Whose Truth?

Today I am left wondering what my "my truth is." Is there such a thing as absolute truth and if so, who can interpret it? There was a time I thought my dad had an answer for every question and a later point where I knew God was the answer, but recently the question has been asked, "Who is God." If we were to write a definition or attempt a label, it would be limiting and fraught with our own misunderstanding. 

The writers at Calvin's Faith and Writing Conference this weekend write from a passion and a tradition, while also stating that questions drive their work. Lan Samantha Chang from Iowa, stated she was an agnostic who created a catholic priest character named Bernard, whom she liked, partially because he provided a wider view. Marilyn Robinson talked about the politics of peace by seeing everyone as "created in the image of God." Jonathan Safron Foer seemed not to care about God, beyond what the stories did to inform the structure and questions within his work and life. 

Patrick Madden shared his love of the essay, noting: 

- it is a place of questions/pondering, 

- the writer and character are the same voice, 

- the words are a window into the author's soul, not pretend, not self aggrandizing

- the writer tries to live up to the person he would like to become

This is a way of thinking about the world that I love. It is living in the complexities of politics, faith, and relationships, always open to hearing others voices. 

Back to Robinson for a minutes, she was asked why she was not more raw like Flannery O'Conner and she said that this was not her experience of the world, that she could only write what was authentic to her. When a student posed the question, "Where did your idea for explaining the ten commandments come from" (referring to her book Gilead), she said that [her character], John Aims told her. 

My age old questions include, how do I listen without trying to please and gain recognition? I fear everyones misunderstandings. While Robinson spoke, I found myself dreaming up pen names like "Soni Kraft," to hide under. Marilyn focused on Not Fearing anything but God, Lan shared how she avoided her calling for thirty years until she did not want to get up in the morning for anything else. I sit somewhere in the silence of Lan and fear this moment that I put words on a page. Weighed against my cowardice is my need for liberation.  And my question, "What if I can write something that matters to another human being."

I believe that God gave me himself and so I have to write our story down. My question, "What is my truth," leads to helping my character defy my smallness, to fight for something more beautiful and more painful then what I can see from my fogged windows . 

Losing My Guts

This week I lost my journal. It was somewhere and then it went missing and I looked and forgot about it and am now wondering what was inside the cover. If it was in my hands I would never bother to look through its tattered pages, but now I feel lost, like I have a dream that is vanishing before my eyes. It tends to have unfiltered emotions, real guts working through through my intestines or liver and hopefully exiting my brain, never to return.

I am heading to a writing Conference tomorrow and keep thinking things like,
Can I get runs in?
Will I know anyone or choose to be social? Will my interactions be real or fake?
Do I have to network and who would I even target?
Am I a serious writer? Do I have a story to tell and any work to share?
How can I go to every talk and not miss the best of what is there?
Would I be better served in a cabin in the woods for three days with my notebook and pen?
How can I leave my kids and what do people think of me for doing it?
Will my kids resent or forget me (will I lose them?)?

So I doubt my ability to choose to fight, over my instinct to curl up and hide. On Sunday I started my 10K in the pouring rain. In the pain of running the first 100 yards, do I kept trying to decide if I should shut down or push harder. And for what? For myself to know I can run fast? For others to say, wow, she is fast or slow? I  really want silence. I want a moment to run without all the effort to avoid judgement. A moment with the guts of my lost journal, where I can run any pace, scribble gibberish and enjoy myself.

Losing You

A close friend recently shared her work in dealing with a relationship and problems from the past in a desire for healing and wholeness for them both. In our correspondence she spoke of her fear of damaging our relationship by doing this work. It was a surprise to hear that fear about us, because my initial response was that nothing could hurt us.

Thinking about it further, however, I realize that losing people is often less about a dramatic incident, and more about my slow distancing. It is like watching a tree die, limb by limb, as I slowly become less personal or open, to the point that we both stop calling. I often feel sad about the numerous people who I cast off in this manner. Great friends from HS and College who loved and believed in me and wanted to  know me. At the time I could not meet my own expectations of being good enough or available enough or open enough to what I thought they wanted and so I caved under my own pressure.

The people who did not accept this are my closest friends. They continue calling when I will not answer and then pick up when I finally dial back. They inspire me with their fights for what they believe in often in direct conflict with upbringing, family and friends. When we are together they tell me repeatedly that I am a good mom, that I am a good writer, or whatever it is they know I need to hear (and that they sincerely believe about me). I want to be like them. And I want to be able to tell my friend there is nothing she could do that would make me lover her any less, because that is what faith and hope and Christ's love are about.

I recently forgave myself for all my failing people and decided God would cover my losses, my lack of relating and that some day we would be restored and together, like in old times. For you who I cherish today, I am so thankful for moments and glimpses of deep love we have together and I hope there will never be anything that separates us.

Community of Women

I stayed for three nights with a friend in Chicago last week. While there, she mentioned this notion of everyone needing a place where they can be taken care of, loved, and supported. I can't help thinking that this is what community should be about.

During the days together, we were full of energy, hope, despair, while seeking after the silver linings. She questioned how we live in the moment and embody our experiences, rather then shutting down in an effort to survive the next hour or day or week. She shared the concept of living with overwhelming despair in the midst of fierce hope (from a Pastor Chuck sermon).

It was beautiful to wake up, eat cereal and drink instant coffee. She packed PB&J, grabbed a stroller and we were set to go anywhere. One of her goals is to be out and let her kids play. We did not have to be anything, but walked and sat and moved from beach to park to bus while talking about anything and everything and nothing at all. We had the nights to sit and ponder. I felt the numbness come over me the instant I arrived at my own home to find a sick family, TV blaring, dirty house with sugar ants and endless hours alone with my kids.

I have to believe there was a time when family was more connected, lived within a block, shared the work and kept life simple, cooking and cleaning to eat, but not worrying so much if others liked the flavor. I long to be with real people that I can trust, knowing we will cover each other in our weak moments and fight to defend hope when we have more to give.

Maybe I will start some women and children retreat center, where women can get away with their kids and all be unconditionally loved and taken care of (or maybe this will be Heaven?).

The Race is On

So I had several clear indications that I was not to run the race set out for me on Sunday. My husband asked why I would do it to myself. I had to get childcare, illegally purchase a ticket on Craigslist for $45, manage Navy Pier for the race bib (a long and expensive traffic jam) and on top of it all, I lost the bib number just before leaving, which is the item you need to get into the event (and time it). On top of all of that, it took over twenty minutes from the start time of the race to even get to the start line. That left me with almost 20,000 recreational runners and walkers to manage. I cut along sidewalks, ran the outer edges, slid between people and tried my best to feel like I was running, but in the end I was moved by the forces around me. The redemption in it all is that I raced my way from Grant Park to Foster beach, feeling both tired and exhilarated from the sixteen miles of faster speed and with the the sense that no matter what the pace, I could keep on going.