Someone Told Me Yesterday

that I made them want to throw up. Back to The Rule of St. Benedict. I used Benedict on a recent paper. He is very specific about behavior. Keep your mouth shut, keep your eyes down. Do good works, he lists 72 suggestions. Obey. Practice humility in all affairs. Work, pray, read as the daily schedule. Stay in the process, don't run away. It is the only way to God.

It prompted reflection. As I said at the time: "Thank you."

Teaching Delmar To Drive, Part II

I just stopped writing a very long paper. I say stopped, rather than finished, because I had a topic that leads. There is no end, and there is no finish, once the subject is opened. I will live now, with the topic. That is the problem, and reward of going to school. I am very busy inside of my being, because these processes, once started, go on inside of me whether I want them to or not. I suppose that is why I am constantly walking, outside. That appears to help manage these voracious, internal activities. I am afraid to stop walking.
I hired a professional to assist me in my attempt to teach Delmar to drive. In publically admiting this, I admit my shortcomings. But too, this is an opportunity to say something I like about myself: when pushed to a corner, I will get help. The man is gentle, kind, and exceptionally talented in couching his instruction. He has several methods, and they are not based on praise. Following the first lesson, Delmar was quick to insist that I ride with them, and learn Ron's method of teaching and responding. "You've got something to learn here. If you went along, you would learn it."

So it seems, one thing leads to another...if you go along.

The title of the paper is Conversatio Morum. It is a Latin phrase that is difficult to translate, but the thrust of it is commitment to an on-going process. It is one of the three vows that Benedictine monks express to govern their lifestyle. A key element in accepting a vow is the freedom to choose it, and embrace it, as one's own. Not imposed by others.

Conversatio Morum is the foremost challenge of my life right now. As I delicately traverse my grief, as I school myself, as I interact with others.

I am thinking about a tattoo, as I witness my squirming...

to go along.

Who Am I Now?

In some ways, it is comforting to know that I am no longer the person I was four months ago. This comfort arrives in feeling the soft edge of compassion, and my own tenderness when out in the world. I returned something in a small town hardware store this morning. It involved electronically processing the return. And it was being done by an woman who was probably near seventy. Familarity with computers is not innate in this age range. I saw the frustration on her face, and her embarrassment at the length of time the transaction demanded. A transaction that acted up, refusing to cooperate. Forcing her to try again, though she did not understand what went wrong the first time. I had made her life in the quiet country store, less enjoyable. For that, I apologized. And that is what death has done to me, and for me. Brought me to the knowledge of my impact in both simple and complex interactions. And hope for a merged edge, rather than a ragged edge, when involved with friends, family, and strangers. I suppose the foundation point of this is an increased sensitivity, that is sensual and intuitive. Do I resent this? I would like to say so, but then would close my mind and heart to opportunity...... and the gifts of a gentle God, offering kindness and solace to my brokenness. The store clerk said to me: "You don't have to worry about me, I am here to help you. This mess on the computer counts for nothing in the big world. It seems to work out, no matter how little I know, or how much I screw up."

Going Back to Minnesota

I am making a short trip back home. This is what my horoscope said today:

Libra (Sep 23 - Oct 22)
You might wish that the tensions would just go away, but they won't until you consciously face what's bothering you.

Oh well.......

Living With An Alien

I am doing what I normally do. My life is fairly routine to those observing me. I walk in the morning, I take care of my house, I work on my projects. I add an artistic touch, here and there. Yesterday, I restrung the lights on my trellis, after cleaning up the explosion of the hundreds blown up by an accurate electrical strike. There is nothing like slivers of glass nestled in the cracks of a brick walk-way. I finally hit on the amazingly brillant idea of the vacumn cleaner. Over and done with.
It is difficult to live with the alien. Quiet, then noisey when least expected... in a moment dedicated to something or someone else. Subtle, then voracious. Showing an appetite meant for consumption, with no care or concern for the menu. Clumsy in enthusiasm for taking the lead and dominating the current involvement and emotional climate. Convinced that what is current is only a distraction, technically unimportant. I feel like a parent trying to ignore the repetitive and needling question of a four year old. Tolerant on the first launch, irritated with the continued need to return to the subject. Clearly no response adequately answers the inquiry or soothes and quiets the psyche of the explorer.
This alien, now with me for an unspecified amount of time, has a life and a quest of its own. This, at five in the morning is like a bad roommate barreling around in the kitchen, drinking the final dreg of beer left in last night's can. Banging the dirty dishes around in the sink, not washing them, but moving them so there is room to brush one's teeth in the kitchen. And when that is done, turning around to say innocently, 'did I wake you?'

The vacumn cleaner is not going to work on this job.

The Invention and Construction of Moving Forward

1. Watch others who are moving forward. Patrick, my next door neighbor, is painting his roof. A couple of days ago, all of his sons and all of the son's friends were up on the roof. Having a job that is hard, dangerous, and difficult seems to act like a magnet.
2. Rent a 14 inch chainsaw, and trim the small trees and foilage out of the backyard. The net result set the course of the next four days. Say nothing but 'Thanks!' to the sweat, branch entwinement, and resultant weak back. Distraction is not valued as it should be. Is working for me. And true to supposition, did act like a magnet.
3. Feel the feelings. Better to feel the feelings when walking, cleaning, and organizing. Doing this in the garage caused more feelings, as the garage has hosted any number of non-paying renters, of the four legged variety, for six months. Do not feel the feelings when reading, or trying to go to sleep at night. Shutting feelings down is okay.
4. Lower expectations. Feeling better is not going to happen for awhile.
5. Eat at the regular times, even though now, there are no regular times for anything. As well as no appetite.
6. Enjoy the ultimate privacy given by unplugging the phone. A little control is appreciated in the aftermath of no control.
7. Go where the dogs want to go, as they are always connected to God.
8. Take hope and faith that emptiness is space for lessons, revitalization, and change.
9. Do not fear change. If fear is present, rent chainsaw.
10. No one knows how to handle loss well. So spend a lot of time cutting a break for all. Most everyone is in some sort of grief process, and most of this is unknown to me. Tenderness and compassion is a good general rule. Especially while driving, and when in the grocery store.

Praxis

A year ago, when I started graduate school, I was actively involved in making a list of the reasons I should quit. This was both a conscious and an unconscious process. To exert control on the unconscious process, I made a decision to behave in the classroom. Not get into it with anyone, and not make assumptions on what appeared to be a traditional Catholic university. I knew those assumptions were grounded in my past. And spear-headed my rather inflammatory and confrontational Catholicism. I also knew that this had nothing to do with God, seeking and listening to God, or understanding and accepting the God ways. Which, deep inside of me, was my real goal. On my list, and close to the top, was my inability to comfortably understand what my professors were saying.
I think it is standard to find that language accompanies environment. I knew from my work experience that volcabulary represented culture as well as functionability. If I couldn't use the language as others did, no matter that it was was invented, mutated, or artistic, success and even comfort, would not follow.
I kept hearing words that seemed familar, but they were words that I did not use in my life. I did not really know what these words meant, and that is not where I wanted to start a rigorous course of study, crippled for mental exercise. My professors frequently used the word praxis. I finally looked it up: 1. practice: distinquished from theory 2. established practice; custom
3. a set of examples or exercises

Now praxis is in my volcabulary. And I can use the word. So let me say, there is no praxis for grief.

Teaching Delmar To Drive

About six months ago, my neighbor across the alley, came over to my house. This was a surprise to me as he is, overall, self-contained and shy. I knew he came over for a reason. He is a shameless smoker. He lit up on the back deck and forced himself down on a stool. It was six inches to the stool. He landed on it in a heap, as if he fell out of an airplane.

I knew he wanted something. I also knew that my attempts to reach out to him over the year, preceded this visit. A colon cancer placed him in a serious protocol that crushed his hope, isolated him, reduced his mobility, and masked his easy-going personality with anger. He had resisted all my attempts to get him to take errands with me, to talk and visit across the backyard fence, and respond to my inquiries as to whether he needed anything. His silence took me to enter his house without knocking, to sit on a worn linoleum floor, in order to look up at his face while I talked. During these visits, he would never look at me, managing a steady gaze at the TV, placed on the top of the refrigerator. He never spoke. When forced, he responded to a question or inquiry with a one word reply.

He was trapped in his grief, and helplessness. He imagined that his life, as he knew it, was over.
He was cut up, and sent away with a plastic bag attached to side. This bag was the focal point of of his rage. Refusing to cooperate with predictability, the bag ran his life. Spastically filling with a vengence, falling off to deposit its contents down the leg of his pants, defying all glue and velcro, the bag symbolized the end of control, the familar comfort range of life, and his ability to live without water, soap, and access to a bathroom.

I told myself that I continued my attempts because I needed breaks from my studying. I was as isolated as he was. My friends had fallen off, and my reading encased me. I was filled with anxiety concerning my curriculm. I had entered a world that appeared to have definition, theology. But as yet, this world was being defined by others. It was not my experience. I was reading about the experiences of others, pertinent to God and the God relationship. Fifteen minutes...trying to visit Delmar...gave me a clear pause. And removed me for a tiny moment, from knowing and feeling that God was not my best subject.

Delmar finally huffed out what he wanted while drawing in and exhaling a long stream of smoke. "I want to get my driver's license before I die. I want you to teach me the driver's manual so I can get my permit. Then I want you to teach me to drive." That is all he said. Then he stared at me. Being stared at by Delmar is rather disconcerting, as one eye is not lined up with the other. He had polio as a child, and his right side was useless. His right hand curled and frozen, his right leg and foot, deaf to the neurological transmitters.
I am sure there was some pause in my response, as I considered his body. I know I met his stare. I don't know how much time passed before I said, "okay."

