Author Anne Lamott claims the two best prayers she knows are “help me, help me, help me” and “thank you, thank you, thank you.” How simple and complete these are.
Over the course of the past month or so, I have started a gratitude practice. This simply means that every night before I fall asleep I take the time to write down three things about the day that I am thankful for. The idea is to literally take the time to say: “thank you, thank you, thank you” in a very specific and intentional way.
At times, what or who I appreciate has been quite predictable: time spent with my nephews and niece, my dog, my friends, my students. Simple pleasures like a white chocolate mocha from Caribou, hot tubs, and The Bachelor. Beauty such as a starry night sky, an orange and pink sunset, and Lake Calhoun.
At other times, I have been surprised about what I have found to be thankful for. Like the day that I forgot my purse at work and had to drive all the way back from home to get it. That day I was thankful that such an inconvenience was the worst thing I had to complain about. There was also the day I was thankful for having the courage to talk to my supervisor about a desire I have; whether or not my petition was granted was irrelevant, I was simply grateful that I took action to ask. Last night I was thankful that before sharing a meal with friends, we took the time to hold hands and bless our food as well as those who go without; such a simple thing, and yet, so refreshingly comforting to me.
Some days it’s easy to be thankful: like the day that a stranger bought me breakfast when I didn’t have cash and the seller didn’t take credit. Some days it’s more of a challenge: such as the day when an old schoolmate got in a serious skiing accident and had to have his lower leg amputated. That day I was simply thankful that I have my health…. and I realized that that is something I take for granted all too often.
I’m not sure that saying “thank you” to God, to the universe, to the people, places, and events that make my life meaningful changes anything about the world around me. However, I do think it changes me. It is something I can control… and it helps me to look for the good. It helps me, as Oriah Mountain Dreamer says, to, “see beauty even when it is not pretty everyday.”
Upon reflection, I wonder how often I am vulnerable enough to say, “help me, help me, help me”. For the most part, I like to think that I have pretty good control over my life. I am a self-proclaimed “over-functioner”. This means that when the world seems to be falling apart, I don’t let myself fall apart with it… I keep on, keeping on. I go to work, pay my bills, walk my dog. I function.
Functioning is important. And yet, so is having the courage to admit, “I can’t do this all on my own” or better yet, “I don’t have to do this all on my own”. Sometimes we need to admit that we are lost, or confused, or scared, or sad or angry. Sometimes we need to ask for help with heavy, significant things that we are struggling to accept or navigate.
At other times, maybe we would do well to ask for help with little things: such as for patience when sitting next to particularly loud traveling companions on an airplane. We can close our eyes, breathe deep and say, “help me, help me, help me”.
And, at still other times, perhaps, we would do best to ask for help in receiving that which we most want out of life. St. Ignatius says that at the beginning of each prayer you should ask God, “for what I want and desire”. Sometimes we don’t realize what we want until we take the time to truly put it into words. Sometimes trusting the heavens to help us in our quest to find that which we truly desire is the best, and maybe only, thing we can do.
I’m sure that there are countless ways to pray and access the Divine. I know I have some favorites of my own. But I have to think there is something to what Anne Lamott has said.
I have to think that if the only prayers we ever said were, “thank you, thank you, thank you” and “help me, help me, help me,” frequently and sincerely, that those might just be enough.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Friday, March 9, 2012
To Confirm
One of my many roles in the parish in which I work is as Confirmation Coordinator. It is around this time each year that I find myself amidst preparing 75-85 adolescents for their Confirmation into the Catholic Church.
Admittedly, when I started in this position I did not have a very deep sense of what this sacrament is all about. Of course I had been confirmed myself and I had even been a sponsor on more than one occasion. Even so, its’ significance wasn’t much more to me than as a rite of passage.. something one does when they get to be about 15 or 16 if they plan to continue on their faith journey. It should not come as much of a surprise to me, then, that this is approximately the amount of knowledge and understanding that my students and their parents have about this sacrament as well.
It seems obvious that in order to teach, one has to know, and hence, my understanding and appreciation of this sacrament has grown immensely over the past four years. In coming to realize that Confirmation entails truly “confirming” one’s faith, it has been important to me that my students have a real understanding of what the faith is that they are confirming. It has become important to me that upon reaching their Confirmation day, my students are able to articulate how exactly their beliefs and values stand on their own, apart from the beliefs and values of their parents, Godparents, sponsors and even me. If confirmation is about a commitment to live out those values for the rest of their lives, I want my students to be sure that they are values which they freely and wholeheartedly choose to commit to.
This being my logic, we spend a good amount of time talking about faith; the real, personal, experienced faith of these young people. And, in order to talk about faith, it seems only natural to me to talk about doubt. Apparently this jump, what I’d call a step, to doubt, is concerning for others.
I have come to realize that many faithful adults are afraid of the word “doubt”. It almost feels as if people are concerned that God’s psyche is too fragile to handle our doubts and questions… that somehow through our searching we will offend God and lose God’s grace.
