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.
This Is What I Look Like
And This Is What I Look Like When Writing
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
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."
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."
Friday, January 26, 2007
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."
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."
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Holy Mackerel
In my "unusual but traditional" childhood, profanity and foul language was not tolerated. The use of these words brought a quick reaction, reprisal and punishment. And that punishment was isolation. Being sent to your room had certain benefits, but separation from the activities and movement of a large family was certainly not preferred. In understanding the need for emotional expression, my mother provided us with acceptable phraselogy. One of which was, 'Holy Mackerel.' Located in the midwest, none of knew what a mackerel was. But we knew the use of this phrase indicated emotionality of the highest sort. Surprise, fear, anger, hurt, disappointment, pleasure, whatever. 'Holy Mackerel' could cover it all, if supplied with the correct tone of voice and volume.
This week, victim to Professor DeFrancisco's demand for the life story, I uttered, 'Holy Mackerel,' and it was in a somber voice. "You can write it out going backwards, you can write it out going forwards, or you can start in the middle and cover both ends. I don't care. Start writing."
I have started writing it from the point of losing my job. I like to say that I lost my job, for certain reasons. This morning on the walk, I said, I QUIT my job. From that point forward, I saw nothing on the walk, I heard no birds, I crunched no snow, and felt no freeze. I was so damn cold this morning when I got back to the car, my cheeks were gray and hard. I did not feel the frostbite. I had no idea where the dogs were, and had to backtrack to find them. I can not pray when I am in a rage. So there was no prayer this morning, except when I kicked an ice ball off the back tire of the van and said, 'Dear God, help me.' Now I have to fill out DeFrancisco's form on behavior and defenses. Check, check, check on reactive and defensive behavior. I suppose one could say, this is 'writing therapy,' at its best.
About a month ago, I bit the bullet on removing my antique furnace. This has been the one complaint of all potential buyers, and viewers of my house. I saw no reason for this complaint because the furnace worked fine. I have never been cold in this house. I thought removing it was a complete waste of a good furnace. But over and over again, in trying to communicate this, I ran into fear. Every person who looked at the furnace was afraid of it. You can't argue with fear. I found a great guy, Dave, to do the job. I knew from meeting him and talking it out, we were completely attuned to each other. He had great ideas, and he had corgis, a small breed of dog that I adore. He had a great reputation, skilled and focused. We coordinated the schedule, and I did my end: I tore out the furnace, and disposed of it. A major undertaking and strenuous in a way that redefined strenuous. Dave did not return. I waited the first week, calm. I relied on my understanding of the trades, and what can happen to tradesmen. I knew and understood that the change in the weather had whisked Dave away from me.
By the end of the third week, I was seething. I had the red emotionality creeping up my neck, hot and burning. I was ready to blow.
I was perfectly comfortable in my house. I had the corn/pellet stove and the temperature of the house with this stove, is always toasty. Being without a gas furnace in the middle of the winter is not a problem for me. The only problem is that my dogs are too hot, and pant. I hate panting.
So I had to keep the stove adjusted to the emergence and presence of panting. That was my only challenge.
So what is the thread here? Trust. My basic life issue is not love. It is trust. I get angry and am mad when the struggle to trust is afoot and on the table.
I QUIT my job, IN A RAGE, because at every turn within a political construct and upheaval, none of the players could be trusted to do what they were supposed to do. Including the highest official of the University, mandated by his position, to do what was right.
I moved close to a rage because I trusted Dave.
I am currently in a rage at my brother Jim, because I trusted him.
I have reacted, IN A RAGE, within personal relationships because of this issue. My issue: trust.
I was raised to express myself without profanity. In deference to my mother, I should have a T-shirt printed out with this on it: FOOL with me and see what happens.
I know where this is coming from in my life story. That is not a mystery to me, nor a secret. It has to do with landing in life with a birthmark across my head and face. It clouded, influenced, formed, defined, and affected every relationship that presented itself to me for the first twenty years of my life. Add my father to that, and you have got the whole package. My father is dead, the birthmark is gone. The trust issues are not.
All I can say is Holy Mackerel.
Dave showed up this week and installed the furnace. I discussed all of my feelings, in an on-going way with Patrick, my neighbor. I explained, though he knows, what I usually do in a situation like this, blow up. I told Patrick that my goal in solving this problem was to not blow up. To get through the entire thing with complete control of my rage reaction. Patrick was great. He called and e-mailed me every day to help me manage my feelings and stick to the goal.
The installation is a piece of art. Dave proceeded with his great ideas. He changed the air flow through the house in a very creative way, to maximize the furnace. He brought warm air to a large family room that has always been cool. He told me stories about his corgis, and stories about himself. We have become friends. I made him coffee and let him smoke in the basement. I brought him an ashtray.
I say again, Holy Mackerel.
This week, victim to Professor DeFrancisco's demand for the life story, I uttered, 'Holy Mackerel,' and it was in a somber voice. "You can write it out going backwards, you can write it out going forwards, or you can start in the middle and cover both ends. I don't care. Start writing."
I have started writing it from the point of losing my job. I like to say that I lost my job, for certain reasons. This morning on the walk, I said, I QUIT my job. From that point forward, I saw nothing on the walk, I heard no birds, I crunched no snow, and felt no freeze. I was so damn cold this morning when I got back to the car, my cheeks were gray and hard. I did not feel the frostbite. I had no idea where the dogs were, and had to backtrack to find them. I can not pray when I am in a rage. So there was no prayer this morning, except when I kicked an ice ball off the back tire of the van and said, 'Dear God, help me.' Now I have to fill out DeFrancisco's form on behavior and defenses. Check, check, check on reactive and defensive behavior. I suppose one could say, this is 'writing therapy,' at its best.
About a month ago, I bit the bullet on removing my antique furnace. This has been the one complaint of all potential buyers, and viewers of my house. I saw no reason for this complaint because the furnace worked fine. I have never been cold in this house. I thought removing it was a complete waste of a good furnace. But over and over again, in trying to communicate this, I ran into fear. Every person who looked at the furnace was afraid of it. You can't argue with fear. I found a great guy, Dave, to do the job. I knew from meeting him and talking it out, we were completely attuned to each other. He had great ideas, and he had corgis, a small breed of dog that I adore. He had a great reputation, skilled and focused. We coordinated the schedule, and I did my end: I tore out the furnace, and disposed of it. A major undertaking and strenuous in a way that redefined strenuous. Dave did not return. I waited the first week, calm. I relied on my understanding of the trades, and what can happen to tradesmen. I knew and understood that the change in the weather had whisked Dave away from me.
By the end of the third week, I was seething. I had the red emotionality creeping up my neck, hot and burning. I was ready to blow.
I was perfectly comfortable in my house. I had the corn/pellet stove and the temperature of the house with this stove, is always toasty. Being without a gas furnace in the middle of the winter is not a problem for me. The only problem is that my dogs are too hot, and pant. I hate panting.
So I had to keep the stove adjusted to the emergence and presence of panting. That was my only challenge.
So what is the thread here? Trust. My basic life issue is not love. It is trust. I get angry and am mad when the struggle to trust is afoot and on the table.
I QUIT my job, IN A RAGE, because at every turn within a political construct and upheaval, none of the players could be trusted to do what they were supposed to do. Including the highest official of the University, mandated by his position, to do what was right.
I moved close to a rage because I trusted Dave.
I am currently in a rage at my brother Jim, because I trusted him.
I have reacted, IN A RAGE, within personal relationships because of this issue. My issue: trust.
I was raised to express myself without profanity. In deference to my mother, I should have a T-shirt printed out with this on it: FOOL with me and see what happens.
I know where this is coming from in my life story. That is not a mystery to me, nor a secret. It has to do with landing in life with a birthmark across my head and face. It clouded, influenced, formed, defined, and affected every relationship that presented itself to me for the first twenty years of my life. Add my father to that, and you have got the whole package. My father is dead, the birthmark is gone. The trust issues are not.
All I can say is Holy Mackerel.
