A thought on Easter

            On Thursday afternoon I was sitting by the neighborhood sandbox with my kids and a 4, 5 & 6 year old who all live on our block. As we chatted, the following transpired:

            4 yr old: "We should buy enough sand to reach Jesus."

            5: "Who is Jesus?"

            4: "He’s the President"

            Me to 5 yr old: "This weekend people celebrate Easter, which is when Jesus died on the cross and then came alive again."

            6: "That was a mean thing to do."

            Me: "You’re right, it was mean, but Jesus let them do it."

            Today I had my own worst thought about killing Jesus when I was trying to make my 10 month old take a morning nap, so that I could go back to sleep. He kept standing up in the pack-n-play and I thought, “Jesus, make him go to sleep or I will kill you.” As I had it flash in my head I instantly felt like I had just lost everything. I was the kid who after being on the verge of getting in trouble, threw his plate at his mom and then panicked. To try to take it back I ran away screaming, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!,” Even trying to apologize to God felt useless, because I had committed an unforgiveable sin and even in trying to tell God that I did not mean it, I knew it was too late.

            Where did this come from? Who am I to wish God were dead, to be as arrogant as to threaten him? I am ungrateful and dark and evil. I can’t help thinking that I nailed Christ up there. I said you are not enough unless you do my bidding, so I am going to destroy you in my heart. Shame and disappointment and isolation follow and now I am no my needs saying, please forgive me, like you did the criminal dying next to you who confessed that you were “the Christ, the son of God.” You did this for him, promised to meet him that day and I praise you for letting me be a part of the forgiveness and that same reunion that comes after. 

"Write What You Are Passionate About"

So I went to hear a poet read and sing on Friday night. It was a big effort to get out, knowing I would be alone, probably miss it and that it was thirty minutes away (which is far for Ann Arbor, where almost everything is within fifteen). Due to some luck or synchronicity or divine intervention, I got there at the intermission, just before he went on stage to begin his performance.

The guy is Matthew Hunter and one of his pieces is titled, Angel. Prior to reading it, he announced that he does not know this girl, Angel, beyond having spoken with her once. He went on to say that when you write about someone you don’t know, you are speaking about yourself. It felt like he was someone for what he did and for her enthusiasm about everyone he encountered. As I think about this guy, who I do not know beyond his readings, I envy his ability to command space.

I would like to be able to say anything, sing without regret, speak words with emphasis and mean them. To align it all to look important like he does, singing, writing and fighting for Civil Rights and pursuing some advanced degree like Public Health. I want to matter.

So what does it look like to command my own ship, or as he suggested, “write what you are passionate about.” I believe it translates to listening to my internal reactions and observing how I describe the world, as a way of understanding myself. It means continually wondering what is bigger in my character, my struggle with a son or my own disappointment in me.  Silencing that voice that runs on about how I didn’t do the dishes, didn’t stop to listen to my son, didn’t call you, wrote a shitty piece, am selfishly using money for childcare to support being lazy.

In this moment, bigger means sitting for 5 minutes in silence, letting go of expectation, RUNNING, writing the character who might be worth a penny, might not have an epiphany or might be incapable of a witty interlude anyone. Listening when my son says, “Mom, I don’t want you to be grumpy ever again, ok?”

Today, I want to be with David as he plays the “mother” in Mother May I and tells me not to sing. I want to understand why he fights to be the boss. Is he looking for connection, testing his own authority or just too tired to play nicely? Lately, I have struggled to grow beyond “yeses” and “nos” and the make believe stories of our days, as I practice my role as parent. I think that if I can just listen, we can both experience a new way of enjoying attention.

Agonizing in Chaos

I don't organize. Food is random. In the afternoon I think, "Oh phew, we still have some things that might work for dinners." My husband is fine with most things beyond having too many nights of salads and any food on the "wown't eat" list.

So I just got a bunch of quirky cookbooks from a neighbor and will once again attempt a month plan, freezing meats and hoping things last, because the work of purchasing ingredients and deciding in a moment is torture. I also need to be all new recipes because I somehow think people don't like anything I already made.

The same goes with cleaning. I clean when I get so disgusted by what I think others might notice about the fur balls in the corner. What must I, should I, can I do to be "good enough?" To accept the decision and move on (doing or not doing anything without fixating). I have to imagine that if I even settled on a once a month or five minutes a day cleaning routine, that might cure my anxiety.

I long to be less burdened by what I am not doing and either act or dismiss, going back to my entry on "doing or not doing the dishes."Here is the start of my meal plan. I might cook a Pork Roast, Beef Roast, Curry Chicken, Falafel Burgers, Meat balls, Chicken fingers, Fried rice, etc.