Again, this all happened about six months ago. I was not a relaxed tutor when it came to studying the manual. I didn't know if Delmar could read. So rather than asking him if he could read, I set up the lessons to be visual. Over the weeks, I ascertained his reading ability. He had no experience with test taking. He knew nothing about the subtleties of the multiple choice test. I constructed dozens of multiple choice tests. I failed as a supportive instructor, often raising my voice when pointing out the pit-falls and explaining, 'yes, this answer is correct, but this answer is more correct.' I told him to stop thinking up his own creative defense for why he selected the answer he had, and just answer the damn question. A final description of my teaching technique is me screaming in the family room: "A STOP SIGN MEANS STOP. PLAIN AND SIMPLE. IF THERE IS A STOP SIGN, YOU MUST STOP. NOT: IF THIS OR IF THAT. JUST BECAUSE THERE ARE NO OTHER CARS AROUND DOES NOT MEAN YOU DO NOT HAVE TO STOP!" After that session, I smoked a cigarette.
The first time Delmar took the permit test, he scored 40 out of 50. He did well, but flunked. You can only get 8 incorrect answers. The test supervisor let us go over the test, at the site.
I raised my voice when looking at his idiotic answers. Again, he was making the rules up as he wanted them to be. To me, the correct answer was obvious. I was told by the supervising officer, to lower my voice, as other people were taking the test. Following this, the tutoring became more intense. And I am sure, firmer and more animated. I had Delmar nailed to the table.

He passed the second time. His score was nearly perfect. His photograph was not. It was a sterling moment. At age 70, Delmar's masculine ego was finally intact.
And it showed.

I am now teaching Delmar to drive. He has nearly killed us twice. On three occasions, I forced him to pull over, threw him out of the van, ended the lesson and took the wheel. I have gritted my teeth, clenched my fingers together in fists, grabbbed my pant legs in a frightened clutch, tried to look at the scenery, and tried to distract myself with drinking coffee. On nearly every outing, I have sworn I would quit as the 'driving instructor.' While a passenger, I have made my will out several times, and calculated the cost of side-swiping a new car. I have dripped sweat at the sight of a deer, three girls crossing an intersection, and a cardboard box in our lane. I have sworn vulgar words into phrases that no one has uttered before. I have taken Delmar driving when I was sure that no other car would be on the road. Meaning, he is driving at 4:30 in the morning. I have considered riding in the back of the van, but decided against this the day that he let go of the wheel and swerved us in front of a dump truck.

Why am I telling this story?

When encased in the emotional reality of an end, and an unwanted evolution, a wounded man taught me courage. When completely destroyed and frozen, without any sign of outward movement, Delmar re-upped for life. When he had lost everything, he decided to go to a place where he had always been denied. He decided to do this in his darkest moment, a life gone and a future life without hope. He went into the dark cave of a roaring lion, and said, 'I pick you.' He has stayed with a fierce, demanding and flawed teacher. He has never said no to where this instructor has taken him...the busiest and most dense environments, the quiet, soft woods, the freeway, and the rolling, expansive hills of Wisconsin. He constructed something that took him out of his pain, out of his loss, and out of his ended life. Why he did it...the timing... fails explanation. However, the lesson is not lost on me.

If there is a God, this God blessed me six months ago, by defining courage and pointing the path...which is fearless action

in the throes of grief.

Is There Training For Goodbye?

Is it found in drinking in the tone of voice, seeing the color of a person's clothes, the pause and list of a step, the curve of a cheekbone? Is it found in committing all to memory, one year piled on top of another, then unexpectantly... remembering? Is leaving a person for one hour, one day, one month preparation for having them leave forever?

Have all the leavings, of all the people I have loved, come to visit me today?

Probably.

This Is Hard For Me To Say

Because I don't want to believe it, or feel it.

My mother died last Friday.

This seems to be the exclamation point on a difficult summer, which began with, and then filled with death.

So, since April, that has been where I have been, and I imagine, where I will stay for awhile.

I am encased and separated from my interactions with others, living in a separate reality and removed from life, and what I experience as life-giving.

I am actually thanking God for this protection.

I Have Decided I Can't Write Anymore

I am wondering if this is because I have too many feelings. Feelings I don't want to feel. Feelings I spend most of the day trying to handle. Handling them in a direct way, by writing, seems to be over-kill of some sort. I don't think I have writer's block, but writer's refusal.

Lets not go there anymore than we are there.

Two Steps Backward

Due to an unexpected and tragic death in the family, I am going off my blog for awhile. I ask for prayers during this difficult and painful time.

I Hate Two Steps Forward, One Step Backward

But that is what Spring is like. My newly emerged lilies and tulips froze off last night. As well, I had to find and apply the brain squeezing ear band. Why don't I throw it away if I dislike it so much? Certainly there must be other head coverings in the world. Three jackets later, the walk was protected by the pine forest, 'where God lives.' I am only complaining about these things because I have to study all day...test tomorrow. This is the professor who is teaching the bio-ethics class. I have not found that little connection that I like to find, with my teachers. He seems very open, and laid back. But he corrected my last paper according to structure. I had failed to indent my paragraphs, the obligatory five spaces. A certain sign of a perfectionist. And that he could not find anything else wrong with the paper. People never fail to amaze me. I received an A- because of the failed structure of indentation. This made me not want to study for him. We are spending a lot of time on genetics. And the question, if you could remove something from the genetic DNA, what would it be?

Defiance, perhaps?

Thanks For The Feedback

Don:

Thanks for the long letter on sacramental grace. I am going to read it several times, as usual.

I am holding myself back from saying that I feel differently than when we met, whatever that time frame is, two or three years ago. But I have good indicators that I am feeling differently.

My humor is back, my patience, and my zesty spirit for life, and all that life holds. All signs that each activity that I have applied has held sacramental grace. Makes for a new definition of sacrament: gardening, carpentry, dogs, sleep, walking, studying, and cleaning out the basement. Figuratively and literally.

I am even open to the possibility that prayer is a dynamic, two way conversation. And that my prayer is not going nowhere, but somewhere.

You have been a good friend to me.

Linda

Confession Is Good For The Soul

Sacramental grace is one of my favorite mental pursuits. Long forgotten as plausible, and entirely too focused in the locale of the seven sacraments, I enjoy my own locations of sacramental grace.

Kindness, compassion, and tenderness within relationships that do not deserve it. That must be a sacrament, that exudes grace.

Melding and merging with the American Pelican, here on their migatory pause. The ugliest bird on the face of the earth, but the most graceful of all flyers. Visually joining a vista, so high, that the bump on the beak can not be seen, nor the mystery of the heavy body, considered. That must be a sacrament. The way I felt, after seeing two or three hundred in the air, must be grace.

Trying to load up the giant dog when he is intent on finding a chipmonk. That must be a sacrament, holding boundful amounts of grace, for the frustrated driver, intent on errands.

Cutting perfect angles for the wood trim with no applause, no witness, no compliment. That solitary, pleasurable activity must hold grace for the, (generally), easily frustrated and fearful. Why does the phrase 45* angle produce fear? And what else could it be but grace when all is done and successful?

Receiving an e-mail from the gutter-driven brother that said, "I love you." Allowing that inside of me, needed grace. I thank God for receiving that grace.
Instead of hitting the delete key, I wrote back, "I love you too."

Back to confession is good for the soul.

I had to re-up the blue ear band today from retirement, and place it on my head. I swore I would never wear it again.

I drove through the Amish territory this morning saying to myself, "Why do the Amish fear paint?" However, I only said this when my eyes dropped from a dramatic and heart filling landscape, banked and enveloped by a skyscape that was breathless in deep purples and blacks.

I have re-lit the corn-pellet stove. Spring is not exactly here. I am now wondering if my soul is actually located in the corn-pellet stove. If so, I am sure the sacrament of penance or the sacrament of marriage will take care of this slight aberation within spiritual norms.

Okay, Okay

This morning on the dog walk, we were on a narrow band that leads to a bay, that is shallow and deep in grass. It is the classic wetland. It is bottlenecked, and at the neck were eight Canada geese.

No sign of side arms, or shot-guns.

Never the less, I got the point.

Guarded.

I have never been so honked at in my life, even with my reputation as a slow driver.

Finally, I said, 'okay,okay.'

And left.

On the way home, a sax was vibrating a note in such a weighted, extended and passionate way, I simply said to myself, 'I think it is going to be that kind of day.'

A day that is moist and humid, crying intent.

I intend to go to the back porch, and start cutting the wood trim. If anyone calls or knocks at the door, I don't think I will answer it. I have had two warnings.

What I Am Reflecting On, This Lent

1. It is all good.

2. The undedrgraduates in my classes are smarter than I am, but hide it, by looking sleepy, and acting out in class.

3. I have not caused any trouble at school, so far. I came close to this last semester, with Chad.
Chad and I are in one class together. He is staying away from me, and I am staying away from him.

4. I am passing this semester, so far. It is harder than last semester...the passing.

5. My teachers are not showing that they dislike me or like me. However, I think they have noticed me. This tells me that they are either too busy to like me or dislike me, or that they haven't made up their mind yet. I want anonymity but I don't think this is in the cards, on the long haul.

6. Praying is a daily and on-going dialogue with the Divine. Thus, I am chattering away.

7. What I think might happen, with my family problems, is probably short-sighted, and not pertinent to what the Holy Spirit is doing pertinent to my family problems. Refer to #1.

8. T.T. Marie, the crippled Corgi, is sick of me walking three inches at a time, so she is now walking ahead of me. I find this very interesting. She is walking faster than I am.

9. We only get so many spring seasons.

10. Cranes call when they fly.

Another Day In Paradise: Postscript to Ann R.