This trepidation became apparent to me early on in my ministry when I came across a parent who wondered why we didn’t confirm students when they were in eighth grade. The implication was, “why don’t we confirm students when they are younger, while we still have control over their lives”. I think many parents share this sentiment: that it would be better that we confirm our young people before they have a chance to think for themselves.. before they begin to question.. before they begin to have competing priorities.. before they get too busy for God. Even at 15 and 16, so many of my students admittedly still have no better reason to be confirmed than because “someone is making me”.
I understand the pull to get confirmed because “that’s what you do when you’re Catholic”. But, if that is our only reason, if we treat this sacrament entirely as a rite of passage, if we do it without thinking about why, or what we believe in, or how we mean to live it out in our lives, than it is no wonder that so many youth grow up to become adults who leave the Church. They leave the Church because they weren’t really “thinking for themselves” when they entered in the first place.
One of my favorite quotes on this subject is from Benedictine Sister, Joan Chittister:
All around me I see people, young and old alike, who have faith happening around them but not in them. I see people who are so scared to doubt, that when pressed to justify their beliefs they have no better response than, “that’s what the Church teaches” without any real understanding of why or for what purpose. This kind of faith works for many people. But for others, at the “first crack in the edifice”.. the first time tragedy strikes.. the first time a loved one dies.. the first time they enter a philosophy class.. the first time they meet someone passionately invested in a faith other than their own.. and they’re gone.
I would rather that we invite and even encourage deep personal reflection, replete with doubts. I would rather we take the chance that in so doing, some people may walk away, but more will “forge a stronger, not a weaker belief system”. When I look around the world, I am convinced that we need less lukewarm believers and more people wholeheartedly confirmed in a faith of hope, compassion, love, and justice.
When I look at my young people, I pray that they have the courage not merely to “conform”, to accept truth as it comes to them, but instead to “confirm”… to confirm truths that are true for themselves not simply for someone else.
Admittedly, when I started in this position I did not have a very deep sense of what this sacrament is all about. Of course I had been confirmed myself and I had even been a sponsor on more than one occasion. Even so, its’ significance wasn’t much more to me than as a rite of passage.. something one does when they get to be about 15 or 16 if they plan to continue on their faith journey. It should not come as much of a surprise to me, then, that this is approximately the amount of knowledge and understanding that my students and their parents have about this sacrament as well.
It seems obvious that in order to teach, one has to know, and hence, my understanding and appreciation of this sacrament has grown immensely over the past four years. In coming to realize that Confirmation entails truly “confirming” one’s faith, it has been important to me that my students have a real understanding of what the faith is that they are confirming. It has become important to me that upon reaching their Confirmation day, my students are able to articulate how exactly their beliefs and values stand on their own, apart from the beliefs and values of their parents, Godparents, sponsors and even me. If confirmation is about a commitment to live out those values for the rest of their lives, I want my students to be sure that they are values which they freely and wholeheartedly choose to commit to.
This being my logic, we spend a good amount of time talking about faith; the real, personal, experienced faith of these young people. And, in order to talk about faith, it seems only natural to me to talk about doubt. Apparently this jump, what I’d call a step, to doubt, is concerning for others.
I have come to realize that many faithful adults are afraid of the word “doubt”. It almost feels as if people are concerned that God’s psyche is too fragile to handle our doubts and questions… that somehow through our searching we will offend God and lose God’s grace.
This trepidation became apparent to me early on in my ministry when I came across a parent who wondered why we didn’t confirm students when they were in eighth grade. The implication was, “why don’t we confirm students when they are younger, while we still have control over their lives”. I think many parents share this sentiment: that it would be better that we confirm our young people before they have a chance to think for themselves.. before they begin to question.. before they begin to have competing priorities.. before they get too busy for God. Even at 15 and 16, so many of my students admittedly still have no better reason to be confirmed than because “someone is making me”.
I understand the pull to get confirmed because “that’s what you do when you’re Catholic”. But, if that is our only reason, if we treat this sacrament entirely as a rite of passage, if we do it without thinking about why, or what we believe in, or how we mean to live it out in our lives, than it is no wonder that so many youth grow up to become adults who leave the Church. They leave the Church because they weren’t really “thinking for themselves” when they entered in the first place.
One of my favorite quotes on this subject is from Benedictine Sister, Joan Chittister:
The problem with accepting truth as it comes to us rather than truth as we divine it for ourselves is that it’s not worth dying for—and we don’t. It becomes a patina of ideas inside of which we live our lives without passion, without care. This kind of faith happens around us but not in us-we go through the motions. The first crack in the edifice and we’re gone. The first chink in the wall of the castle keep and we’re off to less demanding fields. Doubt, on the other hand, is the mother of conviction. Once we have pursued our doubts to the dust, we forge a stronger, not a weaker belief system. These truths are true, we know, because they are now true for us rather than simply for someone else.
All around me I see people, young and old alike, who have faith happening around them but not in them. I see people who are so scared to doubt, that when pressed to justify their beliefs they have no better response than, “that’s what the Church teaches” without any real understanding of why or for what purpose. This kind of faith works for many people. But for others, at the “first crack in the edifice”.. the first time tragedy strikes.. the first time a loved one dies.. the first time they enter a philosophy class.. the first time they meet someone passionately invested in a faith other than their own.. and they’re gone.
