Holy Week and other contemplations of the universe

This week physicists succeeded in the high-speed collision of two atoms. It's been years in the making; it will be years before we know exactly what this means. But one goal of the experiment, which is could more aptly be described as an expedition of sorts, is to discover the "God particle." That is, the exact cause of the creation of the universe; the Genesis moment. We religious types are inclined simply to accept the statement, "God created," but others have a driving curiosity that speaks more to God's first act: There was darkness. Then there was light. The word 'create' is absent from this statement; this first act of creation. God creates much over the next few days, but the text suggests something profound and unexplainable occurred first. What was this force that was so great that it produced light out of eons of utter darkness; a light into which all else could be created and have its place in the order of earthly life?

That was one of the headlines news stories last night; here's another. A 15 yr. old girl moved to the US from Ireland sometime last summer. From the time of her arrival to her new school in Mass. she experienced continuous and unrelenting bullying from her new classmates. No amount of raising the alarm seemed to move the establishment to intervention. On January 14 of this year she came home from school and hung herself. Now we're paying attention. Does it not seem odd that the whole world is watching scientist smash together two atoms to find out how creation came to be while kids torment one another to the point that death seems a viable option? One twitter reaction to the story was to ask, "Why do we always have to blame someone, maybe she had mental issues?" I wonder, had she had a diagnosed mental condition, should her tormentors feel less guilty about their deeds? Should the school feel less responsible for not intervening? Should we all feel better, somehow, because maybe, she was just too weak, too fragile to adjust to such hostility? Dr. Phil said he supported the criminal charges against the nine students suspected of involvement. He noted that it was not his intent to ruin their lives, but there had to be some accountability. Truth be told, their lives were forever altered the moment they discovered the unimaginable consequence of their unbearable, cruel intentions. To be convicted would be a relief, I imagine.

In the midst of Holy Week; these were last nights headline stories. For Christians, this is a time set apart in which we are intended to contemplate the epitome of human cruelty and the inability or unwillingness of institutions to do justice. This dark contemplation is set amidst the triumpal stories of Lenten remembrance: stories from Genesis, Exodus, and Deuteronomy. Stories that are intended to remind us that what God creates is good, is intended for good use, and is gifted with good intentions. This week's headlines are not unrelated. They tell a parallel story that illistrates what happens when two random atoms collide: whole universes are created or destroyed in a single nanosecond.

The negotiation of will

As I continue my 1/2 marathon training I've noticed a clear distinction between two voices in my head. Sort of the angel on one shoulder and devil on the other. One is the voice of boundless possibilities. The other is the voice of restraint. Depending on the moment, however, the voice of boundless possibilities can be the voice of recklessness and temptation; the voice of cautious restraint can inhibit necessary discomfort that promotes strengthening. Increasingly, I'm finding that when I'm running, or even working myself up for a run, the battle of wills ensues. One urges me to go further, harder, faster, the other, assures me that unbridled training will result in preventable injury. Both are right, of course. It's always a matter of deciding which one is more right at any particular moment. Decisions, decisions.

These are not new voices. I sometimes wonder if they haunt perfectionists more than other people. It seems that each day, each activity, is negotiated between these two poles of completely rational thought. It's exhausting actually. No, I don't wonder if I'm schizoid. However, I do worry about those who don't argue with themselves; those who have no inner conflict about how much is too much, and what is not enough, when its time to go, time to stay, time to talk, time to be quiet, time to get up, time to go to sleep, what is helpful and what is hurtful.

On a larger scale, this bouncing back and forth, speaks to the ease of my life. I mean, I have choices. I have the luxury of deciding how far I'll run on any given day, at any given moment once on the road - after all, I'm not in Darfur running for my life. I can decide when I go to bed, how much sleep will be enough, when and what I eat. And the necessary decision is when to stop eating. The stand off is between that old tape of my mother's voice reminding me of the starving children in the world as I dutifully clean my plate, and the instructional voice of discipline which weighs more heavily on leaving a portion on the plate to keep from eating to discomfort.  By far, most of the world does not harbor such debate.  In light of this alternative reality, it seems shamefully trivial to speak of it. 

I do not know why I was born into a life marked far more by abundance then scarcity. I only know that I this is where I find myself.  The boundaries of my entire world are determined by inner conflicts of no worldly consequence.  The management of abundance is choice.  This is not to say that choice in the context of abundance is irrelevant.  Its just that, in contrast, when you live with few choices, each decision bears substantial more weight; to chose not to eat this day may be a lifesaving decision in a week's time.  To pretend to understand such choices would be a profound act of disrespect.  

So I will stick to pondering my own trivial negotiations of will; how many hours to work in a given day or week, what to cook for dinner, the daily management of those things for which I am responsible, what time to turn in at night and when to rise in the morning, and the ongoing discernment of wise acts from certain foolishness.  And I'm holding out in hope that these seemingly immaterial decisions, even in their minuteness, do, at the end of the day, contribute to a better whole. That a life truly well-lived does not, because it cannot, take abundance for granted. That choice might be a powerful and constructive presence in a world deconstructed by avarice and apathy.  That I might live faithfully under the assumption that each choice matters.   

Darning Socks

I brought socks to darn to knitting group the other day.  I've never darned socks before, why would I?  My socks are from Wal-Mart.  They generally last two years before they are holey or stretched out and are retired to the circular file.  Socks are cheap, and their repair is not on my top ten list of important things to do this week.  

But a few years ago my mother gave me a pair of wool socks she made many, many years ago. She had worn them, washed them by hand and darned them with care as the years passed.  I've now worn them for four years.  This fall when I unpacked the winter clothes from their bins I noticed that holes had developed in the toes.  What to do?  These are not the kind of socks you just throw away; they are meant to be fixed. They are meant to out-live me.  

So I took them to the group where I was sure there was enough talent and experience to pass on this nearly lost tradition.  Learning to darn was not to be a problem.  Finding the yarn to match was a different story.  These knee-high socks with a cable running up the sides are light gray. The meeting was held, on this particular week, at a yarn shop.  Light gray, fingerling weight yarn; how hard could this be? After half an hour scouring the yarn bins, it was clear that no such color was to be found, nor any other shade of gray.  I was totally deflated.  

As I prepared to put the socks away and begin an Internet search for just the right shade of gray I was lovingly reminded that I was the author of a particular blog, a blog for perfectionists in recovery.  Hint. Hint.  The irony was so absurd I burst out laughing as my face reddened.  The group reminded me that I was repairing the toes, no one would see the repair, except me.  Of course, that was the problem.  I would know.  Using any other color had not entered my mind as a possibility.  To use another color would be to alter her work, mar these hand-made artful creations.  It felt disrespectful.  But practicality won the moment.  In a second trip to the shop scanning the yarn bins with new eyes, searching for creative possibilities, I found a medium blue with gray woven in. A compromise I could live with.  The darning lesson was successful, but the result far from perfect, and I'm not referring to the contrasting blue yarn.  Still, mission accomplished.

As I worked on the socks, turning them inside and out and back again I noticed the areas darned in year's past.  The yarn was dark gray.  Funny, I never noticed that before.  Seems practicality had won out for the sock maker as well.  In a perfect world, enough yarn would have been set aside, in a place that would not be forgotten, so that each darning could incorporate the original yarn.  But these socks were not created, nor ever mended, in the perfect conditions I had imagined for them.  

What ever is, really?