electronic kairos

tonight i was trying to prepare something for the Kairos reflection tonight. while it ultimately devolved into a much more enjoyable night of feeding friends and chatting, i was glad for the time to reflect on the intersection of "ordinary" time and storytelling. it's been coalescing in my mind, as we head into Ordinary Time, that within all the work we do and the issues we address, story can sometimes get lost under fact and hyperbole and official excuses.

for example, i have been thinking, as i am sure many have, about the situation in Gaza. not only was there the needless deaths of those trying to get into Gaza with humanitarian aid, but there have been reported air raids into Gaza as well. All of these things are massively horrifying, but i found myself most moved and saddened and convicted by the first-person stories of what happened on the Freedom Flotilla. The first-person stories of what it was like on the boat contained some incredibly touching moments. It can be found here. those stories, while not eclipsing the broad picture of facts and strategies and solutions, throw into high relief the real cost of doing nothing. these people, with names and faces and a story to tell, narrowly avoided losing their lives. others didn't. thinking of these people - the ones who lived and the ones who died - moves me more than facts. i feel like that must be true for more than me.

in planning for the night, i found this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye, which also helped me realize the beautiful power of story and the ordinary, even in the face of violence and oppression.

The Words Under the Words
(for Sitti Khadra, north of Jerusalem)
-Naomi Shihab Nye

My grandmother's hands recognize grapes,
the damp shine of a goat's new skin.
When I was sick they followed me,
I woke from the long fever to find them
covering my head like cool prayers.

My grandmother's days are made of bread,
a round pat-pat and the slow baking.
She waits by the oven watching a strange car
circle the streets. Maybe it holds her son,
lost to America. More often, tourists,
who kneel and weep at mysterious shrines.
She knows how often mail arrives,
how rarely there is a letter.
When one comes, she announces it, a miracle,
listening to it read again and again
in the dim evening light.

My grandmother's voice says nothing can surprise her.
Take her the shotgun wound and the crippled baby.
She knows the spaces we travel through,
the messages we cannot send-our voices are short
and would get lost on the journey.
Farewell to the husband's coat,
the ones she had loved and nourished,
who fly from her like seeds into a deep sky.
They will plant themselves. We will all die.

My grandmother's eyes say Allah is everywhere, even in death.
When she talks of the orchard and the new olive press,
when she tells the stories of Joha and his foolish wisdoms,
He is her first thought, what she really thinks of His name.
"Answer, if you hear the words under the words -
otherwise it is just a world with a lot of rough edges,
difficult to get through, and our pockets full of stones."

In this "ordinary" time, I'm committing to finding the story in the ordinary. This Sunday, we'll here again the very extraordinary way that our Savior performs the ordinary act of feeding people. There was a story there, but there's a story every time we feed people who need it. There are stories in the ordinary work we do. i want to commit to finding those stories, collecting them, and bringing them as presents to the One Who Writes Our Stories.

...sometimes, things just line up and it seems like you can just see beyond into myth and meaning...

i have this tendency to have epiphanies in weird places, like the shower or on the treadmill. today i had both, and i realized how much i've neglected to update this blog with all the things changing in my life. i've been going with the flow, one foot right in front of the other. and that doesn't leave a lot of time to stop and reflect except, apparently, in the shower or on the treadmill.

it occurred to me (in the shower, natch) how far i am from the person i was even months ago. i am systematically dismantling my fear. i am looking head-on at my shame and my regrets and my fear of the life i want, and i am learning to be compassionate with myself and doubly-compassionate with my neighbors. i fail more than i succeed, but i've never been so committed to trying to make it past my automatic rejection of risk and anything that might show that i'm a person of value, a person with gifts.

in a little less than 3 weeks, i'll be headed to Arizona. i will spend 2 lovely days with my cousin Beth and then i will settle down into the risk i'm running joyously, fearfully head-long into. i will spend a week in the Sonoran Desert, doing what I can to aid migrants crossing from Mexico into the United States. this is the first time i can think of that i've been willing to risk much for a cause that i know will put me at odds with people i love. it's the first time i've been willing to risk this much to go where i think Christ is, without any illusions of being successful. i will not stop migrants from dying on the border. i will not heal the rift that exists between Americans and migrant Mexicans in Arizona. i will not repeal an unjust law. i cannot fix this. all i can do is be faithful and just a little bit braver than usual. i can feed people. i can give them water. i can make sure that they get their basic needs met for just one more day, until they move on from us. for one week, i can be part of a group of Samaritans, except instead of the road from Jerusalem to Jericho, we'll use the physical and ideological desert between the United States and Mexico. that's a lot for just one week. i think i can do it, but not alone. please pray for me, for us, and for our migrant brothers and sisters.

later this summer, i will make another frightening and beautiful leap into the unknown. i will begin living in an intentional community centered on the property of my parish here in Chicago (St. Gertrude's). i've long believed that, no matter what my economic/work vocation is, i am called to live in intentional community. however, outside of my brief time in the JVC, it's a call i've found convenient to ignore. it's a scary thing to try to live with others and even scarier to try to use that living together as a time to build something bigger than ourselves. the people i'll be living with are some of the most wonderful, dedicated, Christ-like people i know. and i know that they will make it a joyous journey, even when it may be difficult for all of us. when i lived in Portland, i also knew i wanted to be in community, but it was so easy to put it off and not honor that call. having a group of people to whom i feel accountable and who's vision and example are truly inspiring.

it would be easy to spend time ruing how little i did to live the life i wanted in portland. but i am having so much fun now that those regrets are just an echo of what they could be.

i'd originally thought of making this a fundraiser letter and sending it out individually. but this beautiful community has helped us raise a lot of funds. also, it seemed more important to reach out and explain to people why i'm doing what i'm doing. i know that a lot of folks i've talked to have concerns, borne out of love, about my time in Arizona. As most folks know, I'm not a giant fan of conflict and not always super-great at explaining myself. But I am totally committed to talking to anyone about why I feel called to spend time in the Sonoran desert and what I hope to come out of that time. Feel free to Facebook or email me about it. I'll reply as quickly as I can. Thanks for all the support, prayers, and love you've given me on this journey towards this life i love. i couldn't have done it without you.

scrap-of-paper poem

[found part of this written on a teeny piece of paper in my purse today. i love when i keep things around.]

sometimes i think i'm in love,
but it's really just the blues,
sudden and explained.

i get thrown off-kilter
and everything looks beautiful
and loveable,
just because i think i'm not.

those blues
bleed into melancholy
and i could keep myself down
for days on end.

it's so much easier to think
that you've caused it,
that my heartache comes from
somewhere other than
this swollen, beating thing
in between my own ribs.

i'd pick love
over the blues
any day.
but sometimes,
a girl
just doesn't get to choose.

an oregon poem

-gorges-
-4/23/10-

as i laid down,
head cradled in hands,
your peaks and valleys
washed over me.
mountains beyond mountains
crowded in
behind my eyes
and i missed you
with all the longing
your native sons and daughters
might have felt.
but that is their story,
not mine,
and it has many more tears and
grief
than this one.

regardless, we share those mountains
and those riverbeds.
their heart's land
is my heartland, too.

i remember standing,
arms outstretched,
on the top of a mountain,
with my feet planted firmly in snow
and my head lifted up to
the bright May sky.
i could search this world over,
and not find a better way of explaining
what roots me
and makes me grow.

there are no mountains here,
and, somehow,
it's beautiful anyways.
i don't want you to think i'm ungrateful.
but my children will not be flatlanders,
and my ancestors won't be gone from that place
for good.
i've only taken them with me here,
so i can bring them back again.

Part 2 of my Good Friday journey...(the REALLY honest part)

Part 2
after the walk, i was so overcome by emotion that i elected to head home instead of spending the rest of the beautiful day with my beautiful friends. but chrissy and i made plans to meet up a bit before Good Friday services.

as i mentioned before, i love Good Friday services. and, 2 years ago, after my mom died, i remember going to the service and just feeling, viscerally, what that liturgical celebration meant. i mean, how could we do other than gather together, with no pomp or circumstance, and just be sorrowful together? i was especially excited to experience Good Friday in this new Catholic community i'm part of. i usually leave Mass energized, enriched, and a little closer to God, so i knew my favorite liturgical celebration would be no exception.

little did i know.

the mass began in the usual Good Friday way - the cross was processed in by our priest, two altar servers, and a woman i recognized who was also dressed a bit like an altar server but older. as they approached the altar, our priest went to sit down in the pews, and this woman took her place on the altar. she was our presider for the night. i was at a liturgical celebration being led by a woman. and, you know what? the world didn't end. i wasn't smited. i didn't feel like any less of a Catholic. it was jarring - i was concerned that my priest would be punished for this, that people would come out of the woodwork to harass him, like i'd been harassed for even being friends who worked with people who attended a female ordination. last night, i realized that, even though i am no longer a paid employee of the Catholic Church, i still carry all the same prohibitions in my head. i still worry that a certain woman is out there, just waiting to write vicious things about me on her blog as soon as she determines i've stepped out of line, liturgically. and, you know what? i never really did during that time, but fat lot of good that did me. being persecuted for not taking liturgical risks or testing what i believe had a certain amount of value. now i'm really going to test it - i attended a Good Friday liturgy led by a woman who hopes to be ordained, and it was one of the most beautiful Good Friday services of my life. to hear jesus' voice as feminine was particularly moving. the homily's point - that we're all the same at the foot of the cross - was exactly what my weary, humiliated soul needed to hear after the many and intense feelings of the walk earlier. i was sitting amongst my favorite people, and i could tell how moved we all were. some of these folks have risked a lot to talk about their feelings on women's ordination - more than i ever risked while working for the church. and, while i still have a long way to go to figure out what i believe, now that i'm not the director of anything, it was the first time i finally addressed the fear i'd held on to from that job - fear of being judged, fear of doing or believing the "wrong" thing, fear that every time i question or don't understand, i'll be persecuted and called names for all to see. enough.

i started thinking about mom, like i always do on Good Friday now. i remember saying, in my thoughts, "MOM! there's a woman leading this service? aren't you just DYING right now?" she said, no, it happens all the time there. that was nice to think about...

i also started thinking about how much she would like (and perhaps be a little confused by) the life i live now. one thing she wanted was for me to finally end the tyranny of other people's opinions in my life. it just killed me that i wasn't able to show her how far i've come, how much this community and this life heals me and helps me take risks. that's one thing i miss the most, but, paradoxically, i don't know if it would have happened if she hadn't died. her death made me brave in a bitter way, but that's been transforming into a blessing day by day. i think she might have some part in that, even if i can't tell...

i was so overwhelmed with the feelings of the day, that i just wept. usually, i had to weep in public (unless it's over movies or Biggest Loser episodes). i read the entire funeral eulogy without crying. i didn't let anyone see me cry either of mom's death anniversaries. it makes me itchy and miserable and uncomfortable in my own skin. but, that's not a really honest way to live. and i was too tired to self-edit. and i'm tired of pretending not to be broken and questioning and confused when i am most of those things, especially this week. and, i don't know if it was the spirit of the day or having a woman leading things, but it felt just a little bit more okay to fall apart. so i did. and, once again, the world didn't end. i wasn't crying alone. i imagined that the apostles would have found it strange if anyone ever did make it through that day with dry eyes.

i don't know what to tell my friends back home about my experience Friday. even writing it out makes me realize how different my catholicism feels now than in the past. it feels more authentic, but also more challenging and probably less comfortable to people i know and love. it's sad to think about that right now.

but it's officially Easter. and we are ALL an Easter People living in a Good Friday world, as someone once said. I know now that the emotions of Good Friday, especially this one, are what make the Resurrection flower and what helps to strengthen us for the Savior's ascension, when we'll be once again alone, save the Holy Spirit. Jesus wouldn't really have lived enough if we didn't grieve his death with every fiber of our being, and try to find him everywhere we can. i'm grateful for a Good Friday that helped me see that truth...

Oh, Heart, What a Journey (Warning: INSANELY Honest Blogpost)

this Good Friday was unlike any other for me. it's always been my favorite liturgical celebration - i like things which are stripped bare - altars, crosses, souls. so i already knew that, in this community, my Good Friday would be meaningful. but the heights and depths that i reached last night broke me open, caused me to say goodbye to things i didn't realize i'd held tight, and made me realize that, despite the fact that many people i love won't love who i've become, i've come closer than ever before to the life i was meant to lead.

part one
last week, i decided to participate in the 8th Day Center for Justice's Good Friday Walk for Justice. I joined friends whose passion for ending torture i really admire. Earlier this week, we gathered together to plan out the station we'd be doing. i'd felt led to volunteer as an actor, but when we were initially claiming parts, i got scared. i volunteered to read - something i'm comfortable with, something that wouldn't require much from me. but thank goodness my wonderful roomie keeps me accountable. she reminded me that that wasn't what i'd said i wanted to do. what i wanted to do was don a jumpsuit and a hood and, for a little bit, inhabit the story of a man who died too early from "suicide" at Guantanamo Bay Prison. so, i braved up and stepped into that jumpsuit and listened to the story of Salah Ahmed Al-Salami. Even though we were just practicing, the combination of listening to Salah's story and, simultaneously, being forced to kneel, then rise up, then lie down - never in charge of my movements, never fully sure of what i was seeing through the black cloth - scared me and moved me even more than i expected. i knew the day of the walk would be even more intense. i was right.

yesterday, we met at st. gert's to pray before riding the L train down to Congress & Michigan for the start of the Walk for Justice. We read one of my very favorite new poems - "O Prison Darkness," written by Abdulaziz, a prisoner in Guantanamo. During the ride, i sat and looked out the window and tried to fight my rising panic and sadness. i had no idea what today would be like and i couldn't imagine being the center of attention for so long. i don't like being stared at. it's not humility, really, just cripplingly low self-esteem. and i'd just agreed to wear a jumpsuit and hood not only during our performance, but during the entire 3 hour walk down the streets of Chicago around lunchtime on a Friday. that's a LOT of people to stare at me. but, then, thankfully, i remembered that the march wasn't about me at all. i mulled over the little i knew about the story of Salah Ahmed Al-Salami. it's heartbreaking, really, and it's so much more important than my ridiculous, petty fears.

The few of us who were donning jumpsuits gathered to pray and to remember what we were representing-men whose lives have systematically destroyed by the War on Terror, many of whom never committed a crime and were arrested because of tribal infighting, the lure of bounties, or confusion. some of them died early. all of them have scars. it began to be a scary privilege to carry their stories into the streets. we walked to a number of places representing stations, led by some really beautiful organizations - labor organizers, women in prison, indigenous rights groups.

at one location, i came face to face with what a weak christian i can be. this location was an open-air plaza with a small portion reserved for al fresco dining at a relatively fancy restaurant. our line of "prisoners" positioned ourselves near the boundary of this dining area and prepared to participate in the stations. almost as soon as folks began to sing "Wade in the Water", the waitstaff of this restaurant called the police to complain about noise violations (keep in mind, police were already escorting our group). in addition, several tables began jeering. "Shut up!" they yelled. "Nobody gives a shit." Here we were - 500 nonviolent activists, re-enacting the Passion of Christ, and there was jeering and name calling already. But, instead of feeling righteous or grateful for an opportunity to be a disciple, i felt humiliated and ashamed and some amount of guilt for ruining a rich person's lunch. which then made me feel more humiliated. if that's even a little of how Peter felt betraying Jesus, i wonder how he didn't just burst into tears. i definitely did (thankfully, the hood hid that fact). it's a horrifying thing to face how truly weak i am in the face of opposition and conflict, especially in light of the fact that i belong to a community filled with some of the strongest, bravest Christians i've ever met.
before i knew it, it was our station. i lined up behind one of our "jailers" - the whole time we were processing, i had members of our community beside me, making sure i knew where to step, offering me water, and generally making sure we were okay and safe. but walking alone to the front of the crowd, i kept mulling (as i had the whole walk) that Salah Ahmed Al-Salami had no one like that. this hood was meant to keep him from knowing what was coming next. would he be left alone? would dogs come? would he be forced to kneel and rise up and lie down, without anyone to comfort him?