My desire is to see life, and in this moment daily survival, in a positive light, as if I am holding up a half full glass of ginger-lime juice, or an icy mocha or something bubbly. I love actually cooking for my family! The result feels like a major accomplishment.

My intention is to raise this glass to you, look in your brown eyes, say "cheers" and take a sip, swish for a moment and then swallow, leaving the memory to linger on!

If only it were that simple!

Processing

Somehow the people who try hardest to love me, give me gifts or really listen, make me afraid of them. My favorite teacher is constantly asking me to do things and I find myself looking down and leaving class the minute she dismisses us, to avoid her. I somehow believe they must be mistaken about investing in me, must want something from me, or will soon realize I am shallow.  So I let them grow up in my weeds or rocks or bad soil for a few minutes, before squelching them so they can never flower in my garden.

One of my college roommates wrote me a story about the day I was born, a five page deal with beautiful detail and lots of love. She made thirty paper flowers and coordinated with thirty people to hand them to me throughout the day. To top it off she threw me the only surprise party I can remember. I was cold in response. I secretly wanting her to miss things and be less important so I could say, no big deal, you are not that amazing or important and neither am I. It pains me to think about how I refused the joy and delight of her unconditional love.

Five years ago, a best friend stopped calling me to see if I would pick up the phone and initiate and I didn’t. I was afraid that if I let her in, I would not be able to hide the dark personal stuff I was facing.

Recently a close family friend chose not spend time with us during my mom’s memorial. I found pleasure in my own indignation. I could focus on stories about how they don’t care, making me feel justified in my distant.

My entire college career has teachers commenting about my papers with things like, “what do you really believe.” I hear them say, “you are a Parrot repeating everyone else, but what matters to you?” Or in art they said, you copy what has been said, but what do you want to be?

I have a print of a woman’s arms moving a black iron across fabric, which was stolen from Picasso’s Ironing woman. My husband has always loved it and while in NY with me on a business trip he stumbled on the original and recognized where mine came from.

Sheesley encouraged me to find my own way, Lundin constantly spoke of “not same love in copy speech, but counter love, original response. Then for my senior show, Shrek raked my layers of armor in questioning my pregnant lady sculpture, demanding that I figure out what the lady was really holding (which was in no way a fetus). In my pregnant sculpture, I wanted to pretend something profound and he saw through it. It turned into the mask of an angry man and still haunts me to this day.

This is one more unfinished thought as I look at deep failures in relating to others. I know that I want people and gifts to matter and I want to respond in love. I don’t want to push you away. I want to sit and listen, without any obligations to pretend. I don’t know what I am supposed to say and so I might just close my eyes and watch your words in my head! 

I know that the starting point is being honest with God and writing down my skeletons so they can be released or at least spoken to! I ask God for patience and to free me for real interactions!

In the past few days I have sat around thinking about personal struggles with abusers, navigating in relationships and how I play active or passive roles in engaging. My friend Melissa wrote an amazing blog about doing the dishes or not doing the dishes, that everyone should read!! She says the following: "There are only ever really two options: do the dishes or don't do them." http://casting-off.blogspot.com/ (Entry for April 13)

I think about this in terms of "save money, or don't, cook or don't, clean or don't, write or don't. The test of deciding what is important to me and what is not is tricky. I often pretend I don't have two options, and then leave the dishes like an unreturned phone call I may never return.

My husband is responsible for cleaning the kids ears and so they are either cleaned or not. If I want them clean, I can clean them, but I don't. He will get to it and manage it if it is important and I have to trust that things will be just fine.

I can't help but think this is same thing with relationships. I can call people I love or who I think need me or not. In reality, I tend not to and then spend hours thinking about how I should call. I keep wondering about this because I would never state that I don't want to talk, but my actions speak for themselves. I passively avoid the conversations. When I do talk, I often think that I don't want to say what I am thinking and flounder on to topics like the weather.

 My friends blog says, "Procrastination is Fear." I think it has to do with fear. Fear of being vulnerable, rejection, bored, alone. Maybe my blog is the answer. I want to talk to all of you, but I don't know how to be there to listen. I have ADD and worry about what I am not asking, remembering or saying to help you. On the flip side, I love moments where we are free to talk about anything and everything without worrying about if we will be ok, because we are in it for the long haul (or we are scheduled to speak again next Sunday night or at Book Club or Small Group or at dinner tonight).

My friends all know what they are going to make for dinner, when they will clean the house and they call me. Sadly, I can't even tell you the last time I showered. I have to believe there is more for me in all of this, so I will keep writing and hope you will keep reading, because I want to believe in you and to experience our lives growing and expanding because of each other. If I don't call you back today, know that I just am not comfortable enough to be honest with you in person and hope I will be bigger tomorrow.