Dear Ann,
It has been a very long time since we sat down and talked about the politics of the athletic department. You have been so sensitive about this, as I remake myself, you have probably wondered if I cared about you, and what has happened to you. I do and I have. And I have been on the prayer chain for you, big time, during your own transformation and healing process.
Last week, when our favorite megalomaniac hit the news with his resignation, several people called the house to get my feelings and take on it. My first reaction was, 'don't go there.' I am mentioning this as the result of walking three inches at a time with my crippled Corgi. That is what I am doing for Lent. It is a very physical discipline that represents boundary setting on my own desire and demand. And guess what? I didn't go there. I didn't open it up, and I didn't roll around in it, like the other dog, who likes dead fish. The result of this was not suffering hours of closing it up. And suffering the pain of reliving the 'Invisible Fence.' The 'Invisible Fence' is an electro-shocking product that keeps a dog in a yard. It works and it is brutal.
When I think of my old job, this is the image I have of it. Knowing where the boundaries have been set, and walking through them to do my job. Taking the electricity, taking the hit, refusing to stay in the yard. I like knowing this, that I would electrocute myself to do what I was supposed to do, and had to do. I never would have let myself down, nor let you down.

I didn't listen to the news on his resignation. I didn't read the papers. And I turned the T.V. off when it came on. Why? It is over. And within that simple assessment, I can honestly say I have made progress on letting it go.

Two nights ago, I saw an old friend for a dog walk. We haven't seen each other for two years. I told him what I was doing, and realized when I vocalized it, what it has taken to transform me and heal me. A total immersion in a spiritual environment, academic and physical...meaning the great outdoors. As we both know, I am not a Bible thumper, and if I was caught in church, I would probably be dead. I haven't talked about it much, and those who know I am in school are almost afraid to bring it up. They can't fathom what it is all about. Most people think I have flipped.

Three people know what it is all about.

You.

Don, a prison chaplain friend of mine who has met scarier.

And Hauser, whose enormous strength and confidence in me will go unspoken and undefined.

So this morning, I want to thank you. For being stalwart at a distance. I have needed that distance. There isn't a morning at the lake that I don't thank you. You are restrained in your insight where I like to speak my insight. You have taught me that. For your personal discipline when under fire. I have never seen you lose it when attacked and misunderstood. For your ability to distract with jokes and little stories when something is unfolding and you need time to get your head around it, and make decisions. You are deft. For your willingness to do what needs to be done, when the decision is vastly unpopular in the ranks. You have great strength, and a internal compass that works in all terrifying storms. You are a good person.

I am taking comfort in the seasonal transformation. The smell of grass and mud, the sounds of birds and wind. I slept last night, with all the windows and doors of my house open. When I went to bed, I decided to open the entire house to a sweet, sticky and fragrant air.

It is my hope that you are experiencing movement and God's presence as you experience your day, and reach for your goals.

Much love...and keep your faith in your healing path...you have meant more to me than I could ever express.

Linda

P.S. You are on my list. You went on my list a very long time ago.

Retired

I have an ear band that is part of my 'survival' gear.

It is a great blue color.

Other than that, I hate it.

It is fleece bound on the interior with a neo-premium rubber on the exterior.

It is absolutely wind proof, and probably every other kind of proof.

Across the last wicked month of winter, I gratefully applied it to my head.

If I couldn't find it quickly enough, in a jacket pocket, I was desolute.

When I found it, I was grateful.

But then I would apply it to my ears with the same reaction: 'I hate this thing.'

It works.

Unbelievably.

But it is tight, and makes my head feel like it is going to explode.

There was never a time that I didn't rip it off, and say, 'thank God.'

This ear band thing made me reflect on the love-hate aspect of life.

And it made me think about what it must be like for God to listen to me pray.

Reward

Last night, Professor Dunn beat on the podium.

He also threw his arms up and stormed into the seats, voice raised.

He told three jokes to make a point.

He looks like a cross between Mark Twain and Fred Astaire. He is always meticulously dressed, and his style reminds me of an off-set advisor in a 15th century court. He wears a bow tie, and a vest. His outfit was constructed with a soft turquoise, teal, and a quiet sea moss green. He is dapper, delicate, and understated.

All of this is enough to hold my interest. But beyond that, is his theology. He is fearless under a deft and sophisticated style. He is constructing the Christology he is presenting in a markedly clever and skilful way.

But then he blows, leaving crafty, shrewd, and artful behind.

"If you think The Christ came to earth to die and redeem you from your sins, you are NUTS!"

Following this, I caught Brahms' German Requiem on the way home. Which must be the reason I put a radio in my van.

Language and Free Fall

I have been thinking a lot about language, which is strange for me. I think this has to do with examining the question of humanity/divinity as it pertains to Jesus. I am deep in a take home exam where every fight that existed concerning this, was battled out over two centuries. I am to commit these divisions and their discernment to memory. I am actually fleeing this exam by writing on my blog.

In the 1930's, as Hitler crawled across Europe taking what he could, the intellectuals, artists, physicians, musicians and scientists fled. Many of them entered the United States on the east coast. Twenty years later, I believe some form or fashion of this iconic montage provided the base that produced the word, 'beatnik.' Add some black jazz and the word evolved to 'cat.'

As I struggle with DeFrancisco's autobiography assignment, I am faced with my personal and social experience of rejection. This awareness has been painful. In reflection, I know that it fuels my anger, and emotional reactions. It is why hope and faith are difficult for me. It has provided the foundational base from which most of my professional employment and my spiritual struggles have taken form. Over my life, I have interpreted my experience of rejection in a completely and totally personal manner. This morning I decided to say I have met some very weird and strange 'cats'.

It is mid-March in Iowa. We are a mid-migratory pause. The reason for this is the lake. This morning there were a thousand artic tern on a dark and churning water that was white-capping.

As well, cranes, egrets and oddly marked ducks.

In the sky, and on the water.

While I was thinking about language, I was watching flight. Height adjusted by tucking and angling the wings. Feathering. There is hardly a plop, a flop, a crash, or a missed calculation. Even at the last minute of a landing or a take off, adjustments are made.

Watching this gave me hope that I can change my personalization of rejection, and remember that the world is full of strange and weird 'cats'.

The Reason

we say, 'the ice is going out,' is because that is what it does. It goes out from the shoreline. In the new watery space, are the Canada geese. This morning, I was entertained by the ballet of the neck. This, and the vocalization, is what conveys the desire, the intent, and the seriousness of the communication. It isn't pretty and it isn't playing nice. It is informative, and lacks nothing in aggression, nor subtlety. 'My mate,' and 'My nesting space,' were the main topics this morning. Is it all taken like the proverbial water running off the back? Hardly. When the neck positioning and the squawking fail, the real fighting begins. I rather doubt that geese have much by way of teeth, but you wouldn't know this by watching an open mouth attack on another's neck or anything else...wings, butt, or back.

Which only brings me to the self-examination of my own Canada geese gene. After all, what is Lent for?

"The Ice is Going Out."

Which is Minnesotan phraselogy.

Not, 'the ice is thinning,' or 'the ice is disappearing.'

Which brings me to a small reflection on how we carry ourselves from the language point instilled by our childhoods and early life experiences. No doubt, DeFrancisco's stance on emotions, reactions, and interpretations. Too bad, I don't have the complete list, in the easy to read, coded format, banded to my wrist like a professional football quarterback. That would make understanding myself too easy.

There are four or five hundred Artic tern standing on what is left of the lake ice. They are not doing much but vocalizing. I would not say singing or calling. That was done from the opposite environment, the trees. The red-winged blackbirds seemed competitive. Standing in the middle of it, I returned to Placido Domingo singing in the third act of Verdi's Ortello.

Yesterday, Saturday afternoon opera almost made me pull over to the side of the road to listen to a note that hung endlessly in the air.

This morning, when the ice cracked, a bong sounded that ended the tern's noise. Above the silence hung their last group sound. It floated in its own energy, to the sky above. In an instant and in an eternity, I was immersed in silence and a lingering, passing reality.
Then, every bird returned to the sound they were making, and it was as it was, before the ice cracked.

It is these moments I wait for. But I don't know why. Perhaps it is wishing for that feeling of exquisite tension that makes me feel God. Perhaps it is only a nano-second God that is available to us. An unexpected and direct eye contact, a crocus pushing through the bare side dirt along my house, a long and boring discourse by a neighbor that ends in a quick smile, an enthused tail wag in response to an investigative look on my part, an unusual phone call from an old friend needing assurance that I still am at my phone number. Perhaps these are moments strong enough to stop me from my worries and anxieties, if just for a second. Perhaps it is wanting more than feeling life is hop stepping it to the next series of tasks. Papers, books, and spring yard work.

Maybe, I am just wanting to know that God is there, paying attention to my prayer to feel connected.

And connecting me, in a nano-second.

It Is Hard To Have A Thrill

In a hot classroom, late in the day. Professor Dunn has been lecturing on the fourth century councils that clarified the humanity/divinity problem with Jesus. Who Dunn had become, over three weeks of this material, depressed me.

Last night, however, I had a speck of hope. He had just finished Anselm's theory of why Jesus came to earth. This theory is about redemption from the sin of disobedience, in the Garden of Eden.

In a flash, Dunn threw up his arms and jumped into the seats.

"What kind of crazy story is this?"

"And what kind of a God is this all about? One that is touchy, vengeful, punitive, self-inflated, egomanical?"

"Sorry, that is not my God."

Was there foam around his mouth?

Nearly.

Physican Know Thyself

I am sure DeFrancisco is working in this vein. I have had to select and write out a dysfunctional relationship within my family. Of course, pertinent to me. Probably the hardest part of the assignment is picking the one to write about.
I am just back from a quick trip to Minnesota which I took to lean on one of my brothers. Completely redundant, and pointless. In the assignment, I have to write about 'breakthrough.' Can I lead to 'breakthrough,' what would 'breakthrough' look like? What is my role in achieving 'breakthrough?' There is no 'breakthrough' so far. And it doesn't look like there will be.

This places me back to trying to find a way to enjoy my life, stay focused in my prayer and studies, and continue to grow and change in ways I can generate.

I am enjoying the burst of spring we are having, even though it is producing mud. The birds are trilling like there is no tomorrow. The ice is dark and punky. It is rotting. Still, an idiot was dragging a sled across it this morning, to ice fish. This is like my brother. Determined to test and provoke danger, and risk his own life in the obsessive pursuit of throwing in the towel.

I am going to avoid further exploration of my family relationships and write my paper on the ethical considerations pertinent to cloning. That should make something productive come of a day that finds me stymied and frustrated.

