The weather on this (nearly) All Hallows Eve is perfect for a fire and a glass of wine and secrets whispered in a loved one's ear...
So on this cold winter's night, I'm thinking of you and missing you...
much love.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
enough
***Please be warned that I am not editing this… just writing what I feel in this particular moment. Don't take it too seriously.***
Right now, I am on the train back to London. I am writing this in the hopes that my staring at a computer screen will stop the woman sitting across the aisle from asking if I'm alright. Our beloved whippet, Trumpet, better known as Trump, died this morning. While this alone would probably make me cry, the tears that are welling up in my eyes, the ones that would lead this woman to ask if I am ok, are not coming forth in love or sadness (those may come later) but in anger. I am furious… at fate or randomness or, actually, in my case, God.
So if I am, in fact, not a complete and total idiot and if you are out there, God, and you happen to be tuning in today: what is wrong with you? Truth be told, some mornings I think it would be better not to believe in anything… that it would be a greater sign of hope to embrace a chaotic world than a distant god. I hear the criticisms all the time: if there is a God that he's a sicko who gets his kicks from our suffering or worse an absentee-landlord. Lately, though I still believe, I've not got much in the way of a retort .So if you are there: Enough…Enough… Enough…
Enough… ENOUGH!!!!
Clearly this isn't about a dog. My mother has lost absolutely everything in the course of this past year. Her marriage. Her savings. Her job. Her home. Her health has become an issue. Her loss of confidence and control, a crisis. And in the midst of all of this, she's alone. I live in England Clara is finding her own way. My grandfather is dying. Her friends are 'too busy.' JP is a drain.
So what has she got? A dog.
Frankly, I'm feeling a little knocked around right now. Or rather, I'm tired of watching my mother get knocked around. Every piece of news I get from that line is bad news. I think we've been good sports about it. But I've had enough. So God, if you're out there: wake up and put up!
Right now, I am on the train back to London. I am writing this in the hopes that my staring at a computer screen will stop the woman sitting across the aisle from asking if I'm alright. Our beloved whippet, Trumpet, better known as Trump, died this morning. While this alone would probably make me cry, the tears that are welling up in my eyes, the ones that would lead this woman to ask if I am ok, are not coming forth in love or sadness (those may come later) but in anger. I am furious… at fate or randomness or, actually, in my case, God.
So if I am, in fact, not a complete and total idiot and if you are out there, God, and you happen to be tuning in today: what is wrong with you? Truth be told, some mornings I think it would be better not to believe in anything… that it would be a greater sign of hope to embrace a chaotic world than a distant god. I hear the criticisms all the time: if there is a God that he's a sicko who gets his kicks from our suffering or worse an absentee-landlord. Lately, though I still believe, I've not got much in the way of a retort .So if you are there: Enough…Enough… Enough…
Enough… ENOUGH!!!!
Clearly this isn't about a dog. My mother has lost absolutely everything in the course of this past year. Her marriage. Her savings. Her job. Her home. Her health has become an issue. Her loss of confidence and control, a crisis. And in the midst of all of this, she's alone. I live in England Clara is finding her own way. My grandfather is dying. Her friends are 'too busy.' JP is a drain.
So what has she got? A dog.
Frankly, I'm feeling a little knocked around right now. Or rather, I'm tired of watching my mother get knocked around. Every piece of news I get from that line is bad news. I think we've been good sports about it. But I've had enough. So God, if you're out there: wake up and put up!
Friday, 24 October 2008
and here you are
Smell is my favorite sense. Smell like nothing else elicits taste, touch, vision, carries me to a particular moment.
I close my eyes and smell a lilac bush and I am 16 again, standing beside Maren and Sarinda, watching Elliot play with Jonathan. Maren, 3 years old, has freckles across her nose and streaks of light in her hair that glisten like the waves of Lake Wononscopomuc on a September morning. She holds a small doll in her left hand—blue eyes, grapefruit lips. Her voice, the voice of a child I have not spoken with in ten years, comes back to me. This smell of lilac floods me with other smells—the grass on the golf course, Maren’s shampoo, a freshly painted door to the chapel.
Maren, 3 years old, is alive in this lilac scent. Alive here in a way she is not otherwise in my memory. Ask me to describe the Maren I knew in 1998, I will, without hesitation, produce a catalog of half-true descriptive phrases, the essence of the girl, but not the girl herself. Yet, here in lilac is Maren, whole.