Dave showed up this week and installed the furnace. I discussed all of my feelings, in an on-going way with Patrick, my neighbor. I explained, though he knows, what I usually do in a situation like this, blow up. I told Patrick that my goal in solving this problem was to not blow up. To get through the entire thing with complete control of my rage reaction. Patrick was great. He called and e-mailed me every day to help me manage my feelings and stick to the goal.
The installation is a piece of art. Dave proceeded with his great ideas. He changed the air flow through the house in a very creative way, to maximize the furnace. He brought warm air to a large family room that has always been cool. He told me stories about his corgis, and stories about himself. We have become friends. I made him coffee and let him smoke in the basement. I brought him an ashtray.
I say again, Holy Mackerel.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Ten Uses For The Sewing Kit
As I recounted the airplane dream to you, I realized that while sitting in the pilot seat of a 747, I was looking for help. While searching for help, the sewing basket, 'from above,' fell into my lap.
Thus, I am revisiting this dream. Obviously, the sewing basket is the symbolic 'help.'
If you can believe this, when I was a teenager, I loved to embroider. I had the stretching hoop, and many patterns. I would spend hours stitching in pictures of birds, flowers, and various animals. Pillowcases and towels. I probably would be a good tattoo artist. I ended my career with embroidery by placing designs on my pant legs, and sewing them in. After all, it was the '60's and I wanted to be a hippie. It was definitely as close as I would get to being a hippie.
I entered teaching at a very young age. 19. I started counseling at a very young age. 22. I suppose this was an evolutionary progression for my sewing skills. The social and spiritual fabric of our country was ripped to shreds. Believe me, this state was noticed by all. Even I knew it, safe in the suburbs. On the large analysis, depressingly few had a needle and thread big enough, strong enough, or long enough to tackle that reality. As a nation, we seemed to wander about in the 70's clothed in tattered rags, trying to convince ourselves that we were adequately dressed to function in public. We weren't. What we did was graciously avert our eyes, so not to call attention to ourselves and each other. Broken and beaten, ripped apart by the battles, changes, and loss of definition of family, community, nation. No one wanted to cause anymore shame or self-hate, fear or reprisal, hatred or grief. We looked away from each other. We pulled into our rags, and were glad to have them during a cold time.
I suppose my strategy was to take to the small needle, and the small creative project. I did this to focus and function in a period of chaos.
I am thinking about how that has gone for me, this morning.
The next thing I am going to think about is this: ten uses for the sewing kit.
Thus, I am revisiting this dream. Obviously, the sewing basket is the symbolic 'help.'
If you can believe this, when I was a teenager, I loved to embroider. I had the stretching hoop, and many patterns. I would spend hours stitching in pictures of birds, flowers, and various animals. Pillowcases and towels. I probably would be a good tattoo artist. I ended my career with embroidery by placing designs on my pant legs, and sewing them in. After all, it was the '60's and I wanted to be a hippie. It was definitely as close as I would get to being a hippie.
I entered teaching at a very young age. 19. I started counseling at a very young age. 22. I suppose this was an evolutionary progression for my sewing skills. The social and spiritual fabric of our country was ripped to shreds. Believe me, this state was noticed by all. Even I knew it, safe in the suburbs. On the large analysis, depressingly few had a needle and thread big enough, strong enough, or long enough to tackle that reality. As a nation, we seemed to wander about in the 70's clothed in tattered rags, trying to convince ourselves that we were adequately dressed to function in public. We weren't. What we did was graciously avert our eyes, so not to call attention to ourselves and each other. Broken and beaten, ripped apart by the battles, changes, and loss of definition of family, community, nation. No one wanted to cause anymore shame or self-hate, fear or reprisal, hatred or grief. We looked away from each other. We pulled into our rags, and were glad to have them during a cold time.
I suppose my strategy was to take to the small needle, and the small creative project. I did this to focus and function in a period of chaos.
I am thinking about how that has gone for me, this morning.
The next thing I am going to think about is this: ten uses for the sewing kit.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
"Finding Elmo"....Again
The first time I played "Finding Elmo," I was twenty-three years old. I was a counselor at The Bridge For Runaway Youth, and this search was being lead by Marlene Barghini. Not ashamed of her own neurosis, she bravely led her staff of counselors in the examination of their own. I have to admit, the point of this, escaped me. In my mind, it was a two hour meeting that upended my schedule of important duties. From this point forward, and across my counseling career, clinical supervision was part of my life. Good, bad, boring, kleenex box or not, there was no way around it.
Last night, I began class two of a skills series that is running inside of my program. This class is called Pastoral Counseling. Hosted by the self-proclaimed King of Neurosis, Professor DeFrancisco, I was again victim to the slap and slide. However, "Read This" was now interspersed with "Do This."
"You will get a three ring and write out the story of your life. You will include every morbid detail of being hurt, getting hurt, feeling hurt. You will write out every single thing that happened to you in your family. And let us insert Freud at this point: 'Men, everything important about how you tick has to do with your mother. Women, everything important about how you tick has to do with your father.' You will write out your fears, your hopes, your crushed hopes, your anger. You will include every significant event of your life where you have been brought to your knees, destroyed. You will write about that destruction, the pain of losing yourself, the fear of never finding yourself again, and the rage that is inside of you. You will write about all family members, all lovers, all employers, all strangers, all observers, all players. You will start writing and you will not stop writing until this class is over. Let me be clear here, you have no business being in any relationship, with anyone, unless you understand yourself. What you are like, why you are like that, and what your vulnerabilities, feelings, and fears are. Least of all....in a pastoral counseling relationship.
At the same time, you will fill out this form on your behavior. Here it is. (Slap and slide.) You will track your behavior. The point of doing this is to understand how you protect yourself, and what your defenses are. You will carry this form and a pencil with you until I tell you to stop. Check off your reactions. Check off your defenses. You must recognize and understand your inner feelings and your reactive behavior. It is coming from somewhere. Fight or Flight. Your behavior indicates that something is happening inside you. You must understand what it is, and what it is hooked to.
If you do not deal with who you are and what is inside of you, you will lead others away from dealing with what is inside of them, and who they are.
And finally, I do not care what these things are. I am not here to judge you. I have obsessive-compulsive disorder to the point where I have gotten up in the middle of the night to rake my living room rug...over and over again until the fibers were standing perfectly straight in the air. We all have neurosis. We are all reverberating from our past. We are all flawed and struggling.
What you are writing about is not what I am concerned about. What I am concerned about is that you face it, feel it, and know it. And here, read this, read this, read this, and read this.
Class is over. Oh, by the way...any questions?"
There were no questions.
I shot out of bed this week and landed in the kitchen to eat crackers after a dream that I was lying on a surgical table. My wrists were exposed for surgery. The intent was to cut the tendons.
The night before, I was pushed into the cockpit of a 747. I explained over and over again that I did not know how to fly. No one listened. I was told that I would be flying charters, and I would be flying them at night. I said again that I did not know how to fly. While seated at the console, I thought a manual would be in the overhead compartment. I opened it, and a sewing kit fell in my lap. A sweet grandmother type basket containing many spools of beautifully colored thread. Worthless. The cock-pit door was locked from the outside, and the engines started on their own, all of the dash board lights went on, and the plane started moving down the runway. Crackers in the kitchen. It was 3:30 in the morning.
Yesterday, I wanted to write on my blog. I like to write after walking, praying and meditating, early morning. I couldn't do it because by 8:30 am in the morning I was already angry at two people: Dave-the-furnace-guy-go-ahead-and-rip-out-your-furnace-I-will-be-back-tomorrow, and my brother-who-can't-handle-his-finances-nor-any-other-aspect-of-his-life-Jim.
Because of my feelings and my reaction to these two guys, I had great difficulty with my day.
In reflection, I can only say, I guess it is about time to find Elmo....again.
Last night, I began class two of a skills series that is running inside of my program. This class is called Pastoral Counseling. Hosted by the self-proclaimed King of Neurosis, Professor DeFrancisco, I was again victim to the slap and slide. However, "Read This" was now interspersed with "Do This."
