Weekend. A time away from the work week, school week, living by someone else's agenda. A period of homebody-ness or adventure. A time of family being together, learning laughing, lying in the living room, tossing the breeze a frizbee. A time to open a new book. Breathe a few paces back from the crowd and survey life, enjoying and perhaps fine-tuning ways of being and doing so that family members and the world can flow with a flexible, effervescent step through the obstacle course created by the goals and challenges embedded in daily life.
Cleaning up. Running Errands. Taking out the trash. So many things to do that get in the way of rest and happiness. Or do they?
What if taking out the trash could be a hardy, alive experience of fingers tying the white bag, of using God's energy to lift the bag and carry it, without hurry, outside, a slight thrill, hurling the bag into its place in the dumpster. Fresh air in my nostrils and skimming breeze over my bare arm. Walking purposely, breathing gratitude back toward inside, taking in the trees, the sounds outdoors, everything living and still, the little movements of a squirrel, all of it wondrous!
Emergence
Gabriel turns Two: Happy Birthday Sweet Boy
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
Meme
Happy has tagged me in a meme - based on a book entitled unChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks about Christianity...and Why It Matters. I haven't read the book yet, so I'm letting stuff fly out of my mouth uninformed by the book.
(btw, if you don't know what a meme is, the definition is here - i had to look it up :)
Here's the task for the meme: name 3 negative perceptions about Christians, and 1 positive thing Christians should be known for.
Neg 1. Willfil Ignorance/Naivete
Neg 2. Caring more about beliefs than people
Neg 3. Sex hung up and obsessed
Pos 1. Willing to graciously sacrifice status and life for people and love
(btw, if you don't know what a meme is, the definition is here - i had to look it up :)
Here's the task for the meme: name 3 negative perceptions about Christians, and 1 positive thing Christians should be known for.
Neg 1. Willfil Ignorance/Naivete
Neg 2. Caring more about beliefs than people
Neg 3. Sex hung up and obsessed
Pos 1. Willing to graciously sacrifice status and life for people and love
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Avriana Moonshine
Your moonlit eyes dance under the stars
Understanding Truth
Lighting the evening sky
The first light of morning
Brilliant lights undimmed
Undaunted by pitch night
Mercy and determination
Smiling crescents when your spirit laughs
No fooling you
Your stories urgent
Invigorating
Avriana Kind and Wise
You know so much more than I
Understanding Truth
Lighting the evening sky
The first light of morning
Brilliant lights undimmed
Undaunted by pitch night
Mercy and determination
Smiling crescents when your spirit laughs
No fooling you
Your stories urgent
Invigorating
Avriana Kind and Wise
You know so much more than I
Friday, October 05, 2007
Yarmulke
I live a few miles from a place rich with Jewish culture and community centers, where the traffic is noticeably light on Friday afternoons or Yom Kippur. And driving home from picking up my daughter, I notice a father and son walking close, arm in arm, something connecting them beyond genes or little league and I see the boy is wearing a yarmulke. The tradition they share seems especially poignant because it is something that, in however small a way, sets them apart with a sense of dignity and pride, and maybe also a responsibility to carry an important torch for future generations, or even perhaps, for God.
As a child, my gentile mother was the one who introduced me to Jewish holidays and rituals. My Jewish father didn't know anything about his heritage. He remembers one time asking his mom to light Hannukah candles. She did, but her inner light was no longer lit; it had been blown out with the holocaust and the blotted history of our ancestors.
Immediately I like the father and son. I wonder what it would be like to be that son, to have that kind of relationship with my father.
I would ask him all kinds of questions about Torah. And he would ask me questions back. I would debate and quote from the Talmud, and my father would tell me a great story, wiser than my line of arguing. And we would go home and break Challah bread together over candles and sweet wine.
I do not like the Jewish megaplexes that sport banners blowing to zionist winds blazing on huge corner lots in Cherry Hill. "Support Israel."
What about Shalom? Why isn't the voice of Judaism in America predominantly, "support Shalom."
When did the victimization of the Jewish people give license to oppress yet other human beings? Did not God say in the Hebrew bible, 'Remember how I heard your cries and brought you out of slavery in Egypt? So treat the alien with kindness and welcome.'
And in an era when no one literally sacrifices lambs, can it truly be justified that the holy land is a literal Jewish entitlement, even when getting it involves the victimization of palestinian families -- and a violation of Torah ethics toward the alien among us?
And what of the Christian voice? It is becoming a voice closer to fair, closer to truthful. But it is a quiet hum compared to the Christian voice on sexual topics. Do we care more about what grownups do in their bedrooms than about Palestinian babies dying because they can't get to a hospital in time? Sex is so much more titillating. Breasts. sex. gay marriage. refugees. desperate youth. wailing. walls between us. Victim, victimizer. sex.
Shalom (where is?)
Peace
As a child, my gentile mother was the one who introduced me to Jewish holidays and rituals. My Jewish father didn't know anything about his heritage. He remembers one time asking his mom to light Hannukah candles. She did, but her inner light was no longer lit; it had been blown out with the holocaust and the blotted history of our ancestors.
Immediately I like the father and son. I wonder what it would be like to be that son, to have that kind of relationship with my father.
I would ask him all kinds of questions about Torah. And he would ask me questions back. I would debate and quote from the Talmud, and my father would tell me a great story, wiser than my line of arguing. And we would go home and break Challah bread together over candles and sweet wine.
I do not like the Jewish megaplexes that sport banners blowing to zionist winds blazing on huge corner lots in Cherry Hill. "Support Israel."
What about Shalom? Why isn't the voice of Judaism in America predominantly, "support Shalom."
When did the victimization of the Jewish people give license to oppress yet other human beings? Did not God say in the Hebrew bible, 'Remember how I heard your cries and brought you out of slavery in Egypt? So treat the alien with kindness and welcome.'
And in an era when no one literally sacrifices lambs, can it truly be justified that the holy land is a literal Jewish entitlement, even when getting it involves the victimization of palestinian families -- and a violation of Torah ethics toward the alien among us?