So it is this morning, as I lay here in bed and a scent—some strange disembodied scent— hits and fills my lungs, fills me with the being of someone faraway. (You.) I lay not thinking in absence, but feeling the presence. Sense builds on sense constructing, out of the abstraction of my memory, a form. Then suddenly: here, here, not there, but here you are beside me...
I close my eyes and smell a lilac bush and I am 16 again, standing beside Maren and Sarinda, watching Elliot play with Jonathan. Maren, 3 years old, has freckles across her nose and streaks of light in her hair that glisten like the waves of Lake Wononscopomuc on a September morning. She holds a small doll in her left hand—blue eyes, grapefruit lips. Her voice, the voice of a child I have not spoken with in ten years, comes back to me. This smell of lilac floods me with other smells—the grass on the golf course, Maren’s shampoo, a freshly painted door to the chapel.
Maren, 3 years old, is alive in this lilac scent. Alive here in a way she is not otherwise in my memory. Ask me to describe the Maren I knew in 1998, I will, without hesitation, produce a catalog of half-true descriptive phrases, the essence of the girl, but not the girl herself. Yet, here in lilac is Maren, whole.
So it is this morning, as I lay here in bed and a scent—some strange disembodied scent— hits and fills my lungs, fills me with the being of someone faraway. (You.) I lay not thinking in absence, but feeling the presence. Sense builds on sense constructing, out of the abstraction of my memory, a form. Then suddenly: here, here, not there, but here you are beside me...
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
you can never go home again?
I have a writing deadline that I have to keep to.... two actually. This will be short.
Just got off the phone with my father. Among other things, he told me to stop looking west: 'Accept that the axis of your world has shifted. Accept that your future takes you away from here. Stop looking at England or Europe as places you are passing through. Keep your love for Colombia. Keep your life in New York. Keep those things, but know, know that your life will unfold from there.'
I doubt that I will ever have a particularly stationary life-- after so many travels I have a hard time staying in one place. Yet, I do need a base. When he spoke to me tonight, I had this sickening feeling that my father is right in his assessment.
For the first time, I think I understand what my informants tried to share: a deep sense of mourning not so much for the past, but for the future. Of course, we cannot predict where our futures take us. It isn't the certainty of any possibility (none exists), but the shift in vision, the tectonic movement of the soul, that rattles.
And so, I'm feeling just a little off-kilter at the moment. Just a little. But no time to dwell. Back to writing.
much love
Just got off the phone with my father. Among other things, he told me to stop looking west: 'Accept that the axis of your world has shifted. Accept that your future takes you away from here. Stop looking at England or Europe as places you are passing through. Keep your love for Colombia. Keep your life in New York. Keep those things, but know, know that your life will unfold from there.'
I doubt that I will ever have a particularly stationary life-- after so many travels I have a hard time staying in one place. Yet, I do need a base. When he spoke to me tonight, I had this sickening feeling that my father is right in his assessment.
For the first time, I think I understand what my informants tried to share: a deep sense of mourning not so much for the past, but for the future. Of course, we cannot predict where our futures take us. It isn't the certainty of any possibility (none exists), but the shift in vision, the tectonic movement of the soul, that rattles.
And so, I'm feeling just a little off-kilter at the moment. Just a little. But no time to dwell. Back to writing.
much love
Sunday, 19 October 2008
Saturday, 18 October 2008
for vanessa
Vanessa is demanding that I write her a poem, but since I am not yet willing to share (inflict) that much of myself in the virtual world, I'm going to channel Christina Rossetti. Cheap, I know.
So, my dear friend, a love poem-- out of context-- but appropriate nonetheless.
I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it! Such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!
If only I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand! Did one but know!
So, my dear friend, a love poem-- out of context-- but appropriate nonetheless.
I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away,
So blind was I to see and to foresee,
So dull to mark the budding of my tree
That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it! Such
A day of days! I let it come and go
As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much!
If only I could recall that touch,
First touch of hand in hand! Did one but know!
hello hypocrite
How is it that we experience ourselves? Yes, I realize that this question is perhaps both somewhat tired and unanswerable. Still, if we are limited to originality of thought or inquiry then I am afraid we, as species, must live in either solitude or silence. Anyone who knows me knows that while I am prone to both in spells, I am just as likely to crave connection and communication. So, please, permit me the indulgence of asking…
The past five days have challenged my perception of my own experience of self—physicality and personality included. First, I was challenged on an academic level. Though, I admit that the intellectual is often visceral for me as well. Then in conversations with Joceny, I was pushed once again to question the way I think of this body I inhabit. Then finally, in thinking of M.’s letter, still unanswered, and my anger towards it, I was forced to examine anew the conclusions I have drawn in the last hours and days.