"You will get a three ring and write out the story of your life. You will include every morbid detail of being hurt, getting hurt, feeling hurt. You will write out every single thing that happened to you in your family. And let us insert Freud at this point: 'Men, everything important about how you tick has to do with your mother. Women, everything important about how you tick has to do with your father.' You will write out your fears, your hopes, your crushed hopes, your anger. You will include every significant event of your life where you have been brought to your knees, destroyed. You will write about that destruction, the pain of losing yourself, the fear of never finding yourself again, and the rage that is inside of you. You will write about all family members, all lovers, all employers, all strangers, all observers, all players. You will start writing and you will not stop writing until this class is over. Let me be clear here, you have no business being in any relationship, with anyone, unless you understand yourself. What you are like, why you are like that, and what your vulnerabilities, feelings, and fears are. Least of all....in a pastoral counseling relationship.
At the same time, you will fill out this form on your behavior. Here it is. (Slap and slide.) You will track your behavior. The point of doing this is to understand how you protect yourself, and what your defenses are. You will carry this form and a pencil with you until I tell you to stop. Check off your reactions. Check off your defenses. You must recognize and understand your inner feelings and your reactive behavior. It is coming from somewhere. Fight or Flight. Your behavior indicates that something is happening inside you. You must understand what it is, and what it is hooked to.
If you do not deal with who you are and what is inside of you, you will lead others away from dealing with what is inside of them, and who they are.
And finally, I do not care what these things are. I am not here to judge you. I have obsessive-compulsive disorder to the point where I have gotten up in the middle of the night to rake my living room rug...over and over again until the fibers were standing perfectly straight in the air. We all have neurosis. We are all reverberating from our past. We are all flawed and struggling.
What you are writing about is not what I am concerned about. What I am concerned about is that you face it, feel it, and know it. And here, read this, read this, read this, and read this.
Class is over. Oh, by the way...any questions?"
There were no questions.
I shot out of bed this week and landed in the kitchen to eat crackers after a dream that I was lying on a surgical table. My wrists were exposed for surgery. The intent was to cut the tendons.
The night before, I was pushed into the cockpit of a 747. I explained over and over again that I did not know how to fly. No one listened. I was told that I would be flying charters, and I would be flying them at night. I said again that I did not know how to fly. While seated at the console, I thought a manual would be in the overhead compartment. I opened it, and a sewing kit fell in my lap. A sweet grandmother type basket containing many spools of beautifully colored thread. Worthless. The cock-pit door was locked from the outside, and the engines started on their own, all of the dash board lights went on, and the plane started moving down the runway. Crackers in the kitchen. It was 3:30 in the morning.
Yesterday, I wanted to write on my blog. I like to write after walking, praying and meditating, early morning. I couldn't do it because by 8:30 am in the morning I was already angry at two people: Dave-the-furnace-guy-go-ahead-and-rip-out-your-furnace-I-will-be-back-tomorrow, and my brother-who-can't-handle-his-finances-nor-any-other-aspect-of-his-life-Jim.
Because of my feelings and my reaction to these two guys, I had great difficulty with my day.
In reflection, I can only say, I guess it is about time to find Elmo....again.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
So What Is It Really Like?
I was asked this question this week. The person who was asking should have been more honest in her inquiry. She should have said, "What is it really like for a person like you?" For this person knows me only in reference to my love of manual work and for my spikey and fierce temper. Lets just say, temper in reference to the Catholic Church.
However, I will give it to her. She was probably afraid of setting off a spike, and wished no presence to the temper.
'What It Is Really Like,' can be answered by the fact that I am listening to an opera while I write this. Earlier, I walked for three miles on a snow covered path that wound up and down, relentlessly through the woods. Before that, I happily pulled old staples and nails out of the beams in the basement. What it is like can be found in Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi's book: FLOW. A person is happiest when experiencing life in flow, their flow. Time stops, and the experience of time is redefined. Merging, melting, and becoming one with the activity is felt, but cannot be easily described....
"But to change all existence into a flow experience, it is not sufficient to learn merely how to control moment-by-moment states of consciousness. It is also necessary to have an overall context of goals for the events of everyday life to make sense. If a person moves from one flow activity to another without a connecting order, it will be difficult at the end of one's life to look back on the years past and find meaning in what has happened. To create harmony in whatever one does is the last task that the flow theory presents to those who wish to attain optimal experience; it is a task that involves transforming the entirety of life into a single flow activity, with unified goals that provide constant purpose."
So that is what it is really like, I think. It is a period of setting goals and clarifying those goals so that my life makes sense. I have found it basically an experience of transcendence, getting up and getting above myself, my faults and failings. Which has only reminded me that I am afraid of heights. What it is like has to do with joining the creative force in order to continue the on-going and relentless 'evolution' of life towards love and all of love's desires and gifts: peace, contentment, enthusiasm, confidence, knowledge, hope, joy, trust, compassion, forgiveness, generosity, energy, courage and beauty.
What it is really like is that it is all good.
And it is making me miserable.
Actually, I am not that miserable. I am listening to Maria Callas sing an aria in a 1958 production of Lucia di Lammermoor. The character is in the midst of going insane, and she is singing from that place of immersion. I can not listen to it without crying. And that is what Flow is all about. Professor DeFrancisco refers to this as 'mystical,' and Professor Dunn refers to this as 'the experience of transcedence.' I am simply going to name this snaphot: 'A Saturday Afternoon At Linda's House, Resplendent With Kleenex Box.'
Tomorrow, Sunday, I am going skiing. I am going to cook an arm shank roast in the crock pot. I am going to plaster in the back porch. If I turn on Al Green, this is what will be called, 'nuclear.' Or as the Catholics call it: transubstantiation.
However, I will give it to her. She was probably afraid of setting off a spike, and wished no presence to the temper.
'What It Is Really Like,' can be answered by the fact that I am listening to an opera while I write this. Earlier, I walked for three miles on a snow covered path that wound up and down, relentlessly through the woods. Before that, I happily pulled old staples and nails out of the beams in the basement. What it is like can be found in Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi's book: FLOW. A person is happiest when experiencing life in flow, their flow. Time stops, and the experience of time is redefined. Merging, melting, and becoming one with the activity is felt, but cannot be easily described....
"But to change all existence into a flow experience, it is not sufficient to learn merely how to control moment-by-moment states of consciousness. It is also necessary to have an overall context of goals for the events of everyday life to make sense. If a person moves from one flow activity to another without a connecting order, it will be difficult at the end of one's life to look back on the years past and find meaning in what has happened. To create harmony in whatever one does is the last task that the flow theory presents to those who wish to attain optimal experience; it is a task that involves transforming the entirety of life into a single flow activity, with unified goals that provide constant purpose."
So that is what it is really like, I think. It is a period of setting goals and clarifying those goals so that my life makes sense. I have found it basically an experience of transcendence, getting up and getting above myself, my faults and failings. Which has only reminded me that I am afraid of heights. What it is like has to do with joining the creative force in order to continue the on-going and relentless 'evolution' of life towards love and all of love's desires and gifts: peace, contentment, enthusiasm, confidence, knowledge, hope, joy, trust, compassion, forgiveness, generosity, energy, courage and beauty.
What it is really like is that it is all good.
And it is making me miserable.
Actually, I am not that miserable. I am listening to Maria Callas sing an aria in a 1958 production of Lucia di Lammermoor. The character is in the midst of going insane, and she is singing from that place of immersion. I can not listen to it without crying. And that is what Flow is all about. Professor DeFrancisco refers to this as 'mystical,' and Professor Dunn refers to this as 'the experience of transcedence.' I am simply going to name this snaphot: 'A Saturday Afternoon At Linda's House, Resplendent With Kleenex Box.'
Tomorrow, Sunday, I am going skiing. I am going to cook an arm shank roast in the crock pot. I am going to plaster in the back porch. If I turn on Al Green, this is what will be called, 'nuclear.' Or as the Catholics call it: transubstantiation.
Friday, January 19, 2007
No Matter Who You Are, You Know Plenty About Drilling
One of the family traditions is the telling of the fish story. I received the most recent fish story from my mother yesterday. More amazed by the speed at which this story tore through the family lineage than by the story itself, after listening to it, my thoughts went to drilling.