I would rather that we invite and even encourage deep personal reflection, replete with doubts. I would rather we take the chance that in so doing, some people may walk away, but more will “forge a stronger, not a weaker belief system”. When I look around the world, I am convinced that we need less lukewarm believers and more people wholeheartedly confirmed in a faith of hope, compassion, love, and justice.
When I look at my young people, I pray that they have the courage not merely to “conform”, to accept truth as it comes to them, but instead to “confirm”… to confirm truths that are true for themselves not simply for someone else.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Genius
Recently I listened to a TED talk where author Elizabeth Gilbert explained the genesis of the word genius (http://www.ted.com/talks/elizabeth_gilbert_on_genius.html). She talked about how in ancient Rome people were described as “having a genius” not “being a genius”.
A “genius” to be had was something outside oneself; some deeper inspiration with almost a divine like quality which could inhabit a person and manifest itself through moments of marvelous creativity or wisdom. Thus great poets, and philosophers, and dancers, etc. were considered to have a “genius”.. a spirit which moved through them and used them as the vessel for something beautiful and otherworldly.
Through history, however, we began to think of people as being geniuses rather than having them. We placed the human on a pedestal as the essence of supreme intelligence, rationality, and creativity, instead of merely the vessel for them. In turn, we have both lost some of our humility and placed ourselves under an almost unachievable amount of pressure. In forgetting to praise the gifts of divine inspiration and intuition, we’ve closed ourselves off from inviting them into our being. We’ve lost our connection to the sacred inner soul that connects us all.
It’s interesting that Albert Einstein, undoubtedly one of the greatest “geniuses” ever to exist, once said: “The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.”
I can’t help but think how true that is. Our rational mind is supposed to be something that serves our intuition, our conscience, the divine energy that rests within us. Instead, we are conditioned to believe that we must suppress our emotions, our gut feelings, and be “rational”. I wonder how much we lose and miss in the process.
If Einstein is correct, then our intuitive mind is a gift, a genius that we are blessed to carry. Our intuitive mind is supposed to free us to live this life with greater ease and authenticity. It helps us direct our rational mind into doing those things which will be most life-giving, fruitful, and meaningful for us. When we forget that, then we risk losing our passion and joy in efforts to do only what we are “supposed to”, what is “logical”.
Our rational mind serves a necessary purpose: it helps us to function successfully in the world. Often times it protects us and gives us defined boundaries within which to act and be. But the truth is that sometimes what is most healing for us, what we deeply need, what will bring us life, isn’t necessarily rational. Just as much as our rational mind serves a distinct purpose, it also has the propensity to stifle creativity and movement.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s not why people hold so tightly to long held beliefs about society, and politics, and God. All around me I listen to people fight about the economy, and homosexuality, and rights for the poor. And I think it makes sense that so many people struggle to uphold the way things have always been. Our rational mind tells us:
It makes sense to think like that. It’s safe. It’s rational. It serves to provide us with known boundaries within which to exist.
And yet, how many of us are quieting our intuitive mind in order to live like this? I feel confident in saying that my intuition, at least, tells me:
My fear is that if we stop honoring the genius that deigns to visit us from time to time, then maybe, eventually, it will stop visiting. My fear is that if we don’t stop honoring the servant and forgetting the gift, then the gift might disappear altogether.
So today, for my part, I choose to honor the sacred gift of my intuitive mind. I choose to appreciate the genius who periodically shows up within me to offer me guidance, and creativity, and wisdom.
I choose to say, "Thank you, thank you, thank you," over and over again.
A “genius” to be had was something outside oneself; some deeper inspiration with almost a divine like quality which could inhabit a person and manifest itself through moments of marvelous creativity or wisdom. Thus great poets, and philosophers, and dancers, etc. were considered to have a “genius”.. a spirit which moved through them and used them as the vessel for something beautiful and otherworldly.
Through history, however, we began to think of people as being geniuses rather than having them. We placed the human on a pedestal as the essence of supreme intelligence, rationality, and creativity, instead of merely the vessel for them. In turn, we have both lost some of our humility and placed ourselves under an almost unachievable amount of pressure. In forgetting to praise the gifts of divine inspiration and intuition, we’ve closed ourselves off from inviting them into our being. We’ve lost our connection to the sacred inner soul that connects us all.
It’s interesting that Albert Einstein, undoubtedly one of the greatest “geniuses” ever to exist, once said: “The intuitive mind is a sacred gift and the rational mind is a faithful servant. We have created a society that honors the servant and has forgotten the gift.”
I can’t help but think how true that is. Our rational mind is supposed to be something that serves our intuition, our conscience, the divine energy that rests within us. Instead, we are conditioned to believe that we must suppress our emotions, our gut feelings, and be “rational”. I wonder how much we lose and miss in the process.
If Einstein is correct, then our intuitive mind is a gift, a genius that we are blessed to carry. Our intuitive mind is supposed to free us to live this life with greater ease and authenticity. It helps us direct our rational mind into doing those things which will be most life-giving, fruitful, and meaningful for us. When we forget that, then we risk losing our passion and joy in efforts to do only what we are “supposed to”, what is “logical”.