The only thing that I am certain of— aside from the fact that I should always eat before my second (or third or fourth) glass of wine—is that I am terrible hypocrite. When Joceny (who is quickly becoming one of my favorite debate partners) pushed me on my own physicality and sexuality, after much rambling I confessed that I often disconnect from myself. Let me clarify: during the rambling stage I claimed truthfully that I think of myself as a thousand things before attractive or unattractive, desirable or not. She replied that the hierarchy of my self-perception didn’t respond to the question at hand. Then when backed into a metaphorical corner, I snapped that while I am very aware of my own attractions in all their forms—that I am a very sensual person, as in acutely aware of my senses— I do not generally think of, am not generally aware of my own physical presence.
Fair enough (or not), except that when M. wrote a deeply confessional letter about the violence inflicted on her physical being in a highly theoretical and intellectual prose, I was furious with her. That’s right: not only am I a hypocrite, I’m also a bad friend. Having experienced such violence myself, I instinctively questioned the legitimacy of her disassociation with her physical being. Because I have the good sense not to respond in anger, I wrote notes to myself. Good coping technique… too bad it’s total crap. Is it? Of course… theorize our bodies, intellectualize our emotions, great… but we still live in them.
I don’t think I need to draw further attention to the irony of this reaction. (Okay, I will draw attention: I know that I intellectualize too much. No, no, I just think too much.) But let me momentarily dwell on the problem of it: both sentiments—my own occasional disassociation with my physical being in favor of my intellect and my fury at M’s own very similar process—were true and genuine. Now maybe this only goes to prove that we are all complex beings and that there is no one truth or experience… but since I am not satisfied with that so-called truth, I have a feeling that I’ll be up late again tonight…
The past five days have challenged my perception of my own experience of self—physicality and personality included. First, I was challenged on an academic level. Though, I admit that the intellectual is often visceral for me as well. Then in conversations with Joceny, I was pushed once again to question the way I think of this body I inhabit. Then finally, in thinking of M.’s letter, still unanswered, and my anger towards it, I was forced to examine anew the conclusions I have drawn in the last hours and days.
The only thing that I am certain of— aside from the fact that I should always eat before my second (or third or fourth) glass of wine—is that I am terrible hypocrite. When Joceny (who is quickly becoming one of my favorite debate partners) pushed me on my own physicality and sexuality, after much rambling I confessed that I often disconnect from myself. Let me clarify: during the rambling stage I claimed truthfully that I think of myself as a thousand things before attractive or unattractive, desirable or not. She replied that the hierarchy of my self-perception didn’t respond to the question at hand. Then when backed into a metaphorical corner, I snapped that while I am very aware of my own attractions in all their forms—that I am a very sensual person, as in acutely aware of my senses— I do not generally think of, am not generally aware of my own physical presence.
Fair enough (or not), except that when M. wrote a deeply confessional letter about the violence inflicted on her physical being in a highly theoretical and intellectual prose, I was furious with her. That’s right: not only am I a hypocrite, I’m also a bad friend. Having experienced such violence myself, I instinctively questioned the legitimacy of her disassociation with her physical being. Because I have the good sense not to respond in anger, I wrote notes to myself. Good coping technique… too bad it’s total crap. Is it? Of course… theorize our bodies, intellectualize our emotions, great… but we still live in them.
I don’t think I need to draw further attention to the irony of this reaction. (Okay, I will draw attention: I know that I intellectualize too much. No, no, I just think too much.) But let me momentarily dwell on the problem of it: both sentiments—my own occasional disassociation with my physical being in favor of my intellect and my fury at M’s own very similar process—were true and genuine. Now maybe this only goes to prove that we are all complex beings and that there is no one truth or experience… but since I am not satisfied with that so-called truth, I have a feeling that I’ll be up late again tonight…
Thursday, 16 October 2008
bad things happen
Bad things happen. Not to good people or to bad people. They happen to people. Period. While I would like to say that eventually everything that goes around comes around and that in the end we all get what we deserve, I do not believe that is the case. While most clichés bare some semblance of truth, these, I am afraid, are things we tell ourselves to order the world in the face of what assaults our senses. The unimaginable is both real and common. Suffering not only exists, it thrives.
Ultimately, I do not subscribe to a theory of cosmic randomness, but I am a firm believer in the randomness of the world which we inhabit. So let me say it again: bad things happen. They are neither a reflection of our character nor a mark of some predetermined damnation. Pain is not the accounting of the cosmos, some sign that our bill is due. It is pain. Something we feel and experience.
