goodbye

I've been reflecting some on the inevitable fading away of something that meant a lot to me - and making sure to remember the joy in what's new and in what endures.

So it's fitting that I found this poem where I did:

THE GOD ABANDONS ANTONY
C. P.Cavafy

When suddenly at midnight you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don't mourn your luck that's failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive - don't mourn them uselessly;
as one long prepared and full of courage,
say goodbye to her, the Alexandria that is leaving.
Above all, don't fool yourself, don't say
it was a dream, your ears deceived you:
don't degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one long prepared, and full of courage,
as is right for you who were given this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion,
but not with the whining, the pleas of the coward;
listen - your final pleasure - to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

well well

Merry Christmas! And if you can believe it, things aren't that bad.

Only one random blowup. Lots of goodies, with promises of more goodies. My favorite cherry coke jello salad with HOMEMADE RIBS for dinner. W's idea of having "a project" has paid off.

Still, though, 75 hours to go.

commentary

Updates from the home front.

About a trip to Disney:
"The worst people were the Spanish speakers." - S
"Yeah, daddy, the Spanish and the Orientals!" - L

and, later,

"There were two people cussing up a storm. A guy from New York and some black guy." - S
"Oh, honey, where was the black guy from? Where else are black people from?" - J

unwell

Tomorrow morning I will board the plane, and it will be five days until I get to be happy again.

Oh, I'm not doing well. Not doing well at all. The anxiety finds new holes to seep out, like fresh cracks in the hull of a ship. Besides the eye twitch, which is pretty standard, I have found a new way to be crazy. I don't want to explain it here, but I've never felt more like the tattoo on my back -- circling round on myself, consuming. My lips are bitten raw.

My mother called, thrilled that I'll be home for so long. I wish I could say: this is your present. Don't expect to see me back again until fall.

But that never does anything but maker her cry.

I wonder what a good family is like.

timing

This morning I took a look at the All Souls website, just to see what was new with the church. I haven't made it to church in a while -- a month or more -- and I wanted to check out past sermons, read the newsletter, see any new pictures.

The feeling I got when I loaded up the All Souls website caught me off-guard. A sick rolling in the bottom of my stomach, the same feeling I used to get when I hadn't done my homework in middle school. Guilt, shame, anxiety.

But why did I feel that way? One of the great things about All Souls is that the community doesn't judge if you've vanished for a while. It wasn't that I thought anyone would be upset with me for not showing up; it was that I was upset with myself. My conscience was gnawing at me in a way I hadn't felt it in a while.

I know why I haven't been going to church lately: I've been blowing it off for "more fun" things to do, whether it's sleeping in or going to brunch or nursing a hangover. I've been neglecting a very important piece of my life and development for immediate gratification, a warm bed or a mimosa in the morning. And now, after a month or more, I'm starting to feel the effects.

I went to The Golden Compass this weekend. In that fantasy world, people's souls manifest as animals who travel beside them for their whole lives. Inconvenient at times, sure, but in a way that seems lucky. It's impossible to shoo away your soul when it's hovering around your face or curled up at your feet at night. But with such an intangible soul as ours, neglecting it is as easy as forgetting to do your laundry.

Maybe I'll go to Quaker meeting or yoga this week. I need to get centered; my soul, though it's certainly no beast beside me, is mewling for my attention.

love

God, there is gold hidden deep in the ground
God, there’s a hangman that wants to come around

How we rise when we’re born
like the ravens in the corn
on their wings, on our knees
crawling careless from the sea

God, give us love in the time that we have

God, there are guns growing out of our bones
God, every road takes us farther from home

All these men that you made
how we wither in the shade
of your trees, on your wings
we are carried to the sea

God, give us love in the time that we have

home

Two days is just the right amount, I guess. After that, someone starts crying.

Dr. Janet G. Woititz identified in her book, Adult Children of Alcoholics, thirteen primary characteristics of Adult Children of Alcoholics:

• Guessing at what normal behavior is.
• Having difficulty following a project through from beginning to end.
• Lying when it would be just as easy to tell the truth.
• Judging themselves without mercy.
• Having difficulty having fun.
• Taking themselves very seriously.
• Having difficulty with intimate relationships.
• Overreacting to changes over which they have no control.
• Constantly seeking approval and affirmation.
• Usually feeling that they are different from other people.
• Extreme responsibility or irresponsibility.
• Extreme loyalty, even in the face of evidence that the loyalty is undeserved.
• Impulsivity - tending to lock themselves into a course of action without giving serious consideration to alternative behaviors or possible consequences. This impulsivity leads to confusion, self-loathing and loss of control over their environment. In addition, they spend an excessive amount of energy cleaning up the mess.

slumber

I had the most incredible dream two nights ago.

