Seeing in parts

I have a very old horse that doesn't winter over well. When I asked the vet to guestimate his age, she looked in his mouth (which is the best clue) and said, "Ancient." For the last five years at the onset of warmer, spring weather, I work at putting weight back on him and easing out his winter coat to encourage the shorter summer coat to come in. This process that takes months. And just when he's in top condition winter comes. This year was worse than ever. After some blood tests and assurance that his severe thinness was a nutritional matter and not an indication of organ failure, I reviewed his diet, again, and began on yet another aggressive new track. He's coming back nicely, but he's no show horse to be sure.

Last week, while I was grooming him after a day of being turned out in the pasture, I had a little revelation. Horses, unlike dogs and cats, are large animals. When they are being groomed, the groomer can only see one area at a time. When brushing his chest area one might think him a golden retriever by the length, color and softness of the hair. His mane and tail are lovely. His legs are handsome and tone. But there are other parts that are hard to see; bald patches where the long hair has fallen out all at once and the short coat is slow in coming in. The area around his eyes is dark and mostly hairless and his temples are deeply sunken, totally bald and scaley. Yet, his feet are good, he's very sound. When his weight is good, he's a wonderful horse to ride.

I decided to stop looking at the whole of him, instead celebrating the health and wholeness of each part of him where that was real and true. It seemed unfair to discount his strides of recovery by the parts that are not fully well yet. He is, in fact, more that the sum of his parts. Each part requires consideration - further care or a simple thanksgiving. To step back and view only the whole is sometimes too much to bear. It is too overwhelming. After all, when we began the build up three months ago, the only part to celebrate was the wellness of his feet - that he was sound and able to walk. How many more parts have now joined in this celebration of rebounding life!

This seems a better way to look at a lot of things in life. Sometimes learning to see accurately is not to strain to grasp the view of the whole, but to learn to see in parts. Those of us bent on seeking perfection know that it can never be found on a grand scale. But it just might occur in the small places; where the gaze is fixed on a frame of reference so narrow that one cannot tell a horse's coat from that of a dog. But what a soft and thick and wonderful patch of hair it is - regardless of who it belongs too!

This is especially useful in relationships. I find it difficult to look at my parent's life, or health, or happiness in terms of the whole. It threatens to tear my heart from its mooring. But when I am with them I celebrate the parts of them that are content, or healthy, or patient, or secure, or proud, or grounded, or otherwise well. There are enough dark eyes and bald patches that need care and attention; and they are not the whole story, only a part. So I chose to see in parts and celebrate that which speaks in terms of the quiet joy and wonder life, even while embedded in the least desireable circumstances and silent ponderings of 'Why?' Perhaps this is what God extends to us as grace, or perhaps just mercy.

Parenting and Perfection

There are some words that should not be in the same sentence; like Parenting and Perfection. There is an art to parenting and parenting teenagers pushes all the boundaries of imagination and creativity. Every parental decision has consequences that are often immediately apparent. Every day there are new challenges, calls to make, boundaries to set, rules to enforce or rethink - each one to be tested and stretched to the breaking point.  The trap is thinking that there is some magic perfect answer; that there is one right path, one right thing to do and say in every situation and that it should come naturally.  I read some where, very recently, though my mind is a sieve these days so I have no recall of where that might have been, that decisions are easy if your ethics are clear.  So I ask myself, "Does that mean that I don't have clear ethics because I wrestle over my apparent inability to see what the "right" response to each situation is supposed to be?"  The truth is, that being 16 in 2010 is not the same as being 16 in 1978; but I have not yet received the updated parenting handbook.  

A year ago, the parish I serve updated their by laws.  They had last been updated in 1983.  All the references to "vestrymen" were changed to reflect the fact that women now serve on vestries.  And the he, who would have been the "vicar," was replaced by he/she, the "rector." This is to say that in 1978 or even in 1983... I, as a teen, was not afforded the opportunity to even serve as an acolyte much less full membership with equal opportunity in the church.  I could, however, serve on the altar guild - somebody's got to wash the linens and polish the brass! For both good and for ill, the world is not the same place. So every day, I struggle with how to be a product of my age co-existing with those born in this new world; in particular, those I am trying to prepare for life on their own.

In 1983, women, much less girls, did not call boys, and there was some civility in youthful discourse with adults.  Cursing in public was considered offensive.  One cannot claim teen sex did not happen, that would be naive, but it was not quite so obvious.  Given such a radical departure from cultural norms, and the speed at which this has occurred, is it no wonder we old guys, who just don't get it, are second guessing every line we draw in the sand.  What's worse, I no more than draw the line then the tide comes in or the wind blows and the line has to be redrawn in a different place.  

