Category Archives: Uncategorized

How Can Hope be Sewn so Late

Poetry, Uncategorized

This poem could be about mending clothes or it could be about our divided country, or our broken environment…so like fabric that has been torn.  I have a lot of concerns about the upcoming election and our environment.  I don’t feel as though I have the wisdom to “do” anything or much, and I wonder if we can afford to “go to bed”, or to let only the politicians find a solution?  What would happen if we each looked into our own “basket” and did a little mending?

______________________

Who will sit in stillness
When all the lights are dimmed?
Though tired, who will pick the needle up
And lay the fabric right
To patch or darn or mend?
   Who will say, “Do it now”?

My grandmother sat late at night
Silence all around.
Pulling threads with calloused fingers,
Adding her strength to fabric,
So clothes could still be worn.
   Who will say, “I will help”?

Who will stitch the patches now,
Where fabric’s weak and torn by rough duress?
Or seams that parted by weakened thread?
Who will stitch because of love
for person or the craft?
   Who will see the “us” in “them”?
   Who will say, “I forgive”?

If only the stitch was made
When fabric first was torn.
But now the basket’s full
And first tear forgotten how.
   Who will say, “Reconcile”?

We must pick up the thread and needle,
Not for stitching quilt or embroidery
Whose stitch is made for beauty.
With thread so thick with color
But made of thinnest wool.
   Who will say, “Bring the light”?

How can this repair be done
On fabric that has hardened?
We each must bring a light and
Sit in stillness,
With thick thread,
whose color has no arrogance or ego.
Or how can hope be sewn so late?

Who will say, “Do it now”?
   Who will say, “I will help”?
      Who will see the “us” in “them”?

Who will say, “I forgive”?
   Who will say, “Reconcile”?
      Who will say, “Bring the light”?

Holy Hell

Recovering, Some Other Thoughts, Uncategorized

Today was a busy 5+ hours of garage sale-ing, rock climbing, swimming, friends, family. It was jam packed with laughter and in/out, go go go go go. For the adults, we were feeling the tired feelings and watching the kids begin to express them. The tired turned to exhaustion at about 8 pm when my eldest began to lose his shit over the small stuff. His focus factor had diminished to nil and I asked for his toy so he could put his remaining energy into his teeth. He threw the toy and my youngest fled the room in tears. After 20 minutes of working to understand the rapid decline in behavior mixed with careless words and sobs, we finally got to the root of the problem.

After the long hugs and apologies, on multiple sides, he said something really interesting. “I wish I was like Jesus because he could take all these frustrating feelings and blow them up.” This was such a beautiful moment to teach my kids that all of their emotions are holy and okay.

Jesus overturned tables. He made a whip. He cursed a tree. He showed us angry. Many could even argue that it is an angry God shown through much of Scripture. And if God can show angry, we can too.

What is hard about communication in general though, whether between humans, gods, or any mix therein, is that it involves more than one. With my son, in order to understand what he is feeling and trying to communicate, I have to learn a new language. He speaks 7 year old, I speak 36 years young. He doesn’t experience things through my lens, he experiences them through his. His experience is no less valuable than mine and his emotions are just as valid.

Children are people. They are important. They have inherent worth. And so do I. So do you.

Anger is hard and uncomfortable. But it is holy and, I think, it is because anger reveals what we truly value. My eldest valued his toy and autonomy, both were violated and anger was the tool used to communicate it. So I learn, grow, and adjust. I can change how I approach him and he in turn can change how he responds to me and vice versa.

When I experience anger, my first inclination, every single time, is to evaluate whether it is reasonable or compelling. What caused this situation? Did it feel intentional or more accidental? Why am I angry and reacting with such feeling? Usually, I lose myself in other points of view because anger is such an exhausting emotion; but also I figure that expressing my feelings probably isn’t beneficial to the situation. I got the wrong order at the restaurant that I was really looking forward to? “Maybe I just ordered the wrong thing or didn’t annunciate and the waiter does look really busy, I bet he has a lot to do. And it isn’t easy waiting on all these people. Maybe I can make life easier and just eat this. Food is food.” Now, super simplified. I know. But put it in a different context such as trying to understand my past. I reach out to a person, hoping for help in understanding, and they shut it down. “Maybe I asked incorrectly? Maybe I wasn’t clear in what I was hoping for? Maybe I reached out on a bad day? I can just work it out on my own. I could have asked how I could have helped them.”

