A good pair of shoes is hard to come by. You can spend thousands of dollars on art for your feet, that you will only wear once. But a pair of shoes you can carry with you for years, that is nothing short of, well, epic.
Now I have many shoes. Many. I have blue suede heels, I have bronze strappy platforms and riding boots. Black heals that go with everything, and booties that can only go with on top, with one pair of jeans. My closet is literally spilling and busting at the seams. I know this, because this morning, in my usual routine of haste, I was on my knees, wading my way through the abyss of leather and buckles searching for the other half of the pair I was looking for, when I heard an ominous creaking. I froze, mid-toss of a useless non-match, and cringed. I knew what was about to happen, it had happened before. I shut my eyes, not wanting to watch what I was sure was about to unfold. After a few prolonged seconds of silence, I gingerly opened my eyes. Ah, sweet. Safe.
As I finished dropping the red patent heal behind me, it happened. With a loud crack the closet door popped off its hinge and my tower of shoes came tumbling out. Ughhh…. Oh wait! There’s the shoe I need!
I grabbed it and ran out the door with an evil laugh under my breath. Haha! You will not conquer me!!!!
But as I sat in traffic, contemplating the mess I would have to return to, I asked myself the question every shoe freak avoids: do I really need all those shoes, and really, do I wear them all? I shrank down in my car slightly as I remembered a flash of a shoe I forgot I had. Where did I even buy those?
My closet is a parallel to my life to this point; full of schizophrenia and indecisiveness. I used to think it was a tribute to my eclectic personality, now I realize, it’s not eclectic if it has no general direction or trend. Then it’s just foolishness.
But maybe it’s a little less black and white as that. Maybe the symptom is less about my own dysfunction, but rather, the dysfunction of that which I find myself in. I am never one to point the finger, or not take responsibility, but as my faith has grown bigger, so has my concept of myself. The traditional definitions have started to break down as I hear other articulating what has never really coalesced in my mind. I keep reading these books researching blogs and hearing snippets of conversations, thinking, “Yes!!!! That’s it! That’s what I’ve been trying to say, but never really could…. And honestly, I never would have said it that well. Bravo!”
Maybe it’s timing, maybe it’s age, maybe it’s the places I’ve been and the people I’ve met and the heartbreak I have felt, but something has clicked, deep down in my soul, as I have found kindred spirits in the most unusual places. I’ve found a grace that I have been craving, an understanding that frees my mind and faith that isn’t painful.
It’s as though I’ve been searching for the perfect pair of shoes, searching, failing to find, and instead settling for whatever is closest that might suffice. I’ve looked through the magazines, perused the stores, tried on and off, and what has been available has never been quite right, but it’s all there has been. So I would fork out the credit card, pay the price, but never really get what I was hoping for and after wearing the unsatisfactory shoes for a while, throw them into the endless pile. Some ended up wearing out fast, some I only wore once and some I have had for years.
I’ve done it with my faith, my understanding and my heart, for years. What has been offered has never really done the trick, but it was all that was given, so it chafed, created blisters, looked good sometimes and others just did the job of creating space between my feet and the ground.
As I think back to my limited space and the wasted money that remains in my closet, I think about how much baggage those damn shoes have created and something in me looks forward to the tedious task of cleaning out the closet.
There is no reason to settle for what hasn’t fit for so long. It may be frightening, letting go of what has been old and maybe grown comfortable with repeated wears, but an empty closet is preferable to the guilt and avoidance of the monster that lurks just beyond the thin doors. There is no need to hold to what doesn’t work anymore. No matter how functional they were for the time being. My feet need a chance to breath, to relax, to lose the callouses that have grown inadvertently from trying to force my fat little feet into shoes that they shouldn’t be forced into.
My soul needs the same.
The flimsy closet doors of my heart finally burst and a long and painful cleaning out process has occurred. So many things that fit so well for others, were never going to fit for me, but instead of the grace to see that, I just assumed it was a fault of mine, rather than faulty logic on the part of a culture, a community, or friends and family.
So, as I think about my next shoe shopping trip, I find myself hesitating. Maybe I will hold off for a while. It may just be a better idea to work through what I already have, trying them on again, working them into my wardrobe, feeling how they fit on my feet. I’ll have to line them up with where I see the next few weeks, months heading and whether or not I love them enough to pack them up and take them with me everywhere, or if they wouldn’t be worth their space.
My beliefs and feelings are going to have to be the same for a while. Before I grab something brand new, for now, I am going to have to shed some of the already dead weight. How does what I have been taught match up with what I really believe, and which needs to go? Instead of collecting pointless euphemisms and Sunday school answers until my seams are busting, the old is going to have to be compared with a greater truth, prayed over and either become an authentic staple in my faith wardrobe, or be tossed out with no regret.
And for once, I can honestly say, it will all be about whether or not the shoe fits.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Sunday Mornings
As a bigger faith has started to be born, things seem possible that never were, mainly, the miracle of a life without guilt. I know, shocking, right?
I have not been able to find a church. And to make matters worse, the more I read from the authors that I most track with, the harder it is to feel comfortable in the culture that is predominate in the area I live in. I have always sort of kicked back, but now, I don't even want to do that, I just don't want to even be around it. I feel this desperate need to shed the old and continue to discover the new and what most places have to offer right now, actually feel as though they would only damage the work God is doing, rather than aid it.
That leaves me with a dilemma. What do I do with my Sunday mornings?
I mean, I have spent a lifetime telling people how important church is, but the more I think about it in context of the freedom I am feeling, the more I wonder. Why are Sunday mornings so important?
Community, right? It's not the teachings, it's not the lessons, or the worship, and we go for community. True, but what happens when you feel more connected to the people outside of church, than you do the people in church?
I convinced a coworker of mine to read a book I am reading. We discuss it often. I go to dinner with my friends, trivia on Tuesdays, lunches, long phone conversations with one of my best friends in Tampa, another good friend in Southern California. We talk about life, the good, the bad, the new things we are learning. They challenge me, they ask me questions, we live life together, through distance, different beliefs and opinions. I have learned their idiosyncrasies, their foibles, their strengths and their wisdom. In so may ways they are my heroes. They teach me the depth of grace and the freedom of thought, the boundaries I crave and so much of the heart of God.
I read books and blogs, listen to sermons by so many different people with distinct backgrounds and individual experiences. I have found kindred spirits across oceans, states and ages. In all of my struggles, the greatest peace I have found, has been hearing a perspective on Jesus that finally makes sense, and it didn't come from the churches I have attended for the last 20 years. In fact, the churches and schools and people that I have been influenced by for the last 20 years that have been doing the most damage. A square freaking peg, in a round freaking hole.
Back to the dilemma though, I mean, how Christian am I when I don't even go to church on Sunday?
And why would it matter? I love the community I have found. It doesn't meet in a building, and some of them don't know each other, but it's more real, stronger, deeper than anything I have known before. It's a community of those that I have met and kept with me for years, that I carry with me through every season, and they are treasured. And I like that its boundless.
The community isn't named, other than the Bride. It's separated by a million miles and connected by one Spirit. It's made up of the homeless, the gypsies, the politically motivated and the homemakers. It's anyone that will converse with me about the important things and anyone that wants to live a life built on truth and authenticity. It's for those that don't settle for just anything and that have an ache for the beauty that seems just beyond grasp. It's made up of every person that Jesus came to free and it doesn't need a building, or an opening prayer. It just is.
I sit at Pete's, watching the life around me, on a Sunday morning, drinking tea and reading my book. I listen to the laughter, watch the smiles and push the chair out in front of me as someone asks if they can use it. This is my church, ever person that has ever lived and ever will live. They are a part of the beautiful story of God's heart, and they are full of His promise, and His image. And I want to see Him in every one of them. And I do.