Don Schmidt

This morning I saw the two old people. I have been looking for them to reappear. I have seen them for three years, emerge from the strangest places. Once, I actually ran into them coming out of a thick undergrowth of thorns. So vicious, I would never have entered. But there they were, with their trash bags. I started noticing them the summer I lost, (quit), my job, and this notice was taken by the weird hats that they were wearing...sun hats, tied down with what looked like dish towels. From that day forward, I was looking for the daily combination of tied scarfs, baseball hats, brimmed straw, and ear muffs.
It took me awhile to figure out where they lived, and what they were doing. Their house is on the main drag through the reservoir. It is perfectly attended to. And their gardens, which line the highway, are colorful and expansive in design. They don't do a couple of zinnias.

This morning, they had on sweatshirts, with hoods. And of course, their trash bags are recycled from the local grocery store. I recognized the bag. They have taken to the roads and ditches again. I am sure they are excited to find what does not belong there, and take care of removing it.

My neighbor behind me is seventy some years old. He is severely crippled due to an early childhood meningitis. He dropped out of school at seven, and his father threw him out of the house at twelve. He found a job washing dishes at the local Greyhound bus depot, and lived in the basement of a fume filled building. He went on with the people who had the lunch counter, to work in a carnival that they owned. He worked for the Dollingers for forty years and returned to the neighborhood and the family house when they sold their carnival to the city. He is taking care of his 92 year old mother. Yesterday, he wanted to go to K-Mart. I hate K-Mart, but agreed to take him. He has trouble walking, so he quickly grabbed a cart to steady himself. He talks very little. I would say he is a sparse communicator. He went immediately to the baby furniture section. I was completely mystified. After showing some frustration and going around and around several times in the high chairs and playpens, he picked up a box. "Lets go," he said, "I'm done."
He purchased a bed bumper. It is a guard secured by the mattress, to keep a child from falling out of the bed.

In the van, I said, "So what's the deal?"

"I can't have my mother falling out of bed."

The end. No other comments.

He has joined my list.

When Don Schmidt added his name to my name, I could not ascertain how I felt or what my reaction was. I did not feel childish. I didn't feel reduced. I didn't feel silly. I could not do 'the Linda thing' and jump to an immediate ascertation. I was touched in the place where analysis is difficult. Don Schmidt went on my list.

When I saw the two old people with their trash bags, the same thing happened.

When I looked at Del, sitting in my van, with his box on his knees, the same thing happened.

Something happened. But I am having difficulty articulating what it is.

But I have my list.

When You Are 5'9" Tall

Walking at the pace of three inches a step is a problem.

And I guess that is what Lent is all about.

Lent is a liturgical season in which a person struggles to improve, and get back with God.

Since I am struggling already, to improve my communication with God, improve my behavior, and change my ways, I thought I would make my Lent count by really sticking it to myself.

No not cigarettes, which I like to sneak into my life by borrowing them from my neighbor. No not candy, which I like to eat at 9:30 at night. Almond Joys. No not coffee, which fuels and softens my work and school life. No not daily mass, which would be simple, the church is two blocks away. No not anything that I have done before. I posted, awhile back, what it would be.

Walking at the same pace as my small, crippled dog. Three inches at a time. I do not have to measure her stride. I have witnessed this stride for six years.

I couldn't be more miserable, as of today. The sun is shining, no wind, and the walking paths are primo.

I did know that walking three inches at a time would be a problem for me. I do not like the pace. Obviously, it does not fit with the legs that God gave me. Nor the innate sense of challenge, or the wish to walk off emotional pain.

It does however, present opportunity.

I have implemented numerous stretching exercises, which take place as my body is still.

I have changed my breathing.

I have changed the inner demand for acceleration by consciously saying 'no.'

I am saying 'no' to myself.

And this is the center point of this discipline.

I have gotten up earlier, and I have dedicated more time to the walk.

I have stopped saying what I always say to T.T.Marie, the slow and crippled dog: 'Hurry Up!'

I have stopped looking two blocks back, yelling: 'Come on Re-Re!'

The walk now, is perfectly quiet. It is quiet because I have shut my mouth.

I have stopped 'going somewhere.'

When she stops to sit down, I stop.

I look at tree branches.

I watch water drip off twigs.

I look at my feet, and I thank my boots.

I peel off a layer, and tie it to my mid-section.

I look around me.

Today, I watched a blue bird, (not a blue jay), fly in front of my face. It is a very small bird cast in a blue color that you see NO WHERE. The color blue I want for every piece of clothing that I own, yet the color blue that can not be found anywhere in a store. Deeper than navy. And in some way, translucent.

Yesterday, I saw two eagles in a new nest.

I walk this trail regularly.

The nest was not there, three days ago.

A new nest is something significant. It means they are here to stay. They have decided to build a nest. They have selected their location.

They have made a decision, which I have witnessed.

One flew immediately. The other lingered in a scragglycircled patch of (newly) found twigs and branches. As we approached, three inches at a time, the second eagle took flight, almost above my head. I saw the colors of the feathers. I saw the pattern of the feathers. I saw the lumbering exit from the nest. The eagle burdened by its weight, dropped in elevation then stabilized to achieve height. It followed its mate, across the lake ice, to the other side...away from the crazy woman, and the crippled dog walking three inches at a time.

Saying My Name

I would not call myself a religious person. I am laughing as I write this. I received twelve years of traditional Catholic education which contributed to my curriculum at the rate of one religion class per day.
Multiplied by twelve years, I think 'religion' class added up to three thousand or more hours, by the time I was seventeen. Most of this, biblically based. All of it is inside of me. And shows itself when I least expect it.

Several entries ago, I put forward my Lenten plan of walking three inches at a time, with my small, crippled dog. Since I decided this, we have been blasted out of the universe with weather that has fit perfectly to this pace. Wind that has nearly blown my sturdy 200 pound carcass off my equally study winter boots. Ice and rain that has frozen over the spectacles. Snow that has come and gone, come and gone, true to threatening unpredictablity and dedicated to proving to be irradicable. After soft months, winter knowing full well that time is short, has made up her reputation.
For me, I have gone where the hills have cut off the wind. For her, I have gone down into the valley cuts where she can slide the hill.

These places now hear my name.

When I page the old testament, one characteristic of the writing stands out to me. The names of thousands of people can be found. They are listed. Many of these names I can not pronounce. Some I recognize as having made it to the current day, to be baptized on an innocent child.

Linked to something or someone, names.

Whether survival, whether player, whether battle, whether genesis of life, whether judge, whether tribe, whether son, daughter or friend, the names are there.

In my reading, I say their names.

In doing so, merge with strength, resilency, hope, struggle, lesson, fight, vision, wisdom, power, force, vehemence, courage, vigour, and resolution.

I am saying my name in the woods now.

I am calling it out, speaking it with strength, rolling it over a dip and a cut.

I am saying my name over the lake ice.

I am speaking my name from a high point.

I am yelling my name from a low crux of hollow.

I am doing exactly what I have been taught to do by an endless progression of teaching nuns: say your name, list your name, join your name to these names.

At approximately 8:30 am this morning, I yelled my name across an ice broken forest. Before the last vibration echoed silent, I heard back from an unknown location, high above me:

"Don Schmidt."

Kaufman: Here Is A Response

"God did not ask us to follow Him because He needed our help, but because He knew that loving Him would make us whole."

St. Irenaus

Kaufman Pisses Me Off

Kaufman is the Mennonite theologian that I have been studying.

"...true faith in God is not living with a conviction that our heavenly father is taking care of us. It is, rather, acknowledging and accepting the ultimate mystery of things and, precisely in the face of that mystery, going out like Abraham, (Hebrews 11:8), not knowing where we are going, but nevertheless moving forward creatively and with confidence--in the serendipitous creativity that has brought our trajectory and us into being, has continued to sustain the human project within the web of life that surrounds us and nurtures us, and has given us a measure of hope for that project here on planet Earth. Since we now see that we are to love and give ourselves and our lives not only to our human neighbors and enemies, but also to the wider orders of life in which we find ourselves, this perspective deepens and widens the radicality of the Christian ethic, and thus the radicality of Christian faith."

Buddha

"Approach the light that you carry within you, and you will need no shelter."

Buddha

I think the operative word here is "approach."

Last week, I put down the quest as a result of my disappointment, confusion, and net assessment of my failures. I did art. I planted seeds in my flats. Flowers for the front yard. After all, it is supposedly March. I cut 45 degree angles for a complex piece of molding. I went back to the side porch with the trowel and joint compound. I read. I watched T.V. And I walked in the worst weather we have had in six years. I would like to interpret this quote strictly in terms of the weather, and give my soul a break.

I wrote the last entry because my game book is obviously not God's game book. And that leads the most stupid of all people back to prayer and faith.

I am sitting here at the computer looking out of two windows. The wind is fierce, and making the snow swirl. Two people have just passed, walking their dogs. They are doing what I will be doing. Dressing and going out with my dogs. This is 'put one foot in front of the other,' approach to life when life is painful.

On top of my homework, I am dealing with two of my siblings. I thought I had the game book but have given that up, the day we lost our electric power, and I went to bed for twelve hours. This is why I am mad at God, and sick of trying to ascertain the path. I am sick of one of my brothers, and sick of one of my sisters. I am sick of them both.

In my ethics class, we are reading the statements of those who have influenced the development of ethical decision making, and ethical behavior. I was very surprised to find this quote, which is a framing quote for Catholic health care directives:

"We are not the owners of our lives."

My favorite line to all of life right now is, 'well, okay.'

So besides coming up with prayer and faith, I am speaking my favorite line:

"Well, okay."

My Game Book Is Not Their Game Book

I am not writing on my blog much because the 'autobiograpy' assignment is raking up so many negative feelings I don't care to spend my time processing them twice, once for DeFrancisco and once for my blog.

As well, these feelings are impacting my daily prayer walk, making the optimistic, warm, open, friendly spiritual quest to connect with God, colored and impacted. This is the crux of 'distraction' when praying.