And what of the Christian voice? It is becoming a voice closer to fair, closer to truthful. But it is a quiet hum compared to the Christian voice on sexual topics. Do we care more about what grownups do in their bedrooms than about Palestinian babies dying because they can't get to a hospital in time? Sex is so much more titillating. Breasts. sex. gay marriage. refugees. desperate youth. wailing. walls between us. Victim, victimizer. sex.
Shalom (where is?)
Peace
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Blood Diamond
the cost of love
Blood Diamond. It's a movie (one I watched last night) and a story worn secretly on the feminine fingers of women in the supermarket, teaching Sunday school, caressing someone on a Saturday night. I thought persistently about the images of brainwashed children shooting one another in a culture of violence fed by diamond dealers in black suits accented with slick, cologne smelling skin.
I was thinking about the diamonds themselves as I strode toward my car, distracted only by the voice of my neighbor Alissa calling from her bright red pickup, "Look!" Alissa grinned, happily gesticulating her hand, which touted a huge sparkling rock easily visible from my parking spot. I went over and told her how happy I was for her, as she recounted the proposal, fanning her fingers before my wide eyes. The diamond was stunning -- a gigantic jewel in the middle, cherished between two amethysts, bracketed with smaller diamonds on each side.
A man saves his money for months to prove himself worthy of her love...to prove his love.
A diamond for her hand.
It is expected. If you are engaged and you're finger is naked, you could practically get arrested for indecent exposure. People look at you confused and disappointed -- not exactly the reaction you were hoping for when you leapt with faith toward a life together. Perhaps onlookers think less of you, like he couldn't afford it, or didn't think you were worth it, or he just isn't the romantic type. you didn't play according to the rules and people feel unnerved. Is it possibly easier to get excited about a sparkling stone than a marriage, with all its buried light and rough edges?
What of the more important sacrifices later in the marriage? A man who turns down a promotion may be mocked as "whipped," or honored as a hero. But such sacrifice is hardly expected. A man who gets promoted out of family life is accomodated by society and women, at least until it's too late for everyone.
Would it not be better for a man to give himself for her than to give her a pretty stone to glitter as a placeholder while he's away on business? Which is a more worthy sacrifice of love?
For some men, no saving is necessary to buy a diamond capable of eliciting jokes about the size of the rock. Except maybe he could have saved a child by not buying into this diamond myth; a myth creating by the diamond industry, and not by tradition passed among generations, nor invented by Hans Christian Anderson, God, Hallmark or Disney.
A diamond.
Symbol of eternal love. Bloody, not with the loving, life-giving blood of Christ, but stained and dripping globs of childhood blood into red African earth.
Children. A great gift, welcomed into the arms of couples newly wedded, one in flesh and love, wishing peace, wonder and safekeeping for a tiny gift.
What curse have we bought that a diamond is equated with love even at cost of tiny gifts? And another shot down a minute later, his soul ripped from him long ago. We've confused status with love, symbol with reality. Where is the love for those who extract the gems in a kill or be killed competition promoted by the diamond industry's desire to keep diamonds rare and pricey -- feeding into killing sprees in origin countries, and illusory ideas about romantic love among young American wives; milking the cattiness among western girls who show off their rocks like some guys who off trophy wives. It seems we've all been sold out for sparkling studs.
Isn't it time to stop objectifying love?
Blood Diamond. It's a movie (one I watched last night) and a story worn secretly on the feminine fingers of women in the supermarket, teaching Sunday school, caressing someone on a Saturday night. I thought persistently about the images of brainwashed children shooting one another in a culture of violence fed by diamond dealers in black suits accented with slick, cologne smelling skin.
I was thinking about the diamonds themselves as I strode toward my car, distracted only by the voice of my neighbor Alissa calling from her bright red pickup, "Look!" Alissa grinned, happily gesticulating her hand, which touted a huge sparkling rock easily visible from my parking spot. I went over and told her how happy I was for her, as she recounted the proposal, fanning her fingers before my wide eyes. The diamond was stunning -- a gigantic jewel in the middle, cherished between two amethysts, bracketed with smaller diamonds on each side.
A man saves his money for months to prove himself worthy of her love...to prove his love.
A diamond for her hand.
It is expected. If you are engaged and you're finger is naked, you could practically get arrested for indecent exposure. People look at you confused and disappointed -- not exactly the reaction you were hoping for when you leapt with faith toward a life together. Perhaps onlookers think less of you, like he couldn't afford it, or didn't think you were worth it, or he just isn't the romantic type. you didn't play according to the rules and people feel unnerved. Is it possibly easier to get excited about a sparkling stone than a marriage, with all its buried light and rough edges?
What of the more important sacrifices later in the marriage? A man who turns down a promotion may be mocked as "whipped," or honored as a hero. But such sacrifice is hardly expected. A man who gets promoted out of family life is accomodated by society and women, at least until it's too late for everyone.
Would it not be better for a man to give himself for her than to give her a pretty stone to glitter as a placeholder while he's away on business? Which is a more worthy sacrifice of love?
For some men, no saving is necessary to buy a diamond capable of eliciting jokes about the size of the rock. Except maybe he could have saved a child by not buying into this diamond myth; a myth creating by the diamond industry, and not by tradition passed among generations, nor invented by Hans Christian Anderson, God, Hallmark or Disney.
A diamond.
Symbol of eternal love. Bloody, not with the loving, life-giving blood of Christ, but stained and dripping globs of childhood blood into red African earth.
Children. A great gift, welcomed into the arms of couples newly wedded, one in flesh and love, wishing peace, wonder and safekeeping for a tiny gift.
What curse have we bought that a diamond is equated with love even at cost of tiny gifts? And another shot down a minute later, his soul ripped from him long ago. We've confused status with love, symbol with reality. Where is the love for those who extract the gems in a kill or be killed competition promoted by the diamond industry's desire to keep diamonds rare and pricey -- feeding into killing sprees in origin countries, and illusory ideas about romantic love among young American wives; milking the cattiness among western girls who show off their rocks like some guys who off trophy wives. It seems we've all been sold out for sparkling studs.
Isn't it time to stop objectifying love?