No matter who you are, you know a lot more about drilling than you are probably bragging about. If you are a doctor, a teacher, a carpenter, a plumber, a lawyer, an artist, a preacher, a store clerk, a car mechanic, a mother, or a any other person, drilling is a part of your life.
When my brother went out onto the ice, he drilled a hole in it, to fish. This was accomplished by getting a huge bit, an auger bit and setting it to the surface. Either gas powered or hand powered, drilling a hole in 'the ice' is not a problem. And that is the point that my mind landed on while walking this morning: anything can be drilled. It doesn't matter what the surface is. Dirt, metal, wood, body, bone, mind, wall, culture. There is a way in. And a host of tools, strategies, and mentors. This is definitely an activity where 'Watch Me' has a pay off. At the end of this week, I have said, 'thank you Martin L. King,' several times.
After my brother drilled the hole, he set a line, and went up to the cabin. He returned shortly to find a northern pike had taken the bait and was still on the line. How did he know it was a northern pike? He pulled it up and was faced with the terrifying jaw line of the beast. I say terrifying because the body of this fish was so large, it would not fit through the hole. He had a length of eight inches through the ice opening, and no more. And it was all teeth.
Yes, we can all drill. But how much of a hole should we drill? Where is the best location to drill the hole? How will that incessant whirling sound be tolerated? Should I even care that the entire neighborhood is listening to my drilling? How hot should I let the drill motor get before I give it a break. How big a hole will do the job for this particular task? All of these things we calculate as we go along.
Two people asked me this week, "Didn't you start school this week?"
Yes, I did.
I started drilling this hole about five months ago. I selected a small bit for this job. Better safe than sorry. As time passed, I had to replace my selection with a larger bit. 'This little bit is not going to do the job.' Actually, I have changed the bit quite a bit. And paused quite a few times,
resting the motor.
I am tempted to write my brother the fisherman and say, "What we have in common is an endless supply of bits, and great hope."
No matter who you are, you know a lot more about drilling than you are probably bragging about. If you are a doctor, a teacher, a carpenter, a plumber, a lawyer, an artist, a preacher, a store clerk, a car mechanic, a mother, or a any other person, drilling is a part of your life.
When my brother went out onto the ice, he drilled a hole in it, to fish. This was accomplished by getting a huge bit, an auger bit and setting it to the surface. Either gas powered or hand powered, drilling a hole in 'the ice' is not a problem. And that is the point that my mind landed on while walking this morning: anything can be drilled. It doesn't matter what the surface is. Dirt, metal, wood, body, bone, mind, wall, culture. There is a way in. And a host of tools, strategies, and mentors. This is definitely an activity where 'Watch Me' has a pay off. At the end of this week, I have said, 'thank you Martin L. King,' several times.
After my brother drilled the hole, he set a line, and went up to the cabin. He returned shortly to find a northern pike had taken the bait and was still on the line. How did he know it was a northern pike? He pulled it up and was faced with the terrifying jaw line of the beast. I say terrifying because the body of this fish was so large, it would not fit through the hole. He had a length of eight inches through the ice opening, and no more. And it was all teeth.
Yes, we can all drill. But how much of a hole should we drill? Where is the best location to drill the hole? How will that incessant whirling sound be tolerated? Should I even care that the entire neighborhood is listening to my drilling? How hot should I let the drill motor get before I give it a break. How big a hole will do the job for this particular task? All of these things we calculate as we go along.
Two people asked me this week, "Didn't you start school this week?"
Yes, I did.
I started drilling this hole about five months ago. I selected a small bit for this job. Better safe than sorry. As time passed, I had to replace my selection with a larger bit. 'This little bit is not going to do the job.' Actually, I have changed the bit quite a bit. And paused quite a few times,
resting the motor.
I am tempted to write my brother the fisherman and say, "What we have in common is an endless supply of bits, and great hope."
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Sir, I believe you have checked me into the wrong room
About three years ago I discovered dog friendly hotels. Since I am prone to acting like I don't know anything, I will honestly say, I did not know a 'good' hotel would allow dogs in their rooms. I discovered this fact by flipping through a dated and dog-eared AAA guide. Noticing a small dog icon, I quickly paged to the glossary to interpret this symbol. After a quick phone call, I had entered a new world. But I was completely suspicious of this advertising.
I booked in, and arrived with my two dogs. After the door of the suite was enthusiastically rushed and we all entered, I grabbed the dogs and quickly put them back into the van. I went to the front desk. "Sir, I believe you have checked me into the wrong room." Two queen sized beds, walnut furniture, a new comforters on the beds, paper on the side table, a full bar, heating lamps in the ceiling of the bathroom, and ten fat towels.
"Well.... let me check...hmmmm....not a mistake.... you are in the right room." I was secretly thinking, 'new guy at the desk.' From that point forward, my dogs made friends with all the salesmen in the bar, all the spanish speaking housekeepers, and lounged around poolside with the children.
One nice thing about going to graduate school is rubbing elbows with people who look nuttier than you are. There is something reassuring about this. 'I haven't completely fallen off the edge. I just met someone who is crazier than I am.'
Before FATHER, (really...this guy is a priest), Professor DeFrancisco lectured on our authors, Julian, Bernard, Eckhart, Theresa, Francis, Clare, Augustine, William, Marguerite, Radner and a long list of others he would issue the WARNING:
"This is sensual, sexual, passionate. It is the language of love, expressed by lovers. It is written from a position of unbridled adoration, ardour, fervour. It is desire taken to the language. It is laced with sexual eagerness. It will get inside of you in a way that will torture you. It will affect your dreams. Your dreaming will change. This writing is fluid, expressive, and dynamic. You will be changed, and I warn you, after you witness this relationship, man to God and woman to God, you will want what they have experienced. That want will change the way you seek and experience God. You will be frustrated, empty disappointed, and challenged. You will want God as your lover, and after that yearning is felt, you will never be the same. I warn you."
After listening to this preface over the first month of class, I have to admit I was terrified. But I felt safe as I pretty much landed on the 'NUTS' label, and I didn't notice any change in my dreaming. Besides the fact that I had to read everything twice or three times to grasp one sentence. My speed reading diminished significantly, as my comprehension level had returned to 'See Jane run.'
I noticed the change in my dreaming about two weeks ago. For one thing, I was able to remember my dreams. For another, I was waking in the middle of the night, victim to a terrible and complex situation. If I returned to sleep the dream scenario continued without a missed beat. I was often up in the kitchen at 2:00 am, eating and passing the time. "Is it safe to go back to bed I would ask myself at 3:00 am." My dreams were now in vivid color, and often frightening and violent. Every person from my past was now fully seated as a colorful actor. My dead father was skipping through. My mother died several times in these dreams. My dead pets accompanied me on adventures. I often awoke covered in sweat, and stripped off my pajamas, to return to bed naked. I adjusted the corn/pellet stove to the lowest setting: 1. I would throw off the quilts, and then reawaken to gather them all up in a lump, and lump them upon myself. The bed looked like it had a gigantic ball in the middle of it. I would sort through the pillows, picking the perfect pillows. And finally, I would stop all this fussing, dress and drive away to walk my dogs at 4:30 am in the morning: 'I give up.'
In conclusion, all I have to say is this: "Sir, I believe you have checked me into the wrong room."
I booked in, and arrived with my two dogs. After the door of the suite was enthusiastically rushed and we all entered, I grabbed the dogs and quickly put them back into the van. I went to the front desk. "Sir, I believe you have checked me into the wrong room." Two queen sized beds, walnut furniture, a new comforters on the beds, paper on the side table, a full bar, heating lamps in the ceiling of the bathroom, and ten fat towels.
"Well.... let me check...hmmmm....not a mistake.... you are in the right room." I was secretly thinking, 'new guy at the desk.' From that point forward, my dogs made friends with all the salesmen in the bar, all the spanish speaking housekeepers, and lounged around poolside with the children.
