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.