Thursday, September 13, 2007
New Year, New Name
A new name is attached to "Jemila" and I'm announcing on my blog to coincide with the Jewish New Year. A time of fresh beginnings, re-dedication and renewal of love and devotion: everything embodied in my wedding ceremony, which unfolded with my best friend Jenn officiating, David's mom & partner Rich as witnesses and our kids the ring-bearers, flower children and living testimonies to the love we share. Our wedding ceremony took place four years after we first married each other in a small one-bedroom apartment with (planned) impromptu vows spoken between kisses on a rose-strewn bed where we first made love. Finally, we decided it was time to let some witnesses, and even Uncle Sam in on our promises to each other.
An explanation of the name change:
David would have happily carried the feminist flag by taking my last name, had it been my maiden name. My maiden name makes me cringe, remembering how it was always mispronounced at figure skating competitions, and how it sounded odd and unappealing to me even when pronounced correctly. These memories explain partially why, when I divorced, I kept former spouse's name, namely Monroe. It was a fine, normal name. Fine and normal were(and at certain junctures remain) appealing qualities. Yet somehow, David wasn't thrilled with the idea of inheriting the last name of my ex husband.
So our solution was to be introduced as Mr. Jemila Kwon and Ms. David Kwon. We belong to each other as we daily give ourselves for one another. In fact, it is more beautiful and true to say that we belong acutely with each other.
We are one because we create a new synthesis when we bring our whole, complete selves to the community of our marriage. And for the record, I am not Mrs. David Kwon, although I will possibly wear that hat once a year for Halloween, or other festive function featuring ridiculous costumes.
Here's a Christina Rosetti Poem David and I read together at our wedding:
What is the beginning? Love.
What is the course. Love still.
What is the goal. Te goal is love.
On a happy hill.
Is there nothing then but love?
Search we the sky or earth
There is nothing out of Love
Hath perpetual worth:
All things flag and flee;
There is nothing left but Love
Worthy you and me.
If you would like to see pictures of our wedding, they are posted at djfamily.shutterfly.com
The password is djfamily
Enjoy!
An explanation of the name change:
David would have happily carried the feminist flag by taking my last name, had it been my maiden name. My maiden name makes me cringe, remembering how it was always mispronounced at figure skating competitions, and how it sounded odd and unappealing to me even when pronounced correctly. These memories explain partially why, when I divorced, I kept former spouse's name, namely Monroe. It was a fine, normal name. Fine and normal were(and at certain junctures remain) appealing qualities. Yet somehow, David wasn't thrilled with the idea of inheriting the last name of my ex husband.
So our solution was to be introduced as Mr. Jemila Kwon and Ms. David Kwon. We belong to each other as we daily give ourselves for one another. In fact, it is more beautiful and true to say that we belong acutely with each other.
We are one because we create a new synthesis when we bring our whole, complete selves to the community of our marriage. And for the record, I am not Mrs. David Kwon, although I will possibly wear that hat once a year for Halloween, or other festive function featuring ridiculous costumes.
Here's a Christina Rosetti Poem David and I read together at our wedding:
What is the beginning? Love.
What is the course. Love still.
What is the goal. Te goal is love.
On a happy hill.
Is there nothing then but love?
Search we the sky or earth
There is nothing out of Love
Hath perpetual worth:
All things flag and flee;
There is nothing left but Love
Worthy you and me.
If you would like to see pictures of our wedding, they are posted at djfamily.shutterfly.com
The password is djfamily
Enjoy!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Why do people cry?
Do we cry because we're sad
Or because we feel safe and comforted, sufficient to allow rain to wash over us unclothed by stiff upper lips
Crying
Is it a sign of something wrong
Or that yes, we'll be okay
It is the absence of tears that signals impending deadness
Presence of tears, inviting, watering, signaling Life is occurring
Yes grief
relief
joy
Yes anger
devastation
sadness
Yes song
river flowing abundant
fertile soil
wet moist
Tears
Growing into a tomorrow
Yes Life
Say, cry
feelings brushed aside weeks on end
saying hi, each flowing by
swirling aches, dreams, loss
screams
tears cleansing infected seams
Alive and here
all my tears
Crying, singing, even those waiting to cry
heart singing thank you
glad to be alive
crying soil to flower
Crying
Garden of
Life
Or because we feel safe and comforted, sufficient to allow rain to wash over us unclothed by stiff upper lips
Crying
Is it a sign of something wrong
Or that yes, we'll be okay
It is the absence of tears that signals impending deadness
Presence of tears, inviting, watering, signaling Life is occurring
Yes grief
relief
joy
Yes anger
devastation
sadness
Yes song
river flowing abundant
fertile soil
wet moist
Tears
Growing into a tomorrow
Yes Life
Say, cry
feelings brushed aside weeks on end
saying hi, each flowing by
swirling aches, dreams, loss
screams
tears cleansing infected seams
Alive and here
all my tears
Crying, singing, even those waiting to cry
heart singing thank you
glad to be alive
crying soil to flower
Crying
Garden of
Life
Saturday, September 08, 2007
Cream
Ivett made a scrumptious Hungarian dessert, created from whipping cream, mascarpone cheese, honey, rasberries, chocolate cookie crumbles and butter, decorated with a single walnut.
I could mention less delectable moments in my day -- Nika's meltdowns, my feelings of helplessness and turmoil; Avriana's nocturnal demands, Gabe's anger when forbidden to climb the stairs. Learning Greek grammar. Anticipating David's notable absence during his upcoming surgery rotation....
But in all these moments lies some gift. Love of the Universe, open wide the doors of my earthly self to receive the Life that's here in my living room. Amen.
I could mention less delectable moments in my day -- Nika's meltdowns, my feelings of helplessness and turmoil; Avriana's nocturnal demands, Gabe's anger when forbidden to climb the stairs. Learning Greek grammar. Anticipating David's notable absence during his upcoming surgery rotation....
But in all these moments lies some gift. Love of the Universe, open wide the doors of my earthly self to receive the Life that's here in my living room. Amen.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
Quit Quitting, Start Living
I quit seminary. I quit on the grounds that it take too great a stress toll on me and my children and that the loving, self-emptying thing to do is to let it go and be with my kids without the distraction of hanging deadlines or the exhaustion of commuting and thinking layered on motherhood. 'Cause I was pressuring myself to finish my program before we move somewhere else for David's residency. On account of my overriding anxiety and the tape recording that kept saying, "I can't do this." "I'm going to snap."
