hours. Lots of all-nighters. Low pay. Fun road trips.
   
   
5. I was a nationally certified motorcycle instructor. I taught young punks how to avoid killing themselves on their motorcycles. I was very good at that job.
   
   
6. I danced in a go-go bar (once). I was not employed there, I was with a date. The pole dancer beckoned me to join her onstage and I was drunk enough to do it. I earned a dollar. (Decided to keep my day job.)
   
   
7. I'm a nun. Not sure I can call this a job since I don't earn an income. But I definitely work.

now there's a mystery

Free from desire, you realize the mystery.
Caught in desire, you see only the manifestations.

Yet mystery and manifestations
arise from the same source.
This source is called darkness.

Darkness within darkness.
The gateway to all understanding.
—Lao-Tzu


And God said, "Let there be light."
—Genesis 1:3

atonement

I read the book Atonement last year. It was marvelous (if incredibly sad and depressing) so when the movie came out I didn't really want to see it. I'd just been disappointed by The Kite Runner, another incredible book that didn't quite translate to the screen. Kite Runner was excellently handled, don't get me wrong, but there was just too much in the book to cover adequately in a film... they had to leave out a lot that (I thought) mattered to the story line. I was also put off by the opening credits which reminded me of the opening credits of a Harry Potter movie... lots of superfluous animation to announce who was who.

Atonement had some of that. The typewriter effects were an underlying thread of consistency (both sight and sound) but not so overplayed I wanted to gag. I loved it. The plotline was faithful, the actors credible and the cinematography lush. The use of lighting for dramatic emphasis reminded me of Spielberg's genius. But most of all I felt the same awful sense of depression that the book evoked. All those lives ruined by one child's mistake. I hope it wins an oscar. If they have the oscars.

geek alert

Confession: I have a geeky side.

It's not developed enough to boast about, but every once in a while some geeky piece of information will cross my path and I will be enthralled and run with it for days. I would suggest that my older son inherited my lone geek gene, but he has left me behind in his dust. He is also brilliant, which I am not. I have my moments (like with my geekiness) but they are erratic and therefore undependable.

But back to this recent geek discovery... from a post by Wil Wheaton (you do remember Wesley Crusher from Star Trek: The Next Generation?!?) He is definitely a genuine geek, not to mention a pretty talented writer, who quoted a post by Eric on the the subject of retconning. It's long, but fascinating.

Just what is retconning (besides being a cool word)? Short answer: You take an existing story, flash back in time to rewrite the story so that all the subsequent events have changed. Time travel for writers... and the universes they alter are the established stories we have come to know and love. Now specifically Eric uses this term in regards to comic books (a major geek marker, if you're trying to decide whether you qualify). But I (of course) jumped into the theological bru-ha-ha and thought about it in terms of Scripture. When has it been done? Who did it? How many fans were upset? And of course... most dangerous of all, How can I do it too? Then I realized maybe I already have... with my creation cartoonz. Imagine that.

what use is it?

I've been reading a lot of prophetic rants regarding the church lately. Lots of predictions, talk and discussion over the need to change, to approach church from a customer service point of view, to give people what they need. I don't argue with any of that. Institutions by their very nature become institutionalized. The physical plant, the everyday expenses, the salaries to pay the full-time professionals who man the place... all serve to shore up the walls rather than the spirit of why the institution was created to begin with. It's true of schools, hospitals and the church... just to name the worst culprits.

But as individuals we have to be accountable as well. When Christ ever comes and the light shines in every corner of every heart, not just every building or organization, just how devastating will that be? Dietrich Bonhoeffer said, "The coming of God is truly not only glad tidings, but first of all frightening news for everyone who has a conscience."

One of the reasons John the Baptist (and I suspect many of the hellfire and brimstone preachers of our day) was so popular, was because he put the fear of God in everyone who heard him. "Repent! You brood of vipers! The kingdom of God is coming!" Why would that be so appealing?

One reason, I think, is because we do have consciences. We know when we pass a homeless beggar on the street, and look straight ahead so as not to make eye contact... we know there's something wrong with that picture. "They'll just use the money to buy crack." we tell ourselves, transferring our personal stinginess into altruistic generosity... "Why, I've just saved that person from drug use." We expect the outreach program at church to feed the hungry, to shelter the homeless. Then we complain because the preacher makes yet another pitch for increased pledges. The truth doesn't always make us free, just guilty.