One nice thing about going to graduate school is rubbing elbows with people who look nuttier than you are. There is something reassuring about this. 'I haven't completely fallen off the edge. I just met someone who is crazier than I am.'
Before FATHER, (really...this guy is a priest), Professor DeFrancisco lectured on our authors, Julian, Bernard, Eckhart, Theresa, Francis, Clare, Augustine, William, Marguerite, Radner and a long list of others he would issue the WARNING:
"This is sensual, sexual, passionate. It is the language of love, expressed by lovers. It is written from a position of unbridled adoration, ardour, fervour. It is desire taken to the language. It is laced with sexual eagerness. It will get inside of you in a way that will torture you. It will affect your dreams. Your dreaming will change. This writing is fluid, expressive, and dynamic. You will be changed, and I warn you, after you witness this relationship, man to God and woman to God, you will want what they have experienced. That want will change the way you seek and experience God. You will be frustrated, empty disappointed, and challenged. You will want God as your lover, and after that yearning is felt, you will never be the same. I warn you."
After listening to this preface over the first month of class, I have to admit I was terrified. But I felt safe as I pretty much landed on the 'NUTS' label, and I didn't notice any change in my dreaming. Besides the fact that I had to read everything twice or three times to grasp one sentence. My speed reading diminished significantly, as my comprehension level had returned to 'See Jane run.'
I noticed the change in my dreaming about two weeks ago. For one thing, I was able to remember my dreams. For another, I was waking in the middle of the night, victim to a terrible and complex situation. If I returned to sleep the dream scenario continued without a missed beat. I was often up in the kitchen at 2:00 am, eating and passing the time. "Is it safe to go back to bed I would ask myself at 3:00 am." My dreams were now in vivid color, and often frightening and violent. Every person from my past was now fully seated as a colorful actor. My dead father was skipping through. My mother died several times in these dreams. My dead pets accompanied me on adventures. I often awoke covered in sweat, and stripped off my pajamas, to return to bed naked. I adjusted the corn/pellet stove to the lowest setting: 1. I would throw off the quilts, and then reawaken to gather them all up in a lump, and lump them upon myself. The bed looked like it had a gigantic ball in the middle of it. I would sort through the pillows, picking the perfect pillows. And finally, I would stop all this fussing, dress and drive away to walk my dogs at 4:30 am in the morning: 'I give up.'
In conclusion, all I have to say is this: "Sir, I believe you have checked me into the wrong room."
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Meister Eckhart
It is the general consensus from those who know me that I did not receive the electronic or the appliance gene in my DNA wrap. I received an e-mail from a friend inquiring about the photos I posted on this blog: "How did YOU do that?" Emphasis on YOU. I have told this person for a decade or two that I don't know how to work a computer. I have also told her that I can't work the remote control for the T.V., nor can I manage the automatic programming for the thermostat of my furnace. On every trip home to Minnesota, my mother and I have this conversation about the dish washer:
Me: "How do you work this thing?"
Her: "Put the soap in the cup, close the door, push the start button."
I believe the family has moved from worrying about senility as it would pertain to my mother, and has located the on-set of this disease to my brain. I have given them no reason not to think so, and sealed my fate this Christmas when I asked where the drain pan was for the dehumidifier. "How do you empty this thing?"
While in Professor DeFrancisco's class, 'Mystics and Mystical Experiences,' I found myself in a small group gathered around an enormous table. Professor DeFrancisco would stand on the other side of the table, sometimes sit. But not often. If he did sit, only a few minutes would pass before he leaped from the chair with a raised and animated voice. The word animation does not describe him, the word passionate does. Determined that we would read these writers, he was not convinced that we would go out and secure their literature. This meant hours in a library. So he developed an obsessive habit of copying their work, especially work that he felt was crucial to the subject of knowing God. Proud beyond belief for binding us to the literature, he would throw it across the table at us with a wicked twist of the right hand. "Read this." It slapped the table and slid into our laps. "Read this." Slap and slide. "Read this." Slap and slide. "Read this." Slap and slide. No one would escape with the lame excuse: "The book is out of print," or "I can't get to the library," or "I went to the library and someone had checked it out."
Everytime a sheaf of stapled papers came flying across the table, to land on the floor, or in my lap, I felt that supposed gap in my DNA. I had the same reaction that I have to any microwave, blender, or washing machine: stubborn refusal to embrace the operating directions and stubborn refusal to take my hand to it. So at the beginning of every class with Professor DeFrancisco, I said no, I can't do this, I am not built this way.
About mid-semester, the vicious slap and slide delivered Meister Eckhart somewhere close to my table proximity. Before I secured the first ton of wood fiber, another came flying across. Great, I thought, a washer AND a dryer. Born in the middle ages, Eckhart became a Dominican friar. He was put on the fast track and became a favored rising star in his religious community. Free to teach, preach, and write he lasted a very short time before his ass was nailed by the Vatican. Still trying to explain what he said, he died at a young age. And what brought him to the feet of his inquisitors? Pantheism. God exists in all of creation. My kind of guy. I know this is a simplistic analysis of a complex theologian living in a restrictive period. However, the basic point of this story is this: I can do it. I like to say I can't do it for many reasons, (all located in my subconscious). How I did it this time was by taking reams of paper to my bed, setting the lamp in the right direction, adjusting the quilts, and reading. I read St. Augustine's Confessions twice I am proud to say. Do not come over to my house. Currently, there is a food sealing device called 'Meal-o-Matic' in my bed, along with a food dehydrator.
Me: "How do you work this thing?"
Her: "Put the soap in the cup, close the door, push the start button."
I believe the family has moved from worrying about senility as it would pertain to my mother, and has located the on-set of this disease to my brain. I have given them no reason not to think so, and sealed my fate this Christmas when I asked where the drain pan was for the dehumidifier. "How do you empty this thing?"
While in Professor DeFrancisco's class, 'Mystics and Mystical Experiences,' I found myself in a small group gathered around an enormous table. Professor DeFrancisco would stand on the other side of the table, sometimes sit. But not often. If he did sit, only a few minutes would pass before he leaped from the chair with a raised and animated voice. The word animation does not describe him, the word passionate does. Determined that we would read these writers, he was not convinced that we would go out and secure their literature. This meant hours in a library. So he developed an obsessive habit of copying their work, especially work that he felt was crucial to the subject of knowing God. Proud beyond belief for binding us to the literature, he would throw it across the table at us with a wicked twist of the right hand. "Read this." It slapped the table and slid into our laps. "Read this." Slap and slide. "Read this." Slap and slide. "Read this." Slap and slide. No one would escape with the lame excuse: "The book is out of print," or "I can't get to the library," or "I went to the library and someone had checked it out."
Everytime a sheaf of stapled papers came flying across the table, to land on the floor, or in my lap, I felt that supposed gap in my DNA. I had the same reaction that I have to any microwave, blender, or washing machine: stubborn refusal to embrace the operating directions and stubborn refusal to take my hand to it. So at the beginning of every class with Professor DeFrancisco, I said no, I can't do this, I am not built this way.
About mid-semester, the vicious slap and slide delivered Meister Eckhart somewhere close to my table proximity. Before I secured the first ton of wood fiber, another came flying across. Great, I thought, a washer AND a dryer. Born in the middle ages, Eckhart became a Dominican friar. He was put on the fast track and became a favored rising star in his religious community. Free to teach, preach, and write he lasted a very short time before his ass was nailed by the Vatican. Still trying to explain what he said, he died at a young age. And what brought him to the feet of his inquisitors? Pantheism. God exists in all of creation. My kind of guy. I know this is a simplistic analysis of a complex theologian living in a restrictive period. However, the basic point of this story is this: I can do it. I like to say I can't do it for many reasons, (all located in my subconscious). How I did it this time was by taking reams of paper to my bed, setting the lamp in the right direction, adjusting the quilts, and reading. I read St. Augustine's Confessions twice I am proud to say. Do not come over to my house. Currently, there is a food sealing device called 'Meal-o-Matic' in my bed, along with a food dehydrator.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
The Ice Is No Good
When my parents were snugged in a small house with four children, they decided to build and move from St. Paul, to 'the country.' This is the term used before the word 'suburb' was invented. Thirty miles north from the city, there were few houses and not many other families. Butted to the back end of the lot, was a lake. Although I believe most born and raised Minnesotans learn the language of ice, my tutelage far exceeded the general norm due to the proxity of this body of water to my upbringing. 'The ice is no good,' means you can't skate on the ice. This being due to any number of factors, all of which indicate a pitted, uneven, or damaged surface.