Our rational mind serves a necessary purpose: it helps us to function successfully in the world. Often times it protects us and gives us defined boundaries within which to act and be. But the truth is that sometimes what is most healing for us, what we deeply need, what will bring us life, isn’t necessarily rational. Just as much as our rational mind serves a distinct purpose, it also has the propensity to stifle creativity and movement.
Sometimes I wonder if that’s not why people hold so tightly to long held beliefs about society, and politics, and God. All around me I listen to people fight about the economy, and homosexuality, and rights for the poor. And I think it makes sense that so many people struggle to uphold the way things have always been. Our rational mind tells us:
This is the way we have always done things, we have done them for a reason. And, this is the way we have always believed, we have believed this way for a reason. We are the genius and so we know, this is the way the world works.
It makes sense to think like that. It’s safe. It’s rational. It serves to provide us with known boundaries within which to exist.
And yet, how many of us are quieting our intuitive mind in order to live like this? I feel confident in saying that my intuition, at least, tells me:
Just because we have always done things this way, doesn’t mean it’s right. And just because this is the way we have always believed, doesn’t mean it’s true. This is not the way the world has to work; this is simply the way we choose to make the world work for us. We are not the geniuses, but sometimes we are gifted to have geniuses.
My fear is that if we stop honoring the genius that deigns to visit us from time to time, then maybe, eventually, it will stop visiting. My fear is that if we don’t stop honoring the servant and forgetting the gift, then the gift might disappear altogether.
So today, for my part, I choose to honor the sacred gift of my intuitive mind. I choose to appreciate the genius who periodically shows up within me to offer me guidance, and creativity, and wisdom.
I choose to say, "Thank you, thank you, thank you," over and over again.
Monday, February 13, 2012
Happy here, in the moment
I am not afraid to admit that one of my favorite movies is, “Reality Bites” starring Winona Rider, Ethan Hawk and Ben Stiller.
For those of you unfamiliar with this epic love story, towards the beginning of the movie, Winona’s character, Lelaina, is on a first date with Michael played by Ben Stiller. Towards the end of the date, Michael says, “do you ever have those moments in life where everything is OK? Do you know what I mean? Just for, like, one moment, everything is great.” Lelaina replies, “yeah... yeah. When you, like, catch yourself in a moment... and you're saying, wait, I'm happy here in the moment.” “Right. And then it just goes away really quickly.”
Well, I had one of those moments today.
It was about 6:30PM and I had just gotten home from a day of visiting family and running errands. It was my first full day off in over three weeks so I was understandably tired and slightly overwhelmed with life.
Despite feeling a bit run-down, I was excited to take my dog on a walk. Over the previous couple of hours it had started snowing, unexpectedly, and he loves the snow.
I got into the house, put down my groceries, turned the oven to pre-heat, and put Frost’s collar on so that we could venture outside.
As soon as we got outside, he literally started bounding across the driveway. As I quickly trailed along behind him, I paused a moment to take it all in. The sky was darkening; the air was refreshing and inviting. The snow was falling brilliantly and landing gracefully on top of trees and roofs and grass and asphalt.
Have you ever noticed how snow glitters like hundreds of diamonds scattered in every direction? Snow sparkles in the moon just as water glistens when captured in sunlight. And snow landing upon Frost’s white back made him glow like he was his own eternal being.
So, I walked along and I breathed in this immense beauty and I couldn’t help but think, “I’m happy. Wait, pay attention, in this moment, I’m truly happy.”
And I know that moments like those do pass all too quickly. Outside of that moment are all sorts of realities that I wouldn’t choose for myself if given the chance: like the fact that no matter how much I try to save, I always feel as if I am broke; or that I truly think our country might be falling apart and I have no idea what to do about it; or the acknowledgement that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and I am yet again single.
There are plenty of things to stress about or fight against.
But, despite all of that, tonight I caught myself in a moment of real clarity. I took a deep breath in and tried to catch a snowflake on my tongue. I walked confidently and comfortably and thought to myself: I am happy. I am okay.
Sometimes, that is all that you need to keep on keeping on, as they say. All you need is one moment to remind you that you are okay exactly as you are, where you are in life…. one moment of stillness and quiet amidst a world of movement and noise.
The truth is: I bet I have those moments more often than I realize. The failure is in taking the time to catch them.. to pause enough to notice and appreciate them. It seems so much easier to catch yourself in moments of pain, and disappointment, and fear.
It reminds me of something a friend said to me several years ago. I was complaining about not having the love relationship in my life that I wanted and he wisely responded, “You have an amazing love life, it’s just not the kind you’re looking for.” It was a reminder to me that instead of focusing on the one love relationship that I didn’t have, I could choose to focus on the many beautiful relationships I did have… the many people who did truly love me and whom I loved in return.
It’s the same with happy moments: we can choose to focus on all the things that don’t seem to be going right, or to focus on all of the things that are indeed good and beautiful and just as we feel they should be.
So, on this Valentine’s Eve, I am presented with a choice. And I choose to breathe in the deep, clean, crisp air of winter and smile in appreciation of my own amazing love life.