My thoughts landed on 'My Game Book Is Not Their Game Book,' when trying to understand and resolve the impact of important people who have crossed my life path. The ice did not distract me from feeling my anger and my rage concerning what happens when the 'game book' is different. As we all know, every 'sport' has a game book, and somewhere along the line, we get the idea that this book is the same book for all players.

One good thing I can say about my reflections this morning...at 58 years old I realize that this is not true. Okay, I get it.

I can't say that 'I get' where other people fit into the spiritual journey.

Except to destroy it, solidify it, create it, experience it, reject it, reverberate it, renounce it, hate it, love it, stabilize it, structure it, complete it, revitalize it, disavow it, assist it, motivate it, merge with it, hurt it, help it.

I did a very long research paper on a Mennonite theologian, named Kaufman. He states that we join the life force of the Divine Creator and it is only through us that the Creative Life and Love Force continues creating all that is good, invigorating, strengthening, inspired, healing, new, loving, optimistic, compassionate, gentle, encouraging, happy, content, composting, inventing, contributing, developing, ending, beginning, and moving to where life and love flows.

This morning, I want for God and a spiritual life without the impact, insertion, or intersection of other people. I feel like a bad cook in God's kitchen. I am not too interested today in placing the lump of clay on the potter's wheel. I don't want the responsibility of God moving through me to make the plan work. God-Through-Me feels like been-there-done-that-please-stop.

So this is my prayer this morning:

Dear God, I am sick of You.

Amen

I Believe He Is Calling It A Respite

Yesterday, I discovered late afternoon, that it is possible to do your dishes, wash up the floor, and fold laundry with no power. I had a the slight illumination of several candles. In the middle of this, I gave Patrick my gas generator, a heavy extension cord and wished him well. We decided together that I am going to buy solar panels for my corn/pellet stove, and rig them to batteries so I will have heat...next time.

After the housework, I threw both dogs into the bed, and found several large and heavy quilts. Layered the bed up and said: The End. Early to bed, early to rise. I slept for twelve hours, across the worst of it.

The weatherman is still screeching like an adolescent boy entering puberty. First his voice sounds one way, then another. According to his frantic waving, which is like what they do in the navy on air craft carriers, we are in a slight respite. Whatever. I am completely over the weatherman.

This morning, the neighborhood looked like a tornado had hit. We will lose many trees due to large branches that split off. This bothers me. The rest I can live with...except the weatherman.

All I Can Say About The Weather Is WOW

I would love to do a long research paper on weather reporters. About two days ago, the voice of my favorite weather man began to rise. As of this morning, he sounds like a cat whose tail is caught in a wheel. Panic, instilled by screeching over the airways, is less than subtle. Yet, it makes me wonder if I am the only person who notices the verbal elevation, the talking too fast, and the eyeballs about ready to pop out of the face. These people should have a panel of evaluators, who are directly linked to the paycheck. The less willing to behave within normal perimeters, the less money they are paid. That ought to improve weather reporting during terrible times.

And it is terrible. There is about two inches of ice on everything. It is a 'broken hip,' kind of a day. Which is making me look around and wonder what I am going to do, inside, all day. According to the hysterical screaming of the weatherman, we are going to get a foot of snow on top of the ice. So I may be in for several days. It might be time to go to the basement and sort my nails.

I Have My Own Pace Car

Today is Ash Wednesday, which begins a liturgical season that I am quite fond of. My idea of Lent involves the classic self-examination, self-improvement, and the conscious practice of trying and striving to connect to the life and love force of God.

There I said it: God.

And I also have said enough to indicate my traditional training.

But I probably have never said 'good time,' in regard to Lent.

So here it is: 'Lent is a good time for me.'

The weather broke this week. I am back to light clothing, longer walks, and wet feet.
The snow is pitted, and weak. It is crunching yet, but sloppy by mid-afternoon. The ice started changing color two days ago. White to gray. This morning the gray had deepened its cast. There is a large hole open under a bridge. There is a spring there that has thinned and eroded the ice.

I have a friend for the dog walks. He hates going with T.T.Marie, because she will not walk faster than three inches at a time. This is extremely slow and does not meld well with all the long legs of the other participants. I have turned to locate her, three million times. I have waited for her ten million times. I have called her to, 'hurry up,' sixteen million times.

For Lent, I am going to walk with T.T. Marie, three inches at a time.

As of this morning I am looking at what I generally pass by. I am seeing and resting on the large vista. I am listening for the dripping water, off the branches. I am watching a man ice fish in a summer chair, dog at side, intensely focused on the line in the hole. I am praying the long prayer for myself and others. I am holding tension against my stride and my desire. I am restraining myself in a way that is not natural for me. I took some extra time this morning. To accomodate this Lenten practice, I rolled out earlier. I have decided to change my pace and see who I am at a different pace, and what comes from 'slow.'

So far, one walk accomplished at the-three-inches-at-a-time-motor-method.

All I have to report is: 'good time.'

Intimidated By The Mystics

Last semester, I faced the earth bound reality of my life by reading the God bound lives of writers found across centuries. No matter who it was and no matter the time period, the personal experience and method was the same. Elevation from routine, yet routine provided a palette. Perspective and orientation to life based on prayer, separation from distraction, and an intense immersion in life. Long epistles on the struggle of transforming oneself. (I liked finding these admissions.)

About mid-way in this class, I was overwhelmed with the awareness of my faults and bad habits. To say nothing of having to forge through the language of these writers, and find the finger that was pointing a direction.

DeFrancisco would point an occasional finger: "You can't have a relationship with God if you don't pray, and make prayer the foundation of your life." Like ten million other people, I have used prayer as the paddle on shit creek. Wiping my forehead and breathing a sigh of relief, I would happily cast it aside when shore was reached. But I would always put it in the canoe, in case I needed it again.

I certainly do not consider myself an academic. When in the middle of this 'forging through the
mystics,' I had to come up with a way to do it. I would read some, and stop. I would write out one or two lines that I made sense to me. I restrained my natural tendency to assess the writer as mentally ill. I would put the book down, walk, and return to it with a new commitment to a few more pages. I was actually motivated to learn something about praying, and having a God-driven life.

Finally, after weeks in this class, I simply said to myself: 'Linda, you are an idiot.'

I accidently found a book for idiots. Written by an anonymous 14th century mystic, I could actually understand what the author was saying. It was a primer. Which means it was written for me. Lots of instruction.

"All the same I will tell you a little about two techniques for handling distractions. Try them and improve on them if you can.
When distracting thoughts annoy you try to pretend that you do not even notice their presence or that they have come between you and your God. Look beyond them--over the shoulder, as it were--as if you were looking for something else, which of course you are. For beyond them, God is hidden in the dark cloud of unknowing. Do this and I feel sure you will soon be relieved of anxiety about them. I can vouch for the orthodoxy of this technique because in reality it amounts to a yearning for God, a longing to see and taste him as much as is possible in this life. And desire like this is actually love, which always brings peace.
There is another strategy you are welcome to try also. When you feel utterly exhausted from fighting your thoughts, say to yourself: "It is futile to contend with them any longer," and then fall down before them like a captive or coward. For in doing this you commend yourself to God in the midst of your enemies and admit the radical impotence of your nature. I advise you to remember this device particularily, for in employing it you make yourself completely supple in God's hands. And surely when this attitude is authentic it is the same as self-knowledge because you have seen yourself as you really are, a miserable and defiled creature less than nothing without God. This is, indeed, experiential humility. When God beholds you standing alone in this truth he cannot refrain from hastening to you and revenging himself on your enemies. Then like a father rescuing his small child from the jaws of wild swine or savage bears, he will stoop to you and gathering you in his arms, tenderly brush away your spiritual tears."

The Cloud of Unknowing


A lot easier for me than the instuctions for the thermostat that came with the new furnace.

Small Notice

DeFrancisco has assigned the writing of the autobiography to last over the five months of spring semester. When I think about this, I only want to jump to any other task I have or can cook up. The more mundane, the better. Today, I am thinking of washing all the quilts and down comforters on my bed. This means going to the laudromat. And standing around brain dead as the washing and drying tubs circle endlessly and repetitively. It is always too hot down there, making me sick, in my soul.

As well, in the basement, I have a storage locker for nails. Four shelves of nails, hinges, bolts and screws. I am thinking about going down there, and reorganizing my hardware. Which can be found in a variety of half empty boxes, plastic containers, and tin cans...leftovers from variety of jobs, and an eternity of lifetimes. It is always too dark down there, making me sick, in my soul.

I have been thinking about being immersed, to my young adulthood, in large scale structures. I don't think I have anything particularity insightful, nor wise to reap from this reflection. It was stimulated by listening to two birds call and sing to each other, this morning. They were very high in the canopy. I never could locate them. But their vocalization was piercing. I was ankle deep in new snow. I had hung several of my 'layers' on friendly tree branches, and moved on, knowing that they would be exactly where I left them, car keys and coffee cup, when I backtracked to the van. I was in a big place, with a gigantic view and a dramatic cut. But I was listening to two birds sing and call. That took me. Two birds were the walk for me, this morning.

And that is how I worked it as a child in a large family, a child whose family had a large people oriented business, a child shackled to the large sin, redemption talk and practice of Catholism.

This background is the genesis of the 'small notice.'



If I was in a nuclear bomb drop, I would probably be acting like I was ignoring it.

Large explains my work life, and my career path.

It is the foundational point of approaching any seemingly long or enormous house rebuilding project.

No crowd bothers me. And the crazier it is, the homier it feels.

If forty people were added to a two person supper, finding the plates would not be a problem, and everyone would be fed.

I am very sensitve to the large overlay, I was formed by 'large.' I watch and respond to it as deftly as 'Columbo.'

This has been bred into me. I can do large, blind, deaf, and tied to a chair.

This is a part of my personality that I have been referring to as the Linda who seems 'not interested.' Water off a duck's back, Linda.
Large is a composite of skill, experience, orientation, function and survival. I can do large.