I quit because I was trying to love my kids selflessly. Because everyone says I can recreate myself later. Because I'm not sure where this road is leading me. Because I was having trouble justifying the time, money, gas and intangibles in a world where kids are starving, the ozone is leaking away and my own babies will soon be big and never again will be little pudgy peach skin rolling in innocence, smiles, fussiness, love, messes and open curiosity.
And when I quit, my heart sank like a sopping wet sand big pitched into an abyss of loneliness and aimlessness. I felt my happy energy sap away and instead of feeling free, lighter, actively engaged with giving my best love to the people in the world I love best, I felt achingly absent and sad.
So I activated the only common sense decision I could: I quit my quitting and put myself back on the road to seminary, now because I am happy to be learning, clear that I am supposed to be on this path, and open to a new way of being that is balanced, learning when it's time to learning and learning when it's time to Be. Laugh. Listen. Engage with life, nourish my family, celebrate the lusciousness of fruit and chocolate, peachy skin and parent in firm, agape ways that acknowledge and nurture the spirits shining through my children in surprising and tricky ways. Love life. Let go of pleasing anyone. Love everyone.
Will I pass my classes with this approach? Will I finish seminary or ever have initials before or after my name? Who cares! I live for the abundant life of the God who lives in me.
I quit because I was trying to love my kids selflessly. Because everyone says I can recreate myself later. Because I'm not sure where this road is leading me. Because I was having trouble justifying the time, money, gas and intangibles in a world where kids are starving, the ozone is leaking away and my own babies will soon be big and never again will be little pudgy peach skin rolling in innocence, smiles, fussiness, love, messes and open curiosity.
And when I quit, my heart sank like a sopping wet sand big pitched into an abyss of loneliness and aimlessness. I felt my happy energy sap away and instead of feeling free, lighter, actively engaged with giving my best love to the people in the world I love best, I felt achingly absent and sad.
So I activated the only common sense decision I could: I quit my quitting and put myself back on the road to seminary, now because I am happy to be learning, clear that I am supposed to be on this path, and open to a new way of being that is balanced, learning when it's time to learning and learning when it's time to Be. Laugh. Listen. Engage with life, nourish my family, celebrate the lusciousness of fruit and chocolate, peachy skin and parent in firm, agape ways that acknowledge and nurture the spirits shining through my children in surprising and tricky ways. Love life. Let go of pleasing anyone. Love everyone.
Will I pass my classes with this approach? Will I finish seminary or ever have initials before or after my name? Who cares! I live for the abundant life of the God who lives in me.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
What am I (doing) here?
I am enrolled in seminary, but I'm not at all sure what I'm doing -- if I should even be there, if I'll finish my program, switch my program or drop out after a year of acquiring experience.
The natural thing seems to be to drop out after a year. But is it natural because it's right, or because it fits with my family's style of of flirting with success, yet avoiding it? What is the block of fear that I feel about going for an Mdiv, that I don't feel about spending a year in theological learning, followed by a time of letting go, just being in life and seeing about my next step? Is it an unwillingness to follow through? To be constrained by a process rich in bureaucracy, with abundant hoops through which I'd be expected to jump? The desire to not be like everyone else? Or is it a gentle reality that my way takes me on this road for a little while, leading me to another path? In this, where will I discover Christ's face? How can I listen to the Spirit when my own heart is so complex and my hearing muddled with many voices and feelings?
Can I balance education with family, when I am the primary parent while David is in med school? Can I live with letting my aspirations come second to my man's for a while? Can I let go for the proper reasons? Might my aspirations turn out not to conflict as much as I thought...perhaps I actually want to let go and be home with kids? Am I the only conflicted mother out there?
Can I write my life and live it? Can I create a life of celebration and learning?
The natural thing seems to be to drop out after a year. But is it natural because it's right, or because it fits with my family's style of of flirting with success, yet avoiding it? What is the block of fear that I feel about going for an Mdiv, that I don't feel about spending a year in theological learning, followed by a time of letting go, just being in life and seeing about my next step? Is it an unwillingness to follow through? To be constrained by a process rich in bureaucracy, with abundant hoops through which I'd be expected to jump? The desire to not be like everyone else? Or is it a gentle reality that my way takes me on this road for a little while, leading me to another path? In this, where will I discover Christ's face? How can I listen to the Spirit when my own heart is so complex and my hearing muddled with many voices and feelings?
Can I balance education with family, when I am the primary parent while David is in med school? Can I live with letting my aspirations come second to my man's for a while? Can I let go for the proper reasons? Might my aspirations turn out not to conflict as much as I thought...perhaps I actually want to let go and be home with kids? Am I the only conflicted mother out there?
Can I write my life and live it? Can I create a life of celebration and learning?
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Heaving the Mountain, or Shoveling Dirt
Mountains are too big to move. Plain and simple. I don't buy that if I believe it enough, the whole freagin mountain is going to up and move. Shoveling dirt, one scoop at a time, focused, yet delighting in slugs and earthy smells, I can imagine that at some point, one could look up, say forty years later and discover that, in addition to finding others digging and shoveling in your vicinity, the entire mountain has shifted to a new location. This is the kind of faith I get.
But even this "lesser" faith is hard for me to practice. My integrated female brain wants to look at the whole mountain, and my heart feels the heavy, impossible burden of moving the whole damn thing and I'm sunk in stress before I've shoveled a day's worth and come home for Sabbath. Sabbath, to me, is the practice of trusting God enough to not feel compelled to attempt moving the whole mountain at once; the discipline of leaving things unfinished, to celebrate the goodness of today, with each shovel's worth, and the goodness of rest and life and things to come, never snatching control of tomorrow, but letting it stay with God, while we live in today -- an eternal gift, available only now.