It was about an old flame, someone I never got very far with. (Surprise.) In the dream, we'd run away together -- left old lives behind and bought a house together, somewhere far away.

Normally, I'd expect the best part of the dream to be whatever dirty parts my brain came up with. (After all, isn't that part of the fun of those dreams?) But it was strange; there was very little physical contact in the dream.

What I remember most, what was nicest about the dream, was putting our shoes away in the closet.

It was a decent closet -- walk-in, carpeted. There was an entire wall of particle-board cubbyholes where a pair of shoes would fit perfectly. Whoever had been in the house before had left behind some shoes, and I was pulling the shoes out of their boxes and trying them on.

But there was something so peaceful, settled, sweet, about putting our shoes away together. Something that said: this is home. I will come home to you. I have chosen you to be my home.

swollen

A terrible day at work today. A terrible, terrible day.

What I did I did because I thought it was the right thing to do. That should count for something, right? What I did I did out of love but also out of ignorance, and for that I had to suffer.

They had meetings about me.

In the end, long conversations. Hiccuping, weeping. Red face, swollen eyes. "Take ownership," "learning experience." And I will never know who cast the stone.

Everyone ignored me for an hour and a half as I cried.

So many people saying they just didn't understand. Why was it bad? And I explained the new truths I'd learned.

Why didn't anyone come to me about it? Why didn't they feel they could ask me to explain?

white horses

I am in love with this. PS 22, a New York City children's choir, covers Tori Amos' "Winter."

work it

I knew I was settling in to my new(ish) job when I developed the strut.

It's the way I show my dominance -- my physical way of saying to the outside world, "Yeeeah. I belong here. I feel good here." And I do! I feel good here; I belong here; life is nice.

I've been noticing it more and more lately. At my last job I had a ton of strut, because I was so comfortable, so effective, so on top of my game. It took a long time to get to that point here; with more responsibilities and all sorts of new things to think about. Unions, reviews, hirings, probations, interns, promotions...it takes a long time to learn to strut with all that on your plate.

But today, routing the alerts. Walking to my boss's office, then the lawyer's, making the rounds of the office. I could feel my hair and my boobs bouncing assertively. The power walk.

Strut, girl, work it out!

twist

More later, but today's tongue twister of the day (courtesy of MJ and today's news clips). Say it out loud three times fast!



"Liberal shibboleth."


Context is from an article in the latest issue of The Economist:

"American Christians have helped expose the Sudanese government's atrocities in Darfur and sex-trafficking in Europe. They have also fought hard to get more aid money for Africa and to fight AIDS—even if cash has come with strings attached (notably preventing any dollars going to abortion). But just as in America, much of their fury is aimed at liberal shibboleths."

LOVE IT.

sex bomb

Meeeee-ow! Grrrrr.

Go on, girl.

nerdery!!!

Ok, so we were in an online communications training section, and there was some Latin text on the screen (the placeholder text, like lorem ipsum is on a lot of other pages).

The text looked awfully familiar...

"Dixitque Deus: Ecce dede vobis omnem herbam afferentem semen super terram..."

Yes, in the middle of a CMS training, I had noticed that the placeholder text was from the Vulgate, the original 5th century translation of the Bible into Latin. Thank you, St. Jerome.

"Stop it, you freak!" -- Lauren, after finding out.

swift

There's a tiny problem in my bedroom. A tiny, skittish, browny-grey problem.

"Hello! I am a tiny problem!"

Yes, it is true -- I have a house mouse in my room.

Most people would be grossed out by this, but honestly, I think it's cute. According to Chinese astrology, I was born in the Year of the Rat, so maybe that explains my affinity for the little bugger. The only overwhelming feeling I have about the mouse is shame, because it makes me feel like I live in a trash pit -- which is only partially true; honestly, 90% of my mess is dirty laundry, so it's not like I have bits of old food laying around.

Unfortunately, when night comes, this tiny problem becomes a big problem. The house mouse, with an average life cycle of nine months, loves to chew. It gnaws on whatever it can get its tiny paws on, and in a dark room at midnight the noise it can make is surprisingly loud.

CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP skitter skitter CHOMP CHOMP pause...CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP CHOMP slide across some plastic pause...

repeat ad infinitum.

So today when I get home from work I'm going to put out the traps, which makes me kind of sad. The mouse isn't really hurting anyone, it's just aggravating me. It's kind of a shame it has to give its life so I don't have to listen to it bite stuff all night long.

But it is my house. It is my room. I pay rent. The mouse does not.

Last night at five in the morning, I woke up to blaring fire sirens instead of mouse pitterpatter. But I'm so used to mouse disturbances in the middle of the night that I thought to myself,

"Oh God, the mice have discovered fire."

And so, in honor of a field mouse and flame, here is the Billy Collins classic "The Country."