But I ground myself in the small notice.

My neighbor brought over a small container of small, perfectly decorated Valentine cookies.

I have icicles on the back grape vine, that are reflecting small prisms of light into the family room.

I have a small mouse living somewhere in my kitchen.

I enjoy my small dog more because I have the giant dog.

I received a small tin of English toffee in the mail. A sweet, small gesture from a loving person.

I am in school, which feels like an inordinately large venture, making small progress.

I have found a small way to let God back into my life. I am doing this by way of small prayer.

I am making small progress on asking others for help, for forgiveness, and for encouragement.

I am saying to my small inner child, don't hide in the large Linda, come out and play.

I cooked a small chicken last night in my large stainless steel pot.

I am giving myself small notice to love, and let love touch me, in my small inner places.

I enjoyed the small clear notes of two small birds.

TGIF

I am in a great period, in my life.

I am in a window of self-examination, healing, restructuring, and retooling. There is a tremendous energy represented here.

The window has been long and large enough to have allowed me enough time to have entered the: 'I am enjoying myself,' period. Even when paced, and lead to the 'dark side,' by DeFrancisco.

I have found a way to muck around with his assignments, and then put it aside to delve into a pleasure.

Reading, art work, walking, carpentry, and nature remain as the places I renew and refresh myself. Pretty soon, I might add eating and cooking to this list.

Lately, as I examine the wounded child in the Jungian archetype, I have taken to viewing a model of 'the child' as offered by my two dogs. This has been a great insight and gift to me...to watch them as models. On the walk this afternoon, T.T.Marie, who is crippled in the back end due to the abuse of a previous owner, did her 'thing.'

Her 'thing' is to slide down a hill on her belly.

This, to me, is a definition of humor and freedom.

She takes to this as fun, and an efficient technique to manage a long walk. She has found a way to accept, work with, and circumvent her limitations. When she gets to the bottom of any hill, she turns over on her back, and lays in the snow, with her feet up. I take this as a statement of:

'Success! Good idea worked!'

(and)

'I am thrilled with myself. Now I better rest a bit, with my feet up.'

She is inspirational. She gets a laugh from me and notice.

I could probably go on and on about the simple pleasures that a dog gets from romping, sniffing, exploring, jumping, tearing around, laundering the coat with snow, sleeping, and being 'up' for it.

I could take the same lead from those I am reading.

I could even say something about a line last night in Grey's Anatomy, that stuck inside of me.

But, since I started school, I know and feel, on a deep level what 'Thank God It's Friday,' is all about.

So I am off to the riches of that feeling. And might be found on my back, with my feet up, somewhere.

A Word From A Sponsor

"Any move against the archetypal child is a move against soul, because this child is a face of the soul, and whatever aspect of the soul we neglect, becomes a source of suffering.

We are a society that finds it difficult to discover the exuberant joy and spontaneity of childhood; instead, we spend great sums of money on electronic entertainment centers that don't speak to the soul's need for childlike direct pleasure. The United States ranks low on the list of how well nations take care of their children. For all our sentimental advocacy of children, we don't make genuine efforts on behalf of children. In our country child abuse is rampant, yet it is still largely covered up and denied. This tragic situation is both a symptom and a cause of our failure to appreciate the archetypal child.

To embrace the child may threaten the adult who values information above wonder, entertainment above play, and intelligence above ignorance.

If we were really to care for the child, we would have to face our own lower natures--our indomitable emotions, our insane desires, and the vast range of our incapacity."

Thomas Moore
Care of The Soul
A Guide Book For Cultivating Depth and Sacredness in Everyday Life
1994

I Happily Admit, I Got It Wrong

I had too many clothes on this morning, and while walking, I had to strip them off.

I happily admit that I was wrong, even after hearing the temperature, as I dressed.

I would also like to admit that instead of bounding out of bed with enthusiasm, I wanted to stay in bed...for the entire day, and read.

I did turn over and sleep some more, no pressing 'sit upon,' by the giant dog. Take it when you can get it, and enjoy it.

DeFrancisco is happily leading the hiking journey into repression. To what we feel is 'bad.'
'Bad' finds its early roots in family patterning, parental messages and societal confines. Repression of behavior, thoughts, and feelings to make it all work, so to speak. For approval, love, reward, membership, acceptance, and smooth operational function. DeFrancisco is great on this topic. Using himself as an example, he happily gives example after example from his own life. Of course it is no fun to write out 'the shadow.' He knows this. And makes us laugh, during class.

It is a great feeling to strip off the layers, and walk in your underwear. The pellet stove and the new furnace are saying 'get naked.'

I say, 'why not?'

Well, What Do You Know!

Whenever my friends ask me, "What are you doing in a Catholic seminary?"

I answer the same way, everytime:

"Really."

As I have been surprised, impressed, inspired, and nutured in the 'Catholic seminary,' today I am going to stop saying what I always say.

Today, the 'Catholics' called a snow day.

Raised in the harsh, stringent, self-effacing Catholicism of the 50's and 60's no compassion, gentleness, or understanding was given freely by the nuns and priests that instructed me. Certainly not as freely as modeled by the Christ figure whose lifestyle and behavior were supposedly underpinning the theology.

Deeply appreciative of this decision, I was released to enjoy the eight inches of snow that we have received, since mid-night. Instead of trying to save my own life driving the freeway, gripping the steering wheel like death was ahead, and making it to class on time.

(Yes, the clock on my newly installed radio works.)
(And yes, true to my 'not-interested' personality, I do not know how to set an accurate time.)

I took the dogs out to the farm campus. I have about eight hundred pounds of corn and wood pellets in my van. I threw the shovel in as an after thought. Released from taking a test today, I felt the child part of my ego, that I have been examining in the Jungian archetypes. Freed, happy, fearless, open to and looking for adventure, excited, and thrilled with expanding what could have been, a house-bound definition of the day. Since I like to drive slow anyway, and the axels are weighted, five miles north did not seem that daunting for my adventure. I wish my child archetype could get free of 'just in case,' and 'better safe than sorry,' and 'don't be stupid.'
But as DeFrancisco said in class last night as we examined the psychology of our personalities, "some fear is a good thing."

I am going to splice the Minnesota gene here, to the child archetype. On the drive, I loved the landscape, loved the quiet, loved the inspection of the road, the current of the drifting, and the blustery wind that shot snow over my windshield. The mythical presentation of this love of the outdoors, in Minnesota, is Paul Bunyon. And with my four layers covered by parka, I was a presentation of this image.

In retrospect, the most reflective aspect of this walk was stimulated by an unexpected discovery. I drove through the wooded terrain to the most out-back parking lot. And there found eight other cars. My child was there with other children. Happily putting on and taking off skiis and snow shoes. Many people on the trails and coming off the trails. Quilted, both in snow and clothes, we conversed easily. Not intent on driving forward into the activity, or fleeing the activity to the safety of their car, each person I talked with was calm, peaceful, and content while standing under a heavy fall of snow. Only the dogs were electrified, the rest of us acted like we were standing in our own kitchens, sipping tea. It was the same quiet talk that I witnessed one afternoon, in a beautiful cathedral in France. No hurry, no other place to go to, no other life had to be found and reentered.

The end thought on the reflection: no matter where I am, I am not alone.


I found it very difficult to write out the paper on my wounded self. I had two weeks to do it, and believe me, suffered every moment it took. When I handed it over to DeFrancisco, I said, "Don't publish this, and my sympathy to you for having to read it." He said, "We all have our wounded child. Take care of yours, and don't worry about mine."

"What are you doing in a Catholic seminary?"

Well, today, the child physician, the child magician, the child adventurer, the child dreamer, the child lover, the child busy bee, the child socializer, the child athlete, the child Paul Bunyon was healing the wounded child

Where It Lands Is Where It Stays

While I was digging up the foundation of my house, I had to find someplace to put the 'dirt.' It wasn't dirt. It was clay, and the reason my basement was leeching water. Though I am perfectly capable of setting up a kiln and a pottery studio, I was too busy to launch another career. Very invested in the survival of my back, I did what seemed simpliest, I dumped it in the front yard. This began a long reconfiguring, from grass to raised gardens. Landscaping in bushes, bulbs, small trees and flower beds. To top it all off, I took my dutiful dump truck to the river where four men used a crane to load a rock that I had been eyeing for months. These guys had been repouring a concrete dam and placing a walking bridge over the top of it. We had become friends over many years. It actually took them nearly five years to do this job. More stories emerged from trying to work over an aged and decayed system of rushing water than I could ever retell. I went there every morning and they thought I was there to walk my dogs. I was there to watch them.

They didn't blink once when I asked for this rock. And they certainly did not ask any questions. Every weird thing in the world had happened to them already and one more weird thing, did not phase them.

I arrived to the front yard with this rock, backed the truck up and said, "Where it lands, is where it stays." It had four perfectly sheared planes. I imagined that it would land square, and one of these large, flat planes would host a perfect pot of flowers. It would be a table of sorts. However, it did not land like that. It landed on a corner, and shot into the air an opposite corner, making its position cut a diagonal pose. A large point jutted into the air. All I could say was, 'Wow, I never thought of that." It had found its most perfect presentation. Its weight had dug itself into the ground. Something better than I could have imagined, happened.

I walked away, parked the dump truck on the street.

"Okay," I said to myself and repeated the "Wow."

Of late, in the chaplaincy program, I have been asked to root around in my past. Locate and write about my formation, take off, and life ventures. Focus on the wounds and shadows of my development and personality. Focus on relationships. Focus on themes. Focus on ... Focus on...

I know I am probably moving from my house when I complete this program. I have already started thinking about upending and moving the rock in the front yard. Can you believe that? I have thought of many plans as to how to accomplish this. A case of where it lands is NOT where it stays, it seems.

Why then do I think that the difficulties of my childhood, the pain and struggle of my adult life are non-fluid, stationary, fixed or permanet aspects of my life? If I have already moved a rock that weighs four ton, and am already planning to move it again, why do I resonate on, 'this is who I am, and this is why' tending toward a harsh, sour and fixed appraisal?