Today my inbox and phone have been flooded with news of suffering. I am not only sharing in the pain of those I love tonight, but feeling it with a primacy and urgency all my own. Yet, in the midst of this, I am also reflecting on a common thread in what are otherwise unconnected traumas: a frightening tendency to ascribe our misfortunes to some fault of our own.
If culpability is ours, so is control. Quite simply, this isn’t the case. We have no real power to prevent the individual dramas of everyday existence. We, alone, can not order the chaos of our lives. We face the challenges before us. We do the best we can. This is all. No more.
Ultimately, I do not subscribe to a theory of cosmic randomness, but I am a firm believer in the randomness of the world which we inhabit. So let me say it again: bad things happen. They are neither a reflection of our character nor a mark of some predetermined damnation. Pain is not the accounting of the cosmos, some sign that our bill is due. It is pain. Something we feel and experience.
Today my inbox and phone have been flooded with news of suffering. I am not only sharing in the pain of those I love tonight, but feeling it with a primacy and urgency all my own. Yet, in the midst of this, I am also reflecting on a common thread in what are otherwise unconnected traumas: a frightening tendency to ascribe our misfortunes to some fault of our own.
If culpability is ours, so is control. Quite simply, this isn’t the case. We have no real power to prevent the individual dramas of everyday existence. We, alone, can not order the chaos of our lives. We face the challenges before us. We do the best we can. This is all. No more.
Tuesday, 14 October 2008
silence
What a strange sensation to experience the silent implosion of a relationship. I’ve lost friends and partners before, of course, but never on such terms. (Funny how we talk about losing those we love, as though the melancholy language of loss somehow mutes the violence of such ruptures.) This was no long, slow disintegration, no casual growing apart. One moment we saw some common point or path and the next we didn’t.
That, perhaps, is normal, maybe even mundane. What I find harder to grasp is the abruptness and aggressive passivity of that moment. We didn’t quarrel. We had no discussion. There was no fumbling toward such a conclusion. In fact, as far as I can tell, we have not even shared some mutual revelation. Rather, we have, quite simply, come to silence.
For a significant period of my life, we shared daily conservations, long emails, physical and emotional companionship, and a deep and respectful love. Then sometime in the last weeks, whatever it was that connected us— the aforementioned love, an attraction, intellectual curiosity, or artistic vision or perhaps just some unspeakable hope or need— changed. I cannot mark that moment of change because, to be honest, I did not recognize its passing. For days I looked upon the silence with a casual indifference. We’ll speak soon.
Soon, was in retrospect, a radical shift in and of itself. But not so radical as this: the central figure in my narrative has disappeared without so much as signaling an exit. I write these lines from a distance that has afforded me a degree of certainty. We are through.
Given the importance I have so long attributed to this relationship, the increasing finality of silence is surprisingly easy to swallow. Neither good nor bad, but merely fact. Yet, the nature of my being pushes me to question. So I am sitting here attempting to construct a chronology of silence. To determine the precise moment when we vanished into the nothingness that has since come to occupy this space. No luck.
The last words we spoke were the same: Love you. Love you. I love you. Three of the most powerful words in the English language strung together in a phrase meant to express a profound and inexpressible connectivity. Of course, words in and of themselves possess no power, but rather are animated by the meaning with which we endow them. As I sit here, I am trying to recall if ‘I love you’ could have as easily have been ‘Pass the potatoes’ or ‘window dirt marmalade.’ Again, no luck.
The only true conclusion I have drawn is not even a conclusion so much as a confirmation of experienced belief. I think that Frost was right: the world does not end in fire, but in ice. The true losses in my life have all been experienced through moments frozen in haunting tranquility. While thankfully I do not find myself wrestling with grief as in the past, I cannot deny that this moment—for its implication as much as its gravity and finality-- ranks among those before and after events through which I have lived. So from this view, it is fitting that we should end in silence and absence, in conditions that to me taste of only one thing: death.
So, what does it say about me then that I am not grieving? What does it say about me that having essentially died and watched death, I am no different? What does that say about me?
That, perhaps, is normal, maybe even mundane. What I find harder to grasp is the abruptness and aggressive passivity of that moment. We didn’t quarrel. We had no discussion. There was no fumbling toward such a conclusion. In fact, as far as I can tell, we have not even shared some mutual revelation. Rather, we have, quite simply, come to silence.