Paul said not to live in isolation, and I laugh as I think of John on Patmos, pastoring his church from such a distance. I think of people in South America, Asia, or Africa that may not be able to make the trek every week to gather and I know the same spirit connects us all, and whatever I can do to be a part of the community that wants more and more of Jesus, is the community I have a love for that grows a little every day. My world has at once grown infinitely and shrunk exponentially. Church is every moment of everyday and my community is as far as the last human breath.
Sunday mornings mean something different now. They mean a time to sit, listen to the voices around me, to bake for my nephews, to read the paper and pray, to reorganize my fantasy football team. Right now they are no different than any other morning. I carry Sunday mornings with me every day.
It may change again someday. I hope it will. I love investing in humanity, but there are some things I do appreciate about the containers of a typical church, but for now, I am comfortable to be uncomfortable. It's good for me to shed old ways, to reaffirm the basic tenants of my humanity without desensitizing myself to the gift of love and goodness of life. Gathering as a body, no matter what it looks like, should be a privilege, and until it is again, I don't mind letting the privilege of being a part of God's church without walls be enough. And maybe sleeping in an extra day.
I have not been able to find a church. And to make matters worse, the more I read from the authors that I most track with, the harder it is to feel comfortable in the culture that is predominate in the area I live in. I have always sort of kicked back, but now, I don't even want to do that, I just don't want to even be around it. I feel this desperate need to shed the old and continue to discover the new and what most places have to offer right now, actually feel as though they would only damage the work God is doing, rather than aid it.
That leaves me with a dilemma. What do I do with my Sunday mornings?
I mean, I have spent a lifetime telling people how important church is, but the more I think about it in context of the freedom I am feeling, the more I wonder. Why are Sunday mornings so important?
Community, right? It's not the teachings, it's not the lessons, or the worship, and we go for community. True, but what happens when you feel more connected to the people outside of church, than you do the people in church?
I convinced a coworker of mine to read a book I am reading. We discuss it often. I go to dinner with my friends, trivia on Tuesdays, lunches, long phone conversations with one of my best friends in Tampa, another good friend in Southern California. We talk about life, the good, the bad, the new things we are learning. They challenge me, they ask me questions, we live life together, through distance, different beliefs and opinions. I have learned their idiosyncrasies, their foibles, their strengths and their wisdom. In so may ways they are my heroes. They teach me the depth of grace and the freedom of thought, the boundaries I crave and so much of the heart of God.
I read books and blogs, listen to sermons by so many different people with distinct backgrounds and individual experiences. I have found kindred spirits across oceans, states and ages. In all of my struggles, the greatest peace I have found, has been hearing a perspective on Jesus that finally makes sense, and it didn't come from the churches I have attended for the last 20 years. In fact, the churches and schools and people that I have been influenced by for the last 20 years that have been doing the most damage. A square freaking peg, in a round freaking hole.
Back to the dilemma though, I mean, how Christian am I when I don't even go to church on Sunday?
And why would it matter? I love the community I have found. It doesn't meet in a building, and some of them don't know each other, but it's more real, stronger, deeper than anything I have known before. It's a community of those that I have met and kept with me for years, that I carry with me through every season, and they are treasured. And I like that its boundless.
The community isn't named, other than the Bride. It's separated by a million miles and connected by one Spirit. It's made up of the homeless, the gypsies, the politically motivated and the homemakers. It's anyone that will converse with me about the important things and anyone that wants to live a life built on truth and authenticity. It's for those that don't settle for just anything and that have an ache for the beauty that seems just beyond grasp. It's made up of every person that Jesus came to free and it doesn't need a building, or an opening prayer. It just is.
I sit at Pete's, watching the life around me, on a Sunday morning, drinking tea and reading my book. I listen to the laughter, watch the smiles and push the chair out in front of me as someone asks if they can use it. This is my church, ever person that has ever lived and ever will live. They are a part of the beautiful story of God's heart, and they are full of His promise, and His image. And I want to see Him in every one of them. And I do.
Paul said not to live in isolation, and I laugh as I think of John on Patmos, pastoring his church from such a distance. I think of people in South America, Asia, or Africa that may not be able to make the trek every week to gather and I know the same spirit connects us all, and whatever I can do to be a part of the community that wants more and more of Jesus, is the community I have a love for that grows a little every day. My world has at once grown infinitely and shrunk exponentially. Church is every moment of everyday and my community is as far as the last human breath.
Sunday mornings mean something different now. They mean a time to sit, listen to the voices around me, to bake for my nephews, to read the paper and pray, to reorganize my fantasy football team. Right now they are no different than any other morning. I carry Sunday mornings with me every day.
It may change again someday. I hope it will. I love investing in humanity, but there are some things I do appreciate about the containers of a typical church, but for now, I am comfortable to be uncomfortable. It's good for me to shed old ways, to reaffirm the basic tenants of my humanity without desensitizing myself to the gift of love and goodness of life. Gathering as a body, no matter what it looks like, should be a privilege, and until it is again, I don't mind letting the privilege of being a part of God's church without walls be enough. And maybe sleeping in an extra day.
Worth Fighting For
I don't think I will ever be able to be thankful for the heartbreak of life, but I can appreciate what it produces.
When I was 16, 17, 18 and on, my one prayer was always that God would take me deeper. It was for a myriad of reasons, some of them altruistic, some not so much, but still, the prayer was always the same. Sometimes I think prayer has the purpose of changes us rather than really changing the heart of God. For some reason, that particular prayer became the goal. I don't know why, but it just stuck.
It seemed so weird. Everyone else seemed to be getting it so much more. I grew up in the church, so the right answer, the right question, the right activity, the right path, the right theology, it all amounted to the right picture. I would fight, struggle, pray, read, anything I could do to make it work, but for some reason, it seemed so much harder for me than anyone else. It never really 'clicked.' I muddled through, doing the best I could, but never really feeling the pieces fall into place. I assumed I was the problem, since everyone else was having such an easy time.
Flash forward to now and I realize, it never would be hard, if there is nothing you are fighting for.
Maybe it’s my need for perfection, but the harder I have fought, the deeper things get and the waters are endless. They move back and forth between the depth of God and the need for healing within myself. Both are overwhelming. The discoveries are great, but so much has settled in me as I realize, the struggle is what has defined me, not the success or failure.
The simple truths of living a life full of joy, peace and hope, that has alluded me, being the person I want to be, rather than the defined version of myself, living generously trusting God, these are the principles that have haunted me, pushing me farther into honesty, authenticity, understanding and pursuit. But they come from a basic belief that they are possible. If He said it, it is possible and there is no in between, so anything less is bullshit.
I laugh as I write this, looking back over the past and seeing how this principle has so deeply affected my life. I believe people, the Bible, the news, at first glance. When people fight, I assume they will make up, when something dies, I wait for it to come back to life. In some ways, I do believe everything will be okay, because He said it would be. Faith like a child, right?
A lot of life has threatened that, challenged it, compromised, that desire to believe, but something holds it together in me, and I suspect it may be the prayer I have been praying since I was a teenager. There is something worth fighting for out there. Beauty worth worshipping, hope worth heartbreak and justice that never ends. There is a God that hears His people, a kingdom based on love and a system that doesn't leave you feeling victimized.
I spend a lot of time alone, thinking, reading, praying, journaling and generally letting everything in my life settle down. I used to hate it, but recently, for the first time, ever, I am seeing not only the value, but the necessity of where I am at. I've made a lot of decisions based on fear, retained a lot of beliefs because someone said they were right and generally just gone with the flow because I didn't want to have to think for myself. Funny thing about that, you end up in a place doing the same things, gaining the same results and feeling more helpless and victimized than ever. Slowing down, taking inventory, standing still rather than jumping in, its challenging. It's scarier. But its healing.
As I continue to fight through, to let my faith be defined differently than ever before, sitting with the old and the new, it dawns how much bigger my life is going to have to be, if this is ever going to fit again. The faith that is being built, the foundations that are being set, they aren't going to be okay with a Saturday afternoon satisfying my need for new shoes. Everything is going to have to change and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. It may have to be bigger and I'm not sure what that means I will have to leave behind.