I choose to catch myself and say, “Wait, I’m happy here in the moment”.
For those of you unfamiliar with this epic love story, towards the beginning of the movie, Winona’s character, Lelaina, is on a first date with Michael played by Ben Stiller. Towards the end of the date, Michael says, “do you ever have those moments in life where everything is OK? Do you know what I mean? Just for, like, one moment, everything is great.” Lelaina replies, “yeah... yeah. When you, like, catch yourself in a moment... and you're saying, wait, I'm happy here in the moment.” “Right. And then it just goes away really quickly.”
Well, I had one of those moments today.
It was about 6:30PM and I had just gotten home from a day of visiting family and running errands. It was my first full day off in over three weeks so I was understandably tired and slightly overwhelmed with life.
Despite feeling a bit run-down, I was excited to take my dog on a walk. Over the previous couple of hours it had started snowing, unexpectedly, and he loves the snow.
I got into the house, put down my groceries, turned the oven to pre-heat, and put Frost’s collar on so that we could venture outside.
As soon as we got outside, he literally started bounding across the driveway. As I quickly trailed along behind him, I paused a moment to take it all in. The sky was darkening; the air was refreshing and inviting. The snow was falling brilliantly and landing gracefully on top of trees and roofs and grass and asphalt.
Have you ever noticed how snow glitters like hundreds of diamonds scattered in every direction? Snow sparkles in the moon just as water glistens when captured in sunlight. And snow landing upon Frost’s white back made him glow like he was his own eternal being.
So, I walked along and I breathed in this immense beauty and I couldn’t help but think, “I’m happy. Wait, pay attention, in this moment, I’m truly happy.”
And I know that moments like those do pass all too quickly. Outside of that moment are all sorts of realities that I wouldn’t choose for myself if given the chance: like the fact that no matter how much I try to save, I always feel as if I am broke; or that I truly think our country might be falling apart and I have no idea what to do about it; or the acknowledgement that tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and I am yet again single.
There are plenty of things to stress about or fight against.
But, despite all of that, tonight I caught myself in a moment of real clarity. I took a deep breath in and tried to catch a snowflake on my tongue. I walked confidently and comfortably and thought to myself: I am happy. I am okay.
Sometimes, that is all that you need to keep on keeping on, as they say. All you need is one moment to remind you that you are okay exactly as you are, where you are in life…. one moment of stillness and quiet amidst a world of movement and noise.
The truth is: I bet I have those moments more often than I realize. The failure is in taking the time to catch them.. to pause enough to notice and appreciate them. It seems so much easier to catch yourself in moments of pain, and disappointment, and fear.
It reminds me of something a friend said to me several years ago. I was complaining about not having the love relationship in my life that I wanted and he wisely responded, “You have an amazing love life, it’s just not the kind you’re looking for.” It was a reminder to me that instead of focusing on the one love relationship that I didn’t have, I could choose to focus on the many beautiful relationships I did have… the many people who did truly love me and whom I loved in return.
It’s the same with happy moments: we can choose to focus on all the things that don’t seem to be going right, or to focus on all of the things that are indeed good and beautiful and just as we feel they should be.
So, on this Valentine’s Eve, I am presented with a choice. And I choose to breathe in the deep, clean, crisp air of winter and smile in appreciation of my own amazing love life.
I choose to catch myself and say, “Wait, I’m happy here in the moment”.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Frost
I have a 75lb American White Shepherd name Frost. He’s big, white, furry and very loud. To pretty much everyone else in the world he’s a nuisance.. he’s invasive, annoying, anxious, and basically just too much for anyone to handle. At least once a month, someone asks me why I don’t just find another home for him. Why do I keep him? Sure, my life would be easier. It would be a lot simpler and less confined if I didn’t have another creature to take care of, especially one as large and difficult as he is. But here’s the thing….
Frost saves me. Daily. Sometimes life is crazy and uncontrollable. Sometimes the world is scary and not what you hoped for or expected. Sometimes you need someone to remind you that you are in fact not alone and that everything is going to be okay, after all.
For me, that someone is Frost. I keep him for the ten minutes every morning when he lies next to me, completely quiet and still. It’s the time when he licks my face and let’s me pet him. It’s the time where he reminds me that I am loved and that he has my back.
The last few years of my life have been full of unchartered territory. It’s been a time of growth and renewal; mistakes and confirmations. It’s been a time of reorienting myself to the world and regaining my footing.
Prior to that time was more confusion.. darkness… aloneness.. lostness. I keep Frost because during that time, he kept me sane. He reminded me what it was to care for another being. He reminded me what it meant to be in relationship. He assured me that I was indeed not alone.
There’s a cheesy quote that I happen to adore which says, “To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world." That’s how I feel about Frost.
He makes me feel like I am his world, and some days, that’s all I need to get up and continue functioning. That’s the presence and affirmation I need to open myself up to life, and love, and the world.
Of course, in the end, I also keep him because I know his failures are not his fault. He’s not well behaved, because I didn’t train him. He does whatever he wants, because I let him. And truly, I’m okay with that. We have a deal, Frost and I, he welcomes me and loves me unconditionally, and for that, I allow him leeway to be less constrained.. to be more like himself, and less like the confined version of himself that everyone else wants him to be.