It was not a matter of being able to shovel a rink, that we could do and took to with an enthusiasm that only meant every bit of food would be consumed from the house within thirty minutes of arriving back home from this task. The pronouncement of 'the ice is no good,' was a somber moment, indicating a terminal skating season. The ice would not improve unless it rained, and that possibility was far-fetched when located in The January of Minnesota.
This morning, 'the ice is no good,' returned to my memory. I walk every morning on the banks of a large lake. This lake has been open for the last two months, making everyone who lives in Iowa, insert the phrase, 'global warming,' into their volcabulary. Overnight, this lake has made its transformation to ice. I remembered watching for this as a child. When this happens in Minnesota, the body of water is no longer referred to as a lake. The word lake disappears from the language for five, sometimes, six months. All references are now made from another frame of reference.
'Stay off the ice.' If I had a dime for every time I heard this from my parents and grandparents, I would not be buying PowerBall tickets to pay for my graduate education. When this phrase is uttered, no other words are used to indicate what information is being conveyed. The only addition to this phrase is a hard stare.
'The ice is grey.' 'The ice is white.' 'The ice is black.' We all knew what this colored coded information meant.
'Is the fishing house out on the ice?' to 'Is the fishing house still out on the ice?' Inquiries made from the on-going assessment of the thickness of the ice, and for the non-written calender of winter.
'The ice is cracking.' This means it is so damn cold out, you better stay inside. When the ice cracks in a rifle-like sound, it is way below zero. And I mean WAY BELOW, no clothes or boots or mittens or hat will help you.
'The ice is blue.' This means you can lay on your stomach, and see to the bottom. The ice is clear. This means there were unbelievable below zero temperatures held for an unbelievable amount of time.
'There sure is a lot of snow on the ice.' This is a concern. It is mumbled, head down, by those who fish. And it has to do with winter kill. These people are already worried about spring and summer fishing, and how good it will be.
'I saw a car on the ice.' This statement would fuel a family discussion that would include all expressions of hope, fear, stupidity, science, humor, memory, and opinion. Times ten or twelve people, this conversation would go on for what seemed like forever. The cumulative point everyone was trying to reach: 'What Would Jesus Do?'
This morning the 'ice' was surrounded by the brillant light of a clear sunrise. The tree branches were covered in the sparkling glimmer of water that had been iced. The path was iced, but padded with enough snow to make walking fun. It was a comfortable and old feeling to be surrounded by the familar. But it was a greater feeling knowing that under four layers, I was running pretty warm. I am not at survival anymore...'the ice is good.'
It was not a matter of being able to shovel a rink, that we could do and took to with an enthusiasm that only meant every bit of food would be consumed from the house within thirty minutes of arriving back home from this task. The pronouncement of 'the ice is no good,' was a somber moment, indicating a terminal skating season. The ice would not improve unless it rained, and that possibility was far-fetched when located in The January of Minnesota.
This morning, 'the ice is no good,' returned to my memory. I walk every morning on the banks of a large lake. This lake has been open for the last two months, making everyone who lives in Iowa, insert the phrase, 'global warming,' into their volcabulary. Overnight, this lake has made its transformation to ice. I remembered watching for this as a child. When this happens in Minnesota, the body of water is no longer referred to as a lake. The word lake disappears from the language for five, sometimes, six months. All references are now made from another frame of reference.
'Stay off the ice.' If I had a dime for every time I heard this from my parents and grandparents, I would not be buying PowerBall tickets to pay for my graduate education. When this phrase is uttered, no other words are used to indicate what information is being conveyed. The only addition to this phrase is a hard stare.
'The ice is grey.' 'The ice is white.' 'The ice is black.' We all knew what this colored coded information meant.
'Is the fishing house out on the ice?' to 'Is the fishing house still out on the ice?' Inquiries made from the on-going assessment of the thickness of the ice, and for the non-written calender of winter.
'The ice is cracking.' This means it is so damn cold out, you better stay inside. When the ice cracks in a rifle-like sound, it is way below zero. And I mean WAY BELOW, no clothes or boots or mittens or hat will help you.
'The ice is blue.' This means you can lay on your stomach, and see to the bottom. The ice is clear. This means there were unbelievable below zero temperatures held for an unbelievable amount of time.
'There sure is a lot of snow on the ice.' This is a concern. It is mumbled, head down, by those who fish. And it has to do with winter kill. These people are already worried about spring and summer fishing, and how good it will be.
'I saw a car on the ice.' This statement would fuel a family discussion that would include all expressions of hope, fear, stupidity, science, humor, memory, and opinion. Times ten or twelve people, this conversation would go on for what seemed like forever. The cumulative point everyone was trying to reach: 'What Would Jesus Do?'
This morning the 'ice' was surrounded by the brillant light of a clear sunrise. The tree branches were covered in the sparkling glimmer of water that had been iced. The path was iced, but padded with enough snow to make walking fun. It was a comfortable and old feeling to be surrounded by the familar. But it was a greater feeling knowing that under four layers, I was running pretty warm. I am not at survival anymore...'the ice is good.'
Monday, January 15, 2007
It Should Be This Easy
Early this morning, I took T.T. Marie out to Riverside, Iowa for a veterinary appointment with Dr. Greg. My little dog family was destined for this clinic, located in the namesake birthplace of Captain Kirk, legendary starship captain. Our draw to this location was only hastened by the fact that Dr. Greg calls his practice: St. Francis Veterinary Clinic, and hosts an image of this patron saint, on his calling card. It is always with great delight that I pull up to view this saint in person, a welcoming figure placed in a garden location that blooms spectacular during the summer months.
When Monk Marie was a puppy, he had his 'operation' here. That was some three and a half years ago. Who says dogs can't remember? Not me. However, this was a lesson learned. Sometime after the notorius 'operation,' that being the passing of two years, I returned to the clinic to buy a woodtick preventative. (I have just bent over to remind Monk Marie in a loud voice: THIS WAS A SHOPPING TRIP, not a health check-up.) Before entering the clinic, I had made my mistake. I left the windows of the car open. After all, it was summer. I was just popping in, and would be quickly popping out. It was a quick purchase and when I returned to the van, discovered no Monk. This clinic is bound by a fierce four lane highway, and an equally busy intersecting artery, the rest to be found in corn fields. Sure that the dog was somewhere in the yard of the business, I toured the building. It was only when I was in a desolute corner of the back lot that I looked up at the four lane. Running down the middle, and against traffic was my dog. Pointed north, on a south bound lane, Monk Marie was high-tailing it home. My definition of 'home' quickly evolved to the synonym 'heaven.' If someone nearby had a hand-held camera, and if we all had YouTube, the following hour of chasing Monk down a freeway could be embraced fully, without writing another word. Let me just say, having a patron saint attached to veterinary clinic is not a bad idea. And you don't have to worry if on today's trip, I had the windows of the van rolled up.
This morning I revisited the memory of witnessing primal fear. It was with a micro-step that I went to the location of that sliver, in my subconscious. It was with a laugh that I said to myself: Take the lesson. Jump from the car, get a compass bearing, and run like hell.
It should be this easy.