I prayed a prayer years ago, and only now am I seeing it really take effect. I stood in line at H&M returning a sweater, pants and a pair of shoes I bought (and really, really liked) so I could pay for the two kids I want to sponsor, and thought "No shit. Really?" I didn't even try to think of ways I could justify it. It just seemed right, and for once, it wasn't out of guilt, or shame. But I couldn't think of a child feeling the weight of his own existence because his life is so hard. No one should have to suffer just because they were born. That's not apart of the kingdom that I need to be in. And that is worth fighting for.
When I was 16, 17, 18 and on, my one prayer was always that God would take me deeper. It was for a myriad of reasons, some of them altruistic, some not so much, but still, the prayer was always the same. Sometimes I think prayer has the purpose of changes us rather than really changing the heart of God. For some reason, that particular prayer became the goal. I don't know why, but it just stuck.
It seemed so weird. Everyone else seemed to be getting it so much more. I grew up in the church, so the right answer, the right question, the right activity, the right path, the right theology, it all amounted to the right picture. I would fight, struggle, pray, read, anything I could do to make it work, but for some reason, it seemed so much harder for me than anyone else. It never really 'clicked.' I muddled through, doing the best I could, but never really feeling the pieces fall into place. I assumed I was the problem, since everyone else was having such an easy time.
Flash forward to now and I realize, it never would be hard, if there is nothing you are fighting for.
Maybe it’s my need for perfection, but the harder I have fought, the deeper things get and the waters are endless. They move back and forth between the depth of God and the need for healing within myself. Both are overwhelming. The discoveries are great, but so much has settled in me as I realize, the struggle is what has defined me, not the success or failure.
The simple truths of living a life full of joy, peace and hope, that has alluded me, being the person I want to be, rather than the defined version of myself, living generously trusting God, these are the principles that have haunted me, pushing me farther into honesty, authenticity, understanding and pursuit. But they come from a basic belief that they are possible. If He said it, it is possible and there is no in between, so anything less is bullshit.
I laugh as I write this, looking back over the past and seeing how this principle has so deeply affected my life. I believe people, the Bible, the news, at first glance. When people fight, I assume they will make up, when something dies, I wait for it to come back to life. In some ways, I do believe everything will be okay, because He said it would be. Faith like a child, right?
A lot of life has threatened that, challenged it, compromised, that desire to believe, but something holds it together in me, and I suspect it may be the prayer I have been praying since I was a teenager. There is something worth fighting for out there. Beauty worth worshipping, hope worth heartbreak and justice that never ends. There is a God that hears His people, a kingdom based on love and a system that doesn't leave you feeling victimized.
I spend a lot of time alone, thinking, reading, praying, journaling and generally letting everything in my life settle down. I used to hate it, but recently, for the first time, ever, I am seeing not only the value, but the necessity of where I am at. I've made a lot of decisions based on fear, retained a lot of beliefs because someone said they were right and generally just gone with the flow because I didn't want to have to think for myself. Funny thing about that, you end up in a place doing the same things, gaining the same results and feeling more helpless and victimized than ever. Slowing down, taking inventory, standing still rather than jumping in, its challenging. It's scarier. But its healing.
As I continue to fight through, to let my faith be defined differently than ever before, sitting with the old and the new, it dawns how much bigger my life is going to have to be, if this is ever going to fit again. The faith that is being built, the foundations that are being set, they aren't going to be okay with a Saturday afternoon satisfying my need for new shoes. Everything is going to have to change and I'm not sure I'm ready for it. It may have to be bigger and I'm not sure what that means I will have to leave behind.
I prayed a prayer years ago, and only now am I seeing it really take effect. I stood in line at H&M returning a sweater, pants and a pair of shoes I bought (and really, really liked) so I could pay for the two kids I want to sponsor, and thought "No shit. Really?" I didn't even try to think of ways I could justify it. It just seemed right, and for once, it wasn't out of guilt, or shame. But I couldn't think of a child feeling the weight of his own existence because his life is so hard. No one should have to suffer just because they were born. That's not apart of the kingdom that I need to be in. And that is worth fighting for.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
The Ties that Bind
As I sat at the reception desk today, feeling powerless, frustrated, pissed beyond words and completely overwhelmed with my emotions, certain things began to dawn on me.
I kept wondering why I was so pissed. I'm not usually the type that isn't a team player, or that minds picking up the slack, so here, now, why is this more than I can handle? Why is being asked to fill in for the receptionist such an insult?
Because I worked my ass off to move beyond this sort of work and finding out that my current place of employment doesn't see or recognize the potential I have, something is triggered deep inside and I freak out.
I have no problem proving myself, but when I do that and still my work sends me back into answering phones and signing for packages, all the work, the effort, the potential doesn't matter and I find myself running my head into a wall over and over again.
I have no problem doing my job, no matter how frustrating it is, knowing that there is either growth opportunity or even lateral movement. I can deal with the muck and mire, if there is a promise of more.
Now, this may be specifically for my work environment, but as I sit fuming, it clicks that this is the same problem I am having in my emotional life. I started therapy 6 years ago. If I am really no better off than I was then, I may as well keep the money and start drinking heavily. At least I wouldn't be so much of a downer.
As sad as that is, big picture is slowly dawning, and I am seeing at least starting to grasp why things have to change.
It's all fun and games when you are young, but when you start getting older and time becomes much less relative and much more real, wasting the precious opportunities that come along seems criminal. The invincibility of youth dies and with it the notion that everything will be okay.
All of the work all of the effort, all of the everything has to, at some point, amount to something more than ending up in the same places. The emotional releases, the healing, the all-nighters in college, they have to bring some sort of ability to look back and say "Look where I've come from" and as of right now, I have none of that.
Which brings me back to my work situation. So I have learned lots about myself in the last year, some of it good, some of it bad. Things such as, my past lends itself to shame. I feel inadequate and rarely rock the boat for what I really want. I give myself over to be revictimized and then when I never succeed, bitch and moan about it. Well, at 26 I am so sick to death of that cycle, and I am so scared of watching myself never move forward, I finally am ready to get off the carousel.
Three options: 1) suck it up and pray someone sees my potential 2) put in my two week notice and pray I land another job that happens into something better 3) have a nice sit down with my boss where I flex the non-existent muscle of asking for what I want and not accepting what I don't want. I think they call this 'boundaries.' I don't know, I have never really worked with the foreign ideas.
Of course the third option makes the most sense, seems the most reasonable, but at the same time scares me the most. Whenever I have put myself in a position of asking for something, I am usually unleashed on for the ten different reasons I was an ass to ask. Here are the ten most recent mistakes you made and this is why you can't have what we promised. That premise just about encapsulates 90% of all my relationships and some of my jobs. I guess I get my need for perfection and my fear of the unknown.
As the loose ends begin to tie and time becomes much more a scarce resource rather than endlessly available, my basic survival techniques are kicking in. I'm finding a little bit of fight I didn't know I have. I guess it's better to find out now what the expectations are, and whether or not this is something I can live with, or if I am looking down another barrel of endless frustration. My therapist says the key to boundaries is the ability to walk away, or let go. I guess she's right. If I am not willing to put my money where my mouth is, there is nothing to bargain with.
I guess maybe the work is paying off. Breaking out of the cycles may actually be possible and the years of therapy may mean more than just being another one of those people that never moves beyond the comfort of the old. I wasn't taught these skills, but if I can get ahold of them now, if can incorporate enough of them, or just get enough courage to stand firm, there's the possbilibty I won't end up being another sad story of wasted potential. Maybe time will stop feeling like the enemy and there will still yet be a chance to look back and think "Look how far I've come." Or, I'm going to get super wasted and it just won't matter anyways.
I kept wondering why I was so pissed. I'm not usually the type that isn't a team player, or that minds picking up the slack, so here, now, why is this more than I can handle? Why is being asked to fill in for the receptionist such an insult?
Because I worked my ass off to move beyond this sort of work and finding out that my current place of employment doesn't see or recognize the potential I have, something is triggered deep inside and I freak out.