Comparing my parenting style with others is of utterly no use either.  There is no one set of definitive rules to fit every kid in every situation; beyond the obvious: "Thou shalt not drink and drive." For instance, to one parent, letting a kid sleep away a school day whose exhausted from the daily demands of existing in the world of high school, work, and sports as a daughter, student, singer, athlete, employee and girl friend, is outrageous and completely unacceptable. (I tend to react to this place first, because the 1978 handbook, on which I was raised, did not allow for such possibilities.) Other parents, the ones who got the advanced copy of the recently updated handbook, are cool with the reality that teen bodies need more sleep than the rest of us and have the unreal ability to simply chill and trust their kid.  I'm still waiting for my advanced copy to arrive (my mail, of course), and then I'll have all the answers. I'll know exactly what the right thing to do and say; when its appropriate to be enraged and when its really no big deal in the great scheme of things.

But for today, my kid's at home sleeping because she is so exhausted from simply being 16 with all the expectations and the internal and external struggles that come with it, she's physically ill. So I'm trying to chill about it while I write my own sub-chapters, notes to self, and addendum because by the time that new handbook gets here, it will already be out of date - and I've got about four more years before I'll be sitting here again with the next kid.

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? 

Syllables of Surrender

Sam Portaro, author of "Daysprings:  Meditations for the weekdays of Advent, Lent and Easter," wrote the following in a Lenten entry: "Only by placing our selves in service to God and neighbor do we restore authority to our religion. Only by placing ourselves in service to truth do we restore authority to our prophetic judgment and the authority of our teaching.  Only by placing ourselves in service to one another do we restore the authority of the Christ we proclaim." (Cowley Publications, 2001)  

The most significant change in culture has been the systematic undermining of all of the former pillars of authoritative certitude: government, the educational institution, the medical profession, and the Church, over the last 50 years.  My mother, who is in her 80's, still relies, with complete and unquestioning trust, in her doctor's word.  She would not consider even taking a daily vitamin without his or her permission to do so. Those of us, of a later generation, are not nearly so trusting; not least of all due to the insurance companies who now have the power to overrule a doctor's order for treatment, severely shorten a hospital stay, and determine which medication you will be prescribed based on what they are willing to pay.  Confidence in a voice of authority that once went unquestioned has been undermined severely as the sick are forced to become far more self-reliant on a variety of alternative healing options which are rapidly growing to meet a tsunami of demand.

A different set of circumstances has corrupted the foundations of the Church's voice of authority, but the result is the same.  We lost our right to claim authority the moment we put our own survival as the priority.  Fear is what motivates us now; fear that the Church is irrelevant (and in many cases it is), fear that the Church is indifferent (guilty, as charged - more times than it or we would wish to admit), we fear that the world has passed us by (it has). The Church's attempts to be relevant and meaningful with loud and arrogant boasts of ultimate truth result only in greater and greater reductions of credibility.  Alternative sources of spiritual nourishment are readily available and are being lapped up by hungry and hurting people who, in another time, crowded into church pews.  The Church wrings its hands and desperately puts its energy into saving itself, secretly worrying that perhaps God has abandoned his bride.

But as is the nature of grace, the Church's derailed sense of purpose, has not obstructed God's ability to function in faith communities truly willing to die in order to live.  The fruits of their labors are wholesome examples of what Christianity is meant to do and be.  This way forward is hardly perfect; it is the untrod, unmarked road; difficult to navigate and filled with uncertainty, soul searching discernment that determine painful decisions of change.  

Even the most cursory reading of Exodus reminds us of the perils of the journey as well as the temptation to give up, or worse, turn back. The theme of trust in God's faithfulness and not our own is central.  God has not abandoned the Church. God is alive and well in vibrant faith communities all over the world who have given away their authority in order to reclaim it. In them can be seen the purity of God's purpose in the purity of the motivations of God's people. But this is not yet the norm for the larger Church who remains primarily focused on self-survival, spawning internal division, scarcity-motivated actions and attitudes, and competition for resources. Under such conditions what do we expect God to do?

Ironically, the authority the Church claims is and has never been ours to possess.  It is the Word spoken when we follow God out into the world, a world that is now a stranger to the Church. The true voice of authority speaks in syllables of surrender:  surrender to the possibility that the structures that once served us well no longer work and must be dismantled, surrender to visions of doing and being the body of Christ in ways we do not imagine to be viable vehicles for doing Godly work, surrender to the possibility of abject failure, surrendering our will to a God we can't control or manage while devoting our energy first and foremost to the care and well-being of complete strangers, surrender to the risk of losing all we presently know as 'the Church' and allowing God to reign over it, at last.     