Right now, I am struggling to know my soft spots, my vulnerabilities, my losses, my hurts, my tendencies, my deepest longings, my hopes, dreams and wishes, my sum total. Who I am is not a static deal. I am not fixed in a permanet state. Like the dam project going on over the top of a raging, rushing river. There is progress, and there is forward.

I just have to go to work everyday, and work with what I have. No matter the start-overs, the bad weather, the ice, the mud, the crazy city and federal officials, the bugs, the snakes, the floating dead-wood, the erosion, the high water and the flooding.

I am remembering, this morning, what I learned from watching four men work for a long time.

And I can't really say that there has not been progress on this Linda project. Where it lands is not where it stays.

Something better than I could have imagined is happening. At 58, much has already happened.

And that is the presence of God in my life, and across my life.

I believe they call this: The Holy Spirit.

And whatever guardian angels were assigned to this bridge and dam project.

By the way, the front gardens are spectacular.

Something better than what I could have imagined, happened.

Old Amish Saying

The ground temperature is about -4 degrees, and the wind chill is currently at -21. No one can tell me that dogs do not understand time. I have caught myself examining my dog's forearms, to see if they are wearing a watch. No matter what I am doing, they are more than willing to interrupt me with their assessment of 'time.' At six o'clock every morning, it is 'time' to go outside, for the walk. This is my punishment for inserting dogs into my life. And it has taught me a lot about compromise, within relationships. In the 'old' days, many religious orders followed a daily prayer schedule. Morning prayer, mid-day prayer, evening prayer. If I believed in reincarnation, I would have to say, my two dogs have returned from the monastic life. With the cold weather here to stay, I have tried to roll over in bed, and put a pillow over my head. Monk, who weights 140 pounds, then sits on me. This is so intense, I begin to fight to remove him, but can not move him. I am trapped. In the wrestling that proceeds, I have fallen out of bed twice, to the floor. The end. I am officially 'up.' So I am making this work for me.
And it is working.

"You can't tell a gift how to come."

We took to the ice this morning. The snow is thin on the ice. It is a smooth walk, no bumps and humps of drifted and iced snow. Sometimes, when I am with them on the morning prayer walk, I wonder why I am not wearing those Eskimo glasses, with the narrow slit. I was so blinded by the glare, the tears were running down my face. But I know why I don't want to wear sunglasses, or much face cover. I like having my face seared. For in that, over the years, lines have appeared around my eyes, mouth, and cheeks. And I wear those lines like Native
American face paint. Read my face, and you know who I am. All of my life is there, the journey of my wounds, and the journey of my healing.

In the article, "Getting To Know Your Inner Child," basis for the paper I am writing, the author presents several theories on the point and purpose of the inner child. This has been good for me. Especially the Jungian approach, where the child part of our personality is an archetype. Not something to get rid of, or grow out of, or cure, or repress, or bury, or deny. But a valuable and important part of who we are, from which all imagination, creativity, courage, playfulness, hope, flexibility, and strength is offered. The child archetype, this part of who we are, is also the physician. Those early childhood wounds, bitter and burdensome, now in the hands of the wildly enthusiastic and indomitable spirit that accompanies us through life.

"You can't tell a gift how to come."

It was clear to me, on the ice this morning, I was not going to last long. Before I called it, and tried to get them to load up, we discovered a pile of deer bones. A carcass. Very well picked. However, there were two hoofs left. Monk and T.T. Marie grabbed them quickly, and headed immediately to the van, top speed.

"You can't tell a gift how to come."

Grey's Anatomy

Bascially, this television program is about a bunch of doctors, and what goes on in their lives. It is about relationships. I don't watch a lot of T.V.. Following my own life, and what is going on in my relationships, is enough work for me. So why am I interested in this program? I think it is the writing. It is well scripted. And applicable.

So taking it from the perspective of being God's patient, here is what the narrator said at the end of last week's program:

"But what our patients really want to know is will the pain go away? Will I feel better? Am I cured? What our patients really want to know is--is there hope?

When the worst case scenario comes true, clinging to hope is all we've got left."

This week I am writing a paper based on 'Getting to Know Your Shadow,' and 'Getting to Know Your Inner Child.' It is a core concept in Pastoral Counseling, as interpreted by Professor DeFrancisco.

So I am definitely with the narrator on this one.

Dear Sir,

Professor DeFrancisco:

Writing out my life story has raked it all up to the forefront. As it is supposed to. I have feelings about it, most definitely. As someone wrote me today, 'feelings you didn't even know you had.'

Probably true. I thought I had dealt with these feelings a long time ago.

I am taking a break from writing. I have returned to several manual labor jobs that I have going in my house. For some relief, and perspective.

I will say, I saw three robins this morning.

They are here because of the weather we had in November and December. It confused them.

I am not confused.

Am I cold?

Not in my soul.

Hardly.

It is never cold in my soul.

Arms Raised, I Say "Victory!"

I have admitted on this blog that I can not work most electronic equipment nor many appliances. Since my current life has been ordered to soul searching, here is the truth of the matter: I am not interested. There are probably about fifteen thousand other things I am not interested in. But I am interested in this:

I have a more than adequate supply of what is called smart clothing. However, the intelligence promised by this labeling is only acquired when this clothing is worn together, one piece with another. That is when you get smart, and stay warm. And this fact is not mentioned on any label. Layering up is what makes this clothing work.
Today I was required to fulfill the exact recipe of the exact clothing. Clothing IQ called to the forefront. Zero degrees, and a flexible wind chill. Early this morning the wind chill was -18 degrees. Early this afternoon, it was -30.

We took to a two mile trail, down and up, around a point, down and up again. I have to say, I was actually enjoying my walk. What I had selected was working. The snow was crunching, the trail was packed. The sun was shining. I was looking around at the treescape. Usually, on a day like today, the dogs are burying me. It was quiet. It was still.

It was too quiet. It was too still. I turned around. Back a significant distance, were my dogs.

Sitting.

Each holding a paw in the air.

"YES!!" I yelled.

Linda: 1

Dogs: 3005

Finally, I won one in the game of "Who Can Last The Longest?"

Helped along by a scathing and breath-taking performance during Saturday afternoon opera, I
have decided to quit playing this game. Even on the heels of winning one.
I have played it my entire life. I'm sick of playing it, now that I won one.

No one thought it possible that I would last twenty years as the drug testing manager of the Iowa Hawkeyes. If I had to list every technique tried to break me, stop me, turn me, confuse me, undermine me, devalue me, the text would be four inches, in thickness. Finally, I quit. Did I say you broke me? No, I didn't. What I did was show a rage that has lasted a long time. I am done with that. Here it is: you broke me. You broke me along time ago, but I wouldn't admit it, or show it. You win. Game over.

I played this game with my father. Did anyone in my family ever think I would quit? No they didn't. I would never tell anyone in my family that piece of news. Today I would like to say: Dad, I quit. Did you break me? Yes, you did, a long time ago. But all I would show was my rage. You broke me. You win. Game over.

I have played this game in the past with friends, lovers, and siblings. Currently, there are people from these groups who are playing this game with me. I would like to tell them: I quit. Did you know I quit a long time ago? No, you didn't, because all I showed was my rage. You won a long time ago. You broke me. A long time ago. You win. Game over.

Here is the truth of the matter: I am not interested in hiding or deferring my hopes and wishes, my need for love and acceptance, my hurt and vulnerability. I am not interested in my hurt, being expressed by anger. Not interested anymore. I have always viewed anger as more empowering and productive than hurt. I am not interested in this view anymore. I think it is possible for me to tie hurt to something else, if need be. Like crying.
I am not interested in grudges, resentments, having my view of the situation, or getting my message through. Not interested. I am the hurt, faulted and less than perfect person. I admit it. That is what my smart clothing layered over my smart self, is telling me to say. And we will take it from there, I guess.

As Professor Dunn said last week in class: "How easy is that?" For some reason, Professor, today...post brain freezing walk...pretty easy.

And that is what is called grace.

Arms raised, again I say, "Victory!"

Duke Ellington, Billy Strayhorn, Stan Getz

At 6:00 am this morning I knew the temperature outside. Monk Marie was talking. Take two of your fingers and scoop out a large gob of peanut butter. Attach it to the roof of your mouth, add five marbles, and some liquid. Start singing, humming and reciting the alphabet. That is my dog, talking. He does this when it is extremely cold. Cold means, 'I couldn't be happier, lets go.' No gloves this morning. Back to the mittens.

Last semester I had a woman for Pastoral Care. Her name was Becky. I called her 'Chaplain Becky,' or 'Reverend Becky.' I forced myself to title her because I had some confusion and hesitation as to whether what she was saying was true. She was teaching a style I was uncomfortable with. I forced myself to respect her. When I was really forcing myself, I called her, "Professor David," (last name).
There wasn't a class in which she did not say: "Be quiet, sit there, and listen. That is it in a nutshell, (nit-shell), and this is why...

The soul will always present itself for what it is seeking. The soul is doing what it needs to be doing. You don't have to do anything."

Well, Chaplain Becky, this morning I did have to do something. I had to put four layers on top of my pajamas, load, drive and accompany my happy dog while he expressed his soul. But Chaplain, I didn't talk, as per your instructions.

Most people can not believe that I have not had a working radio in my vehicle for most of my life. Lets not even mention cd player or tape player. I completely missed both of these inventions. Since I am driving to school, and sick of my own thoughts, I asked the junk yard in town to find one for my rather aged van. Not completely sure that this could be done, I was more than surprised when they found one and the actual junkyard man came over and installed it. This week I have been listening to the souls of three men. Longing, lost, plaintive, hopeful.
You can't sing along with a horn, to help it along or to distract yourself from the pain expressed. Souls swirled around an interior littered with sticks, blankets, old bones and landed inside of me. Before I say I am thinking of removing the radio, I will say I heard what these men were expressing, and tending to.