That’s really the lesson that these last few years have taught me.. that there’s plenty of people in your life that are going to do what they can to mold you into the version of yourself that they like or can use best. And, your purpose is to do everything you can to ignore those voices (and sometimes commands) and do everything you can to be the best version of yourself that you like… that you can live with.
Frost and I have a deal. It’s to love each other unconditionally.. and to allow each other to be ourselves; truly and freely.
I like our deal and I don’t really care if anyone else gets it.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Machumane
Yesterday one of my students arrived in South Africa for her semester abroad. This of course makes me think about my semester abroad; my four months spent living in Africa. Today, I remember the time I met a Sangoma.
A Sangoma is a witch doctor. For most Americans, the closest we will ever come to meeting a witch doctor is seeing one on t.v. ... in which case we will most likely assume that he or she is crazy, or uneducated, or a con-artist. This, at least, is what I would have thought until I met Machumane. I met Machumane after having lived in South Africa for just over three months. During that time I had learned to let go of most of my expectations and ideas about the way the world works and what truth and normalcy are. I am telling you this simply so that you understand that when I met her, I was more disposed to be open to her than I would have been even a short time earlier. This being the case, I fully understand if you now reading this think I am crazy for telling you that I once met a witch doctor and I believed her.
Machumane received a calling to be a traditional healer when she was seven years old. Receiving a calling is not like choosing to be a teacher or a lawyer; there is less choice involved, less freedom. In fact Machumane tried to refuse her calling, which she received in a dream, but became very ill until she gave in and began training. She trained until she was sixteen at which point she "pumered" or became an official Sangoma. When I met Machumane we were both twenty. I was a liberal arts student from a private school in central Minnesota and she was an African witch doctor: clearly we had much in common.
The night we met, Machumane was to dance herself into a trance so that she could communicate to her ancestors for advice and guidance in regards to healing a member of her tribe. Machumane's colors are red and white. She wears red and white beads around each wrist and ankle, around her neck. Her hair is laced with what appears to be a mane of red and white beads. Around her waist is wrapped a skirt of dangling pieces of fabric; around her ankles she wears rattles made out of beer bottle caps.
Machumane begins with burning a plant that is supposed to ward of evil spirits and promote a positive atmosphere. The dance begins with drums, a horn, and a chorus of voices. Apparently Machumane's is a particularly musical family meaning that her trance utilizes more music than most. She cannot get into the dance without the drums. This means that if she wakes up in the middle of the night and needs to do a dance, her family wakes up with her to bang the drums. Everywhere I look in this cow-dunned hut, there are kids. This is Africa where your niece is your daughter and your cousin your brother. With so many children running around and joining the music, it is impossible to tell who belongs to who. I think it is because here, everyone belongs to everyone.
The actual dance is hard to follow. Here is this woman, entirely in her own element, gallivanting around this kitchen hut, marching, kicking, skipping to the beat, and it is hard not to acknowledge that she and this are beyond words. She is moving to the rhythm in her head.. to the voices and spirits inside of her. They are leading her steps and her music. At times, she puts down her hands and gets quiet. She kneels on the floor and begins a call and answer session with the audience. She is calling for the ancestors. She gets up and begins again with new energy and song. And the trance goes on like this for over an hour. Sometimes she is weeping, at others, she is obviously rejoicing. And the drums, the horn, the singing and the dancing continue on. Eventually, Machumane casually bends over and begins to release the rattles at her feet. We are told it is over.
I don't have a clue what the words that were sung and spoken meant. I don't know what a trance feels like or what she dreams and how she heals people. I do know that this is a deeply prevalent part of their culture. It is something they believe in wholeheartedly. It is an honor to have this call; to be this person in their society. And to them, this dance, this trance, is normal. This is their everyday.
This is their everyday and it is so far from my everyday it is unbelievable, there is little comparison. I try to dance with them. I am clumsy. My feet don't move in that way; my body doesn't flow naturally to that rhythm. I look awkward and out of place. And then, suddenly, without even realizing it, I am singing along. I know this song. I am in Africa, in a hut, dancing wildly and foolishly with the friends and family of a local witch doctor, and I know the words to the song... "Shosholoza." Echo, "Shosholoza" .. it's about a train coming from South Africa. That is all I know, but it is enough to be really and truly a part of this moment here and now, to feel completely and utterly at home, in my own element.
The next day I eat lunch at Machumane's hut. She cooks chicken and cabbage; it is delicious. Because of this, I spend the next three days with the most wretched food poisoning I have ever experienced in my life. I have never before nor since felt so much like my body was rejecting itself in its' totality. The food poisoning in conjunction with the captivating quality of Machumane's dance is a perfect metaphor for my entire experience of Africa. Africa to me is a combination of opposites: pain and healing, love and hate, sickness and life, the beautiful and the ugly... dancing and retching.
Africa to me is more than words can describe. Today, I hope that my student can find as much wisdom and life there as I did. Today, I hope that somewhere, Machumane is thriving, living her call, dancing to drums.