Learning to run

Recently, I began training with a local group for a half marathon.  Most of us are beginning runners and the leaders are kind and supportive.  As each of us begins to accept the authentic offering of encouragement and sincere absence of judgment between us, we are poised to bond as a team.  Race day is May 1.

At our weekly team meeting a week ago the long-time runners described their experiences in a variety of races.  The common thread between each of their stories was the encouragement they received from complete strangers; the supporting fans who line the streets and urge the runners on and pass out drinks at the mile markers.  They spoke of the strangers we would encounter who will call out our names (seeing it printed above the race number) to give us encouragement to keep going.  This is at once embarrassing and welcoming.  I find it somewhat painful to be seen at all, much less to have my name called out, and yet, a part of me finds this unabashedly wonderful. 

Running is a new thing for me.  God only knows what has possessed me.  I ran a few times on a whim last summer.  But then I went to Brazil for a couple of weeks (I couldn't run in an unfamiliar place, too scary), then came the rainy season, then the winter cold (below zero, in that neighborhood cold) followed by the occasional ice storm and inconvenient snow showers.  Who could run in that?  So I stopped running but planned to get back to it in the Spring.  

But a few weeks ago I noticed an ad to train locally for a 1/2 marathon in early May.  Since walking/running is also acceptable, I signed up.  So far, so good.  This week I have run a total of 12 miles, up from six last week.  One night I ran 2.5 miles from dusk into darkness (note to self, get reflective gear) in the rain, at about 30 degrees.   Why?  Don't know, just couldn't not run. And it wasn't to try out the nifty running duds I bought. Strangely, my legs have begun to speak to me.  In 47 years they've never said a word, now they can't shut up. They say:  run, run, run like the wind, run to feel like your moving, run to get somewhere faster, just run to see how far you can go, run to stop getting old, run to hear yourself breath, run to think clearly, run to find out what it would be like to be a runner.  

Slow and steady wins the race, is my running mantra, keeping me from exhausted despair when the leg cramps start and I notice that I'm exhaling more spit than air.  Still, I'm amazed at how much stronger I've become.  To be clear, I'm still bringing up the rear of the pack on the weekend team runs.  Indeed it is wonderful thing to be greeted by the better, faster runners who made it in first after I've completed the goal for that run/walk which is always a mile longer than the week before.   Slow and steady wins the race.

This is not a bad thing to say to oneself in this hurried world full of expectations of what is needed and when (yesterday, generally).  At a clergy wellness conference I attended a couple of years ago there was an intimidating (unintentionally, no doubt) long-time pastor in the small group I was assigned. (FYI, for those who don't know this critical piece of information: perfectionist don't do well in small groups where they are confronted with their inexperience and subsequent ignorance.) After quite some time, to avoid the continued appearance that I was both dumb and mute, I cautiously expressed an onset of anxiety due to a bout of sudden growth in the small congregation I was serving.  I said that I was worried about making new people feel welcomed and a part of the community as soon as possible.  This experienced, very together, very Californian, very cool rector with surfer blond, wavy hair with a thin braid down the back, advised, "Slow down. You've got time."  

He is one of those people who is perfectly happy with who they are.  My mother used to say this is being comfortable in your own skin.  He was a runner too.  I'd see him out running (5 miles, he mentioned once) in the warm, late afternoon before we all gathered for dinner.  Is it possible to totally admire someone while burning with envy of them? At that time I had never run, nor entertained the possibility.  Run? Are you kidding, who has that kind of time?  Turns out he ran a few miles at a time, a few days a week, (his parish had grown from 25 to over 500 in the last several years, he mentioned in passing). OMG, what am I doing here?

I later realized I was there for a variety of reasons.  Foremost, I was there for some necessary emotional cleansing and to receive permission to hit the reset button.  To that end, I was there to hear those profound words, "Slow down. You have time." And while unknown to me at the time, I was there to learn to run.

These days I run as far as I can, slow and steady, because I have found the time.  There has been no loss or sacrifice incurred; most days, more gets done, with more creativity and deeper breaths.  All the while I have been discovering both a sense of adventure and a deep reserve of untapped courage. I never thought I'd run farther and farther distances from the safety of my cozy home, alone, in the dark, in the rain, in the cold, in the snow, skipping over patches of ice, on roads I don't know well.  I never thought I'd run with people I would otherwise engage with envy (from whom I would secretly recoil in self-defeat). I never thought I'd learn to run to learn to live.