I have no problem proving myself, but when I do that and still my work sends me back into answering phones and signing for packages, all the work, the effort, the potential doesn't matter and I find myself running my head into a wall over and over again.
I have no problem doing my job, no matter how frustrating it is, knowing that there is either growth opportunity or even lateral movement. I can deal with the muck and mire, if there is a promise of more.
Now, this may be specifically for my work environment, but as I sit fuming, it clicks that this is the same problem I am having in my emotional life. I started therapy 6 years ago. If I am really no better off than I was then, I may as well keep the money and start drinking heavily. At least I wouldn't be so much of a downer.
As sad as that is, big picture is slowly dawning, and I am seeing at least starting to grasp why things have to change.
It's all fun and games when you are young, but when you start getting older and time becomes much less relative and much more real, wasting the precious opportunities that come along seems criminal. The invincibility of youth dies and with it the notion that everything will be okay.
All of the work all of the effort, all of the everything has to, at some point, amount to something more than ending up in the same places. The emotional releases, the healing, the all-nighters in college, they have to bring some sort of ability to look back and say "Look where I've come from" and as of right now, I have none of that.
Which brings me back to my work situation. So I have learned lots about myself in the last year, some of it good, some of it bad. Things such as, my past lends itself to shame. I feel inadequate and rarely rock the boat for what I really want. I give myself over to be revictimized and then when I never succeed, bitch and moan about it. Well, at 26 I am so sick to death of that cycle, and I am so scared of watching myself never move forward, I finally am ready to get off the carousel.
Three options: 1) suck it up and pray someone sees my potential 2) put in my two week notice and pray I land another job that happens into something better 3) have a nice sit down with my boss where I flex the non-existent muscle of asking for what I want and not accepting what I don't want. I think they call this 'boundaries.' I don't know, I have never really worked with the foreign ideas.
Of course the third option makes the most sense, seems the most reasonable, but at the same time scares me the most. Whenever I have put myself in a position of asking for something, I am usually unleashed on for the ten different reasons I was an ass to ask. Here are the ten most recent mistakes you made and this is why you can't have what we promised. That premise just about encapsulates 90% of all my relationships and some of my jobs. I guess I get my need for perfection and my fear of the unknown.
As the loose ends begin to tie and time becomes much more a scarce resource rather than endlessly available, my basic survival techniques are kicking in. I'm finding a little bit of fight I didn't know I have. I guess it's better to find out now what the expectations are, and whether or not this is something I can live with, or if I am looking down another barrel of endless frustration. My therapist says the key to boundaries is the ability to walk away, or let go. I guess she's right. If I am not willing to put my money where my mouth is, there is nothing to bargain with.
I guess maybe the work is paying off. Breaking out of the cycles may actually be possible and the years of therapy may mean more than just being another one of those people that never moves beyond the comfort of the old. I wasn't taught these skills, but if I can get ahold of them now, if can incorporate enough of them, or just get enough courage to stand firm, there's the possbilibty I won't end up being another sad story of wasted potential. Maybe time will stop feeling like the enemy and there will still yet be a chance to look back and think "Look how far I've come." Or, I'm going to get super wasted and it just won't matter anyways.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Pink Ponies
In miracle of all miracles, some things have been falling into place, well at least in my mind that is.
When the blindfold is pulled off your eyes and denial as a way of life no longer is a viable option, it's like learning to live with a completely new sense. Everything hits a little harder. The normal beatings we all take aren't as easily shaken off and it is much harder to ignore truths, no matter what they are.
Case and point. I have a tendency to get really excited about something I think is going to be perfect, and then get really disappointed when it fails to bring the assumed abundance I had believed it would. I'm like a 6 year old at a birthday party that just found out she didn't get the pink pony she wanted. Bastards.
Even worse, instead of accepting the reality as it is, dealing with the loss and moving on to some other bright and shiny object, I do the worst possible thing and try to change reality. I think if I stare at the spoon long enough, it really will bend. Um, not so much. And eventually, if the spoon doesn't bend, I do. I never needed or really wanted a pink pony. I can settle, really. Soooo much denial.
At 20 years later and too big for pony, I find myself having to deal with loss in a real and competent way. If things don't turn out the way I want them, what are my real options? This brown cow is not going to magically change and I am not going to magically stop wanting a pony, so how am I going to go deal with this? I revert to my six year old ways as I stomp my foot proclaiming "I was NOT taught these skills!"
Case and point: my job. Don't get me wrong, I am so thankful for my paycheck. I mean really, really thankful, but there are days when I literally think a monkey could do my job. Even worse so, my boss' treat me that way, or at least lately have. It's degrading. And I hate it.
That's the thing though. Something clicked deep down that hadn't ever before. It's not what you are doing, it's how you are treated in the midst of it. One of my boss' could ask me to wash and wax his car and I wouldn't mind at all. The other one acts as if my job title isn't Executive Assistant, but Personal Slave. Look, if I wanted to be treated badly, I would have stayed married.
This whole new way of thinking, this lack of denial and acceptance of a truer reality, has stirred some things up. Why do I take it? The title may be great on my resume giving me some access in the future, but what was promised in the beginning is rapidly becoming a game of cat and mouse. Um, so basically I'm in a repeat of the most hellish year of my life but professionally rather than personally. Wait, I've seen these signs and I'm not okay with where this is going.
If I had it all over to do again, what would I do different, because right there is where I have to start.
Mainly, I would stop feeling like a beggar and start feeling like a chooser.
What is the fear here? That this is my only option for the rest of my life? Jobs have always been easier to come by then men, so even though the anxiety is founded, it can hardly be seen quite as seriously. Browsing the want ads for the two are very different things.
But in some ways, they relate. I can look at myself and say two things 1) how is this helping get to where I want to go and 2) why do I think I have nothing to bargain or leverage?
I have struggled with how much I have "pandered" to people in my life, or felt as though I was less than. As I look at my professional life and I am watching my boss' ask me to do things I was not hired to do, or give me tasks that are meaningless and in no way challenging or even within my job description, I contemplate the pros and cons of giving in and settling.
I took the job with the expressed idea in growth potential, in a 50/50 between professional and personal and with their desire to bring someone into more of a decision maker role. Awesome. That befits a woman with a good degree from a top-notch school and the sort of experience I have. Not to mention the sheer desire to work hard and excel. Five months into the job and I am actually answering phones again? Um, sorry fellas, I draw the line somewhere. I have proved myself trustworthy, innovative, detailed and more than efficient in my problem solving abilities. If that is not enough, then I'm not sure what will be.
Believe it or not, I have standards. I know, it hasn't always looked that way, but hey, I'm learning. And I have goals. As I write out my monthly check to Sally Mae, I need to feel this was worth it's weight in interest. At this moment, that is not the case.
My pink pony turned into a frigging brown cow and now I have to figure out what to do with it. May be slaughter time. Who knows, I may be able to sell of the meat making enough profit to buy myself the pony. All I know is, this isn't going to magically change, but that doesn't change the fact that what I need is still what I need.
If only I had learned these principles back before I tortured myself needlessly for a year. Instead of trying to ride a cow down Main Street, I could have been eating T-Bone from that disaster for years.
When the blindfold is pulled off your eyes and denial as a way of life no longer is a viable option, it's like learning to live with a completely new sense. Everything hits a little harder. The normal beatings we all take aren't as easily shaken off and it is much harder to ignore truths, no matter what they are.
Case and point. I have a tendency to get really excited about something I think is going to be perfect, and then get really disappointed when it fails to bring the assumed abundance I had believed it would. I'm like a 6 year old at a birthday party that just found out she didn't get the pink pony she wanted. Bastards.
Even worse, instead of accepting the reality as it is, dealing with the loss and moving on to some other bright and shiny object, I do the worst possible thing and try to change reality. I think if I stare at the spoon long enough, it really will bend. Um, not so much. And eventually, if the spoon doesn't bend, I do. I never needed or really wanted a pink pony. I can settle, really. Soooo much denial.