If the message of God doesn't inspire us to be better human beings to our fellow humans, then what use is it? God's tangible creation needs our compassion and concern more than some abstract concept of God needs our rituals and worship.

maybe not today

Is my evangelism a failure if the one to whom I speak does not, in the end, embrace my beliefs? Not at all. Evangelism isn't really about you; it's about the one you encounter. Just as a day of fishing is a glorious day regardless of the catch — outdoors, on the water, seeing animals and plants and feeling your human closeness to all of them — so a moment of showing Christ to another is good of itself. Christ brings us into community, and does so no matter what words (if any) are used to describe his work in the world. —Barbara Crafton

Oh how I need to hear this. On a regular basis. Every day. More than once every day. There's too much pressure with the term evangelism... there's the pressure from scripture that says "get out there and convert the world!" There's the pressure from peers in other denominations for which evangelism has been elevated to an art form. There is the internal pressure from my own heart to share what for me, is, in fact, good news.

I think the last one is all that matters. I don't really care what the Bible says about converting the world. I'm not sure I believe there is only one way, or one truth, although the example of Jesus is the way and the truth for me. If I feel more at peace, more able to contend with the evil I encounter, more willing to suck it up in situations where my anger would only make matters worse... because of my belief in and understanding of Jesus, why wouldn't I want to share that with others? Here's why:

Sharing and telemarketing are not the same thing. Offering insight and cramming advice down someone's throat are not the same thing. Giving freely because giving is the point and giving to earn brownie points with God are not the same thing. It's not a competition. Evangelical efforts must spring from joy, not duty, or some sense of a battle that must be won. Competing only shifts the emphasis back to ourselves. Did I make a difference today? Maybe not today. Maybe today was someone else's day. Get over it.

heads and tails

Human beings have purchased our ability to imagine the future with our peace of mind. To grow spiritually, we have to learn all over again what the animals already know, what we knew when we were little children: how to live in each moment as if it were our first and our last.
—Barbara Crafton

I was thinking about this quote a lot today. I agree. I can vividly recall too many times when I was in the midst of an enjoyable activity (or relationship) and totally spoiled it by imagining when it would be gone. I had no peace of mind then, found no pleasure in the present. Yet... It is only the "heads" side of the coin.

The "tails" side focuses not so much on the price we pay for being able to imagine our futures, but on the price we pay when we cannot.

To live in the moment with pain, fear, despair, can be next to impossible when there is no hope of a different or better future. I saw a movie once where it was said that a captured Maasai warrior would die in captivity because he could not envision a future time when he might be free. I have no idea if that was (or is) true, but the thought took hold of me then and I'm reminded of it now.

Hope involves imagination I think. It gives us the required motivation to envision a better world.

The three most difficult things?

Anthony de Mello has said, The three most difficult things for a human being are:
1. returning love for hate
2. including the excluded
3. admitting you are wrong

I can definitely get on board with the first one. Retaliation is my immediate desired response when I feel someone's hatred toward me. And of course hatred is a strong word. Watered down it can become dislike, disapproval, dismissal... all those "D" words that make us feel small and worthless, unloved and misunderstood. Returning neutrality for hate is the most I've ever been able to muster so far... I'm working on it.

Including the excluded is a bit easier, especially if you have a soft spot for the underdog, which I seem to have. Maybe it helps to have been the underdog enough times that to return the favor of inclusiveness is only fair. So the degree of difficulty on this one doesn't compute for me. I can see the truth of the statement in our society, though. "In" clubs, gated communities, private blogs... they all work in one way or another to shut out whoever we wish to exclude.

So what about the third one? I think most people like to be right. But liking to be right is like liking to sing on pitch... it doesn't always happen. I'm wrong a lot. so? It would be stupid for me to try to cover up those instances. I may be embarrassed. But embarrassment is highly overrated as a motivating factor. It only lasts as long as we want it to. Sure, you can nurse an embarrassing moment, brood over it... whip yourself into a humiliation frenzy if you want, but what's the point? Nobody cares but you. Nobody probably even remembers it but you.

What do you think? Did he leave something out?

a clone from a clone

Another blogger (I wasn't familiar with) recently commented on one of my posts. I followed the link to her blog and liked what I read there, so added her to my list of "To Read"s. This woman is Jewish and brings a unique perspective to her writing using the Hebrew language: words and translations. She does something a bit like my Sunday sermons, but with inspiration from her rabbi. Cool. That's how it works in the bloggy world... word of mouth through cyberspace. It's one of the things about our generation (and yes, I'm including myself here) that gives me hope.