For a significant period of my life, we shared daily conservations, long emails, physical and emotional companionship, and a deep and respectful love. Then sometime in the last weeks, whatever it was that connected us— the aforementioned love, an attraction, intellectual curiosity, or artistic vision or perhaps just some unspeakable hope or need— changed. I cannot mark that moment of change because, to be honest, I did not recognize its passing. For days I looked upon the silence with a casual indifference. We’ll speak soon.
Soon, was in retrospect, a radical shift in and of itself. But not so radical as this: the central figure in my narrative has disappeared without so much as signaling an exit. I write these lines from a distance that has afforded me a degree of certainty. We are through.
Given the importance I have so long attributed to this relationship, the increasing finality of silence is surprisingly easy to swallow. Neither good nor bad, but merely fact. Yet, the nature of my being pushes me to question. So I am sitting here attempting to construct a chronology of silence. To determine the precise moment when we vanished into the nothingness that has since come to occupy this space. No luck.
The last words we spoke were the same: Love you. Love you. I love you. Three of the most powerful words in the English language strung together in a phrase meant to express a profound and inexpressible connectivity. Of course, words in and of themselves possess no power, but rather are animated by the meaning with which we endow them. As I sit here, I am trying to recall if ‘I love you’ could have as easily have been ‘Pass the potatoes’ or ‘window dirt marmalade.’ Again, no luck.
The only true conclusion I have drawn is not even a conclusion so much as a confirmation of experienced belief. I think that Frost was right: the world does not end in fire, but in ice. The true losses in my life have all been experienced through moments frozen in haunting tranquility. While thankfully I do not find myself wrestling with grief as in the past, I cannot deny that this moment—for its implication as much as its gravity and finality-- ranks among those before and after events through which I have lived. So from this view, it is fitting that we should end in silence and absence, in conditions that to me taste of only one thing: death.
So, what does it say about me then that I am not grieving? What does it say about me that having essentially died and watched death, I am no different? What does that say about me?
Saturday, 11 October 2008
sleeping sickness
I have sleeping sickness. Okay, maybe not. That was an exaggeration. Seriously though, I am completely exhausted. Normally, I am something of an insomniac, but in the last two weeks I haven't been able to stop sleeping. I'm perpetually tired. Two hours after waking, I want to take a siesta. Eight at night and I want to go to bed. During virtually all moments in between, I struggle to keep my eyes open.
Granted, I was terribly ill just a week ago and the tickle in the back of my throat suggests that I will be again soon. I'm teaching and attending virtually daily meetings in Manchester and trying to collect interviews and materials in London, which makes for an interesting commuting pattern. My growing concern about the state of the US economy and its impact on those I love is beginning to take a toll. Oh, and the jet lag. Can't forget the jet lag.
But since there is very little I can do to change or control any of these things at this particular moment, I am sticking with sleeping sickness.
Granted, I was terribly ill just a week ago and the tickle in the back of my throat suggests that I will be again soon. I'm teaching and attending virtually daily meetings in Manchester and trying to collect interviews and materials in London, which makes for an interesting commuting pattern. My growing concern about the state of the US economy and its impact on those I love is beginning to take a toll. Oh, and the jet lag. Can't forget the jet lag.
But since there is very little I can do to change or control any of these things at this particular moment, I am sticking with sleeping sickness.
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
why are you so afraid?
Tonight I made my way over to Fran Beckett's house for a meal and Bible study. To be perfectly honestly, I stopped myself from turning around on the walk over by focusing on the former, not the latter. In the last couple of weeks, in the rare moments in which I have found myself reading my Bible or praying, I am more often than not filling my time with God than spending it with Him. This is neither intentional nor malicious. It's not that I am at a particularly low point or that I am really doubting anything. I'm just, I don't know, or I do, but...
Anyway, the meal was splendid. It is so nice to eat a healthy, delicious meal that was homemade by someone else. (I actually like cooking, but come on... it's nice that have someone else prepare food for you and even better to share said food.) As we ate, we sat there chatting about this and that and sipping wine. When we finished, we dug into jalebis and some of the best strawberries I have had in England.
Then the actual Bible study began. We were looking at the first four chapters of Mark-- the anointing of Christ, parables, and miracles. Instead of a formal study, we were presented with some questions about the nature of our faith and its implications. (I am attending a church that is wonderful, tolerant, loving, socially aware, and somewhat radical-- in the best sense.) We were meant to spend 30 minutes in silence marinating on one or more of these points. Virtually all of the questions were relevant to 'where I am,' which is probably why I didn't want to think about any of them. So instead, I decided to read through the chapters. Did I mention that I have been filling time with God rather than spending it with Him? Ummm, yeah.