At 20 years later and too big for pony, I find myself having to deal with loss in a real and competent way. If things don't turn out the way I want them, what are my real options? This brown cow is not going to magically change and I am not going to magically stop wanting a pony, so how am I going to go deal with this? I revert to my six year old ways as I stomp my foot proclaiming "I was NOT taught these skills!"
Case and point: my job. Don't get me wrong, I am so thankful for my paycheck. I mean really, really thankful, but there are days when I literally think a monkey could do my job. Even worse so, my boss' treat me that way, or at least lately have. It's degrading. And I hate it.
That's the thing though. Something clicked deep down that hadn't ever before. It's not what you are doing, it's how you are treated in the midst of it. One of my boss' could ask me to wash and wax his car and I wouldn't mind at all. The other one acts as if my job title isn't Executive Assistant, but Personal Slave. Look, if I wanted to be treated badly, I would have stayed married.
This whole new way of thinking, this lack of denial and acceptance of a truer reality, has stirred some things up. Why do I take it? The title may be great on my resume giving me some access in the future, but what was promised in the beginning is rapidly becoming a game of cat and mouse. Um, so basically I'm in a repeat of the most hellish year of my life but professionally rather than personally. Wait, I've seen these signs and I'm not okay with where this is going.
If I had it all over to do again, what would I do different, because right there is where I have to start.
Mainly, I would stop feeling like a beggar and start feeling like a chooser.
What is the fear here? That this is my only option for the rest of my life? Jobs have always been easier to come by then men, so even though the anxiety is founded, it can hardly be seen quite as seriously. Browsing the want ads for the two are very different things.
But in some ways, they relate. I can look at myself and say two things 1) how is this helping get to where I want to go and 2) why do I think I have nothing to bargain or leverage?
I have struggled with how much I have "pandered" to people in my life, or felt as though I was less than. As I look at my professional life and I am watching my boss' ask me to do things I was not hired to do, or give me tasks that are meaningless and in no way challenging or even within my job description, I contemplate the pros and cons of giving in and settling.
I took the job with the expressed idea in growth potential, in a 50/50 between professional and personal and with their desire to bring someone into more of a decision maker role. Awesome. That befits a woman with a good degree from a top-notch school and the sort of experience I have. Not to mention the sheer desire to work hard and excel. Five months into the job and I am actually answering phones again? Um, sorry fellas, I draw the line somewhere. I have proved myself trustworthy, innovative, detailed and more than efficient in my problem solving abilities. If that is not enough, then I'm not sure what will be.
Believe it or not, I have standards. I know, it hasn't always looked that way, but hey, I'm learning. And I have goals. As I write out my monthly check to Sally Mae, I need to feel this was worth it's weight in interest. At this moment, that is not the case.
My pink pony turned into a frigging brown cow and now I have to figure out what to do with it. May be slaughter time. Who knows, I may be able to sell of the meat making enough profit to buy myself the pony. All I know is, this isn't going to magically change, but that doesn't change the fact that what I need is still what I need.
If only I had learned these principles back before I tortured myself needlessly for a year. Instead of trying to ride a cow down Main Street, I could have been eating T-Bone from that disaster for years.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Anecdotes
Things aren't always what they seem. We say it all the time, but how often do we really mean it?
I was sitting in my therapy session on Friday, talking about next steps in my life, paying good money for advice that should have come for free as a child, when my therapist stopped and looked at me with a sort of inquisitive look and said "For how brave you are, you're also a wimp." My first thought was Thanks. My second thought was I'm paying you how much and you're just now figuring this out?
Is it still courage if it is survival? To get to the sort of life I believe would justify the last 26 years of BS, I know any sort of lackluster bravery I have exhibited in the last few years will only be the tip of the iceberg. That's exhausting to think about.
I find anecdotes the easiest way to express what words fail to fully express, so here are a few to complete the picture of what a day in the life of a 26 year old woman that can't seem to get ahead.
I have been struggling to find a church and with the past few months of a rebirth of faith, this is fairly sad for me. The only thing that truly makes me tick, community, seems to be the one thing I am adrift in. So in the least, I have been attending a small group every other week, actually enjoying the company of the women. Thursday I got an email it was ending. It's been going for five years. Seriously?
Friday I had a conversation with one of the owners of the company I work for. I have known him for almost four years, but never through the current company. My boss (after five months of me working here) just discovered this and asked him if he recommended me for the job. He told me he said no. They asked him why and he said well because "I didn't know she had applied for the job and I would never have thought she would want to do this." They obviously asked him why, he replied with "Well, I'm pretty sure she's overqualified to be picking up your dry-cleaning. In fact, I thought you were talking about a different person," followed by an awkward silence.... I'm not sure if I'm more offended he said he wouldn't recommend me, or that my boss' don't know I'm not a moron.
As part of my therapy (or just need to not sit on my ass), I have been baking. A lot. Pumpkin spice cake, chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting, cherry and lemon scones with devonshire cream, cinnamon buns from scratch... you get the point. And it's all good. Except for a few hiccups in the beginning, I've discovered a knack for following a recipe. I like the feeling of bringing in some love to the people I work with. That is until I got a "complaint" from the HR department that I was bringing in too many baked goods and people thought I was being selfish by baking and bringing in what I didn't want to keep at home. Really?
As a recommendation from a few people, part of the moving out of pain and into life again is the emergence back into real life. So I decided to get out of town with some girlfriends. We spent a total of 24 hours in South Lake Tahoe with my friend saying "Hey, so if my tire goes flat, they are run flats, so we can still get home." Why she felt the need to say this, I will never know, but it seems to have jinx the occasion, because on the way home, precisely that happened, excluding the part about the run flat. Instead, 100 miles from home, I tried to fill up the tire with air (since the driver didn't know how) and it blew up in my face. I almost lost an eye. We spent the better part of Memorial Day entertaining a tow truck driver named Eric with stories of our two hours of drunkenness in high altitude SST.
Wednesday day was a bad day at work. Since my work load has been a little light, I decided to get some coffee. As I am leaving, I ran directly into the guy I had briefly dated before I met my ex (whom I left him for). I found out he works a few floors above me. Seriously? Later that day, a few of us decided to head out for happy hour. On my way there I happened into one of those guys that was a fling you wish you could forget. Sweet, 0-2. As I walk into Pyramid, I felt the blood drain from my face as I look at the bar and there he is, bald ass head and all. The ex. I sat down with my friends and took a moment to decide my next course of action: 1) drink copious amounts of alcohol and say something stupid later claiming innocence by intoxication, 2) walk up to him and hit in the face like a man (I prefer closed fisted to increase impact), 3) or wait and see if he noticed I was there, feigning an intensely amazing amount of happiness and joy. I took option D and got the hell out of there. Preserving sanity is always the best answer. As I walked away at a clipped pace, chain-smoking my way to my car, I couldn't help but think, I need a Radioflyer for this baggage.
It helps to laugh at the crappy things that happen. It also tends to put things in perspective. A few scenarios into my crazy jumbled attempt to find what fits all over again, there are a myriad of small and large failures, with a precious few successes in between. Somewhere in there a thought begins to form that maybe what worked before isn't going to work now. What I use to be able to return to isn't seeming to really do the job it did before. Partying like a typical 26 year old feels like putting on a shoe that's too tight. I can make it work for a few hours, but I'm going to pay for it the next day, and usually it comes at the cost of my dignity. Suzy-homemaker is great, until it's a question of the chocolate chip cookie baked to perfection, in front of me, or the gym. I have never been the one who can have flour on their face and manage to look "cute." I just look frantic.