I look at all there is for me to manage and I feel too responsible for a 26, almost 27-year-old woman. I want to say girl, because part of me wants to stay young enough, free enough to still be called a girl. I don't want to commute back and forth to my daughter's school in Haddonfield twice before 12am, and then back and forth to my school in Philly on top of that. I don't want want my week nights filled with PTA-esque responsbilities related to back to school stuff that seems fluffy, yet fairly obligatory. I want to stay home and watch a movie, sip a hot chocolate or read a fucking book. Or, God forbid, take a bath or even have sex. Or just stare at a spider alighting on my screen while crickets hum the gentle sounds of evening.
I resent the mountain I feel has been hoisted on my shoulders by forces beyond my control, outside in the ridiculous, oft annoying world, and inside me, in the fermented basements of my soul, where judgment gets clouded and I cause myself harm and unnecessary pain. I let go a little more today.
And perhaps that little letting go is a shovel's worth.
But even this "lesser" faith is hard for me to practice. My integrated female brain wants to look at the whole mountain, and my heart feels the heavy, impossible burden of moving the whole damn thing and I'm sunk in stress before I've shoveled a day's worth and come home for Sabbath. Sabbath, to me, is the practice of trusting God enough to not feel compelled to attempt moving the whole mountain at once; the discipline of leaving things unfinished, to celebrate the goodness of today, with each shovel's worth, and the goodness of rest and life and things to come, never snatching control of tomorrow, but letting it stay with God, while we live in today -- an eternal gift, available only now.
I look at all there is for me to manage and I feel too responsible for a 26, almost 27-year-old woman. I want to say girl, because part of me wants to stay young enough, free enough to still be called a girl. I don't want to commute back and forth to my daughter's school in Haddonfield twice before 12am, and then back and forth to my school in Philly on top of that. I don't want want my week nights filled with PTA-esque responsbilities related to back to school stuff that seems fluffy, yet fairly obligatory. I want to stay home and watch a movie, sip a hot chocolate or read a fucking book. Or, God forbid, take a bath or even have sex. Or just stare at a spider alighting on my screen while crickets hum the gentle sounds of evening.
I resent the mountain I feel has been hoisted on my shoulders by forces beyond my control, outside in the ridiculous, oft annoying world, and inside me, in the fermented basements of my soul, where judgment gets clouded and I cause myself harm and unnecessary pain. I let go a little more today.
And perhaps that little letting go is a shovel's worth.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Hungary anyone?
This one thing worked out perfectly: my best friend Jenn slept on my couch the night that our Au Pair, Ivett arrived from Hungary after a brief orientation in New York City. The next day Jenn, Nika and I placed wild tattoos on our bodies -- tattoos of sun, moon, stars and a funky eye, embedded in spirals and poetic swirls that are also kind of tacky. We bought Jenn a pair of turquoise and pearl errands and said beautiful goodbyes.
Help is here to stay, after such a long time of trudging on alone. Let me tell you about Ivett.
She is tall and graceful. Ivett looks a bit like me, although the tall part is clearly a point of difference She bears some similarity to Anne Hathaway, which occurred to me upon her mention a castle near her home occupied by an earl who tried (without success) to buy her beautiful horse named Mirage.
Ivett's quiet love of children shines naturally. She spends long stretches drawing with Nika, and Gabe is smitten, serenading her by name: Ivett! Ivett! Ivett! Avriana is warming up. I am glad someone wants to be a Mama's girl, anyhow.
Ivett is deep, straightforward, mysterious, sensitive and a lover of mashed potatoes, which we served her first full day with our family. She ate about seven small bites of the salty white mash, the most she has eaten of any particular food. She said the mashed potatoes were very good.
Her English is thoughtful and very good, except Ivett confuses gender pronouns frequently when referring to her boyfriend, Peter -- who, by the way, is the son of Russia's Chief Rabbi. Although I didn't know there was such a thing as a Chief Rabbi of Russia until this afternoon, it sounds quite impressive and significant, as this role has landed Ivett's boyfriend at parties frequented by Hillary Clinton and Hengry Kissinger. I couldn't help but ask, "And was Henry kissing her?" Also George W. Bush was at one party.
When I mentioned that I think George W. would make an endearing, harmless character if only he limited his activities to chasing armadillos and frequenting Texan pubs, Ivett observed that she had translated some of Bush's speeches for a language exam and that he sounded "...stupid?"
I took Ivett out driving this afternoon and she said I was a good teacher. I think this was a good sign.
Help is here to stay, after such a long time of trudging on alone. Let me tell you about Ivett.
She is tall and graceful. Ivett looks a bit like me, although the tall part is clearly a point of difference She bears some similarity to Anne Hathaway, which occurred to me upon her mention a castle near her home occupied by an earl who tried (without success) to buy her beautiful horse named Mirage.
Ivett's quiet love of children shines naturally. She spends long stretches drawing with Nika, and Gabe is smitten, serenading her by name: Ivett! Ivett! Ivett! Avriana is warming up. I am glad someone wants to be a Mama's girl, anyhow.
Ivett is deep, straightforward, mysterious, sensitive and a lover of mashed potatoes, which we served her first full day with our family. She ate about seven small bites of the salty white mash, the most she has eaten of any particular food. She said the mashed potatoes were very good.
Her English is thoughtful and very good, except Ivett confuses gender pronouns frequently when referring to her boyfriend, Peter -- who, by the way, is the son of Russia's Chief Rabbi. Although I didn't know there was such a thing as a Chief Rabbi of Russia until this afternoon, it sounds quite impressive and significant, as this role has landed Ivett's boyfriend at parties frequented by Hillary Clinton and Hengry Kissinger. I couldn't help but ask, "And was Henry kissing her?" Also George W. Bush was at one party.
When I mentioned that I think George W. would make an endearing, harmless character if only he limited his activities to chasing armadillos and frequenting Texan pubs, Ivett observed that she had translated some of Bush's speeches for a language exam and that he sounded "...stupid?"