As I came across the penultimate line of the tonight's reading, Mark 4:40, I found myself frozen: "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?" A little context: The disciples, terrified that they will drown in a nasty storm that threatens their boat, wake an exhausted Jesus from his nap. He looks towards the wind and waves, says, "Quiet. Be still." The winds die and the waters become completely calm. Then he turns to these men who have given up their lives to follow him and asks, "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?" As I read those lines, I tried to imagine the tone. Eleven words, over and over again with variation in emphasis. Is he disappointed? Angry? Frustrated? Reassuring? I couldn't reach any conclusion.
What I did realize was that those very words might as well have been directed at me tonight. So I sat there in silence going over them. "Why are you so afraid, Natalie?" I tried to answer, but every response that flowed through my mind was to a different question: what are you so afraid of? I am not very good at admitting fear. Yet, in this quiet moment of meditation, I was able to confess what felt like an endless list of fears. What am I so afraid of? I am afraid that my mother won't get this offer or that she will and my grandfather's care will suffer, that Clara's tuition won't be paid or that even if it is her opportunities will somehow be limited. I am afraid that my own father's health will become an immediately pressing issue and that I will be far away, that I am already too far away in moments of crisis, that even if I were present I would somehow still be far away. I am afraid that I won't be able to meet my responsibilities and that my responsibilities will cause my dreams to stagnate. I am afraid that I won't finish this dissertation on time and that it won't be good enough, that my applications won't be successful or that they will and I won't have the support I need. I am afraid for my family and for myself, for the future and for the environment. I am afraid of this and so much more.
While I can normally bury my fear and push forward with what has been called aggressive optimism, lately even as I do so, I feel the fear. It physically weighs on me. There are many challenges facing my family at this moment and I am, myself, in a moment of transition and uncertainty. Still, I have been through such moments before and while I did not always handle them as well as I might have, I have never experienced fear in such a visceral manner before. Grief, perhaps, but never fear. I don't like it. Quite frankly, I don't know what to do with it. (For better or worse, I am someone who has to do.)
As I sat there going over all these fears and trying to name them because I am someone who believes that naming something gives us a certain power over it, it occurred to me that I was avoiding the question. Jesus hadn't asked his disciples what they were afraid of. The answer would have been simple: 'We're afraid of the huge waves that are going to sink our ship and drown us.' He had asked something much more profound. I hadn't been asked not what, but rather why. I found myself trapped in a very circular argument: Why am I afraid? Because bad things might happen or are happening and may continue. Essentially, why am I afraid? Because I am afraid. For the life of me, I could not come up with a better answer. Had the question been different, now then I might have had something. 'Why are you upset?' he asks. 'Because you seem to have been sleeping through my imminent demise.'
The fact that I couldn't and can't answer the why, has brought me to the second question. "Do you still have no faith?" Even when I imagine a benevolent and concerned Jesus lovingly prodding his friends with this rhetorical question, I can't help but to feel that it is something of a accusation or challenge. Religious beliefs aside, one either has faith in someone or something or doesn't. Faith can't fall into the grey area. I can't mostly have faith or almost have faith or have 65% percent faith. Faith is an allegiance, a commitment, a conviction, a belief. You believe in something or you don't. So it is with faith. To do something on faith, is to do it without question. There is a reason that faith and hope are separate virtues. Faith requires a certainty, no room for doubt.
My gut reaction, the certainty that radiates through my bones, is, "Yes, I have faith." In this case, a faith in my God and by that, a faith in the future. The moment I utter that to myself, I have a revelation: I am never going to be able to answer the why. If I have faith, I have no reason to be afraid. Now, that doesn't mean that I am no longer afraid-- I am-- but it does mean that I know I shouldn't be. So, yes, right now, I still feel as though I can't breathe and my mind is racing through a million worries, but as long as I keep reminding myself that I do, in fact, have faith, I am confident that those worries will die out, choked by the strength of hope and the certainty of belief.
I don't know if any of you are out there experiencing these burdens, suffering from worries that literally weigh upon you, but if you are, please reach out to whatever you have faith in-- your God or your friends or your belief in your own abilities. When you focus on the faith, it becomes impossible to drown in the fear.
much love.
Anyway, the meal was splendid. It is so nice to eat a healthy, delicious meal that was homemade by someone else. (I actually like cooking, but come on... it's nice that have someone else prepare food for you and even better to share said food.) As we ate, we sat there chatting about this and that and sipping wine. When we finished, we dug into jalebis and some of the best strawberries I have had in England.