The conundrum comes in realizing maybe my heart has known before my head wanted to accept the truth: once you leave home, you can never go back. It works in the literal as much as the figurative. Everything that once was, I have begun to grow out of, and they aren't working anymore. I've been fighting it for a long time, probably even before the ex and I broke up. Back then it would have been courageous to leave and stay gone, now it looks a little less like courage and a little more like survival. How free will I ever feel, how peaceful will I ever really be, how much potential will I be able to live up to surrounded by people, places in a place that is a constant reminder of such messages. I wonder, for someone such as me, that hates change, that loves to return to what was comfortable before, that errors more on repetition and less on adventure, making the ultimate decision of not being able to fall back into comfortable discomfort may be the only option for true thriving rather than surviving.
Walking away from my ex, knowing I was making a choice to not return to the old in any way, putting it behind me, one step at a time, it was bitter sweet. He would never know I was there, he would never know I saw him and I was glad for it. I didn't want to know anything about him, I didn't want to see him or talk to him, I just wanted to preserve what healing I have had and keep moving one determined foot in front of the other.
And so that is what I did. And now I consider, may that be the case again? May I have to put one determined foot in front of the other and walk away from a past that haunts me? I'm not sure yet, but while I'm considering it, I'm going to piss off a few people again and bake some more.
I was sitting in my therapy session on Friday, talking about next steps in my life, paying good money for advice that should have come for free as a child, when my therapist stopped and looked at me with a sort of inquisitive look and said "For how brave you are, you're also a wimp." My first thought was Thanks. My second thought was I'm paying you how much and you're just now figuring this out?
Is it still courage if it is survival? To get to the sort of life I believe would justify the last 26 years of BS, I know any sort of lackluster bravery I have exhibited in the last few years will only be the tip of the iceberg. That's exhausting to think about.
I find anecdotes the easiest way to express what words fail to fully express, so here are a few to complete the picture of what a day in the life of a 26 year old woman that can't seem to get ahead.
I have been struggling to find a church and with the past few months of a rebirth of faith, this is fairly sad for me. The only thing that truly makes me tick, community, seems to be the one thing I am adrift in. So in the least, I have been attending a small group every other week, actually enjoying the company of the women. Thursday I got an email it was ending. It's been going for five years. Seriously?
Friday I had a conversation with one of the owners of the company I work for. I have known him for almost four years, but never through the current company. My boss (after five months of me working here) just discovered this and asked him if he recommended me for the job. He told me he said no. They asked him why and he said well because "I didn't know she had applied for the job and I would never have thought she would want to do this." They obviously asked him why, he replied with "Well, I'm pretty sure she's overqualified to be picking up your dry-cleaning. In fact, I thought you were talking about a different person," followed by an awkward silence.... I'm not sure if I'm more offended he said he wouldn't recommend me, or that my boss' don't know I'm not a moron.
As part of my therapy (or just need to not sit on my ass), I have been baking. A lot. Pumpkin spice cake, chocolate cupcakes with peanut butter frosting, cherry and lemon scones with devonshire cream, cinnamon buns from scratch... you get the point. And it's all good. Except for a few hiccups in the beginning, I've discovered a knack for following a recipe. I like the feeling of bringing in some love to the people I work with. That is until I got a "complaint" from the HR department that I was bringing in too many baked goods and people thought I was being selfish by baking and bringing in what I didn't want to keep at home. Really?
As a recommendation from a few people, part of the moving out of pain and into life again is the emergence back into real life. So I decided to get out of town with some girlfriends. We spent a total of 24 hours in South Lake Tahoe with my friend saying "Hey, so if my tire goes flat, they are run flats, so we can still get home." Why she felt the need to say this, I will never know, but it seems to have jinx the occasion, because on the way home, precisely that happened, excluding the part about the run flat. Instead, 100 miles from home, I tried to fill up the tire with air (since the driver didn't know how) and it blew up in my face. I almost lost an eye. We spent the better part of Memorial Day entertaining a tow truck driver named Eric with stories of our two hours of drunkenness in high altitude SST.
Wednesday day was a bad day at work. Since my work load has been a little light, I decided to get some coffee. As I am leaving, I ran directly into the guy I had briefly dated before I met my ex (whom I left him for). I found out he works a few floors above me. Seriously? Later that day, a few of us decided to head out for happy hour. On my way there I happened into one of those guys that was a fling you wish you could forget. Sweet, 0-2. As I walk into Pyramid, I felt the blood drain from my face as I look at the bar and there he is, bald ass head and all. The ex. I sat down with my friends and took a moment to decide my next course of action: 1) drink copious amounts of alcohol and say something stupid later claiming innocence by intoxication, 2) walk up to him and hit in the face like a man (I prefer closed fisted to increase impact), 3) or wait and see if he noticed I was there, feigning an intensely amazing amount of happiness and joy. I took option D and got the hell out of there. Preserving sanity is always the best answer. As I walked away at a clipped pace, chain-smoking my way to my car, I couldn't help but think, I need a Radioflyer for this baggage.
It helps to laugh at the crappy things that happen. It also tends to put things in perspective. A few scenarios into my crazy jumbled attempt to find what fits all over again, there are a myriad of small and large failures, with a precious few successes in between. Somewhere in there a thought begins to form that maybe what worked before isn't going to work now. What I use to be able to return to isn't seeming to really do the job it did before. Partying like a typical 26 year old feels like putting on a shoe that's too tight. I can make it work for a few hours, but I'm going to pay for it the next day, and usually it comes at the cost of my dignity. Suzy-homemaker is great, until it's a question of the chocolate chip cookie baked to perfection, in front of me, or the gym. I have never been the one who can have flour on their face and manage to look "cute." I just look frantic.
The conundrum comes in realizing maybe my heart has known before my head wanted to accept the truth: once you leave home, you can never go back. It works in the literal as much as the figurative. Everything that once was, I have begun to grow out of, and they aren't working anymore. I've been fighting it for a long time, probably even before the ex and I broke up. Back then it would have been courageous to leave and stay gone, now it looks a little less like courage and a little more like survival. How free will I ever feel, how peaceful will I ever really be, how much potential will I be able to live up to surrounded by people, places in a place that is a constant reminder of such messages. I wonder, for someone such as me, that hates change, that loves to return to what was comfortable before, that errors more on repetition and less on adventure, making the ultimate decision of not being able to fall back into comfortable discomfort may be the only option for true thriving rather than surviving.
Walking away from my ex, knowing I was making a choice to not return to the old in any way, putting it behind me, one step at a time, it was bitter sweet. He would never know I was there, he would never know I saw him and I was glad for it. I didn't want to know anything about him, I didn't want to see him or talk to him, I just wanted to preserve what healing I have had and keep moving one determined foot in front of the other.
And so that is what I did. And now I consider, may that be the case again? May I have to put one determined foot in front of the other and walk away from a past that haunts me? I'm not sure yet, but while I'm considering it, I'm going to piss off a few people again and bake some more.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Saturday living
For many, hope is a luxury they can do without. The here and now is enough. They sit in ivory towers, close enough to the heavens, there is no need for answers. What are questions worth when every desire and need is fulfilled? Suffering is so far from them, there is no wrestling, no urgency, no struggle to fight to comprehend. Their hands never dirty with the mud of grief, their tears never bear the bitterness of deep loss. They jump from lily-pad to lily-pad manipulating the stars to align. The world holds only the colors of predictability. They fight only for the control of their destinies, managing the day to day to serve their purposes. Smiles and laughter are easy, never a consequence for the colors of melancholy maroon, or navy need. They seem to be whole from birth to death, the ring masters taming circumstance.
I would give anything to know that feeling.
I've spent most of my days holding my breath from one crashing wave to the next, breaking the surface only to be sucked back under, tides taking me farther and farther from the shore of wealth. Most of the time I didn't even know I was truly drowning. I thought struggle, barely surviving, it all seemed so normal. Injustice was a far thought, more theory than reality. I always thought it would work out. It had to. There would be a moment when everything came together. I would get my due. One day... right? Blind and ignorant, I was so shocked when finally, I broke.