A Sangoma is a witch doctor. For most Americans, the closest we will ever come to meeting a witch doctor is seeing one on t.v. ... in which case we will most likely assume that he or she is crazy, or uneducated, or a con-artist. This, at least, is what I would have thought until I met Machumane. I met Machumane after having lived in South Africa for just over three months. During that time I had learned to let go of most of my expectations and ideas about the way the world works and what truth and normalcy are. I am telling you this simply so that you understand that when I met her, I was more disposed to be open to her than I would have been even a short time earlier. This being the case, I fully understand if you now reading this think I am crazy for telling you that I once met a witch doctor and I believed her.
Machumane received a calling to be a traditional healer when she was seven years old. Receiving a calling is not like choosing to be a teacher or a lawyer; there is less choice involved, less freedom. In fact Machumane tried to refuse her calling, which she received in a dream, but became very ill until she gave in and began training. She trained until she was sixteen at which point she "pumered" or became an official Sangoma. When I met Machumane we were both twenty. I was a liberal arts student from a private school in central Minnesota and she was an African witch doctor: clearly we had much in common.
The night we met, Machumane was to dance herself into a trance so that she could communicate to her ancestors for advice and guidance in regards to healing a member of her tribe. Machumane's colors are red and white. She wears red and white beads around each wrist and ankle, around her neck. Her hair is laced with what appears to be a mane of red and white beads. Around her waist is wrapped a skirt of dangling pieces of fabric; around her ankles she wears rattles made out of beer bottle caps.
Machumane begins with burning a plant that is supposed to ward of evil spirits and promote a positive atmosphere. The dance begins with drums, a horn, and a chorus of voices. Apparently Machumane's is a particularly musical family meaning that her trance utilizes more music than most. She cannot get into the dance without the drums. This means that if she wakes up in the middle of the night and needs to do a dance, her family wakes up with her to bang the drums. Everywhere I look in this cow-dunned hut, there are kids. This is Africa where your niece is your daughter and your cousin your brother. With so many children running around and joining the music, it is impossible to tell who belongs to who. I think it is because here, everyone belongs to everyone.
The actual dance is hard to follow. Here is this woman, entirely in her own element, gallivanting around this kitchen hut, marching, kicking, skipping to the beat, and it is hard not to acknowledge that she and this are beyond words. She is moving to the rhythm in her head.. to the voices and spirits inside of her. They are leading her steps and her music. At times, she puts down her hands and gets quiet. She kneels on the floor and begins a call and answer session with the audience. She is calling for the ancestors. She gets up and begins again with new energy and song. And the trance goes on like this for over an hour. Sometimes she is weeping, at others, she is obviously rejoicing. And the drums, the horn, the singing and the dancing continue on. Eventually, Machumane casually bends over and begins to release the rattles at her feet. We are told it is over.
I don't have a clue what the words that were sung and spoken meant. I don't know what a trance feels like or what she dreams and how she heals people. I do know that this is a deeply prevalent part of their culture. It is something they believe in wholeheartedly. It is an honor to have this call; to be this person in their society. And to them, this dance, this trance, is normal. This is their everyday.
This is their everyday and it is so far from my everyday it is unbelievable, there is little comparison. I try to dance with them. I am clumsy. My feet don't move in that way; my body doesn't flow naturally to that rhythm. I look awkward and out of place. And then, suddenly, without even realizing it, I am singing along. I know this song. I am in Africa, in a hut, dancing wildly and foolishly with the friends and family of a local witch doctor, and I know the words to the song... "Shosholoza." Echo, "Shosholoza" .. it's about a train coming from South Africa. That is all I know, but it is enough to be really and truly a part of this moment here and now, to feel completely and utterly at home, in my own element.
The next day I eat lunch at Machumane's hut. She cooks chicken and cabbage; it is delicious. Because of this, I spend the next three days with the most wretched food poisoning I have ever experienced in my life. I have never before nor since felt so much like my body was rejecting itself in its' totality. The food poisoning in conjunction with the captivating quality of Machumane's dance is a perfect metaphor for my entire experience of Africa. Africa to me is a combination of opposites: pain and healing, love and hate, sickness and life, the beautiful and the ugly... dancing and retching.
Africa to me is more than words can describe. Today, I hope that my student can find as much wisdom and life there as I did. Today, I hope that somewhere, Machumane is thriving, living her call, dancing to drums.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
I wonder...
Often I am reminded of a fudge selling man I met in South Africa named Keith. Upon leaving South Africa after four months, Keith told me, "That’s why you have four parts to your heart; so you can leave one here (Africa) when you go home.”
Almost seven years later, I have once again returned “home”, feeling as if I have left part of my heart behind. This time, I left it in Haiti. It’s an awful feeling, one that makes me almost physically sick. And yet, the pain and the longing are accompanied with gratitude. How grateful I am to have had this one, short week. How grateful I am to have met these people; to have found yet another beautiful place in which to leave a piece of my heart.
On my last plane ride home, I read Elle magazine. In it, Reese Witherspoon quoted Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare wrote, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love is deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have. For both are infinite.” I think that that almost perfectly describes this sort of blessing.