Then the actual Bible study began. We were looking at the first four chapters of Mark-- the anointing of Christ, parables, and miracles. Instead of a formal study, we were presented with some questions about the nature of our faith and its implications. (I am attending a church that is wonderful, tolerant, loving, socially aware, and somewhat radical-- in the best sense.) We were meant to spend 30 minutes in silence marinating on one or more of these points. Virtually all of the questions were relevant to 'where I am,' which is probably why I didn't want to think about any of them. So instead, I decided to read through the chapters. Did I mention that I have been filling time with God rather than spending it with Him? Ummm, yeah.
As I came across the penultimate line of the tonight's reading, Mark 4:40, I found myself frozen: "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?" A little context: The disciples, terrified that they will drown in a nasty storm that threatens their boat, wake an exhausted Jesus from his nap. He looks towards the wind and waves, says, "Quiet. Be still." The winds die and the waters become completely calm. Then he turns to these men who have given up their lives to follow him and asks, "Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?" As I read those lines, I tried to imagine the tone. Eleven words, over and over again with variation in emphasis. Is he disappointed? Angry? Frustrated? Reassuring? I couldn't reach any conclusion.
What I did realize was that those very words might as well have been directed at me tonight. So I sat there in silence going over them. "Why are you so afraid, Natalie?" I tried to answer, but every response that flowed through my mind was to a different question: what are you so afraid of? I am not very good at admitting fear. Yet, in this quiet moment of meditation, I was able to confess what felt like an endless list of fears. What am I so afraid of? I am afraid that my mother won't get this offer or that she will and my grandfather's care will suffer, that Clara's tuition won't be paid or that even if it is her opportunities will somehow be limited. I am afraid that my own father's health will become an immediately pressing issue and that I will be far away, that I am already too far away in moments of crisis, that even if I were present I would somehow still be far away. I am afraid that I won't be able to meet my responsibilities and that my responsibilities will cause my dreams to stagnate. I am afraid that I won't finish this dissertation on time and that it won't be good enough, that my applications won't be successful or that they will and I won't have the support I need. I am afraid for my family and for myself, for the future and for the environment. I am afraid of this and so much more.
While I can normally bury my fear and push forward with what has been called aggressive optimism, lately even as I do so, I feel the fear. It physically weighs on me. There are many challenges facing my family at this moment and I am, myself, in a moment of transition and uncertainty. Still, I have been through such moments before and while I did not always handle them as well as I might have, I have never experienced fear in such a visceral manner before. Grief, perhaps, but never fear. I don't like it. Quite frankly, I don't know what to do with it. (For better or worse, I am someone who has to do.)
As I sat there going over all these fears and trying to name them because I am someone who believes that naming something gives us a certain power over it, it occurred to me that I was avoiding the question. Jesus hadn't asked his disciples what they were afraid of. The answer would have been simple: 'We're afraid of the huge waves that are going to sink our ship and drown us.' He had asked something much more profound. I hadn't been asked not what, but rather why. I found myself trapped in a very circular argument: Why am I afraid? Because bad things might happen or are happening and may continue. Essentially, why am I afraid? Because I am afraid. For the life of me, I could not come up with a better answer. Had the question been different, now then I might have had something. 'Why are you upset?' he asks. 'Because you seem to have been sleeping through my imminent demise.'
The fact that I couldn't and can't answer the why, has brought me to the second question. "Do you still have no faith?" Even when I imagine a benevolent and concerned Jesus lovingly prodding his friends with this rhetorical question, I can't help but to feel that it is something of a accusation or challenge. Religious beliefs aside, one either has faith in someone or something or doesn't. Faith can't fall into the grey area. I can't mostly have faith or almost have faith or have 65% percent faith. Faith is an allegiance, a commitment, a conviction, a belief. You believe in something or you don't. So it is with faith. To do something on faith, is to do it without question. There is a reason that faith and hope are separate virtues. Faith requires a certainty, no room for doubt.
My gut reaction, the certainty that radiates through my bones, is, "Yes, I have faith." In this case, a faith in my God and by that, a faith in the future. The moment I utter that to myself, I have a revelation: I am never going to be able to answer the why. If I have faith, I have no reason to be afraid. Now, that doesn't mean that I am no longer afraid-- I am-- but it does mean that I know I shouldn't be. So, yes, right now, I still feel as though I can't breathe and my mind is racing through a million worries, but as long as I keep reminding myself that I do, in fact, have faith, I am confident that those worries will die out, choked by the strength of hope and the certainty of belief.