While I still want to ease the burden of those I emotionally engage with, my emotions… my perspective… my experience is just as valid as those with whom I am trying to relate. I am now aware of how much I have put my experiences, my thoughts, my emotions on hold or dismissed altogether; now the struggle is helping/letting/encouraging the voice and experience of others WHILE making sure I also embrace my own as equal. I don’t want to be on the teeter totter– it isn’t about bouncing back and forth so that people are either yelling or silent. This is about me stepping off the ride because I am beginning to value my voice and my experiences as much as I do others.

Emotions are commonly compared to a roller coaster. We allow them to control us or we shove them away or we plant them to burgeon forth another day. Anger is an easy emotion to let control the moment, but there has to be something useful about it also. Maybe if it reveals to us what we really treasure, it also provides the motivation to bring change. Change in ourselves, in our environment.

It is hard to sit with out joy and not worry when the other shoe is going to drop. It is hard to sit with our anger and try to understand from where it came. But it can be/is also hard to sit with another’s joy… another’s anger…. Another’s pain.

In Atlas of the Heart, by Brené Brown, she writes, “When we are reckless with other peoples stories, we diminish our own humanity.” With my child, his story was different than mine, but no less true. I want him to learn that his story is valuable, but that it is also valuable to listen and believe the stories of those around him. I want others to know that my story is valuable, so that meant I too needed to realize that it is… even when I am angry.

It has now been over a month since I wrote this. It began as a therapeutic process for me to understand my pain and my anger as well as claim them as my own. Your story with all of its pain, anger, and joy is vital. Share it with those you trust, who will handle you with care. Because you are important.

Lockdown

Poetry, Uncategorized

I was surprised
by the red-tailed hawk that landed in our yard,
the poison ivy on my legs,
the worry and stress,
the civil unrest.
So…painting the house
and mowing the yard,
gathering only with one friend
who was ill
and watched her worsen,
on the chairs in our yard
made by our son.
Feeding peanuts to squirrels
and seeds to birds,
watching the hummingbirds,
and knitting and knitting and knitting.
My husband went to hospital
the pressure in his veins too high,
watched my brother’s marriage dissolve,
then one brother-in-law sick with the virus died.
And we could not gather.
Raking loads of leaves and
and then we caught the virus but did not die.
Then one brother-in-law’s heart stopped.
And we could not gather.
Then cancer claimed my friend.
And we could not gather.
And I could not write.
Our mothers lived through this,
each loosing a son.
Our children marched on
and I’m amazed by them all.
And it began when a red-tailed hawk
landed in our yard and sat in solitude
on a chair that our son made.

Mary, My Older Sister

Poetry, Uncategorized

Mary, my older sister,
you risked the sacred silence,
And found an angel facing you.
Your brave “yes”, 
became a womb,
(a hidden basket among the reeds)
Holding child and promise,
For love and freedom’s sake.

Your “yes”, is water turned to wine.
Becomes a key for those held hostage,
A message of hope for those who grieve,
A hand to the poor and ill,
And still, a friend to strangers.

Those things pondered in your heart,
Of a child whose values included you,
Whose love embraced the earth,
The skies and every living thing.
Sweet Mary, your example for us all.
If there is no time in heaven,
Pray for me now, pray for us now,
for the need is great.

Pray for us now, 
And help us give our grandest, yes,
to set aside our fear
and give us vision for what may be.
As the messenger greets us now,
I sing your praise, and ask you,
Help us with our, yes.
Help me with my yes and amen.

***********

This poem comes from a number of places, mainly from my heart being disturbed by recent political events, an exercise in the book, Birthing the Holy, by Christine Valters Paintner, p.6, and a centering prayer time around M. Basil Pennington:

“In the silence, whether we listen to the creation around us,
The words of revelation, or the deepest stirrings of our own hearts,
We begin to perceive another voice,
One that is too often lost in the static of life.
It is no use saying: ‘Speak, Lord, your servant wants to hear,’
If we never risk the silence to listen.”

