Tag Archives: faith

Listening to the Silence

23 Tuesday May 2017

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I have left my noisy urban home for a few days, and am now in a very quiet place. All I can hear other than my own little noises is the dripping of my friend’s cat bowl, which makes a teeny recycling fountain to keep the water fresher. Strange to tell, instead of being relaxing, all this stillness has done is underscore my own disquiet, which I tend to keep buried like a secret shame.

When I realized Things were burbling up from my inner cesspool, I opted to turn off Pandora and stay with the cat bowl and what I call “microcries:” bursts of blubbering that last about 15 to 30 seconds. It’s sort of like crying constipation–that’s all I can get out at a time, although I feel myself to be a very cistern of tears.

As previously noted, I’m a random crier at the best of times, and I’m getting closer to deciphering why, or at least a maybe-why. I think that when it’s triggered by something heartwarming, it’s because my heart is in reality feeling cold and lonely; if the trigger is heroism, I am afraid that I myself am weak and helpless.

I do many things. I sing, draw, make jewelry, mother, befriend, love. But I feel as tottery at most of it as I do when my physical therapist cajoles me into trying to stand on just my right leg. (Almost everybody is a little lopsided at this, but I’m a champ at lop.) The only thing I really have is the writing. The sheeping writing, which fails to make me any money or gain me any renown, and which will likely continue to fail to do either.

All I am is the writing. That’s what’s at the bottom, behind the tears, underneath the depression, and despite the failure.

During this quiet afternoon, I went to the extent of Asking for a Sign, first in what passes in me for silent meditation, and then just talking out loud. So many people tell confident stories of hearing a Voice, either from outside or within–why not me? Although my faith isn’t what I’d call strong, my belief in the possibility of a Higher Power is stronger than my fear that #45 will turn America into a post-apocalyptic wasteland, and that’s something, isn’t it? But nobody came to my outreaching self-pity party, leaving me to confront what I have, what I know.

Perhaps all I’m really for is the writing. Maybe one or two people will be reached by the words that start at my core and ooze from my fingertips. They will laugh, cry, feel less alone or freakish; they will feel a kindred spirit. My fiction will keep them company for a bit.

What I hear, what I know, is just the writing. And sometimes it is barely enough, but it remains.

Season of Epiphany

07 Saturday Jan 2017

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I had a small heart attack a week ago, probably some little clot, and it led to the surprising discovery that my right coronary artery (that’s one of the big ones) was 95% blocked. They squooshed the clot with a balloon, and put in a teeny titanium tube to hold the artery open.

Yikes. Had to process this.

Confession:

Truth to tell, I was so ready to go, except for my being the material support of my kids. What was up with that? Feeling ready to quit. To be beaten. Life always wins, but it shouldn’t cheat that hard, and my Life seemed to hold mostly bad cards.

I wouldn’t say I was depressed, but I’d had no perceived purpose in life. Evolution was done with me, so that made the rest of it up to me. Problem was, I had no answers, just a vision of a blank wall coming closer and closer.

Now that I’ve seen the Precipice, I am ever so excited and joyous that I have been given another chance at life.

Another chance. Another life. Washed clean. My sins have been forgiven.

I feel different now. Every beat of the gelatinous sack of vibrating goo is special, sacred, valued, thanked. I love my heart now. This must mean something.

I think part of why I’m so happy is the sense that I mattered to some non-coincidental angel. I have realized that I am, actually, pretty damn cool, and that losing me would have been a Bad Thing.

Yeah, I need to get my books out, but in terms of purpose: If there’s a shortage of something on this Earth, it’s people who maximize their coolness. So why don’t I try to do that? Spread it as far and wide as I can. Try to make the world a better place, one smile at a time.

In return, I am prepared to be delighted with Life, having been shown with a tube of titanium where to look.

 

Season of the New Year

07 Saturday Jan 2017

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The day before New Year’s Eve, I got up from an indulgent post-breakfast nap with my throat on swollen fire. I had a column of nasty pain running up from about where the esophagus hits the stomach, all the way up to my jaw, and it was even going into my left arm a tad.

“GERD,” thought I. But it seemed unfair. It had been a small breakfast. And sitting up wasn’t relieving the pressure in my neck. It had never made it to my jaw before. Tried TUMS, tried milk, and sent the kid to the store for Mylanta. By the time he got home, I was feeling some better, but it was still bad. Mylanta did jack. That was when I . . .

. . . started Googling. Heaven forfend I act on impulse and call 911 or something. For GERD? It was most assuredly bad GERD. I’d had most of those symptoms before. But . . .

. . . women and chest pain, we’re weird. Both in the way it hits us, and in the way we handle it. That is to say, our cardiac symptoms are not classic, and ever since menarche, we are conditioned to shrug off pain. Tell you a secret, guys? We think you’re big, wussy babies; we tell jokes behind your backs about how tough you’d be with period cramps. Having a baby, ma’am? Walk it off!

SO there I was, fully dressed and ready to go–and not ready to go. My son, however, snarled at me, which is unlike him, so we . . . called a cab. No fuss here, just GERD.

They let us sit for ten minutes in the ER, which told me the admissions clerk must be just as impressed as I was with my chest pain, especially since I only got about a C+ on the little test she gave me, consisting of male-normed symptoms of The Big One. But they took me in, gave me an EKG–which I aced–and took some blood. I didn’t even ask them why, because that’s what they do: collect samples just-in-case, and send in some brave soul to put in an IV.

Welp, I failed the blood test. The resident was freakin’ perky as he told me that one of my heart enzymes was 50 times normal: My heart muscle had been damaged, and I had had a heart attack. Small, but undeniable.

“Oh, shit,” I said, and started to giggle. I mean, a heart attack? I’m 54. True, I have every other major risk factor except being a smoker (let’s not be excessive here), but it just seemed so surreal.

Because it was a three-day New Year’s weekend, I spent it in the hospital, waiting for the slightly fancier hospital’s center for angioplasty to open on Tuesday. I had many sticky things placed under my left boob and a heparin drip in my inevitably screechy IV. As holidays, despite visits and a good view of the fireworks, it sort of sucked.

Tuesday came, however, and I started off with an echocardiogram, which is a sonogram of the heart. I was a little appalled to learn that the heart doesn’t politely and sedately tap out a simple one-two; it dances sort of gelatinously, and the Doppler picked up several different rhythms, including “du-wacky-du-wacky-du.” What was this thing in my chest, anyway?  Then I had the angiogram.

I thought I’d known what it was and what it was up to.Wrong. Right coronary artery was 95% blocked. In the words of the OR nurse, I was “one cheeseburger away.”

This is having your guardian angel scruff you seconds before you go over a precipice, only it’s THE Precipice, and why not have gone there in the Sooner rather than Later?

Kinda leaves you with a question that wants answering, that does.

In Which Our Heroine Chews Through a Strap, Part Two

29 Tuesday Nov 2016

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(This was sitting in my drafts pile for over a year. “Part One” is somewhere back there on the blog. I have no idea why; it’s still as true today as when it was written, except that there are a few more rays of light, now and then.)

Once upon a time my spiritual jaws were in top form: After long and prayerful consideration, I pushed aside all the “no” and “I can’t,” and entered formal discernment in the Diocese of Baltimore to become an Episcopal priest.

Things went well enough for about half a year, and then my faith was extracted by giant pliers of Life, leaving behind bleeding caverns where I had also once had a home and family (which I admit were fragile to begin with.)

I fell down the rabbit hole: I had been battling too many stressors for too long, and this loss triggered my illness. You can accomplish great things while hypomanic, and I put together my ragged little pieces as best I could and crawled back to grad school, and after some more upheavals, at last I got well, and crawled back out of the hole. All I had left with which to chew God was a lacy bridgework of outward and physical signs criss-crossing the horrific gaps it left in my soul stuff.

I have a good life now–but now that I am comparatively well, I have been grappling with a sad and bitter question: Was my faith only a symptom of my illness, all that joy and sense of purpose just mixed up with the dreaded “religious ideation?” I have recovered from bipolar disorder I and dissociative identity disorder–have I recovered from God as well? Was that extraction not a tooth, but a tumor? Many good and kind people would say so; would congratulate me for coming to my senses. But then why do I feel so sad?

Because I do, and not even Jell-o® Instant Pudding can make it go away. I miss that life. I miss the magic of driving half an hour on a cold spring morning to light the new fire of Easter.

When my faith got pulled, tooth by tooth of it, and I was left sore and still numb in a homeless shelter in New Jersey, I ran into a wise priest who heard my story over tea and gave me permission to be angry with God. I clung to that, both the anger and the permission, and when my head told me to get my ass back to church, I did it, despite the hollowness of that cheated feeling filling my torso. So I joined choir because I knew that shaky as my soul stuff was, my Performer was intact, and it would bring me back to church,

It’s been over ten years, and I have come to love that choir for its own sake. I’ve become a much better singer, but my sense of wonder, of grace, has remained cold and stiff, lying on the margin of my plate unchewed.

Dead or hibernating? And what happens if it comes back?

 

A Confession

05 Friday Aug 2016

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I read self-help books. A lot of them; I think my average is about one a week. But here’s the thing: I am not the typical reader Looking for Answers. Instead, I’m looking for bad grammar, faulty spelling, and an inability to stay on topic–i.e., I style-edit them. (How’s that for a What’s My Line? job?)

Most of them say the same things: Stop negative self-talk. Get in touch with your spirituality. You can be happier–here’s how. (Many of the suggestions are solid, but then, some Harvard professor did a lecture course and wrote a book about it, so we already know this stuff.) In fact, I’m waiting for the book entitled We Already Know This Stuff. (But maybe that’s the subtitle of this blog entry.)

Every once in a while I run into one that borders on the toxic, like the followers of gurus who are considered really sketchy, or who tout pish coming from organizations under the disapproving eye of people like QuackWatch. Sometimes it’s really hard to smush down my opinions on the material, but we’re professionals here at Nova Terra, and even the unintentionally hilarious bits go no further than my kids. But none so far have been written by haters, although there’s some unconscious naivete now and again that I squash like a bug. (It’s the 21st century–for the love of Mike, don’t have your bad guys dressed in black and your good guys in white! *facepalm*)

But most of it is a cheerful treacle of love, joy, and unconditional good stuff, and you know what? It kinda works, in that I am more conscious of the good things in my own life. I’m not so sure it’s because of the soundness of the philosophies in the texts; rather I think it’s because I’m spending time with upbeat people. You know, sorta like how you get on a bus full of Jesus freaks headed cross-country and somewhere around Idaho you get drawn into a surly chorus of Kumbaya. And then they let you play with the tambourine, and you teach them a little bit about Neo-paganism or secular humanism, and you all get off the bus giggling and hugging.

Somewhere around here I have a couple of crystals and two Tarot decks, and I think my daughter has some essential oil. Maybe I should get it all together and play and then journal, especially since I’m at T-3 days for the surgery, and I have some sort of staph which already requires this purification ritual of putting stuff up my nose and showering with surgical scrub. Some silk scarves and candles and chanting with the Buddhist rosary might make it all more . . . fun. And fun, mah brethren and sistren, is what this vale of tears is all about.

Various Catchups, Mustered

26 Tuesday May 2015

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A chance rejection of poor Max made me realize (as in, a light bulb went nuclear) that his story has eaten my plot. So I trashed something like ten chapters (Yes!), realizing that they were the equivalent of his baby book: You only want to see that stuff if you are already enamored of Max. Now this leaves me with the problem of how to make you enamored of Max without starting with the one-celled Phalutagemickis of his Tricenjurassic past. Oy. At least this leaves me with what for me is a happy thing–I no longer have to worry about how long it is!

* * * * *

The whole faith thing has expanded to the point where I’m considering going back to chanting Nam myoho renge kyo as a sort of meditation. Last time I did this, my life exploded, which was probably all a coincidence, but I am still looking at the beautiful liturgy and beads a friend sent me, all sitting nice and quiet on my nightstand, and telling myself not to be a scaredy cat. Maybe my life needs to be exploded; what do I know?

* * * * *

My therapist listened to me rant about the hatefulness of my job for a few sessions, and then suggested I take a vacation. After I experienced what for me is an early warning sign of Bad Stuff (i.e., I took a mental health day), I decided to be obedient and compliant and whatnot, and am taking off for the first two weeks of June. This is unpaid leave, and as such won’t involve tropical islands or anything, but at the very least the only crazy people I have to deal with are my beloveds in my inner circle. And me. Very much me, that being the point.

* * * * *

My beautiful 11-year-old cat has cancer, and I am mordantly amused by how this has affected us. The Big C has a numinous presence that has totally turned around how we treat her, let alone think about her. Much tiptoeing and overindulging–good thing we also brought home a major toy for Zoe, who has been on Rip’s butt ever since she stepped out of the carrier.

Ripley had surgery a week and a half ago at the awesome Alliance for Animals, and they got it all, but warned us of probable recurrence. She seems to be her old self, if not better now that she doesn’t have a lump in her mouth, but has gotten really spoiled, because we had her on cat soup (Yes, they make cat soup) while she was healing, and now it’s nose up at most *wet* food, let alone *shudder* kibble. We are delighted, but we all hear the mortality ticking. I’m prone to hearing that as it is, so for now we love the hell out of her and try not to think about it.

* * * * *

And that’s a wrap. Time to head off for a board meeting, instead of my writers’ group, which is so much fun I’d frankly rather be doing that, but being a grownup sucks. So it goes.

Wonder and Grace

14 Tuesday Apr 2015

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Katrina and the Waves are playing “Walking on Sunshine,” and I’m tryin’ to feel good. Not too hard to do–just got back from aqua-aerobics and it’s the First Official Day of Spring, meaning that I stuffed my sweater in my backpack and sauntered forth, tattoos all alive-o!

My dentist had the crown snapped back on in a jiffy, and we are waiting to hear whether my insurance covers bridge work. I can chew stuff, but I’m hyperaware of it. This makes eating a far more mindful experience. Jon Kabat-Zinn would be proud of me.

I went through this last week with the previous column very much in mind, albeit in the back. One of the things that is slowing down my self-inquisition is that the only definition of faith I hear in my head is not a catechism’s, but a joke my friend and former father-in-law tells: “Preacher man says faith is believin’ in what you know ain’t so.”

I know that’s how it works for a lot of people. They shrug it off as a Mystery, and go their way. But I’m just not built like that, so I’m falling back on what I closed with last time: A sense of wonder and of grace.

I’ve realized that my sense of wonder has in fact remained intact as what I consciously experience as a material thing that moves me to profound joy and sometimes tears. Perhaps the best examples of this are the Where the Hell is Matt? shorts. (Clickers, go watch if you’ve never seen them. Come back to me when you’re done with whatever Internet wondrousness you get carried away on.)

For the non-clickers: These videos are of Matt (who’s just some guy) in various locales around the world, doing what he admits to be just a little sketch of a dance, being a human bobbling his limbs in the universal symbol of celebration. Sometimes he is smack in the middle of other people’s ethnic dances. There is something compelling about them, and they went viral.

Then what I consider the real joy explosion happened: All around the world, they started to pre-announce Matt’s advent (you can sign up on his website) and groups of random people would flash mob there and start dancing too.

I imagine some alien seeing one of these announcements, and grabbing his friend and expostulating, “Come, Xpinthis. The bringer of simple joy comes. Let us go and join the worship.”

Because at its best, dance is worship–of aliveness, of movement, of humanness. Is it not a wonder, that the primal holiness of music calls us forth to move with it? And I would say that that feeling of connection, whether we have collapsed in a pile of sweat, or have just been swaying in our seats with a tear in our eye–is grace.

 

In Which Our Heroine Chews through a Strap

10 Friday Apr 2015

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Monday, April 6: I had four teeth out last Thursday afternoon. Today is Monday, and I’m dunking and gumming a danish at Au Bon Pain, having paid my $4.70 writing rent for an hour. ABP lacks Starbucks’ cave-like allure, but its brighter decor and better table selection attracts people having conversations, always a cheering milieu for me. There are only two others soloing it today, although one is goofing off on his Kindle, pen and pad neglected before him. (Yes, you. I see you.)

I am due to see my dentist in three or so hours, because the oral surgeon popped off one of my crowns during the procedure. I’d very much appreciate a little more chewing real estate right now. For the last three days I’ve had nothing but pasta (not al dente, alas), dairy in all its soft forms, and Jell-o® Instant Pudding. I thought this would be spiffy, but found something obscene in the rice bowl full of it: Treat and Dinner are two different things. On my way home I’m going to get some “nutritional replacement drinks.” More sweet stuff. Yum!

Useful Fact You Are Finding on the Internet: I thought the “several days recovery” meant “until we return to steak.” No, children. No. Maybe the nitrous oxide plays into this, but the oral surgery isn’t so much oral (as in dentist) as it is surgery (as in gaping bloody wounds needing to heal.)

I came home as perky as a mouthful of gauze could allow, my one concern being whether I would drool on the T–and then it was Saturday afternoon.  I remember my son making sympathetic noises and fixing me ramen noodles. I guess this means I sort of fasted on Good Friday for the first time in years. Do I get Jesus Points for this?

If not, I’d better have racked some up for singing two services on Easter morning. 7:50 call, y’all. I – AM – MIGHTY!

Another tip: If you are a singer and ever in this predicament, do all the dumbass face and mouth exercises your vocal peeps have ever taught you, as soon as you can without swearing. They matter.

*****

In the library now, having killed enough time and spent enough money in places lacking restrooms. I have an hour to go before hiking back up the street to find out my crown won’t go back on, I just betcha. I have been having flashes of being homeless: Lots of stuff to schlep–backpack and purse and a wet bathing suit in a plastic bag and a small parcel from the post office–and a book.

While wandering about, I went into the local spiritual bookstore, from whom I buy the shiny rocks my bestie in New Hampshire loves. This store can outfit you from tarot deck to incense, and that’s what I came for this time–incense and some pretty buttons for my cap. For some reason, they always have Anne Lamott right in front of the register: impulse chewing gum for the soul-stuff. I haven’t read her in years, not since I still had all my teeth and my faith and could chew God.

But I bought her latest on a whim, and left the store wondering, “Just what the hell was that all about?”

 *****

Once upon a time my spiritual jaws were in top form: After long and prayerful consideration, I pushed aside all the “no” and “I can’t,” and entered formal discernment in the Diocese of Baltimore to become an Episcopal priest.

Things went well enough for about half a year, and then my faith was extracted by giant pliers of Life, leaving behind bleeding caverns where I had also once had a home and family (which I admit were fragile to begin with.)

I fell down the rabbit hole: I had been battling too many stressors for too long, and this loss triggered my illness. You can accomplish great things while hypomanic, and I put together my ragged little pieces as best I could and crawled back to grad school, and after some more upheavals, at last I got well, and crawled back out of the hole. All I had left with which to chew God was a lacy bridgework of outward and physical signs criss-crossing the horrific gaps it left in my soul stuff.

I have a good life now–but now that I am comparatively well, I have been grappling with a sad and bitter question: Was my faith only a symptom of my illness, all that joy and sense of purpose just mixed up with the dreaded “religious ideation?” I have recovered from bipolar disorder I and dissociative identity disorder–have I recovered from God as well? Was that extraction not a tooth, but a tumor? Many good and kind people would say so; would congratulate me for coming to my senses. But then why do I feel so sad?

Because I do, and not even Jell-o® Instant Pudding can make it go away. I miss that life. I miss the magic of driving half an hour on a cold spring morning to light the new fire of Easter.

When my faith got pulled, tooth by tooth of it, and I was left sore and still numb in a homeless shelter in New Jersey, I ran into a wise priest who heard my story over tea and gave me permission to be angry with God. I clung to that, both the anger and the permission, and when my head told me to get my ass back to church, I did it, despite the hollowness of that cheated feeling filling my torso. So I joined choir because I knew that shaky as my soul stuff was, my Performer was intact, and it would bring me back to church,

It’s been nine years, and I have come to love that choir for its own sake. I’ve become a much better singer, but my sense of wonder, of grace, has remained cold and stiff, lying on the margin of my plate unchewed.

Dead or hibernating? And what happens if it comes back?

I’ve been dipping into Lamott, and having the feeling that something in my soul stuff has gnawed, or gummed, its way through a strap. But I don’t know what is now loose; I am both shaken and stirred, and as my tongue warily taps the forbidden places in my mouth, I am coming to face that I must do the same inside. And may God have mercy on my soul stuff, because it no longer knows where it is.