My sisters and I watched a DVD this afternoon featuring several scholars who are offering a program on religion and violence at Trinity Institute. Three of our sisters are actually attending that conference. One of the interviews was with James Carroll, who wrote the bestseller: Constantine's Sword. I haven't read it yet, but it's on my list. One of the things he mentioned was "boundary setting" by the monotheistic religions... using the analogy that original sin is our tendency to differentiate ourselves at the expense of someone else. I am good/you are bad. I will go to heaven/you will be damned. He believes that these are boundaries which are finally (if slowly) breaking down. I hope he's right.

He talked about the language of our sacred texts... not that we need to change it, but that we need to read it in the light of historical context, not only the writer's context, but the context of subsequent generations of readers who shaped and reshaped the meanings that influence us today. Our challenge is to stay open to interpretations that will be relevant now.

I think a lot about the whole "God made humankind in his image" concept. In what way? Physicality? Intellect? Soul?

What we have done, is make God in our image instead... and there's been a horrendous degradation as a result... sort of like cloning from a clone. With each step from the original, you lose important pieces of the DNA. Because of our technology, we have learned how to successfully clone some things, and more are coming. It seems we ought to be able to reinterpret the language of our scripture in light of that new understanding. Most of the time we just use the old understanding to condemn the new technology.

Happy Birthday!

It's my daughter-in-law's thirty-seventh birthday... (the reason her blog 365 profile had her at already thirty-seven from the get go of January has to do with their calendar tracking software... by the month, which only requires a database of twelve instead of three hundred and sixty-six for every blogger that signs in with their date of birth.) Actually I just made that up. It sounds so logical and definitive, though, dontcha think? Maybe I should have been a political candidate instead of a nun.

But enough about me. My daughter-in-law is a unique blend of sarcastic/compassionate, cutting-edge/old-fashioned. Although she's much more computer literate than I, she still writes thank you notes in longhand on pretty note paper. Maybe she just does that for me, because she knows I appreciate it. And if she does, that's even more telling of her thoughtfulness.

She sent me a number of thoughtful gifts for Christmas... a book called Bad Habits, with pictures of nuns with hilarious captions. Oh, and a nun bowling game... the fireball from hell knocks over the ten little praying nuns. How many nuns you knock down indicates how awful your sins were. Of course I got a strike my first time, while all of the older sisters got gutterballs. It was supposed to be a game, not a fortune-teller. Oh... that's why I can't be a political candidate: my past would come back to haunt me. But enough about me.

My daughter-in-law didn't used to like me. Or at least I don't think she did. Maybe it had something to do with the letter I wrote her when she and my son broke up after several years together, and right before their intended wedding. I told her she was probably better off without him, that she should forget him and get on with her life.

Not that I don't totally love my son, I do. But at her age, I doubt I'd have had the hutzpah to take on a man with a genius brain and little common sense, a penchant for spending more than he could afford, who had a medical condition that required zombie-inducing drug therapy, and who could no longer have, nor did he want, more children.

Lucky for him (and me) she did not take my advice. Instead she hung in there. They got back together and eventually got married. She really loves my son. Which is not the only reason I love her, but it's a good one. Happy Birthday dear one, and many many more!!

I myself did not know him

John saw Jesus coming toward him and declared, "Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! This is he of whom I said, 'After me comes a man who ranks ahead of me because he was before me.' I myself did not know him; but I came baptizing with water for this reason, that he might be revealed to Israel." —John 1:29-31

There was a good bit more to today's Gospel lesson than that; but there's such a lot in those few words, I'm stopping there. This morning our celebrant pretty much placed his focus there too.

I myself did not know him. I used to think this was a really stupid thing for John to say... Jesus was his cousin; of course he knew him. They'd no doubt spent a zillion afternoons together during their growing up years, especially if the holy family made the trek to Jerusalem on an annual basis. I thought maybe he said it to squash any rumors that they (as cousins) might be in cahoots over the whole Messiah thing, but it was stupid nonetheless. Family ties are too easily traced.

Okay, I get it now. I was getting there, but this morning's sermon clinched it. Sure, he knew Jesus, but not until John saw the spirit descend and stay put did he know that Jesus was the one. In the movie The Matrix, everyone is all a dither over whether Neo is the "one". Morpheus is sure, the Oracle says no, and Neo, meanwhile, is trying to work it all out for himself.