Yesterday morning I said good-bye to Alix, likely never to see him again. I have no picture to remember him by. I have nothing but the fading image in my head of him sleeping with his two forefingers in his mouth or his rare but captivating smile. A week ago, I had not met Alix. I wasn’t aware that he even existed. Without these days, I’m sure my life would have passed on without notice… I would not have felt the absence of his presence in my life. Now, I wonder how long I will worry about his continued existence.. about whether or not he continues to move and breathe and inhabit this same living world as me.
Alix is eight months old and he is sick. I watched as the Sisters struggled to put an IV into his tiny, fragile hands. His small body is too weak to sit up or stand or laugh. He is strong enough to eat, but not strong enough to keep the much needed nourishment inside of his failing body. I wonder if he’ll get better. I wonder if they’ll find a way to get his body to stop rejecting the very sustenance it needs to survive. And, if he does get well, I wonder if his young mother will have the means to take care of him anyhow.
Before I left him, all I could do was stroke his brow and offer him loving kindness:
May you be happy and peaceful.
May you be healthy and strong.
May you be safe and protected.
May you live your life with joy and ease.
That is all I could do. And, it has to be enough. It has to be enough or I won’t be able to fall asleep, or pay my bills, or go to work. How could anyone ever fall asleep in a world where helpless babies die daily if they couldn’t blindly trust that someway, somehow, everything was going to be okay?
I take a deep breath and realize that I am still trying to convince myself that everything is indeed going to be okay. Life is interesting. There are over six billion people on the planet and sometimes you can be surrounded by them and yet feel completely alone, lost, hopeless. At other times, you can be so close to just one person, one little Alix in your arms, that you can block the whole rest of the world out and rest assured that even if you were the only two living beings on the planet, all would be well. Your love would be infinite and you would never be alone.
As I descended into the Twin Cities, I noticed how the city lights sparkled like stars. In one day, I left mountains, and sunlight, and warmth to find flat lands, artificial light shining amidst natural darkness, and cold. It’s weird to think that all of this exists in the same world, the same life, the same day. I wonder exactly how this came to be my plot.. my tiny.. short.. fleeting.. beautiful.. deep place in this huge, never-ending universe. I wonder how Alix’s plot came to be his.
I wonder a lot of things.
Almost seven years later, I have once again returned “home”, feeling as if I have left part of my heart behind. This time, I left it in Haiti. It’s an awful feeling, one that makes me almost physically sick. And yet, the pain and the longing are accompanied with gratitude. How grateful I am to have had this one, short week. How grateful I am to have met these people; to have found yet another beautiful place in which to leave a piece of my heart.
On my last plane ride home, I read Elle magazine. In it, Reese Witherspoon quoted Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare wrote, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love is deep. The more I give to thee, the more I have. For both are infinite.” I think that that almost perfectly describes this sort of blessing.
Yesterday morning I said good-bye to Alix, likely never to see him again. I have no picture to remember him by. I have nothing but the fading image in my head of him sleeping with his two forefingers in his mouth or his rare but captivating smile. A week ago, I had not met Alix. I wasn’t aware that he even existed. Without these days, I’m sure my life would have passed on without notice… I would not have felt the absence of his presence in my life. Now, I wonder how long I will worry about his continued existence.. about whether or not he continues to move and breathe and inhabit this same living world as me.
Alix is eight months old and he is sick. I watched as the Sisters struggled to put an IV into his tiny, fragile hands. His small body is too weak to sit up or stand or laugh. He is strong enough to eat, but not strong enough to keep the much needed nourishment inside of his failing body. I wonder if he’ll get better. I wonder if they’ll find a way to get his body to stop rejecting the very sustenance it needs to survive. And, if he does get well, I wonder if his young mother will have the means to take care of him anyhow.
Before I left him, all I could do was stroke his brow and offer him loving kindness:
May you be happy and peaceful.
May you be healthy and strong.
May you be safe and protected.
May you live your life with joy and ease.
That is all I could do. And, it has to be enough. It has to be enough or I won’t be able to fall asleep, or pay my bills, or go to work. How could anyone ever fall asleep in a world where helpless babies die daily if they couldn’t blindly trust that someway, somehow, everything was going to be okay?
I take a deep breath and realize that I am still trying to convince myself that everything is indeed going to be okay. Life is interesting. There are over six billion people on the planet and sometimes you can be surrounded by them and yet feel completely alone, lost, hopeless. At other times, you can be so close to just one person, one little Alix in your arms, that you can block the whole rest of the world out and rest assured that even if you were the only two living beings on the planet, all would be well. Your love would be infinite and you would never be alone.
As I descended into the Twin Cities, I noticed how the city lights sparkled like stars. In one day, I left mountains, and sunlight, and warmth to find flat lands, artificial light shining amidst natural darkness, and cold. It’s weird to think that all of this exists in the same world, the same life, the same day. I wonder exactly how this came to be my plot.. my tiny.. short.. fleeting.. beautiful.. deep place in this huge, never-ending universe. I wonder how Alix’s plot came to be his.
I wonder a lot of things.
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