I took Ivett out driving this afternoon and she said I was a good teacher. I think this was a good sign.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Steps Stone and Mustard Yellow: Beginning seminary with baby
My survival belongings (diapers, notepad, books, wipes, water bottle and Hawaiian print blanket are strewn across the steps of the seminary library, grand stone like a cathedral, old and opening to a seminary world wide, diverse, yet insular. in a permeable sort of way. Avriana, my five-month old daughter is held close to me with one arm; my other hand holds Everything Must Change, a pre-release version of Brian Mclaren's latest book. Squishy noises of poop, boldly propelled by natural gas sound explosively from my baby's bottom. I look around, to note any possible witnesses, before I align my yellow legal pad and a folder emblazoned with the Lutheran Theological Seminary logo and filled with financial information, so as to form an approximation of a changing pad. Opening Avriana's diaper, I am careful not to let her roll down the stone steps into the green seminary square below, and just as the yellow-mustard gooey stuff is revealed to Creation, appearing from the library's massive wood doors is prim-ish looking women who is walking toward me marked by a slightly raised eyebrow connoting intrugue and a predilection for disapproval from behind her nose-level bifocals. I say, "Hi."
Everyday we begin prologue with a small group discussion around a long table, which looks like a sub (or as they say in Pennsylvania, a hoagie,) and it is over this hoagi that we get to know people who will someday be ministers in the name of Christ. Prologue, in case you were wondering, is our introductory seminary course, taking up all day, every day except Sunday for two weeks, emphasizing exposure to the Other, in the form of interfaith presenters, a field trip to the local Krishna temple (where you can find delectable date peanut cookies, as well as freshly dressed deities and caucasian women and men donned in Indian Sari's serving the All Attractive One,) and intense discussion of racism and the socio-ethnic landscape of the Avenue on which sits our permeable, insular womb, in which we will become pastors, priests. Someones and somethings who will bear some responsibility for carrying out the work of Christ's God in the world.
Everyday we begin prologue with a small group discussion around a long table, which looks like a sub (or as they say in Pennsylvania, a hoagie,) and it is over this hoagi that we get to know people who will someday be ministers in the name of Christ. Prologue, in case you were wondering, is our introductory seminary course, taking up all day, every day except Sunday for two weeks, emphasizing exposure to the Other, in the form of interfaith presenters, a field trip to the local Krishna temple (where you can find delectable date peanut cookies, as well as freshly dressed deities and caucasian women and men donned in Indian Sari's serving the All Attractive One,) and intense discussion of racism and the socio-ethnic landscape of the Avenue on which sits our permeable, insular womb, in which we will become pastors, priests. Someones and somethings who will bear some responsibility for carrying out the work of Christ's God in the world.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
What is love?
How do you know if you love someone?
Here's love according to me:
Love: 1. when you could hurt someone and choose to value them instead 2. when someone you love can't meet your needs and you love them without expectation, while also loving yourself 3. when you love someone just because of the mere fact that they're here, beautiful for who they are, priceless treasures in jars of clay 4. when you love them, you feel love toward yourself, life, the Being and all beings. When you love, you are alive.
Here's love according to me:
Love: 1. when you could hurt someone and choose to value them instead 2. when someone you love can't meet your needs and you love them without expectation, while also loving yourself 3. when you love someone just because of the mere fact that they're here, beautiful for who they are, priceless treasures in jars of clay 4. when you love them, you feel love toward yourself, life, the Being and all beings. When you love, you are alive.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Flying Spagetti Monster
My ex was here this weekend and introduced me to something very tongue-in-cheek -- the sort of tongue-in-cheek that an ex-fundamentalist enjoys sharing with an ex-husband. It's a hilarious assault on the Kansas School Board case regarding the teaching of intelligent design as a scientific theory along with evolution:
Open Letter To Kansas School Board
I am writing you with much concern after having read of your hearing to decide whether the alternative theory of Intelligent Design should be taught along with the theory of Evolution. I think we can all agree that it is important for students to hear multiple viewpoints so they can choose for themselves the theory that makes the most sense to them. I am concerned, however, that students will only hear one theory of Intelligent Design.
Let us remember that there are multiple theories of Intelligent Design. I and many others around the world are of the strong belief that the universe was created by a Flying Spaghetti Monster. It was He who created all that we see and all that we feel. We feel strongly that the overwhelming scientific evidence pointing towards evolutionary processes is nothing but a coincidence, put in place by Him.
It is for this reason that I’m writing you today, to formally request that this alternative theory be taught in your schools, along with the other two theories. In fact, I will go so far as to say, if you do not agree to do this, we will be forced to proceed with legal action. I’m sure you see where we are coming from. If the Intelligent Design theory is not based on faith, but instead another scientific theory, as is claimed, then you must also allow our theory to be taught, as it is also based on science, not on faith.
Some find that hard to believe, so it may be helpful to tell you a little more about our beliefs. We have evidence that a Flying Spaghetti Monster created the universe. None of us, of course, were around to see it, but we have written accounts of it. We have several lengthy volumes explaining all details of His power. Also, you may be surprised to hear that there are over 10 million of us, and growing. We tend to be very secretive, as many people claim our beliefs are not substantiated by observable evidence. What these people don’t understand is that He built the world to make us think the earth is older than it really is. For example, a scientist may perform a carbon-dating process on an artifact. He finds that approximately 75% of the Carbon-14 has decayed by electron emission to Nitrogen-14, and infers that this artifact is approximately 10,000 years old, as the half-life of Carbon-14 appears to be 5,730 years. But what our scientist does not realize is that every time he makes a measurement, the Flying Spaghetti Monster is there changing the results with His Noodly Appendage. We have numerous texts that describe in detail how this can be possible and the reasons why He does this. He is of course invisible and can pass through normal matter with ease.
I’m sure you now realize how important it is that your students are taught this alternate theory. It is absolutely imperative that they realize that observable evidence is at the discretion of a Flying Spaghetti Monster. Furthermore, it is disrespectful to teach our beliefs without wearing His chosen outfit, which of course is full pirate regalia. I cannot stress the importance of this enough, and unfortunately cannot describe in detail why this must be done as I fear this letter is already becoming too long. The concise explanation is that He becomes angry if we don’t.
You may be interested to know that global warming, earthquakes, hurricanes, and other natural disasters are a direct effect of the shrinking numbers of Pirates since the 1800s. For your interest, I have included a graph of the approximate number of pirates versus the average global temperature over the last 200 years. As you can see, there is a statistically significant inverse relationship between pirates and global temperature.