The Country
by Billy Collins

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time -

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

perfect

I had such a spectacular day today. Such a perfect little jewel of a day.

The best days of my life have never been full of big, all-consuming events. They have always been normal, regular days, but full of tiny blessings in almost every hour. There were so many good things that happened that I'm not sure I can remember them all...

• big belly laughs with work friends all day long
• eating a bag of Cheetos and drinking a can of Coke (the "Britney Spears Breakfast," as I like to call it)
• finding out that a very concerning medical issue is actually not a big deal to fix
• getting my cell phone fixed and then playing around with it
• scratching at the start of a nice theological conversation with an old friend
  
• walking a mile through cool rain that's not too cold
• talking to my mother on the phone
• having homemade chili, biscuits, and pumpkin pie with wonderful friends
• nerding out with my favorite episode of a very dorky show
  
• standing on the roof deck and looking at the fog and the light through the fog
• getting a ride home so I didn't have to walk
• sitting upstairs with a friend and playing music for one another
• falling asleep in a comfy sweatshirt (coming up next!)

I think, and this is going to sound really morbid, but I think that if somehow I get to choose my last day on Earth -- the very last day before I die -- I want it to be like this. Full of small joys. A day where nothing is remarkable but everything makes me happy.

oh snap

In my constant struggle to better myself (well, at least, to make things easier for myself), I'm trying to stop cracking my neck. Kind of a weird choice, seeing as I do a whole lot more self-destructive things -- but something like "stop being so hard on yourself" or "stop falling in love with ideas instead of people" is a little bit harder to see through from start to finish.

So this is day three of the great neck cracking experiment and, actually, I already feel a lot better. This may be because I've already found a lot of ways to cheat. (For instance, I'm still allowing myself to crack my neck by twisting my head upwards, like regular folk do -- but the big elbows-up head-twisting is verboten.) The first day I tried to get myself down to five good cracks, and ended up with seven; yesterday I only did big cracks three or four times.

When I woke up today, it was amazing -- I didn't feel like my entire neck was out of joint, with all the vertebrae all crookedy-like. I didn't even have to do my usual neck-cracking morning routine, which is big crack lying down in bed, shower, big crack lying down again. I just popped it standing up before I left for work (but then I had to lie down when I got to work, 'cause it hadn't cracked enough).

I can feel the muscles tightening up already, which is so cool. My body wants to fix itself; I just have to leave it alone long enough to let it.

liars

I just finished the most incredible book -- Jesus Land, by Julia Scheere. It's her memoir of growing up in a strict Christian family, and then traveling to reform school in the Dominican Republic, with a mixed race family. Her parents had adopted two African-American boys when they couldn't get a white baby, looking at the offer of black children as a "test of faith."

I couldn't put the book down. I read it all today, and it is not a slim book. It affected me in a very personal way, and the reactions I had to it kept changing as the book continued.

Read this book if you need to learn why the Religious Right is wrong. The kids were physically and emotionally abused, first by their parents and then by their "teachers" at the reform school. I've never read such a brutal first-hand account of someone using faith to marginalize and dehumanize someone. And not that such behavior is ever acceptable, but they were children...

Last Sunday, Rob preached on the dangers of fideism: "any belief system holding that reason is irrelevant to religion or faith." And this plays true in Jesus Land, too. The truth is constructed by those in charge and rained down on upon those with no power; the word of God is used to torture, to maim. At one point, a burly adult finds it not only acceptable but necessary, according to God's will, to punch a teenager in the face until the boy falls to the ground, bloody and unconscious. People believe these things.

The stories in Jesus Land horrified me. But at the same time, they made me feel guilty about myself, about my own faith. Next to these Bible-bangin', Scripture-memorizing, soul-scouring believers, I look like a dilettante. Before the book got really terrifying, I started to feel really bad about myself as a spiritual person. Had I dedicated myself enough to my faith? Wasn't I really just taking part in that "cafeteria Christianity," the pick-n-choose of today's religious liberal? (Not that I'm even a Christian anymore -- I'm that far gone from The Lamb or whatever.)

This is what I find scariest about fideism, about conservative Christianity, about Jesus Land. The old phrase "speaking truth to power" is a beautiful thing, but it's just as easy -- in fact, even more so -- to speak lies to power. And when the lies go on for so long that even the liars begin to believe? Well, then you've got elected officials who believe, wholeheartedly, that God wants to firebomb an entire nation.

I'm really unsettled after reading the book, but I'm so glad I did.

placeholder

This is a placeholder to remind me that I want to do a reflection on "Evening on the Ground" when I get home. Sadly, I do not have time to do it now...

something fishy

Wanna see me lead a sardonic service for a fine little fishy? Thanks to MJ, the funeral's now on YouTube.