There is a moment when if you live hard enough, give deep enough, love with everything, believe with more than your soul and work to see only the good, something terrible will happen and every belief you have will break. Suddenly the bright lights of reality shine and somewhere deep inside, eyes open to the truth of life. Not everything is roses. Some do not have the fortune of hope as a luxury, but when that deep place finally breaks, hope is all you have left. It's Easter morning. Friday everything dies, but Sunday shows itself as new.
This hope, born of loss, evil, the processes of a world hell bent on it's own desires, this hope takes on something different. It moves from the ease of thoughtless "tomorrow" into the clinging desperation of now. Hope is not what it seems. This hope is violent. It is determined and justly angry. Friday it finds itself on a cross, gasping, wrasping out a weak yelp for vinegar water. It bleeds from flesh having been ripped, the world shaking with pain and rejection. It stares in the eyes of the executioner and begs for mercy only to be turned away, and still, it prays for those that stand and watch in morbid fascination. Victimized for a moment is born of giving yourself to the last drop, praying, unceasing in its belief that truth really will win. It recognizes how powerless it is to the heart of itself. It hopes for the sake of hope, only to be met with determined death.
Then, it gives up. It dies. The spirit is committed and acceptance comes in a strange sort of peace. It's an uncommon silence. A vacuum pulls the sound, the sights and you find yourself in a white room, no floor, no ceiling, suspended in some sort of neutral place.
This is when acceptance is most painful. You reconcile yourself that nothing is as it was and never will be again. You will never see the world the same, people the same, yourself the same. Every injustice, every moment of violation by every person you ever loved come rushing back in. In terrible moments of deep sadness, your heart becomes a real of past memories, the highlights being the ugly things. Every violation, betrayal, lie and selfishness inflicted by those you love rises back to the surface in amazing clarity. It's all the things you ignored, the truths you looked past the evil you willingly blinded yourself to. Cruel words, jokes, the very people you loved the most taking what they can from you, all the while, your foolish heart had been all too willing to give it over, assuming everyone has good intentions. So much trust betrayed. The bitterness that never seemed to be a struggle rises in the back of your throat like the bile the morning after partying too hard.
As you sit in the suspension, you wonder at the people around you. Why? I trusted you...
As it all crashes in so fast, so deep, every wound you seemed to escape all of the sudden sears you all the new. There is a deep loneliness that hits in those moments. Everyone you ever trusted, really they had never been trustworthy. They had never been the people you thought they were, it had never been the life you thought it was. You've spent a lifetime chasing ghosts. I empathize with Paul when the scales fell off. That must have been an awful moment. To face those he had probably loved, realizing the depths of their evil, to face himself in the depths of his, the world shattered into a million pieces.
Then a noise starts to pierce the silence. The neutral room fades as it takes you a moment to realize the noise that is pounding in your head is really your own scream. Rage pours forth in a torrent coming from places you didn't even know existed. You want to hit something, someone, to release an anger, a wrath that seems to have no end. It will never help though. No one hears the scream but you. Nothing will change this reality and this is the reality you have been avoiding your whole life. I never wanted to see the people I loved this way. I wanted them to be good, to be kind, to be just and loving. But they aren't and they most likely won't be changing anytime soon. That reality happens to be worse than anything. In this moment, there is no justice. The youth I carried around, the hopeful belief in people, it has died along with my delusions of things one day magically working out. No one will be able to fix this. Nothing will give me my years back, there is nothing that can be done about the scars that will be left behind.
It's Saturday and Sunday has not yet come. In this moment, though youth has died, there is another truth that starts to take root. Though no one can fix any of it, now that truth has been revealed, the more important question becomes, "what now?" Piece by piece, the world has to move on and where I fit into it becomes paramount. What do I believe? Who is trustworthy? What does it look like to live in a world that truly is filled with evil everyday?
Who is really going to win?
Will it be those that sought to only use others as a footstool? Will it be the evil that steals trust that brings deep love? Will it be the ugly that seeks to eclipse the beauty?
See, most of life is lived on Saturday. Before the day break Sunday morning, before the real hope can be fulfilled, most of us only know Saturday. We are somewhere in between the death and resurrection. We haven't seen the empty tomb, but there is around the same area that was torn apart by the betrayal and revelation, something takes root. It mingles with the pain, the grief, the loss, the anger and wrath, but it's there. It's the quiet decision to not break. A solidarity begins to take hold, a silent determination, lonely breath into nothingness as you release a righteous "fuck you." To every person, place and thing that has taken what wasn't theirs, to every lover that sold you out for themselves, to every sibling that trampled on you for their pain, for every friend that betrayed you and every pastor that put their own belief's ahead of your heart, to every moment when I naively placed my heart, my loyalty, my trust, my hope, at the foot of someone who walked right past.
A deep satisfaction comes over as the awareness that finally, this may be my chance to break away, to find something different, to be everything I couldn't before.... me.
Saturday is when hope is needed. Sunday it is fulfilled, but Saturday, that's when it counts. In this moment there are no empty tombs in my life. Everything is wrapped in gauze, rigid with death. But that matters not. Death is only a part of this. If the tomb remains empty, fine. If not, fine as well. Justice will find me. Somehow, someway, it will find me. My hope is not in circumstances, it is not in people, in what seems to be, but instead, it is what will be.
In the mirror image of my Father, though it is dim, I have at least the vestiges of His fingerprints. Determined to the end of me, I will be a part of justice.
For all of the ways my heart has seen injustice, for all of the ways I have lost, for all of the things taken stolen, for the days when compassion was unseen, when love was unreturned, when my failures spelled ridicule, when shame was written on me as truth, when I had no voice, I will do what I have to bring heaven to earth. I am all that I am, limited, finite and foolish, but I have been marred, scarred and forgotten. I have been forsaken and disdained and for the life of me, I will never do it to another. I have to believe in the overcoming of all that is unfair and evil.
I may not have been born in a mud-hut only to die at 13, but I know the feeling of powerlessness, of feeling subject to those around and never comprehending why they treat you the way they do. I know the deep desire to only be a pleasure to those you love and have them turn on you as if you are a burden. I know the feeling of handing your heart to those you love only to have them reject it, and it's a different sort of death. No one should have to pay just because they were born in a certain place, incurred certain wounds, or loved without regard to themselves. When the innocent are overburdened, when people are victimized by those that are meant to love and protect them, when hearts that are fresh and hopeful are crushed, it's not okay. It will never be okay and I will never believe my Father is okay with it.
This hope that is now in me has nothing to do with a certain kind of life, wealth or love, but it depends on something bigger, more powerful, deeper and more real. It's based on the belief that Jesus was a revolutionary that would rage into battle for someone's heart in violent passion. Heaven and earth can blend in a magnificent way when there is a vision beyond the circumstance. I hear His words now, His parables and I see a man filled with violent hope. Things can be different, the world can be a better place, but it starts with seeing the battle as a fight against that which would steal the beautiful things: innocence, love, trust, honesty and faith. I can see why He would want to throw those that hurt children to drown. Childlike faith is to be desired not because it's blind, but because it is determined. It is simple, but powerful, the way a child loves their mother. No matter how terrible that mother, the child will always love. It doesn't see her failures, but the child will always cultivate the moments of love.
Faith and hope cultivate the moments of beauty in life and dwell on those. Saturday living is in seeing the world as it is, but marching on. In a quote from one of my favorite bands, it's having the heart not to lose it. Before Sunday arrives, Saturday means choosing to bring justice to a world that violates the innocent. It's recognizing the terrible, feeling the wounds, breaking and dying and being honest and angry about that which would anger the Father, but it's believing He will right it. Justice will win. It won on Sunday once, and it will win again. Everyday there are little victories, there are empty tombs everywhere. Perseverance is just about attaining something, it's about being part of the effort.
Until Sunday....
I would give anything to know that feeling.
I've spent most of my days holding my breath from one crashing wave to the next, breaking the surface only to be sucked back under, tides taking me farther and farther from the shore of wealth. Most of the time I didn't even know I was truly drowning. I thought struggle, barely surviving, it all seemed so normal. Injustice was a far thought, more theory than reality. I always thought it would work out. It had to. There would be a moment when everything came together. I would get my due. One day... right? Blind and ignorant, I was so shocked when finally, I broke.