I see a parallel (duh) with John and Morpheus, Jesus and Neo. John witnessed the sign... which our celebrant described: a "deep peace" that settled on Jesus after his baptism. The Gospel calls it "something like a dove" and he reminded us that the dove is, in fact, symbolic of peace. John is convinced. It will take Jesus a while longer... an agonizing soul-searching time in the desert, before he arrives at a similar conclusion.

Our celebrant took the concept of knowing even further. exploring the difference between knowing about and knowing... How well do we know Jesus? Who do we see when we picture him? How does he rank in our priorities? John said, "...he ranks ahead of me..."

Is that true for any of us?
We were asked to look deeply... to pay attention, to see past just-one-more-face-in-the-crowd. Until then, we all can truthfully say "I myself did not know him."

Starbucks and a haircut

I've been growing my hair for three and a half years. I haven't had hair this long since I was in my thirties. In fact it was never this long even then. But the organization that takes donated hair to make wigs for children with cancer, requires twelve inches. Two other sisters in my community have donated braids in the past... it seemed like a great idea.

Mine is going to an organization called Wigs for Kids out of Ohio. They are not the only non-profit that accepts donated hair, but they do accept gray hair... which mine obviously is. Locks of Love is another one, but they've received a lot of bad press over the fact that they actually sell much of the hair they receive, supposedly to cover "overhead" costs. Well overhead costs abound in any non-profit organization, and the actual making of a wig requires a lot more hair than you'd think. Wigs for Kids suggests about twenty to thirty ponytails go into each wig and the production cost is about $1,500.

My braid comes to thirteen inches, and I believe it's part of the reason I've had so many headaches lately... all that weight pulling on my head. I remember getting hair cuts in the past that relieved my headache problems then, so why not now?

This morning I woke up with another splitting killer and could not drag my sorry butt out of the bed in time for Morning Prayer. When I finally stumbled into the shower at 9:00 I was still feeling the effects. I hoped all that steam would help. It didn't. Caffeine didn't either. At ten o'clock I called the hairdresser. I walked in at 10:45 and out again at 11:20, shorn like the proverbial sheep. Yes!! Next stop: Starbucks, for a real dose of caffeine. I feel lightheaded and wired... a good combination. Yep, I feel better already :)

Which Spice Are You?

This test compliments of Tandania's blog:

Your Score: Poppy Seeds

You scored 75% intoxication, 50% hotness, 50% complexity, and 75% craziness!

You are Poppy Seeds!
You seem innocent enough, but you're dangerous. You sneak up on people with your seductive ways, hiding in plain sight. When you grow to your full potential, those who really get to know you just can't leave you alone - they're hooked for life.

Link: The Which Spice Are You Test written by jodiesattva

I scored as poppy seeds when I took this test. I went back later and took it again, with exactly the same answers to exactly the same questions... and I scored as cardamom. Hmmm. Not that I don't like cardomom. But what's that about? Now my faith in online quizzes is totally shattered. Lucky for me my faith in other things is a bit more relevant to the life I lead.

A priest friend of mine delivered a hilarious homily at my life profession service last month. He compared me to Cyrano de Bergerac. He went on to assure everyone that it wasn't so much my nose as my panache that he was comparing.

Panache... wikipedia says that Panache is a French word for which there is no English equivalent, but carries the connotation of a flamboyant manner and reckless courage. Most of my friends agree that the term fits. I swallow uncomfortably at that, at least at the flamboyant part. The public persona never quite matches the personal interior self image. I was not a pretty or popular child. I look back on old elementary school photos and want to gag. Ordinary, dowdy, ugly duckling, tentative, easily inhibited... those were words I'd have used to describe my public face. Somewhere along the line I grew up... if not into a swan, at least into some bright parakeet. Who knew?

The reckless courage came much later too. Years of emotional abuse fueled by self doubt left me not knowing who I was or what I believed. I had an opportunity to start over pretty much from scratch, and while it was an arduous trek, it was worth the effort. Lots of bumps and bruises along the way... partly because I'm naturally clumsy, partly because I courted the dangerous. So here I am... a nun.

In his homily, he asked "why... this... now?"
Oh hell, why not?

where are you staying?

When Jesus turned and saw John's disciples following, he said to them, "What are you looking for?" They said to him, "Rabbi" (which translated means Teacher), "where are you staying?" He said to them, "Come and see." They came and saw where he was staying, and they remained with him that day. (John 1.38-39)

This passage from John always makes me wonder... was that really what was said in that interchange? Was it translated badly?