When Monk Marie was a puppy, he had his 'operation' here. That was some three and a half years ago. Who says dogs can't remember? Not me. However, this was a lesson learned. Sometime after the notorius 'operation,' that being the passing of two years, I returned to the clinic to buy a woodtick preventative. (I have just bent over to remind Monk Marie in a loud voice: THIS WAS A SHOPPING TRIP, not a health check-up.) Before entering the clinic, I had made my mistake. I left the windows of the car open. After all, it was summer. I was just popping in, and would be quickly popping out. It was a quick purchase and when I returned to the van, discovered no Monk. This clinic is bound by a fierce four lane highway, and an equally busy intersecting artery, the rest to be found in corn fields. Sure that the dog was somewhere in the yard of the business, I toured the building. It was only when I was in a desolute corner of the back lot that I looked up at the four lane. Running down the middle, and against traffic was my dog. Pointed north, on a south bound lane, Monk Marie was high-tailing it home. My definition of 'home' quickly evolved to the synonym 'heaven.' If someone nearby had a hand-held camera, and if we all had YouTube, the following hour of chasing Monk down a freeway could be embraced fully, without writing another word. Let me just say, having a patron saint attached to veterinary clinic is not a bad idea. And you don't have to worry if on today's trip, I had the windows of the van rolled up.
This morning I revisited the memory of witnessing primal fear. It was with a micro-step that I went to the location of that sliver, in my subconscious. It was with a laugh that I said to myself: Take the lesson. Jump from the car, get a compass bearing, and run like hell.
It should be this easy.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Hammering A Nail Is An Art
As a person with more manual than intellectual experience, I can tell you that placing a nail is more complicated than it appears. There is much to consider and this body of knowledge is usually acquired by trial and error. And it is acquired over a lifetime. It is not generally information that is passed on, one carpenter to another, with verbal instruction and demonstration. Has anyone ever seen a 'nailing' workshop offered by Menards or Home Depot? I don't think so. In my opinion, all candidates for gathering a base in this art, seem to be on their own. I suppose the rationale for this is that so many nails exist in the universe, and if you bend one, drop one off a ladder, have one fly into the sky with a bad hit, you just reach into your carpenter apron, and get another one. Sinking a nail appears to be the foundational point of this old adage: 'Try, Try, Again.' However, for those of us in the know, acquiring this skill the hard way has its consequences. Rust, splitting a perfect piece of wood, time spent in trying to nail a green-treated piece of lumber, visibility of a nail head in the perfect cabinetry, and smashed finger tips. I have even broken the handle off it's hammer head. I won't even go into what can happen with an air powered hammer. But I will say that being a paramedic has its advantages when doing construction, and remodeling.
So, from this somewhat philosophical base of meandering, enter the classroom with me. Three very different professors. That meaning different from each other. No indication of the manual skill vib... anywhere. Good possibility that none of the three can open a tight lid on a small jar. Do not mention flat tire, plumbing leak, or fire. Yet, surprisingly, all seem to know about hammering a nail.
A goodly number of weeks passed before I noticed the hammering of the nail. After I noticed it, I listened for it. Yep, sure enough, every class contained the hammering of their favorite nail. Sometimes it was in the middle of the class, sometimes it started the class out, but most assuredly, if the class was nearly over, and the professor was out of time, it was the last tapping or pounding sound before the bell rang. Once I started listening and watching for the 'hammering of the favorite nail,' I started relaxing in class. And in school. I was no longer victim to not knowing how to do it and lost in a construction project that was way over my head of general experience...they were telling me how to do it...over and over again...demonstrating, instructing, showing, by holding up history, literature, science, then placing their favorite nail on top of it, and with a mighty swing, binding it together. It was the Menards/Lowes/Home Depot workshop of attending to the intangible spiritual life.
Professor Dunn's Favorite Nail: 'We can not know God in God's entirety. Our minds can not imagine nor hold the immensity of who God is. It is only through understanding the process of evolution that we can glimpse the possibility of what we are dealing with here, in terms of the Creative, Loving and Enormous Spirit that governs Life. You must let go of your small mind, grasping and holding on to what you have been taught about God. You must let go of judging your life, and the events of your life within a construct that is man-made. You must grow up, and let go of your childish thoughts."
Professor DeFrancisco's Favorite Nail: "You can not have a relationship with God if you do not make time in your life to have a relationship with God. And I am not talking about going to church on Sunday here. It is only through strenuous seeking: prayer, solitude, meditation, reflection, and dialogue that a relationship with God is possible. DO NOT tell me you are too busy for this. You are not too busy. DO NOT come into this class and tell me your job, your family, your hobbies, your interests are filling up your schedule. If you want your life to be spiritually based, you must pray and you must do this in thoughtfully planned solitude, governed by a schedule that is carefully protected from all interference. This is the way to God, and it is the only way."
Reverend David's Favorite Nail: "The soul can not be denied. Whatever needs attending will keep coming up, over and over again, until it is addressed. The soul can not be denied. The direction, the subjects, the quest, the longing, the conflict, whatever...it will keep coming from the soul until it is attended to. The soul can not be denied. The soul can not be stopped. A person can try, with work, alcohol, distraction, denial. But the soul can not be denied. It will present, over and over again, until it is attended to it. Attend to your soul.
This will be the core of your work as a chaplain. People will come to you to talk. They are attending to a matter of the soul, their soul. Shut up and sit there. Say nothing. It is not your soul. It is their soul. They are attending to their soul. You will say nothing. You will listen. That is your role as a chaplain. Keep your mouth shut and you will be a good chaplain. And attend to your own soul so you can sit there quiet, and not talk. Have I made myself clear?"
The hammering of a nail...professors...consider this nail hammered.
So, from this somewhat philosophical base of meandering, enter the classroom with me. Three very different professors. That meaning different from each other. No indication of the manual skill vib... anywhere. Good possibility that none of the three can open a tight lid on a small jar. Do not mention flat tire, plumbing leak, or fire. Yet, surprisingly, all seem to know about hammering a nail.
A goodly number of weeks passed before I noticed the hammering of the nail. After I noticed it, I listened for it. Yep, sure enough, every class contained the hammering of their favorite nail. Sometimes it was in the middle of the class, sometimes it started the class out, but most assuredly, if the class was nearly over, and the professor was out of time, it was the last tapping or pounding sound before the bell rang. Once I started listening and watching for the 'hammering of the favorite nail,' I started relaxing in class. And in school. I was no longer victim to not knowing how to do it and lost in a construction project that was way over my head of general experience...they were telling me how to do it...over and over again...demonstrating, instructing, showing, by holding up history, literature, science, then placing their favorite nail on top of it, and with a mighty swing, binding it together. It was the Menards/Lowes/Home Depot workshop of attending to the intangible spiritual life.
Professor Dunn's Favorite Nail: 'We can not know God in God's entirety. Our minds can not imagine nor hold the immensity of who God is. It is only through understanding the process of evolution that we can glimpse the possibility of what we are dealing with here, in terms of the Creative, Loving and Enormous Spirit that governs Life. You must let go of your small mind, grasping and holding on to what you have been taught about God. You must let go of judging your life, and the events of your life within a construct that is man-made. You must grow up, and let go of your childish thoughts."
Professor DeFrancisco's Favorite Nail: "You can not have a relationship with God if you do not make time in your life to have a relationship with God. And I am not talking about going to church on Sunday here. It is only through strenuous seeking: prayer, solitude, meditation, reflection, and dialogue that a relationship with God is possible. DO NOT tell me you are too busy for this. You are not too busy. DO NOT come into this class and tell me your job, your family, your hobbies, your interests are filling up your schedule. If you want your life to be spiritually based, you must pray and you must do this in thoughtfully planned solitude, governed by a schedule that is carefully protected from all interference. This is the way to God, and it is the only way."
Reverend David's Favorite Nail: "The soul can not be denied. Whatever needs attending will keep coming up, over and over again, until it is addressed. The soul can not be denied. The direction, the subjects, the quest, the longing, the conflict, whatever...it will keep coming from the soul until it is attended to. The soul can not be denied. The soul can not be stopped. A person can try, with work, alcohol, distraction, denial. But the soul can not be denied. It will present, over and over again, until it is attended to it. Attend to your soul.
This will be the core of your work as a chaplain. People will come to you to talk. They are attending to a matter of the soul, their soul. Shut up and sit there. Say nothing. It is not your soul. It is their soul. They are attending to their soul. You will say nothing. You will listen. That is your role as a chaplain. Keep your mouth shut and you will be a good chaplain. And attend to your own soul so you can sit there quiet, and not talk. Have I made myself clear?"
