Tribe

Today and yesterday (for reference, Sunday and Saturday) were surprisingly easy days for me. I woke up happy or at least neutral. The cloud of pain that has surrounded me - at times making it difficult to see - has been gone. I suppose that an honest conversation with people who love you (but who have still broken your heart) will do that for you. I suppose also that finally releasing the pain dammed up inside will do that for you too. After the torrential outpouring, my emotions are slowly subsiding. I don't think we humans are made to carry the pressure of that much pain. And when we dam up our emotions we damn ourselves. (No, I don't mean in a sort of heaven-hell sort of way. I mean that we destroy ourselves.) Again, this points to the necessity of being surrounded by loving community with whom we can be honest.
(I know also that grieving comes in waves [or cycles] so I may end up wading through pain again, but I've accepted these past two days as a gift. My appetite has slowly returned and I've been able to sleep better. Now I primarily feel physically exhausted - as opposed to physically and emotionally exhausted. For that, I am thankful and simply await what the next day will bring.)

It's hard to be honest. Especially about grief. I think it's because being honest about grief is dangerous. Going back to our society not knowing how to grieve, I think that society also does not know what to do with people who are in pain. "Feel better!" is an easy response. Instead of grieving with those who grieve, we try to throw band-aids on deep emotional lacerations, or we offer distractions and words of advice to "Don't think about it." We don't want to sit with those who hurt because we don't want to feel uncomfortable. We want life to be happy. So, we want others to be happy - especially if we do not understand why they are hurting. So, we further wound them by taking away their right to feel or by discrediting the validity of their emotions.

Because when we are faced with the real pain of others, we must be real about our own quiet despair. We must be honest about the paradise that we do not live in. The hurting person before us serves as a mirror for our inability to be perfect - especially if that person before us is hurting as a result of our actions.
The person who publicly grieves is not weak. The honesty of showing the broken and vulnerable places is an act of absolute bravery.



I didn't want to go to church tonight. I avoided it this morning, telling myself that I would go this evening. But as the hour approached, I felt my resistance deepening. I had spent the day reading about what it means to be the community of God and absolutely knew that I did not want to go to church tonight because I did not want to have to be real with people. But, I ate too many jellybeans while sitting on the couch and thinking over my desire to stay home and feel exhausted. I gave myself a stomach ache and thought, "Well, church has a free dinner. I guess I'll go and eat...I really should go anyway."
I know it sounds like less than "Citizenship of the Month" quality character, but I think God takes and uses what we give Him in order to get us to where we need to be. And tonight, I needed to be at Tribe.

Here's what Tribe was for me tonight:
A meal of fellowship. Eucharist. A warm welcome after I'd been gone for a long time. Worship sung in harmony and wild abandon. Hugs. Smiles and joking with kind eyes and gentle touch. Dogs running around. Stomping feet. Clapping Hands. A wine glass knocked over and broken. A drum circle. A violin. Quiet listening. A kiss on the cheek. Holding hands with fingers interlocked. Prayer. Honest hearts. Conversation over washing dishes. Blessing.

A dear but recent friend approached me after the service and asked how I was doing. I told him, "Tired."
"Tired?"
"Yeah, weary."
"Tired from not enough sleep, or tired from a week of shit?" asked the saint.
I told him, "Both."
And then we really talked.


I went back to Tribe last week after a year of being gone because I knew it was the place that was safe for me to go and be shattered - and have that be okay. I went back to Tribe tonight, because I knew I needed to be there, because I ate too many jellybeans and gave myself a tummy ache, and because last week another saint asked if I'd be returning. I told him, "Yeah...I mean, maybe."

Tribe lets me be a stray cat that wanders in and out of the warehouse where they meet. Tribe welcomes me with open arms, open hearts, and plates of food. Tribe never asks me of anything other that I come and simply be - knowing that when I get to a point where I am able to contribute, I will.
I've been asked if I'll be coming more regularly, and I say that I'm not sure. And I'm accepted.

Tonight, as I walked to my car, a man chased after me in the parking lot. "Hey!" He said, "I didn't get to introduce myself to you." We exchanged names and he asked, "Will you be back next week?" "Yeah!" I replied, "Well - wait - no. I'll be in Memphis." He rocked back, "Say whaaaat!?" We laughed and I asked him, "Are you a regular attender?" "I'm working on it," he answered. "Oh, how long have you been coming here?" (With the exception of last week, I haven't been to Tribe in about a year, so I figured it was a fair question.)
"Tonight is my first night."
And those are the kind of people who make up Tribe.

And somehow, I am one of them.