If someone asks me what I'm looking for I might say "I'm not sure" but I doubt I'd say "Where are you staying?" What does that mean? And what does it have to do with anything? Are you staying at the Plaza or the homeless shelter or a friend's apartment? Why did they care where he was staying? Would it make a difference?

Of course I have no answers, only the recorded dialog. Jesus seemed to understand the question because he told them to come see for themselves, which apparently they did. And, apparently wherever it was suited them because they hung around all day. Another Gospel mystery to put on my list of things to ask about when I die.

what day is it anyway?

Like most people, we sisters can get a bit mixed up. Not just the aging ones either, although their sense of time is way off the scale. "What day is it anyway? is always a good conversation starter... again and again throughout the same day. Yesterday's timing was funny... though quite logical in its outcome.

We were scheduled to celebrate a memorial at mass to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. February 15th was his birthday. The sister at Morning Prayer misread the ordo and read his collect instead of the correct one for Epiphany. However, the sister who sets up the priest's books for mass had marked the collect for Martin Luther (aka Father of the Protestant Reformation) instead of Martin Luther King. Okay, we got to hear the right prayer, just not at the right time.

Next, the priest appeared in the crimson vestments of the martyred saints. Well... that makes sense in a way. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated; he just hasn't been declared a saint. The correct color would have been white if we'd been celebrating a feast day (which we weren't) or green for a regular mass.

This kind of attention to detail could be considered one of those hills of beans we protect and defend so violently. Does God care what color the priest wears to celebrate the mass or does God want us to love each other and cut each other some slack? Yet for some sisters there is a right way to do things... by the book, and the book says...

It won't help that next Monday will be the national holiday for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (which, by the way, will be the 13th anniversary of my move to New York City.)

fragments

... Jesus went largely unnoticed during his lifetime. His closest friends were perplexed by him. John the Baptist was raising questions many months after baptizing Jesus. His impact hadn't been a blinding revelation, but a gradual, grudging discovery of fragments.

I believe that the more typical pathway to faith and new life is a journey of many steps, many false starts, many small victories over self, and a gradual embracing of God as God is. —Tom Erich

That certainly makes sense to me. Especially the gradual, grudging part. Especially the false starts and small victories part. Much as it might be cool to have a "Road to Damascus" revelation, it ain't going to happen for most of us. Experiencing God in the little ordinary moments is when I usually find strength to go on.

Last night I had supper in a little Indian restaurant a few blocks from our convent. It was Monday and a quiet night. Five-thirty is early for New York diners; nobody was in there but me. Yet the food was spectacular, the best sag I've eaten in a long time, maybe ever. I sat all by myself by the window, enthralled by the twinkling little white lights, the cut-out doilies on the tables, and the excellent food. Why was I the only one there? Shouldn't someone tell the world what a good place to eat this was?

Soft Indian music played in the background and I savored the quiet as well as the food. No more questions, no more worries... just the fragments... reminders that I don't have to fix the world. I don't even have to fix myself. Just take the precious moments when they come.

Oh, if you're ever on Broadway on the upper west side, Calcutta Cafe is at 105th. The best sag ever. (And they deliver.)

hills of beans

...it is old things we love to do. We love our habits: making the tea always in the same way, setting the table always in the same order, walking to the train station always by the same route. We rely on our homely traditions to calm ourselves, as if they had power against whatever damage we imagine the winds of change might do us. We become adamant about them, militant about preserving things that don't amount to a hill of beans... —Barbara Crafton

I had a friend, (now deceased) who used to be like that. He got up at the same time every morning, drove to work by the same route, always made a tuna sandwich for lunch; he liked his habits. He could also be very rigid in his thinking, taking in new information at a snail's pace (if at all). I used to tease him, smugly imagining myself superior in some way. At the time I believed myself open to change, new things.

I'm thinking a little deeper about Barbara's words now. The truth is: it's okay to try new things as long as it's me doing whatever's new. If someone else does a new thing, it's suspect; if I do it, it's innovation. How lopsided is that? So... time to rethink my responses to other people's new ideas. How irritating.

And when God does a new thing... you'd better take cover because it will hit the fan! In the two thousand years since Jesus actually dwelt among us, we've enshrined his legend and our stories about him... to the point he'd probably not recognize himself. We forget he was the revolutionary and his radical ideas were never embraced.