In conclusion, thank you for taking the time to hear our views and beliefs. I hope I was able to convey the importance of teaching this theory to your students. We will of course be able to train the teachers in this alternate theory. I am eagerly awaiting your response, and hope dearly that no legal action will need to be taken. I think we can all look forward to the time when these three theories are given equal time in our science classrooms across the country, and eventually the world; One third time for Intelligent Design, one third time for Flying Spaghetti Monsterism, and one third time for logical conjecture based on overwhelming observable evidence.
Sincerely Yours,
Bobby Henderson, concerned citizen.
P.S. I have included an artistic drawing of Him creating a mountain, trees, and a midget. Remember, we are all His creatures.
So what do you think? Does this make you think? Laugh? Want to cry?
Friday, August 10, 2007
The Great Physician's Rule
Physician's rule: first, do no harm.
The Great Physician's rule: Love everyone.
Religion's rule?
Hmmmm....
If God is Love, love seeks the wellbeing of another, never disregarding the interests of another for one's own gain. Ones own agenda. Or even one's own religion. Love is the positive phrasing of medicine's rule, First Do No Harm.
If we follow the Great Physician we will seek wellbeing, love, healing and life abundant for everyone on earth. The wellbeing of another person will be more important than his or her religion, sexual orientation, worldview or personal decisions and beliefs.
We are healer's in in the world, healer's in Christ's name. And the first rule of healing is do no harm. In another words, love everyone.
The Great Physician's rule: Love everyone.
Religion's rule?
Hmmmm....
If God is Love, love seeks the wellbeing of another, never disregarding the interests of another for one's own gain. Ones own agenda. Or even one's own religion. Love is the positive phrasing of medicine's rule, First Do No Harm.
If we follow the Great Physician we will seek wellbeing, love, healing and life abundant for everyone on earth. The wellbeing of another person will be more important than his or her religion, sexual orientation, worldview or personal decisions and beliefs.
We are healer's in in the world, healer's in Christ's name. And the first rule of healing is do no harm. In another words, love everyone.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Knocking from the Inside: A theology of redemption in light of God's omnipresence
If God is everywhere, then s/he must be Everywhere, including within the vibrating cells unbelievers, nonbelievers, partial believers and even gay haters, gluttons and grass. Even me. Even before I was becoming a Christian, opening to an increasing awareness of God's truth, grace -- really just God's love in all its many faces, like justice and joy and the cross and being alive.
God is willing that none should perish; Jesus asked his Father to forgive those who know not what they do, and our Divine Creator sent his only begotton Son -- which could just as easily have been a her only begotton daughter -- not to condemn the world, but to save it. Grace is free, and it's already here. Grace is alive, waiting, present for everyone, anytime. All we have to do is wake up and open the Present of Christmas morning: God with us.
The Holy Spirit can't not indwell a person, whatever they do or believe, because God indwells everything. But if we are blind, our hearts are cold and our ears can't hear, we are cut off from being alive to this gift that's wrapped with longing affection and waiting within our heart. God is knocking on the door from the inside. "Open me," says Holy Spirit. "And I will open you."
God is willing that none should perish; Jesus asked his Father to forgive those who know not what they do, and our Divine Creator sent his only begotton Son -- which could just as easily have been a her only begotton daughter -- not to condemn the world, but to save it. Grace is free, and it's already here. Grace is alive, waiting, present for everyone, anytime. All we have to do is wake up and open the Present of Christmas morning: God with us.
The Holy Spirit can't not indwell a person, whatever they do or believe, because God indwells everything. But if we are blind, our hearts are cold and our ears can't hear, we are cut off from being alive to this gift that's wrapped with longing affection and waiting within our heart. God is knocking on the door from the inside. "Open me," says Holy Spirit. "And I will open you."
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Med School Wife, day 24
The weeks are going by, and by miracle or survival, I am adjusting...getting used to things, my new role, the constant rearranging of time; the ebb of changing schedules and the unpredictable cycles of play and work, waking, sleeping, alone and together, family and independent me and the kids. I am getting better at this.
Something I discovered is that it is not a very big shift from being miserable and content, between angry angst and simple ecstasy. They are always there, each present in every single God blessed or damned moment (we get to decide,) maybe one at the front door, ringing the door bell, one at the back entrance standing next to the hose fixture, waiting like a friend.
So why do I look for someone else to make me happy? I never realized I could do it for myself, for one. Also, I always thought someone else should make me happy, like it was there job. And if I think someone's not doing their job, then I darn well am not going to let them off the hook by doing their job for them. If someone else is supposed to clean up, I have always chosen to live in a messy house covered in rotten food and shit stains on the toilet, rather than simply clean up. Does this make sense?
And so this is exactly why I have insisted on remaining an old version of myself.
Is it someone else's job to make another happy? It's not all or nothing. In an ideal world, you love someone, you do things that make them happy, or at least that will eventually lead to their happiness. But that doesn't account for the vast majority of actual life, in which people are suffering so much they cannot make themselves happy, much less do it for you. So I've decided to go ahead and do it myself and I like my decision, which is really tons of tiny decisions I make during moments of my life. Of course sometimes I still opt for self-pity and feel upset, but I try to be compassionate with myself and become more aware of the choice and what it entails.
The best part has to do with sex: Since I've stopped looking for David to make me happy and decided to do it on my own, we been doing it alot together, if you know what I mean, which of course you do. Yes, despite being more tired than ever, we're getting hornier. Sleepy horny, i is the phrase we've ascribed to the state of things libido. The pressure's off him, so he's free to love without feeling like I'm sucking it out of him, and my happy life becomes all the full and lovely because of someone absolutely amazing who loves me and wants to have this adventure along with me.
Funny, I feel similar to when we were first falling in love and I worked really hard to be independent -- sharing things with my guy, but only after I'd dealt with it a little myself first. Intimacy, rather than dependence, or something. Of course now we know each other better, love each other more truthfully because of the better knowing. It seems our lives and bodies are entwined more profoundly -- with two more cute babies as evidence. I sometimes fold his scrubs so they don't get wrinkly, even though I am not naturally domestic; he sometimes surprises me with flowers and declarations of love, even though he is not naturally expressive of his love, which normally he takes to be assumed.