Leaks

*I sat in a small wooden boat on the shore near the edge of the sea, watching the tide roll in. Huge waves crashed in on themselves, sending up sprays of water that angrily hissed and roared each time. The water crept nearer, somehow maintaining the deceptive appearance that it had not reached me until, before I knew it, I found my small craft lifted by the inky black underneath and now surrounding me. My heart skipped a beat as panic and adrenaline shot through my body. The water surged around me, pulling at my boat like fingers. And my boat shuddered in return, fighting the force of the water, but too rickety to keep the sharp pokes at bay. Slowly, leaks sprang. With no bailing devices, I did the most natural thing possible: I tried to stop the leaks. I crammed the ball of my foot into one crevice while jamming my fingers into other dribbling pools. I'd been swept up in a surge that I dared not lose myself in, but my only floatation device was failing me. I did not have enough fingers or toes or hands or feet. Each leak gave to a spurting geyser, like a bleeding artery.
Finally, in my desperation, I called out for help - *


I'm not going to fake it and pretend that I've been sleeping well for the past week, or pretend that I haven't lost my appetite. I have trouble sleeping, and grief has left me with an almost perpetual sense of nausea. I've spent much of my time hoping for distraction, trying to focus on the work that I know that I need to be doing. If there ever was a way to break me, this week has been it. And yet, in my brokenness, I've finally been stripped of the ability to mask my pain enough so as to fool most people around me into thinking that I'm okay.

I've always been one to wear my emotions on my sleeve, but I don't really like it when my pain shows (refer to previous post about "Hilary Bean..."). I've tried to hide that I'm hurting, but the pain has shot through like water bursting through a poorly constructed dam - finding chinks and cracks in the seams so that I've practically been oozing. Finally being this tired has left me in a spot where all I can say is, "No, I'm not okay." And there's something amazing in that. Because from that spot begins a conversation or a journey in honesty. Granted, I don't want to wallow here; but there's something remarkably freeing about not trying to be so "strong" - as if I didn't need anybody around me to love, hold, and support me right now.

I have always made it a goal to be honest, but I cheat that standard when I am not fully honest so as to "protect" others from what I perceive to be something that they could not handle (usually, my emotions). But if we are called to tell the truth in love (another Scripture reference from some place in the Bible that I'm way too tired to look up), then I must balance the two.
I tell the truth in a manner of love. Telling the truth is a way that I love. I love, ergo I tell the truth. Knowing the truth, further allows me to know and be known - and to love. With this as context, I now share some wise words that I was told tonight, and which I hope to add to and shape my journey in becoming a loving truth-teller:

"Verbalize what is true. Don't verbalize what is 'safe' or 'comfortable' - verbalize what is true. 

(When you don't, that's what gets you into trouble.)"

Because Hilary Bean said I could...and that I should

(Get ready for some train-of-thought writing.)

I wonder what it would be like if glass could bleed.
When we hurt, we say that we feel "broken," "cracked," or "shattered." I feel like all that's left of my heart is a pile of broken bits - tiny shards of glass. For some reason, the pile sparkles like diamonds. The picture doesn't quite make sense to me, because I know that my heart is an organ...and if anything it's red.

Glass is sharp - especially when it's broken. It's something that we're careful to stay clear of because we know that it will cause us pain - that it will make us bleed.

But what would it be like if glass could bleed?

Would the shattered pile of crystals slowly turn blood red? Would there be an oozing puddle - something to clean up aside from the broken sparkly bits?


My friend wanted me to write again. I told her, "I can't. I'm blocked. And when I'm not blocked, all I generally have is pain."
And she told me that was okay.
And I am thankful for that. Truly thankful. Because, Lord knows, I have enough pictures and words in my head to fill a page right now.


I think we have trouble with grieving in our society. And I wonder if it has now become the responsibility of the artist to be the funnel for that emotion. I am putting my pain onto the page, or the canvas, or on stage so that those in the audience can be swept up in it. Sharing my pain allows them to feel theirs. We all feel together. We all cry together. We are all washed clean together.
It's a strange idea about being baptized in tears, and I wonder if it's slightly heretical. (I'm studying theology, after all, so this sort of thing matters.) But, looking at other claims in the Bible where the writer points an ugly finger at God (perhaps a theologically inaccurate finger at God), and seeing His response of gracious love, maybe my metaphor is "okay."

I've been praying a lot to God lately. It goes like this, "What the f*ck?" I figure that if God can handle a whole book of Job and several Psalms, He can handle my prayer. And I am thankful that He does. And I figure that if the Holy Spirit intercedes for me in my groaning (or in my simple, three-word prayer) then God can understand what I cannot fully express but can only hint at when I raise my fist in the air and shake it at Him in my pain. Really, it's not my fist that I'm raising - it's my heart.