Tradition (for its own sake) abounds in the church at large, but it's even more evident in the monastic life. Each new person coming in has to walk the tightrope, finding that precarious balance between the way we've always done it and the way that makes more sense. In our convent, how we do things is sometimes dictated by the failing capabilities of our elderly sisters. Relaxing the arduous schedule to match their energy levels has been a plus for all of us. We get an extra half hour of sleep in the morning and if we want it, an extra two hours at night. Sisters used to be dead on their feet and still expected to show up for every single Daily Office. It was called asceticism... and highly prized.

Personally, my ability to be generous and forgiving is directly proportional to the amount of rest I've had. Too little rest means too little forgiveness. Not exactly what I imagine Jesus had in mind for those who would be his followers.

Baptism of Jesus

This year's reading about Jesus' baptism comes from Matthew. Of the three Gospels, it is my least favorite... for a number of reasons. On the other hand, it's the one we all remember because of the dialog.

Then Jesus came from Galilee to the Jordan to be baptized by John. But John tried to deter him, saying, "I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?" Jesus replied, "Let it be so now; it is proper for us to do this to fulfill all righteousness." Then John consented. As soon as Jesus was baptized, he went up out of the water. At that moment heaven was opened, and he saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and lighting on him. And a voice from heaven said, "This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased." —Matthew 3: 13-17

As Tom Erich said in a recent meditation: "...this isn't Jesus speaking, this is the author. Language like this isn't the language of an unlettered Jewish carpenter. Read the plain talk of the Beatitudes if you want to hear what Jesus actually sounded like. This is Matthew trying to put John the Baptist in an inferior place."

I actually posted a year ago with a new piece of artwork. Of course the point for me was partly the artwork. I'd worked hard on that particular piece... using a variety of images of the actual Jordan river to create my background. But today, our celebrant read the Gospel slowly, with a certain inflection that supported his sermon about decisions.

All discourse over whether John said this or Jesus said that was omitted. The focus was on the decision. Jesus decided to make the trip all the way from Galilee to the Jordan. No short distance in that time. He decided to be baptized by John. His cousin, and at that point, the leading contender for the heavyweight title "Messiah."

Jesus had an experience during that baptism that changed his direction. Whether the baptism itself was a symbol that he was already making this change, or whether he actually got the message then and there is not clear. But as John preached repentance, repent he did. He turned right around and went his own way. He would not be John's disciple after all. He would be his own man. God's own man.

Our celebrant asked us to think back on the decision-making moments in our own lives. He asked us to remember that those moments, no matter how magnificent at the time, are not enough; that we (like Jesus) must keep finding a way to say "yes" again and again.

Not-the-brightest-crayon-in-the-box

Okay, so today I finally read the fine print in the club rules and regulations for Blog 365. Whew. A reprieve. As long as I post to any one of my three blogs, it counts. Yes, I actually have three: this one for writing, Convicted for serious artwork, and If God Has a Funnybone for my cartoons.

I was beginning to worry about those cartoons anyway. I hadn't drawn a single one since before Christmas. Not that I don't have lots of ideas... ideas are not the problem. I have a little notebook with thoughts and snippets of conversation jotted down... somewhere. But cartooning, in and of itself, doesn't come natural to me. I can't just draw what I see in my head. I have to google lots of pictures of little kids doing various activities, and then trace the body shapes. I have a standard "look" for the face that I sort of made up, but that's the only thing I seem to be able to sketch by hand. In fact, it sometimes works backwards: I find an image I'd like to trace, and then I decide what the dialog will be.

Establishing the theme is key. Sometimes I get going on what I think the theme will be, and the cartoons grab me and march off in a totally new direction. That's exciting, but it may mean I've traced a whole lot of shapes for nothing. My first series: In the Beginning went off in a direction I never expected: it (sort of) started with the big bang. I was going to draw a whole lot of stuff relating to particle physics and the early formation of elements... right, that's real amusing. Instead, the Trinity emerged as three little boys and they took me on an extraordinary ride.

Their presence continued in the second series Creation which turned out not to be about creation at all... more about three little siblings establishing their own pecking order in the family dynamics. How would I know about sibling dynamics? I was an only child. Still, the little boys (one who insists on emphasizing a feminine aspect) helped me get their point across. What's next? I wonder. I have only one new theme in mind: an opening story about God and Lucifer. If that doesn't get me into hot water, nothing will.

Sometimes I draw nuns. I draw myself a lot, because I have a hard time with a lot of the Psalms we recite. (And we do recite them all... even the ugly ones... specifically the one about the joy of dashing babies' heads against rocks disgusts me, but I digress. ) Here's a sample: