Third rebirth

WARNING:

To the faith folks: 

I'm often reluctant to write my thoughts on faith. I'm especially reluctant to invite some folks who might take offense and call me a heretic. After being away from my home church for a while and participating in other faith communities, I've been called "a lost sheep."  When visiting my home church people begin to give me impromptu lectures on not doing drugs--because of course, if I'm not attending their church I must be doing drugs! They may lay hands on me or give me that pity smile. 

I seldom take offense. I usually smile and nod. Having once been there myself, I may scrunch my eyebrows as though on the receiving end of some profound insight and utter a, "Hm" out of respect. I know it all comes from a good place. In fact, I used to be just like them, praying for the prodigal sons and daughters to come to their senses and return to the fold. 

So I know that blog posts like the one below are not for them. Their lens is pretty impenetrable for reasons that are too complicated to explain here; yet, understandable reasons. This post is more for my friends and for folks who have ventured out beyond the teachings they were given.  This is for folks who see God as a great mystery; who, like Kierkegaard, have dared to venture into the sea of 70, 000 fathoms; who have taken a leap of faith; who desire to practice a little epistemological humility. 

To the non-faith folks: 

On the other hand, I know some readers who have never stepped in a church might read this and ask, "Why faith?" "Is this conversation even relevant?" "Why even engage people who may liken you to sheep?" 

Such is the curse of having a foot into two worlds. You develop a particular language that borrows from two very different experiences. I can speak this language pretty freely with those who have borrowed from both camps as well. But when speaking to one camp or the other I sound like I've created a distortion or a mockery of their language. 

My encouragement to the camps on both extremes if you do decide to read this is to respect each person's journey and language.  To seek to understand before diagnosing. 

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.

Book of Hours, I 59

7/23/2013 

Atomic Cafe. 

At around 7:15am I passed the old Unitarian Church on Cabot Street in Beverly. A sign on the white chapel read,  "Sin is the wreckage of the love which we are capable." 

I repeated these words to myself over and over. The words resonated. Deep. As I listened intently to figure where they resonated and why, I made a realization:  Lately it feels as though life has carved out some sort of concave well in me.  The words sin is the wreckage of the love which we are capable echoed in that very concave space, bounced off the bare walls--almost as though the vibrations of which were announcing the coming of something new to fill the concave space. 

I've been thinking a lot about faith as of late. 

In my life I've experienced a few spiritual re-births. One occurred when I answered an altar call at 10 years old which set the tone and pace of the eight following years.  If I had to call this "tone" anything I would call it "over-eager." If I had to name it's hue I would say it was a fiery anxious red. And if I had to characterize the pace I would say it was faster than what my legs could support. Think Jesus Camp.

This re-birth also set my life on the course of a certain set of questions, a certain set of friends, a certain set of existential experiences and a certain set of tensions.  The way these questions, experiences and communities have panned out have far surpassed anything I could ever have predicted. 

The second life event that I identify as re-birth numero dos occurred in college and involved the leaving behind of an old community--at the very least a re-conceptualizing of an old community.  I no longer found the support and comfort I used to find there.  Feeling isolated and in the midst of despair, I grew out of it like one might grow out of one's favorite shirt. Painfully. Slowly. With some denial on the way. "But it's my favorite shirt! I can't throw it out!" I wore that shirt until the sleeves created little bulges around my arms and until the belly became full on exposed. Finally taking it off was the killer.  This re-birth happened with contractions, labor pains and all. But the result--Oh, the result! Was a freedom I could have never foreseen. Talk about seeing the light. 

The second re-birth was not uncommon for the Gordon College student--especially for the student of Sociology or Philosophy. However, I never did throw out the baby with the bath-water.

When all of my friends were watching their world-views crumble, throwing them into various levels of existential angst and identity crises, I was merely experiencing transition. I didn't exchange one worldview for another.This was not a trade. 

Simply, with new information, new experiences, unanswered prayers, answered prayers, new mentors, more color was gradually added to the canvas. As opposed to a darkening, mine was a more of a move towards something brighter, more nuanced, more complex. Taking elements from my hyper-fiery upbringing I created some post-Christian concoction. Like Anne Lammott says, “Mine was a patchwork God, sewn together from bits of rag and ribbon, Eastern and Western, pagan and Hebrew, everything but the kitchen sink and Jesus."

And yet there were a lot of aspects of my religious upbringing which I did discard during this time. And then again there were things I discarded while on the corrective which I later realized were overcorrections. So revisit and re-evaluate, I did. And then landed somewhere closer to the middle of two extremes. 

I'm feeling some labor pains now. I have a feeling a third rebirth is on the way. 

Out of all of the shows I have been to there are two that compete for best show on my list.  What do both of these have in common? They were both Sufjan shows. While I am inclined to say that the Xmas Sing-a-long show (or as Sufjan kept calling it, "Christmas Bipolar Disorder") that happened last night in Boston at the Royale was superior to the Age of Adz show at the Orpheum in 2010,  I can't necessarily say that with full confidence because of where I was standing/seated. This time I was right in front of the stage with plastic unicorns and santa clauses bouncing right over my head. Confetti and giant balloon-ball things rained over me and Sufjan Stevens himself  danced 6 feet away from where I stood in his balloon-made unicorn outfit. 

I was also pretty partial to the audience involvement both on stage and in song. I mean, Sufjan knows how small our attention span is. So instead of going the "just stand up there and sing, play and talk" route, he interspersed the more serious songs with crazy dancy songs during which Rosie Thomas would make random commentary. I mean, how funny was the Christmas madlibs portion she performed? 

And the Wheel of Christmas! Maybe I'm just a simple product of an entertainment crazed culture and far too easily entertained.  But I thought the idea of spinning a wheel while the audience cheered "WHEEL OF CHRISTMAS" and the band danced around and played music until the arrow landed on some Christmas song was pretty awesome. And, might I add, that the audience sounded pretty damn good. Must've been all of that practice in church.  I mean, I'm not lying when I say that the audience sounded like a legit choir when we sang "Come Thou Fount" acapella. People like knew the parts and stuff. Then again, anyone who knows me knows how much I love to sing, so I'm totally biased here. 

In any case, Mr. Stevens knows how to put on a show! While I love going to hear bands play and sing live, what makes a show different from playing your favorite songs on spotify or watching them on youtube is that you get a small chance to interact with the artist. Whether it's the anecdotes and personal tid bits they share between sets or a completely different rendition of a song you've heard a thousand times, its these personal touches that make a show special. 

Sufjan's Xmas Sing-A-Long was one gi-normous personal touch: The chicken-superman outfit, the santa clause,  the stories about his hippi parents exclusively feeding him okra and taking him on a cleansing diet while all of the kids got to eat sponge cake and candy.  On stage you get a feel for his sense of humor and who he is. You feel like you're getting to know him a little bit.   He even manages to make some serious statements about capitalism and its effect on Christmas in a light-hearted way that seems entirely appropriate and not too debby downerish.  He makes fun of himself and his bandmates and just overall has a good time. 

Sufjan's Christmas Sing A Long felt more like I was at a party with the guy and his band rather than just watching him sing. 

Unfortunately, the rinky dinky camera on my phone did not capture things all that well and some of the best parts of the show that I tried to record are too crappy to put on here, but I tried! Here's what I could salvage: 

Sunday morning

I spent most of Saturday hung over, intermittently going over to the yoga studio I work for, signing folks in for class, laying on the couch and then signing people in again.
When I finally got home for good I laid in bed with my computer and eventually went to sleep. For 12 hours.
Needless to say, I was up at 6:45 am.
My body felt creaky and my stomach, cramp-y. I was convinced I had colon cancer.
But I proceeded to make some eggs, coffee and a berry-mango smoothy. I cleaned our old-fashioned sink reluctantly, followed by our dirt-speckled window sills. They are white now.
While the thought of calmly reading crossed my mind coupled with the thought of driving to my favorite yoga class that I could actually be on time for this morning, I did something wholly unproductive instead.
I stewed and re-played painful memories of the last year at my job. I wrote mock emails to managers and directors in what I thought was a compassionate tone. And I did this with good intentions. I wanted them to know what was happening under their noses. I wanted some form of justice. And as I read and re-read these emails something didn't feel right.
Yes, I wanted justice. But I also wanted recognition. And this is pride. This is arrogance.
Sure, should the director know about the favoritism and all the under-the-bus throwing going on? Sure. But this is not the best way to go about it and the truth is he probably already knows. My complaints will, at most, make me seem exactly what I am. Prideful. And, at worst, a tattle-tale.
After an hour and some change, I've done nothing with my morning but stew in my thoughts, in my pride and in my pain with little to no results. Those emails will just sit in the draft folder of my gmail account until I rediscover them again in a year's time when none of it will matter any more.
Maybe some day I'll be in a more centered and balanced position. And I'll be able to tell these folks from a more calm and less judgmental place just how hurt and undervalued I felt. 

"So we have to be idealists in a way.....If you don't recognize a young man's will to meaning, man's search for meaning,  you make him worse, you make him dull, you make frustrated, you add and contribute to his frustration....If you presuppose in this man--in this so-called criminal or juvenile delinquent-- there must be a spark for meaning--let's recognize this, let's presuppose it and then you will elicit it from him and you will make him become what he is principally capable of becoming" 

So it's that time again. 

Every year around this time I write a sappy entry/poem about the crisp air and the earth tone palate of the fall. I usually try to describe the season by talking extensively about the insatiable desire for tea and all things pumpkin around September 21st. I get upset when the cool fall air is delayed by summer-like heat on September 6th. I get angry when the leaves delay turning orange because dammit! It's October, and the season might end before I can go on a few runs in the Gordon woods, host a poetry reading or two, knit, fill the kitchen with the smell of apple cider and cinnamon, go to an Apple Orchard in Ipswich, reminisce about my childhood, read Annie Dillard by a fire (in someone's house with a fire-place) and pretend that I like squash. 

Love, 

Ms. Sap

P.S. I'm so excited that autumn is upon us! 

Welfare Part II

"And what gets me so angry is those people in the welfare office who don't speak any English. Here I am actually needing the services and these people just live off of the system," she told me through tightened lips while punching her fist into her hand.
I searched through my rolodex and sticky notes for landlords that might have an apartment for her and her family.
And yes, I still use a rolodex.

"Well, good news! This landlord has an apartment in Lynn that is opening up in a few weeks."

-Oh, I don't want to live in Lynn.

-Okay....
I stare at her leopard-print bag.

We embark on one of my absolute favorite conversations to have.
"Yeah..," I say. "It's tough." "Some of these families are coming from the Congo, escaping wars, hunger, famine. Or some of the Haitian families escaping the devastation caused by the earthqu"--"Oh, well not them. That's understandable," she interrupts. "Most of them are--"
-"And some of the women fleeing domestic violence. I just saw a woman yesterday who's husband was beating her and she was coming to the welfare office in search of an alternative to the violence at home. She was from Dominican Republic and certainly doesn't speak English."
--Oh, yeah...not--
"And...I work with the Spanish-speaking clients and all of them want to work but can't learn English quickly enough to get a job, so it becomes this perpetual road block to getting a job," I interrupt.
"And of course, I have one client who totally admits to using the system."
--Yeah! It's ridiculous!
"But, you know, she grew up around people who were also on the system and did not know anything beyond livelihood outside of it. So yeah. I hear you. It's hard."

This woman came into our offices after having gone to the welfare office to apply for Emergency Assistance. Her house had been foreclosed on and she, her husband and her kids were living in a tent behind her mother's house. They are over-income for any of the State benefits and are very upset about the fact that they have too much income to benefit from the system. However, they are picky about location, what the apartment might look like--"All of the places we've seen for the past few months are either run down, they won't take us because of our credit, or won't take us because of our dog."

What I wanted to say was, "Well lady, for someone who is upset about living in a tent, your list of requirements for an apartment sure is long. Sounds like you might be a little bit entitled, no?" Secondly, "What part of Annery Miranda didn't you hear?  What did you expect for me to tell you? Yeah, those Spanish speakers really ride the system don't they?"

What actually came out of my mouth is, "Here are five different options for you to explore. I really recommend following through on Mahogany Properties (not the real name). They really take care of their properties and are great landlords. You want to ask for Lucinda (not her real name)"

-Thank you so much for your help. Finally someone helps us!

-Good luck on your search ma'am.

Take "I can't" out of your vocabulary?

This afternoon, after sorting through dozens of pages of repetitive paperwork, I found myself wandering through blogs in search of a motivational quote or two.  One particular blog post stood out, but not because of its motivational qualities, but because I think I disagreed. The blogger said that in order to be happy you must take the words "I can't" out of your vocabulary.

Hm...

The things is that my recent history has taught me that the words "I can't" can actually be powerful vehicles for transformation and self care. This is also coming from a person who heard inspirational phrases like these all of her life. "Never say 'I can't!" "You can be anything you want to be." "Sky is the limit."  My optimistic Cantabridgian teachers sewed seeds of ambition and pushed me to take Intensive Geometry in High School, for example, as opposed to a class I was actually prepared for.  In the name of "I can do anything I set my mind to" I studied for Intensive Geometry, went for additional tutoring in the mornings and sought help from my classmates, but I still got a D. The following year I enrolled in Algebra II & Trig., a class that was way more suitable for my math level. The class looked less impressive on a transcript, but I got an A.

This little math scenario, however, was not enough to dispel the myth that "I can do anything" is a full proof motivational tool. I went on to take even more ambitious classes, to increase my load of extracurricular activities from 6 to 8, to working two jobs while going to school full time and living off campus without a car.  "I can't" was definitely not in my vocabulary. I did all of these things in the name of the very ambition that was instilled in me as a child.

In the last few years I've come to realize very slowly that it is not enough to believe that you can do anything you set your mind to. You must also be aware of what tools you have to work with, what limitations you are up against, the nature of the challenge you are undertaking and what exactly it takes to succeed at whatever it is you plan on setting your mind to. How many of us have failed exams we stayed up all night studying for? Received D's on papers with five page-long bibliographies? If school taught me anything it was that hard work and setting my mind to something was not enough to get me the desired result.

In fact, it was only when I started saying "I can't" and understanding my limitations that I was able to accomplish the things I set out to do. For one, I stopped trying to please everyone around me by saying "yes" to every favor people asked of me. You will never satisfy them. Secondly, I started to tell people "this is what I have the tools to do and this what I need in order to get better at the task you are asking me to complete."  It's not that I was inherently bad at math. The problem was that in addition to my right-brained disposition, I didn't have a lot of rigorous math in grade school. The building blocks were simply not there. To tell me that if I put my mind to it I could understand geometry at an intensive level in one year was impossible. Now if you told me you were going to set me up on a plan to find out the exact places where I was missing vital math concepts, and you told me you were going to tutor me on the side and help me build those blocks in order to undergird my pursuit of an intensive geometry class, that would be a bit more possible. But to tell me that if I put my mind to rocket science I could accomplish it is simply foolish.

Obviously, the cliche exists for a reason. Some people don't know their potential and need to tell themselves "Yes, we can."  But what many of us need is to cultivate the ability to say to the people, activities and things that are screaming for our attention, "No, I can't. But if you really want me to do this you're going to have to provide x, y and z."

So maybe we can modify our equation a little bit, and instead of saying

 "I can do anything I set my mind to"= success

perhaps we can say,

 "I can do anything I set my mind to" + knowledge of what it takes to complete the task + knowledge of my current capacities + resources to get me to the place where I have what it takes even if I don't have it now = success. Or...something like that.

Eh? Eh? What d'ya say?