So learning to arrive at being fine, or on my way to fine without turning outward first for deliverance is uncannily helpful. Possibly the ultimate secret to happy relationships. Cause I've noticed this: When I take care of myself apart from my love life, my intimate relationships becomes fresher, freer, more fun and lifegiving, because it's not having the life sucked out of it with the weight of baggage better sorted through before the trip. Whoever knew giving up on being rescued could be so romantic?
Something I discovered is that it is not a very big shift from being miserable and content, between angry angst and simple ecstasy. They are always there, each present in every single God blessed or damned moment (we get to decide,) maybe one at the front door, ringing the door bell, one at the back entrance standing next to the hose fixture, waiting like a friend.
So why do I look for someone else to make me happy? I never realized I could do it for myself, for one. Also, I always thought someone else should make me happy, like it was there job. And if I think someone's not doing their job, then I darn well am not going to let them off the hook by doing their job for them. If someone else is supposed to clean up, I have always chosen to live in a messy house covered in rotten food and shit stains on the toilet, rather than simply clean up. Does this make sense?
And so this is exactly why I have insisted on remaining an old version of myself.
Is it someone else's job to make another happy? It's not all or nothing. In an ideal world, you love someone, you do things that make them happy, or at least that will eventually lead to their happiness. But that doesn't account for the vast majority of actual life, in which people are suffering so much they cannot make themselves happy, much less do it for you. So I've decided to go ahead and do it myself and I like my decision, which is really tons of tiny decisions I make during moments of my life. Of course sometimes I still opt for self-pity and feel upset, but I try to be compassionate with myself and become more aware of the choice and what it entails.
The best part has to do with sex: Since I've stopped looking for David to make me happy and decided to do it on my own, we been doing it alot together, if you know what I mean, which of course you do. Yes, despite being more tired than ever, we're getting hornier. Sleepy horny, i is the phrase we've ascribed to the state of things libido. The pressure's off him, so he's free to love without feeling like I'm sucking it out of him, and my happy life becomes all the full and lovely because of someone absolutely amazing who loves me and wants to have this adventure along with me.
Funny, I feel similar to when we were first falling in love and I worked really hard to be independent -- sharing things with my guy, but only after I'd dealt with it a little myself first. Intimacy, rather than dependence, or something. Of course now we know each other better, love each other more truthfully because of the better knowing. It seems our lives and bodies are entwined more profoundly -- with two more cute babies as evidence. I sometimes fold his scrubs so they don't get wrinkly, even though I am not naturally domestic; he sometimes surprises me with flowers and declarations of love, even though he is not naturally expressive of his love, which normally he takes to be assumed.
So learning to arrive at being fine, or on my way to fine without turning outward first for deliverance is uncannily helpful. Possibly the ultimate secret to happy relationships. Cause I've noticed this: When I take care of myself apart from my love life, my intimate relationships becomes fresher, freer, more fun and lifegiving, because it's not having the life sucked out of it with the weight of baggage better sorted through before the trip. Whoever knew giving up on being rescued could be so romantic?
Black and Light
An odd thing to say from a postmodern is coming:
The way things unfold goes according to whether we choose black or white. Black, I have heard, is all the colors mixed together in a solid; rich, textured and deep, absorbing light and heat into darkness. All the colors are there, but you can no longer see them. White pigment simply is the absence of color, which could lead a person prone to drama to discount white as boring, utterly pointless. I am not talking about white pigment. I am taking about white light, which is the cradle and proud mother of all colors. She holds them gentle and lets them shine. And you can see this at the exact point where heaven's tears and light touch, awaking the Good, like a flower blossoming exquisitely on account of the shit in which its roots derive nutrients for a beautiful life.
The way things unfold goes according to whether we choose black or white. Black, I have heard, is all the colors mixed together in a solid; rich, textured and deep, absorbing light and heat into darkness. All the colors are there, but you can no longer see them. White pigment simply is the absence of color, which could lead a person prone to drama to discount white as boring, utterly pointless. I am not talking about white pigment. I am taking about white light, which is the cradle and proud mother of all colors. She holds them gentle and lets them shine. And you can see this at the exact point where heaven's tears and light touch, awaking the Good, like a flower blossoming exquisitely on account of the shit in which its roots derive nutrients for a beautiful life.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Evening In Summer
Evening wraps itself around me. I can hear myself breathe. Trees sway quietly, night insects and moisture fill the air, an ensemble like a peace blanket of wind and being.
I am on our deck, a periwinkle blanket spread beneath me, a plate of something Indian beside me.
Avriana is between my legs, which are outstretched like a starfish relaxing in the quietude of suburbs at night. My daughter has eyes like the moon, which blink as she stares at the woodwork of our deck, as though it is a novelty, fully enrapturing, yet probably not separate from her at all. Like her thumb. Her pinkie. Her mother, and well everything. She is so at home in the world, at one with everything she absorbs with curiosity and open intent. Unset goals, certain to be attained, the future confidently resting in the present. I nibble her belly and she laughs and her eyes rediscover the panels of rough reddish wood holding us above the world. Is she benignly patronizing me? She knows more than I do, I am sure.
I finish my masala burger and push the screen on its track, careful to push the right angles, so as not to get the thing off track. I whoosh Avriana inside and check email.
I am on our deck, a periwinkle blanket spread beneath me, a plate of something Indian beside me.
Avriana is between my legs, which are outstretched like a starfish relaxing in the quietude of suburbs at night. My daughter has eyes like the moon, which blink as she stares at the woodwork of our deck, as though it is a novelty, fully enrapturing, yet probably not separate from her at all. Like her thumb. Her pinkie. Her mother, and well everything. She is so at home in the world, at one with everything she absorbs with curiosity and open intent. Unset goals, certain to be attained, the future confidently resting in the present. I nibble her belly and she laughs and her eyes rediscover the panels of rough reddish wood holding us above the world. Is she benignly patronizing me? She knows more than I do, I am sure.
I finish my masala burger and push the screen on its track, careful to push the right angles, so as not to get the thing off track. I whoosh Avriana inside and check email.
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