I don't know if any of you are out there experiencing these burdens, suffering from worries that literally weigh upon you, but if you are, please reach out to whatever you have faith in-- your God or your friends or your belief in your own abilities. When you focus on the faith, it becomes impossible to drown in the fear.
much love.
Saturday, 4 October 2008
sicko
I love my little sister more than just about anyone or anything in the world, but every time I see her I get deathly ill. Last summer it was scarlet fever (yes, people actually get that), in June it was a bug that just wouldn't go away, and now once again I am miserable and totally unable to function... unfortunately the next couple of days are REALLY important. Hmmm...
Thursday, 2 October 2008
busy as a bee
I am sitting here looking at the monthly day planner that I just picked up at OfficeMax and thinking to myself that these quiet months of writing I had anticipated are looking awfully busy... October and November are just a little scary. My slingshot planner and palm are trusty companions, but it wasn't until I bought a large monthly calendar and wrote in all of my appointments that I could see the 'big picture.' Don't get me wrong, I like to be busy. I thrive under pressure. But, I don't know how the days filled up so quickly!
At least, between now and December the calendar is filled with exciting things-- and I've had the good sense to schedule daily 'writing blocks.' So, what are those exciting things, you ask? Let me share a few:
1. TEACHING! I'll be teaching tutorials of Political and Economic Anthropology. Now whatever my issues with anthropology, this course really excites me. It examines methods and morality and the perspectives that anthropology can bring to pressing and relevant world issues. More than that, teaching tutorials gives me a chance to interact with undergrads. There's something really magical about watching people grow in confidence and ability at such a rapid pace.
2. RUNNING! A couple of weeks ago I came home to help pack up our house (Not going well). To keep our sanity, my mother and I started running together in the mornings. Now, we've both been running individually, but quite frankly, neither of us lives in a road running friendly environment and running alone outside is daunting. (Hence, my treadmill addiction.) However, running with a friend is amazing in whatever conditions. Since I can't run with my mom every morning, I am joining Serpentine Running Club.
3. EGYPT! Enough said.
4. DISSERTATION WRITING! For the first time in a long time, I am feeling really good about my dissertation. I wrote an email to my supervisors clearly stating my needs in terms of structure and support and received a wonderful response. This is a good lesson for me. Typically I take what's before me and make it work as best I can. This time, instead to plowing ahead, I really asked for what I need. My guess is that we all feel better about this.
5. CREATIVE WRITING! I've also scheduled in daily creative writing time. A poem that I wrote last summer gave birth to a new project and I am looking to have a manuscript length draft ready by June. It is so good to be back on track with creative writing.
There's more, but those are the 'biggies.' Ok, ok there is one more biggie in the next two months but I would rather not go there until I know for sure. So for now, all you need to know is that I am steadily working towards my long-term goal and pounding away at applications. Most importantly, I am feeling really positive about everything.
much love
N.
At least, between now and December the calendar is filled with exciting things-- and I've had the good sense to schedule daily 'writing blocks.' So, what are those exciting things, you ask? Let me share a few:
1. TEACHING! I'll be teaching tutorials of Political and Economic Anthropology. Now whatever my issues with anthropology, this course really excites me. It examines methods and morality and the perspectives that anthropology can bring to pressing and relevant world issues. More than that, teaching tutorials gives me a chance to interact with undergrads. There's something really magical about watching people grow in confidence and ability at such a rapid pace.
2. RUNNING! A couple of weeks ago I came home to help pack up our house (Not going well). To keep our sanity, my mother and I started running together in the mornings. Now, we've both been running individually, but quite frankly, neither of us lives in a road running friendly environment and running alone outside is daunting. (Hence, my treadmill addiction.) However, running with a friend is amazing in whatever conditions. Since I can't run with my mom every morning, I am joining Serpentine Running Club.
3. EGYPT! Enough said.
4. DISSERTATION WRITING! For the first time in a long time, I am feeling really good about my dissertation. I wrote an email to my supervisors clearly stating my needs in terms of structure and support and received a wonderful response. This is a good lesson for me. Typically I take what's before me and make it work as best I can. This time, instead to plowing ahead, I really asked for what I need. My guess is that we all feel better about this.
5. CREATIVE WRITING! I've also scheduled in daily creative writing time. A poem that I wrote last summer gave birth to a new project and I am looking to have a manuscript length draft ready by June. It is so good to be back on track with creative writing.
There's more, but those are the 'biggies.' Ok, ok there is one more biggie in the next two months but I would rather not go there until I know for sure. So for now, all you need to know is that I am steadily working towards my long-term goal and pounding away at applications. Most importantly, I am feeling really positive about everything.
much love
N.
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