There is a moment when if you live hard enough, give deep enough, love with everything, believe with more than your soul and work to see only the good, something terrible will happen and every belief you have will break. Suddenly the bright lights of reality shine and somewhere deep inside, eyes open to the truth of life. Not everything is roses. Some do not have the fortune of hope as a luxury, but when that deep place finally breaks, hope is all you have left. It's Easter morning. Friday everything dies, but Sunday shows itself as new.
This hope, born of loss, evil, the processes of a world hell bent on it's own desires, this hope takes on something different. It moves from the ease of thoughtless "tomorrow" into the clinging desperation of now. Hope is not what it seems. This hope is violent. It is determined and justly angry. Friday it finds itself on a cross, gasping, wrasping out a weak yelp for vinegar water. It bleeds from flesh having been ripped, the world shaking with pain and rejection. It stares in the eyes of the executioner and begs for mercy only to be turned away, and still, it prays for those that stand and watch in morbid fascination. Victimized for a moment is born of giving yourself to the last drop, praying, unceasing in its belief that truth really will win. It recognizes how powerless it is to the heart of itself. It hopes for the sake of hope, only to be met with determined death.
Then, it gives up. It dies. The spirit is committed and acceptance comes in a strange sort of peace. It's an uncommon silence. A vacuum pulls the sound, the sights and you find yourself in a white room, no floor, no ceiling, suspended in some sort of neutral place.
This is when acceptance is most painful. You reconcile yourself that nothing is as it was and never will be again. You will never see the world the same, people the same, yourself the same. Every injustice, every moment of violation by every person you ever loved come rushing back in. In terrible moments of deep sadness, your heart becomes a real of past memories, the highlights being the ugly things. Every violation, betrayal, lie and selfishness inflicted by those you love rises back to the surface in amazing clarity. It's all the things you ignored, the truths you looked past the evil you willingly blinded yourself to. Cruel words, jokes, the very people you loved the most taking what they can from you, all the while, your foolish heart had been all too willing to give it over, assuming everyone has good intentions. So much trust betrayed. The bitterness that never seemed to be a struggle rises in the back of your throat like the bile the morning after partying too hard.
As you sit in the suspension, you wonder at the people around you. Why? I trusted you...
As it all crashes in so fast, so deep, every wound you seemed to escape all of the sudden sears you all the new. There is a deep loneliness that hits in those moments. Everyone you ever trusted, really they had never been trustworthy. They had never been the people you thought they were, it had never been the life you thought it was. You've spent a lifetime chasing ghosts. I empathize with Paul when the scales fell off. That must have been an awful moment. To face those he had probably loved, realizing the depths of their evil, to face himself in the depths of his, the world shattered into a million pieces.
Then a noise starts to pierce the silence. The neutral room fades as it takes you a moment to realize the noise that is pounding in your head is really your own scream. Rage pours forth in a torrent coming from places you didn't even know existed. You want to hit something, someone, to release an anger, a wrath that seems to have no end. It will never help though. No one hears the scream but you. Nothing will change this reality and this is the reality you have been avoiding your whole life. I never wanted to see the people I loved this way. I wanted them to be good, to be kind, to be just and loving. But they aren't and they most likely won't be changing anytime soon. That reality happens to be worse than anything. In this moment, there is no justice. The youth I carried around, the hopeful belief in people, it has died along with my delusions of things one day magically working out. No one will be able to fix this. Nothing will give me my years back, there is nothing that can be done about the scars that will be left behind.
It's Saturday and Sunday has not yet come. In this moment, though youth has died, there is another truth that starts to take root. Though no one can fix any of it, now that truth has been revealed, the more important question becomes, "what now?" Piece by piece, the world has to move on and where I fit into it becomes paramount. What do I believe? Who is trustworthy? What does it look like to live in a world that truly is filled with evil everyday?
Who is really going to win?
Will it be those that sought to only use others as a footstool? Will it be the evil that steals trust that brings deep love? Will it be the ugly that seeks to eclipse the beauty?
See, most of life is lived on Saturday. Before the day break Sunday morning, before the real hope can be fulfilled, most of us only know Saturday. We are somewhere in between the death and resurrection. We haven't seen the empty tomb, but there is around the same area that was torn apart by the betrayal and revelation, something takes root. It mingles with the pain, the grief, the loss, the anger and wrath, but it's there. It's the quiet decision to not break. A solidarity begins to take hold, a silent determination, lonely breath into nothingness as you release a righteous "fuck you." To every person, place and thing that has taken what wasn't theirs, to every lover that sold you out for themselves, to every sibling that trampled on you for their pain, for every friend that betrayed you and every pastor that put their own belief's ahead of your heart, to every moment when I naively placed my heart, my loyalty, my trust, my hope, at the foot of someone who walked right past.
A deep satisfaction comes over as the awareness that finally, this may be my chance to break away, to find something different, to be everything I couldn't before.... me.
Saturday is when hope is needed. Sunday it is fulfilled, but Saturday, that's when it counts. In this moment there are no empty tombs in my life. Everything is wrapped in gauze, rigid with death. But that matters not. Death is only a part of this. If the tomb remains empty, fine. If not, fine as well. Justice will find me. Somehow, someway, it will find me. My hope is not in circumstances, it is not in people, in what seems to be, but instead, it is what will be.
In the mirror image of my Father, though it is dim, I have at least the vestiges of His fingerprints. Determined to the end of me, I will be a part of justice.
For all of the ways my heart has seen injustice, for all of the ways I have lost, for all of the things taken stolen, for the days when compassion was unseen, when love was unreturned, when my failures spelled ridicule, when shame was written on me as truth, when I had no voice, I will do what I have to bring heaven to earth. I am all that I am, limited, finite and foolish, but I have been marred, scarred and forgotten. I have been forsaken and disdained and for the life of me, I will never do it to another. I have to believe in the overcoming of all that is unfair and evil.
I may not have been born in a mud-hut only to die at 13, but I know the feeling of powerlessness, of feeling subject to those around and never comprehending why they treat you the way they do. I know the deep desire to only be a pleasure to those you love and have them turn on you as if you are a burden. I know the feeling of handing your heart to those you love only to have them reject it, and it's a different sort of death. No one should have to pay just because they were born in a certain place, incurred certain wounds, or loved without regard to themselves. When the innocent are overburdened, when people are victimized by those that are meant to love and protect them, when hearts that are fresh and hopeful are crushed, it's not okay. It will never be okay and I will never believe my Father is okay with it.
This hope that is now in me has nothing to do with a certain kind of life, wealth or love, but it depends on something bigger, more powerful, deeper and more real. It's based on the belief that Jesus was a revolutionary that would rage into battle for someone's heart in violent passion. Heaven and earth can blend in a magnificent way when there is a vision beyond the circumstance. I hear His words now, His parables and I see a man filled with violent hope. Things can be different, the world can be a better place, but it starts with seeing the battle as a fight against that which would steal the beautiful things: innocence, love, trust, honesty and faith. I can see why He would want to throw those that hurt children to drown. Childlike faith is to be desired not because it's blind, but because it is determined. It is simple, but powerful, the way a child loves their mother. No matter how terrible that mother, the child will always love. It doesn't see her failures, but the child will always cultivate the moments of love.
Faith and hope cultivate the moments of beauty in life and dwell on those. Saturday living is in seeing the world as it is, but marching on. In a quote from one of my favorite bands, it's having the heart not to lose it. Before Sunday arrives, Saturday means choosing to bring justice to a world that violates the innocent. It's recognizing the terrible, feeling the wounds, breaking and dying and being honest and angry about that which would anger the Father, but it's believing He will right it. Justice will win. It won on Sunday once, and it will win again. Everyday there are little victories, there are empty tombs everywhere. Perseverance is just about attaining something, it's about being part of the effort.
Until Sunday....
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