My Game Book Is Not Their Game Book

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So this is my prayer this morning:

Dear God, I am sick of You.

Amen

I Believe He Is Calling It A Respite

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

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

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

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

All I Can Say About The Weather Is WOW

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

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

I Have My Own Pace Car

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

There I said it: God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intimidated By The Mystics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Cloud of Unknowing


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

Small Notice

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

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

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

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

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



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

Large explains my work life, and my career path.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I ground myself in the small notice.

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

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

I have a small mouse living somewhere in my kitchen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I enjoyed the small clear notes of two small birds.

TGIF

I am in a great period, in my life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Success! Good idea worked!'

(and)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Word From A Sponsor

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

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

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

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

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

I Happily Admit, I Got It Wrong

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

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

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

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

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

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

I say, 'why not?'

Well, What Do You Know!

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

I answer the same way, everytime:

"Really."

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

Today, the 'Catholics' called a snow day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

"What are you doing in a Catholic seminary?"

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

Where It Lands Is Where It Stays

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I believe they call this: The Holy Spirit.

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

By the way, the front gardens are spectacular.

Something better than what I could have imagined, happened.

Old Amish Saying

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grey's Anatomy

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

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

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

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

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

So I am definitely with the narrator on this one.

Dear Sir,

Professor DeFrancisco:

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

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

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

I will say, I saw three robins this morning.

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

I am not confused.

Am I cold?

Not in my soul.

Hardly.

It is never cold in my soul.

Arms Raised, I Say "Victory!"

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

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

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

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

Sitting.

Each holding a paw in the air.

"YES!!" I yelled.

Linda: 1

Dogs: 3005

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is what is called grace.

Arms raised, again I say, "Victory!"

Duke Ellington, Billy Strayhorn, Stan Getz

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am very uncomfortable in 'the seminary.'

This is a superfical statement.

What I am really uncomfortable with is opening up.

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

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

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