The hammering of a nail...professors...consider this nail hammered.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
The Experience of Standing: Letter To A Friend
From: "linda stipe" To: (friend): RE: I am on semester breakDate: Sun, 07 Jan 2007 19:56:42 +0000>Well, I still have some lust for exploring Australia, so thanks for mentioning your 16 hour trip. I would love such a trip. I particularily like shore line and craggy cliffs, and geographic isolation of the sort that makes the little and small things of life drop away.I had many unusual spiritual experiences of a personal sort while in school for fall semester. Basically, I found out quickly, when the semester began, that my professors had all been trained in Rome. They had traditional and extensive Catholic hierarchial training. That made me terribly frightened, that I had landed in a school, actually selected this school, and that I would suffer the condemnation and finger-pointing that Catholicism is known for, and that I would be victimized. That being, not survive with my rather radical thoughts and feelings about God, and the role of church. Well, my professors made me look and sound like a kitten. They are much more radical and open minded than I am. So one of my spiritual experiences was receiving humility, and letting go of my arrogance. I could go on and on about them, all of whom are over 60 years of age, and extremely eccentric. Peculiar in certain ways. Unique. The classes were strenuous, and not for the reading and writing which was extensive, but for the challenges to the mind: 'Change The Way You Think!' I am happy with my choice for training. However, there are only 9 or 10 other graduate students in my degree program. Thus my contact with other like-minded students is limited, as the other students are fairly traditional, but again unique. Most service oriented, and working. With the exception of 'Chad.' Sort of a skin-head, musician type liking a lot of attention, conservative, judgemental, background in fundamental Christianity, and a big mouth. I had him in two of my three classes. He would go verbal before class started, then shut up. The things he would say, he said before the professor entered the room. I listened to him spout off for months, about gays/lesbians, politicans, T.V. ministers, and the like. Finally, I decided to confront him. I will send you what I read. I was in a class where we had to read from a personal journal. So when I felt the moment had arrived, I STOOD, and read from my journal, to Chad. I also went to the chair of the department. This experience, of standing, was an experience of standing for myself, and reconnecting to the loving and accepting Divine. It was a moment when my anger, accumulated over the course of my life, dropped away, and I felt grace enter my being. It was a very powerful end to the semester, and has freed me from many hurts and guilts. I am not proud to say that I have misdirected my rage to fly against God. This entire event has changed my inner psyche and my energy. I feel that 'the gates of life' are open again.
Linda
Linda
Thank You Captain Kirk
Like thousands of viewers, I eagerly climbed aboard the starship Enterprise on a weekly basis. Knowing full well that I would join the crew for an adventure to a planet, a world, or a challenge I had no ability to acquire on my own. Greater than this was knowing that after 60 minutes, I would find myself safe in my own living room, experience over. My mind stretched and expanded, my emotions fluffed, taxed and strained, my imagination fed, my desire for the next episode frustrated with having to wait a week for another excursion. Over the years of 'going where no man has ever gone,' I liked defining myself as a seasoned explorer, hanging onto the couch afghan, eating popcorn. Strapped in, siblings holding me in place, left and right. Mother close by, in her own star seat.
Jettisoned some thirty years forward, I am tempted to say that I am no longer a passenger on the starship Enterprise. I am the Captain. I have taken the ship to an unknown world, and found as Captain Kirk found, strange other beings living in a curious world. As in the t.v. show, the threat has appeared, the challenge. Muscles expanded in a too tight tunic, it is mine to respond to. Finally, I have matured enough, and paid enough dues to wear the captain bar studs on my collar.
Wrong.
Over fall semester, I have found the fact of the matter: Linda, you are a passenger on a ship that is being commanded not by the competent and recognizable Captain Kirk, but by a presence at the console.
I am back far enough to look forward and sense this figure, but not close enough to assure myself that I am safe. More terrifying than this is the fact that I am no longer strapped in. I am standing. Where are the straps I ask myself as I look around the cabin? Correction. Where is the cabin? And with that question, the next follows quickly: Where am I anyway?
Jettisoned some thirty years forward, I am tempted to say that I am no longer a passenger on the starship Enterprise. I am the Captain. I have taken the ship to an unknown world, and found as Captain Kirk found, strange other beings living in a curious world. As in the t.v. show, the threat has appeared, the challenge. Muscles expanded in a too tight tunic, it is mine to respond to. Finally, I have matured enough, and paid enough dues to wear the captain bar studs on my collar.
Wrong.
Over fall semester, I have found the fact of the matter: Linda, you are a passenger on a ship that is being commanded not by the competent and recognizable Captain Kirk, but by a presence at the console.
I am back far enough to look forward and sense this figure, but not close enough to assure myself that I am safe. More terrifying than this is the fact that I am no longer strapped in. I am standing. Where are the straps I ask myself as I look around the cabin? Correction. Where is the cabin? And with that question, the next follows quickly: Where am I anyway?
Friday, January 12, 2007
Friday Morning and It is Over
I just climbed off the ladder. I hate this job, cleaning the old timbers that cut across my living room ceiling. I only hate it for one reason. My scrubbing and washing activity, across the timbers, eventually leads to the ceiling fan. Which I look at with a more than disgusted face. How can all that dog hair, covered in dust be swirling around at a high speed, delightfully glued to the circulating blades? This must be a matter of physics, the faster you go, the more likely all grease from the kitchen is sucked into providing a varnish, that holds the beautiful, red, long and thin hair in place like a delicate, ornate, Chinese fan. A wide lip of hair, hanging from the edge, is certainly thinking one thing: 'I am helping, (with the recirculation of living room air), therefore I am.'
I am starting spring semester on Monday. This fact and many other 'once-in-a-blue-moon,' jobs have been identified and faced over the last six weeks. Including the removal of a 100 year old furnace, the experience of which was only hastened by my furnace man telling me he had a free week, to set the new heating system. Well, that week has passed, and it is my hope that Dave has not. I have not seen his ass, hanging out of his pants, since we did the deal. The sum total of all these filthy and soul searing jobs has had one purpose, and one purpose only: the medicating of my greater fear: going to school and retraining myself.
I have created this blog as a way of facing fear that I can not escape. That is, moving out of my comfort range, my personal and family history, and my definition of self. I have had lots of time off. During which, I have implemented this strategy: if I am covered in dirt I will have ballast. Maybe in a primal moment, I have cued dirt as kin to burrow. That seems to work. If I am dirty and filthy, I am in the safe nest. This has got to be that gene that makes me want to put food in the basement, arrange it neatly on shelves, and watch the moon to know when to put the fishing nets in the sea.
I am not ashamed to say, I believe I am close to a fork on the anthropologic tree. Thus the fear.
The next five months on this blog I hope will show evolutionary progress. At least, dear God, may I not sit hunched over my desk like an ape. Amen.
I am starting spring semester on Monday. This fact and many other 'once-in-a-blue-moon,' jobs have been identified and faced over the last six weeks. Including the removal of a 100 year old furnace, the experience of which was only hastened by my furnace man telling me he had a free week, to set the new heating system. Well, that week has passed, and it is my hope that Dave has not. I have not seen his ass, hanging out of his pants, since we did the deal. The sum total of all these filthy and soul searing jobs has had one purpose, and one purpose only: the medicating of my greater fear: going to school and retraining myself.
I have created this blog as a way of facing fear that I can not escape. That is, moving out of my comfort range, my personal and family history, and my definition of self. I have had lots of time off. During which, I have implemented this strategy: if I am covered in dirt I will have ballast. Maybe in a primal moment, I have cued dirt as kin to burrow. That seems to work. If I am dirty and filthy, I am in the safe nest. This has got to be that gene that makes me want to put food in the basement, arrange it neatly on shelves, and watch the moon to know when to put the fishing nets in the sea.
I am not ashamed to say, I believe I am close to a fork on the anthropologic tree. Thus the fear.
The next five months on this blog I hope will show evolutionary progress. At least, dear God, may I not sit hunched over my desk like an ape. Amen.
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