for those who never heard this story, here's a relatively balanced story from BBC News. please know that what this story does not say is that these men's bodies were returned in pieces, with various body parts missing. Salah Ahmed Al-Salami was a devout Muslim. He'd memorized the whole Q'oran. What depths of misery would prompt a man of such deep faith to kill himself? We know he was one of the prisoners to take part in some of the political food fasts which ended in brutal forced-feeding by Guantanamo Bay staff. there's reason to believe he had a lawyer but had not received clearance to see him and plead his case. it's thought that he was in Pakistan not for jihad, but plead for the release of his cousin who was detained there. there's been accusations, after an in-depth investigation, that the death of these 3 men was actually accidental manslaughter after a particularly intense torture session. either way, the brutality and aloneness of Salah Ahmed Al-Salami was on my heart as I took my place in front of the gathered crowd. As rehearsed, two women pushed me to my knees, then grabbed my arms and led me around the circle and forced me into the stress position. these women are my friends but, for a second, i was frightened and filled with distress. i prayed for Salah, whose jailers were not his friends, whose death was not a play. i laid down on the ground to simulate Salah's death. i was covered with a sheet and i shut my eyes and prayed for the repose of Salah's soul. I prayed that the God of all Abraham's people watch over him and guide him home. I prayed that he see what we were doing in the light that we meant - that we were trying to keep alive his story.

i was carried off by 6 "pallbearers". Salah never got that, either. he was shipped home in pieces. his father refuses to believe a man of such faith would commit suicide and he refuses to bury Salah until an independent autopsy confirms that he committed suicide. imagine the grief that family must feel. whether or not he was a terrorist, whether he committed suicide or was accidentally tortured to death, the pain that family feels is immense and it is real.

fasting day #1 poetry reflection

i like the idea of finding poems that speak to me and posting them as reflections...here are two (one by me and one by someone better!)

gift
-by leonard cohen-

You tell me that silence
is nearer to peace than poems
but if for my gift
I brought you silence
(for I know silence)
you would say
"This is not silence
this is another poem"
and you would hand it back to me.

**************************************************

everyone's hungry for something...
-by me-
this talk about your struggles got me thinking about the math of our lives.
if you subtract alcohol or love or sweetness,
what do you add to even the score?
because everybody's hungry for something
& the scales have to balance somehow.

when i gave up writing, i got religion
& it worked out so perfectly
that the two became almost mutually exclusive-
i could have words
or i could have the Eternal Word.
but not both.
never both.

this is what fascinates me about people
but it doesn't make for polite conversation.
most people want to tell you their successes
or assumptions about current weather patterns.
they don't want some stranger to wander up and say
"excuse me.
i was wondering if you could tell me
about everything you've lost
& what crazy things you've done
to try to make balance where there is none."
Judging by all the blank stares,
this must not be part of
How to Win Friends and Influence People.

but i don't care,
because i find it truly amazing-
what we're capable of
when we struggle like hell to survive.

& because the only balance i can find
between writing and God
is making my little, busted up corner of the world
a prayer.
one that begins
"O God of the eternal equation,
help the alcoholics
& the swaggerers
& the hobos
& the haters
& the lovers
& everyone who hasn't found you yet.
help us find the sum of our parts,
and help us exceed it, even briefly.
help us all find words for you,
the Eternal Word.
Amen"