Art is a strange thing. For it to be good, it has to be honest. That's what good communication is. And while I've so desperately wanted to write, I've been afraid to because of my desire to protect others. If this is uncomfortable to read, just think how it feels to write it. I don't want you, my dear reader, to be worried about me. And yet, as a human being, I want to be cared for. Maybe I do want to raise some concern.
There's a passage that comes to mind. I don't remember where it is, exactly (kinda like the one I referenced earlier about the Holy Spirit). But it has to do with bearing one another's burdens. What does it say when I refuse to let my family (extended beyond genetics) help me carry this burden? I say that I'm doing it out of protection for them...but let's be honest: I'm doing it out of the desire to protect myself. I don't want to be seen as broken. I want to be the girl with the smiling face - the girl who makes people laugh. I don't want to be the girl who has trouble walking because her (metaphorical) legs were just taken out from underneath her - who is now having trouble breathing after having the wind knocked out of her. (My view, as I gaze up into the sky from the position of lying on my back is of deep, dark, rolling clouds, by the way.) I don't want to tell people that my world right now is a hellhole of brokenhearted pain.
I would rather struggle under the burden of a broken heart, wrapped up in the smothering sheets of my pride. But that's how they lay people in tombs. And I want to live.

So, here I am: following the advice of one famous writer: "Writing is easy, all you have to do is bleed all over the page." I have a lot of pride.

Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner. And what the f*ck.

Irony and Critique

Just a small thought on the power of art - it has an ability to function as a mirror, confronting us with our own ugliness in a way that shatters our formerly held perceptions without breaking us as individuals. (Or, perhaps it does break us - but it does so in a way that we subtly allow, even if we're not aware of it.) In the breaking, art pushes and hopes for something better.

That being said...

We say that people are not for sale, but what about our identities? In buying things to define us, what have we sold ourselves to?

Howl

My heart feels more comfortable out in the frigid weather than in the cozy warmth of my apartment tonight. Out there are howlings and gusts which thrash about. Out there, the weather wants to fight - and my heart wants something to push against other than my ribcage. Out there, my heart resonates with the weather on what it means to feel frustraed as my body literally pushes against the wind.

I'm feeling this song tonight. I don't like all the lyrics, but this is where I'm at. Listen to the music - not necessarily to the words, but to the sound that the words make. Between the wind and this song is maybe where you'll find me.

After a break: Why Beauty Matters

As of tomorrow, my brother will have been married for two months. It was a lovely wedding which, aside from all the special moments afforded when one's only brother gets married to a wonderful woman, I had my own special breakthrough. I met a man who was a friend of the couple (a mentor and photographer during the wedding) who I got to talking with. He asked me about my dreams, plans, and interests and then encouraged me to start blogging about my passion: beauty (perhaps more specifically, the theology of beauty).

I've put it off because I've been "busy," (truly - grad school is keeping me on my toes) but it's stayed in my head as something I truly want to start doing. Tonight, I ran across something that captured my attention so much that I simply couldn't wait any longer to blog. So, tonight, I offer something blog-worthy: why I think beauty matters.

Beauty matters.
It matters because it gives us hope and courage. It gives us something to fight for when others don't believe in us. Beauty matters because it restores our humanity.
And here is a video that proves me right:

Be Blessed.

From within my Ribcage

Fear is immobilizing and perfectionism is an insidious disease - stemming from the greater evil of pride. A constant "I can't" results in failure. True, "I can't" when I won't even allow myself to try.
Perfection is unobtainable. So, instead of "the best" I will strive for "my best...considering my circumstances." I will not beat myself up for failing to be as good (or better) than everybody else. "Everybody else" is not living my life - I am.
Perhaps, this may be an area where "Goodenough" becomes a worthy goal. A steady reliance on the familiar and a refusal to risk the new, masked by excuses unworthiness, results in a stagnant, stale life. One might say it's a life void of living. In this way, relaxing welcomes adventure. Humility realizes my weaknesses, celebrates my strengths and then says, "Let's do this."

If faith is action, then I need to step out. If I truly believe that God is guiding my path and leading my steps, then I need to move. Fear of failure is really indicative of a lack of trust in the One who calls Himself the Good Shepherd, Loving Father. If I believe, then I need to be open...

So, here I am: learning to face my fears, willing to trust the Love I say I believe in, facing the suffocation offered if I let fear and perfectionism rule my life - daring what it means to breathe.

(something beautiful that I found)

breathe, paper cut out instalation, by Kathryn Hunter
Lineage, 2008
Alfred C. Glassell Jr. Exhibition Gallery, Shaw Center for the Arts, Baton Rouge, Louisiana

Check out more of her work at: 

http://blackbirdletterpress.com/Kathryn/2008/2008.html