Our food co-op is carrying sushi. Packaged in individual trays, there is vegetarian and a broad selection of sea food offered. Meticulously rolled, cut, and arranged, the presentation is a feast for the eyes. Art. I am buying it as a special treat for myself. As I have never heard of a treatment center for sushi addiction, I am being careful to hold myself in check. You can find me down there looking, on the days that I am not buying. Yesterday, as I entered the store, I saw a bundled and small figure bent over a delivery box. I wanted to say something to this person. Busy and hooded, I did not know if this person was a man or a woman. I tapped the shoulder.
He rose quickly to face me. "I just wanted to say how much I am enjoying the sushi. Are you the person that is making it?" Face beaming, the head started bobbing. Immediately the hands went into the prayer position and took to the center of the body. He started bowing. On the move upwards, his face was exposed. Smiling, open, completely without guile, eyes sparkling.
I realized that he did not speak or understand English. There I stood, with his soul. Nothing I would say would matter. I took his hand, and bowed to him.

I was wrong when I thought I felt irritation and frustration with Chaplain Becky. I think what I felt was fear. It is my fear of connecting intimately with the unmasked soul. For in that, I am connected. The broken and solitary cowboy who uses aloneness as the lifestyle, the argument, the defense, and the creed, connected. I am connected to life and love, and that frightens me because of the risk... .of being hurt, disappointed, excluded, diminished, forgotten.

I went with the happy dog. I let the music enter me without turning it off. I took a stranger's hand, and looked into his eyes.

I am very uncomfortable in 'the seminary.'

This is a superfical statement.

What I am really uncomfortable with is opening up.

Being close to another soul.....even my own.

As it is changing the way I haved lived my life.

It is returning me to who I was, a long time ago. And this is frightening me. Being open, accessable, trusting, and hopeful.

Burnt Out By Wednesday

Daughter of a tradesman, daughter of a knitter, resident of Minnesota. No further information is necessary to explain why I wear mittens in the winter. I think the only time I have worn gloves in my life, was for my first communion.
Today, I bought two pair of gloves, and believe me, I felt the universe flinch. This decision was made because I have inserted reading on my morning walk. That too felt somewhat sacrilegious.
But I have come to learn that praying, for me, is best done as me. And now, reading has become part of my prayer life. I can turn a page easier with a gloved hand. The dogs are still thrilled with the general format...the woods and lake.

I decided this week that I am being instructed by three felines.

One is the Cheshire cat of Alice In Wonderland. Appearing in trees with the wide, crazy smile and enormously bushy tail, this one disappears by turning his back to the class. Only after saying something powerful. I have come to watch for the turning of the back, and scribble furiously, what has come out of his mouth. Monday night, it was: "God's presence in our lives is constant. This is what is referred to as grace. You will write about every person who loved you, every person who did something for you, and what they did, every person who said something to you when you were broken, empty and alone. You will write about every act that a person put forward that steadied you, held you, and directed you. You will not tell me that you do not know God. And you will not tell me that God is not part of your life. If you do not believe in the presence of God, please drop out of this class. God is active in every relationship, no matter its context. Good, bad, or ugly. God is there, working, directing, inspiring, resurrecting, forgiving, challenging, nuturing, using it to make manifest: life and love. Thus, every relationship is sacred. If you do not know this, you are not praying, meditating, reflecting or writing enough. Get busy or get out."

One is a kitten. Full of curiousity, courage, and spirit, this one leaps at the string, wad of paper, and the bird on the other side of the glass. This one raises his arms to the sky, and runs into the chairs of students, to say something. I have started now watching for the arms to go up, the dynamic leap, the tumble across feet and legs, and the wild and enthused eyes. And I wait for what he is going to say, to write it down. Last night it was: "Living a life that is God directed is easy. We have a perfect example of how to do it. That example is Jesus. He even made it easier for us. He said do two things. That is all you have to do. Two things. Easy!!"

One is a fat cat who looks like he is sleeping, but he is not. His eyes are not all the way closed. If you try to touch him, he leaps insanely from a prone position, takes to six feet of air, and runs from the room, feet scrambling and hardly operational. Whenever this cat is about to say something, he starts playing around with all the audio-visual equipment on his desk. (This is one of the college's smart rooms.) Then he answers the question, or summarizes the material.
I used to wait for what he would say. Now I know what he is going to say, "How would you answer that?" "What do you think?" "What is your assessment of this case?"


I am still certain however, that God is a dog.

Well, How Hard Is It To Find Corn In Iowa?

For those reading this blog, which probably means me, I have Professor DeFrancisco on Monday nights, from 6:00 to 9:00 pm. I can't really say that I am afraid of him. But I can say that I take him very seriously. It is not his yelling that straps me to his orders. It is his confidence in putting forward his demands. I have decided to go with him, rather than fight him. So I have been writing out my life story, as he ordered last week, and this blog will no doubt indicate that activity, over this semester. I am only saying this because I feel like a self-involved teenager, with a variation of MySpace. This feels like a massive self-involved web tout of self-importance, great insights and the significance of my life events. Is this an apology? I don't think so, I think it is an attempt on my part to stick to the task, and trust the task. Which means in the large picture, staying in the seminary.
I definitely feel like avoiding the life story, minimizing it and judging myself.

My little corn/pellet stove takes about five bags of fuel per week. I have had a great source of wood pellets and corn, Orschlens. A farm and agricultural store. Somewhat like a Fleet and Farm. I was thrilled to have a reason to go to this store every week because in the dead of winter, they start incubating eggs in the store. Chickens and ducks. They set up a simple process for this in the middle of the store, and over time, the little chicks and ducks hatch and start running around an enclosed area, entertaining all the customers. I completely love this because it takes the sting out of winter. About two weeks ago, I went to the area where the 40 pound bags of corn are stacked. No corn. And after inquiring if it was in the back storage area, I was told no. They wouldn't be carrying corn again, until next winter. According to the calendar and computer that governs these deliveries, winter was now over in Iowa. Well, I thought, bundled in my four layers and heavy boots, thank God for that.

I grew up in a family of two grandparents, two parents, and ten siblings. If I compressed and distilled these fourteen personalities, and asked this question:
'How hard is it to find corn in Iowa?' the answer would be: 'As hard as you want to make it.'

Their minds completely agile, they would all move to the obvious. But the answer would not be the obvious. The answer would be wrapped in dry wit, sarcasm, insinuation, hint, innuendo, humor, challenge, humiliation, reversed analogy, fancy or whim. The person asking the question would then land on, 'figure it out.' (This entire process due to the Irish gene in the family.)

When I first drove the forty miles to St. Ambrose, I took a large cup of coffee with me in the van. I arrived on a campus that is basically boxed in design. Squared buildings positioned in squares. I had to go to the bathroom, and I had to go quick. Which box held the closest bathroom? The correct answer was more than necessary. "As hard as you want to make it." I asked a lumbering mass of post-athletic stardom hiding behind a comb-over: "Where is the closest bathroom?"
When I decided to dig out my foundation this summer, I asked myself 'how hard is that going to be?' I decided to dig in the morning, two or three hours and stop for lunch, walk the dogs, and not go back to it in the afternoon. I did this for a month. How hard is it to dig out the foundation of your house? "As hard as you want to make it."
When I was told at Orschlens, no more corn, I drove three miles down the road to Gringers Feed and Seed. They had 50 pound bags. And an endless, year round supply. How hard is it to find corn in Iowa? It is as hard as you want to make it.

In the last three years of my life I have asked myself:

How hard is it going to be to insert God back into my life? Same answer.
How hard is it going to be to forgive? Same answer.
How hard will it be to let love back into my feeling life. Same answer.
How hard will it be to restructure and jump start my career? Same answer.

And last night, I was in bed with Professor DeFrancisco's defensive behavior check list. How hard was it going to be to look at my behavior, and why I act the way I do. How hard was it going to be to face myself in a new way?

Same answer.

As hard as you want to make it.

Obviously, making this hard, has it's benefits.

The Last Line

I like watching Grey's Anatomy for several reasons. I won't go into all the reasons. I won't say anything about being in love with the black woman who supervises the surgical residents.

But I will say there is a narrator, who sums it all up, at the end of each episode.

Who is this narrator?

That I believe, will be another entry, on another day.

Last line in the narration of this week's episode:

"The unexpected is what changes our lives."

St. John of The Cross

This morning I was on a band that follows a shoreline. No wind. A clear sky and a completely radiant sun. There is a ten foot wide and exposed expanse of ice that is a turquoise blue, spanning the width of the lake. It catches the sun and makes the eyes water with a brillance that is captured from above. Couched in snow, side to side, the view of this blue ice, was blinding and spectacular.
In the big picture, the ice was snow-covered. In the big picture, it was all frozen. But in this big picture, there was something that I could not avoid seeing and responding to. It held me, captured me, gave me pause and explained winter in a way that communicated movement, anomaly, variation, landscape, and synergy. This morning, the sum of the parts was greater than the whole.

Often, in recanting John of the Cross, the first thing stated about him is not the fact that he instigated a complete and total, bull-headed, one person confrontation and restructuring of the monastic system. The first thing often said about him is that he stood in height, at about four feet. And I guess, this says it all. That seems to be why everyone lands on this, and comments on his physical height. Stupified.

In theology, synergism is the doctrine that the human will co-operates with divine grace in effecting regeneration. John of the Cross, in his magnificant personage of four feet, is our perfect example. His own community of monks locked him in a tower to shut him up. He was starved and completely isolated. They kept him there for a year, until he escaped. And what was this little tift all about? John was saying, to the other monks, 'lets get back to where we need to be.' He wore a bare-threaded habit, went barefoot, and incorporated prayer and work as the mainstay of his daily life. This did not go over well in a lifestyle that had become indolent, listless, lavish, and self-gratifying.

His story gives me hope. That in understanding my brokenness, my faults, my failures and shortcomings, something larger than the sum of this can emerge. That was my prayer on the walk:

"Dear God, this morning I humbly ask for turquoise. Amen."