Many of my more traditional friends will enjoy this poem, while many of my evangelical friends will probably shake their heads and be concerned. But, I would ask all to examine what is going on inside themselves and if they have ever asked others to pray for them, or if they have reverenced Paul, or Peter? Why not Mary? Her ‘Yes’, was as grand as any.

Boundaries.

Some Other Thoughts, Step 11, Step 12, Step 9 and 10, Uncategorized

Are. Hard.

I have experienced things in the past 16 years of life that I never anticipated growing up in my very protected Midwestern home. Those aspects of my life, who I am, what I have endured, I have accepted. Little me would not recognize old me’s identity and liberty.

But what the heck does that have to do with boundaries? Well, on the surface not much. But I only began changing my perception of myself 11 or so years ago. So, 25 solid years established really deep brain paths, but 11 years is a good start on new ones.

I used to think that to be a good Christian was to give people what ever they needed emotionally. No matter the cost to myself. Do you need to talk? Do you need a hug? Someone to just sit with you? Do you need me to do the talking? Do you need me to open up about something? And those are not bad things. I do not regret giving of myself like that and will continue to for whoever needs it, whenever they need it.

But that original understanding wasn’t complete. Because I too am a person deserving of a safe space. Or we could write that truth as this: Because I too am a person. You are a person.

Now, I don’t really strive to be a “good Christian,” I love Jesus… but that label and all it misrepresents more often than not leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t care if your are white or black, straight or part of the beautiful LGTBQIA community. In a committed relationship with one or you are more fluid and are with many. I see your color, your community, your situation, I see your joy, pain, grief, and I hold it close to my heart. Or maybe that is what it means to be a “good Christian.”

What I have realized this month is that my boundaries come into play when I ask for space in turn, for someone to care for me and that request is denied or belittled over and over again. It is usually like a giant red flag is thrown and I see it for the first time along with seven others flags already in the field. My boundaries help me to communicate, usually to myself, that I need to step back no matter if it is because of myself, someone else, or the situation requires it. This gives me the space to evaluate and reevaluate (probably multiple times) what is going on inside of me.

So here is my philosophy on empathy, compassion and the practice of holding space for people. We as people create an area for ourselves in our thoughts and the deepest parts of our soul where we ponder… cherish… protect those things that effect us the most whether positive or negative. We guard them, place boundaries around them. When we are overflowing with the bubbly feel goods, we naturally bring people into the joy to celebrate with us. When our being is crumbling because of trauma or sorrow or mental desperation, we ask people into the space to hold the line for us. Usually, I think, we are both scenarios at the same time to some extent. In that place we are simply ourselves and it is holy. Authentic. Unmasked.

Simplified down, my understanding of compassion is that at its core, it is genuine, about you, concern; empathy is compassion in gentle action. Now add that to the concept of the sacred self in you and that of the sacred in others. And here, what we have now created, is the space we hold for each other. It is hard because it requires vulnerability and openness. It is hard because it isn’t always accepted. It is hard to be the one asking if people want to come in and it is hard to be willing to come.

What is the point of humanity if not to find those people with whom we can simply be? What is the point if we can’t be that person for others? Nothing quite hurts like a expressing a need for someone to catch you in your brokenness and you hit concert. But there is also no place that is more reassuring than to be caught when you need it most. We can examine the reverse of that as well. There is nothing like trying to support someone and miss the mark, having them walk away from you and know they are more hurt than before. But there is no greater assurance of purpose than to be that safe shoulder for another.

During the last month specifically, I have come to realize that my space is as sacred as others. But I have also realized that I do not voice my boundaries very well, mainly because I have ignored all the other red flags on the field until I am overwhelmed. I now understand that I rarely use boundaries to keep people out, rather I use them to give myself the time to figure out what isn’t working in me and why. Once I understand though, I attempt to open the gates again.

Is it a perfect? Psssh. Please. Heck no, but damn it, I am proud of the trying.

A quick note. The concept of boundaries and safety need to be clearly understood. At no time, while working through my understanding of my boundaries was I physically in danger or emotionally beyond carelessness and unintentional neglect. If you or someone is experiencing physical abuse or emotional manipulation/abuse of any kind, you need to find professional help in maintaining your boundaries. Because you are a person.