It's (Not Yet) Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas

If you're having trouble getting into the Christmas spirit, if it does not yet feel as though Christmas is nearly upon us, fret not! It isn't. The four weeks of waiting for Christmas, liturgically marked with the season of Advent, remind us that Christmas is not yet. Minister and theologian Fred Craddock writes, "Everybody is already having Christmas except the church." And this is true. Red and green decor adorns city streets; stores pump out Christmas music and promote holiday deals that end December twenty-fourth; Santa Clause has come to the mall. I myself have already watched two Christmas films, imbibed grotesque amounts of eggnog, participated in two gift exchanges, and parted ways with many a person with the phrase, "Merry Christmas." But I find myself saying it to people I do not think I will see again before Christmas. It is a wish for the future; not the present. Merry Christmas to you, when it happens in a week or so. Merry Christmas to your not yet celebration of joy and love with family and friends. Merry Christmas to the season that is nigh. Christmas is close, I can smell it. I can hear Christmas echo from this coming Saturday, I can feel the anticipation in my heart and chest. Christmas is coming coming coming, but not yet. First we must wait. First we must crave Christmas.

RESOURCES:

"Sunday, December 26, 2010" by Fred Craddock, The Christian Century (Dec. 14 2010)

To Understand Myself

I want, by understanding myself,
to understand others.
I want to be all that I am capable of becoming....
This all sounds very strenuous and serious.
But now that I have wrestled with it,
it's no longer so.
I feel happy--deep down.
All is well.

RESOURCE:

"To Understand Myself " by Katherine Mansfield, The Heart Has Its Seasons: Reflections on the Human Condition edited by Louis Savary and Thomas O'Connor (Regina Press: 1970)

Big Breath! Advent, Week Two

My friend asked me what Advent is, he being a religion-less heathen. As if simply being a non-Christian weren't treacherous enough. Seriously though, his question brought me pause, as Advent also calls me to halt in the silence that is the inhale before the eruption of heralding angel voices singing, "Glory to the newborn King!" Oh Advent. Oh waiting. Oh patience, anticipation, anxiety attacks. Well, that last one isn't exactly part of the proper Advent season celebrated by Christians as we prepare for the birth of Christ on Christmas. But it was part of my second week of Advent. It's probably nothing, but as the days plunge into further darkness I find myself suffering from mysterious angst.

Last Sunday marked the second week of Advent, when we Catholics get to light two candles around the Advent wreath, the light and Christmas excitement building as we tumble towards December twenty-fifth. The day began as smooth and lazy as any Sunday might, but was pocked around one o'clock when my chest tightened, my pulse quickened, and the room with its walls and ceiling left me claustrophobic and panicked. Like any person enduring a panic attack might do, I began huffing exaggeratedly loud and helplessly waved my wrists as my tears started. Pathetic.

The freak moment passed and I shamelessly crawled into my bed for the rest of the afternoon thinking, "Am I really a crazy person?" Verdict? Yes, I totally am. But not because I have anxiety issues or food intolerances or even because I share way too much personal information on my insignificant blog that I make my friends and family read. No, that's not my crazy, that's just me. My crazy is that I remain a Roman Catholic--devout and practicing, more or less--despite all the guilt and daddy issues and anger this belief ignites in me. (More on all that at some later date). Being Catholic is part of my crazy. And so then is observing the season of Advent.

Advent marks a specific space in Christian consciousness during which we anticipate Jesus' birth. The ever-risen Christ is, during this hushed time of waiting, not yet born to the world. Advent serves to remind us believers that God's kingdom is always here and not here; always now and not yet. As Fr. Richard Rohr phrases it, adult Christianity is about "making your entire life, and the life of the church, one huge advent." Being human is about always becoming human. To my Catholic mind, Advent is the deep inbreath of solace before the joyous exaltation that hope is born, today and always.

RESOURCES:

Richard Rohr, Preparing for Christmas (Cincinnati, OH: St. Anthony Messenger Press, 2008)

Light the Advent candle one ...

... now the waiting has begun ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VW15vdcNSSk

Daylight Savings Time Ends

The darkness embraces everything,
It lets me imagine
a great presence stirring beside me.
I believe in the night.

-Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Hours

Dia de los Muertos

Taking a tip from my neighbors to the south, I thought I would use this space to remember the people who have transitioned from life to death, both recently and in the further past.

In Memoriam (please add names of those you'd like to remember in the comments section below):

Rob McKnight

Maude Milne

Mama Loux

MaryAnne Norton

Lois Flamang

Mark Waudé

Satoru Leonard Hayashida

Kate Wood

Agnes Calvo

Benjamin Hickman

Isabelle Hickman

Frank Hickman

Horace Winder

Redgie Hickman

John E. Blume

Velma Blume

Edwin Burnley

Elfie Olsen

current addictions

solitaire
sleep
knuckle cracking

January 2009

Cannon Beach, OR, USA

things that are hard

Things that are hard:

Owning/running/living above your own bookstore.

Things I’ve been told:

That has nothing to do with your degree.

Things I love:

Words like rigmarole and happenstance.

Things I know:

Love.

Things I want:

To do something that matters to just one person.

Things that are easy:

Breathing (usually), petting cats, doing the dishes, smiling.

A Discipline

I make my bed
everyday.

Exhibit "A" is for "Awe"

Worldwide, observers of Judaism are celebrating the "Days of Awe," the ten days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It is a time of introspection, prayer and good deeds. The shofar, a ram's horn, is blown at the end of each service of Rosh Hashanah and is considered a wake up call. Rabbi Maimonides, the great Spanish Torah scholar, described the shofar as saying "Awake, you sleepers, from your slumber ... examine your deeds, return in repentance, and remember your Creator." Notably, Maimonides is also known as "Rambam," a virtual onomatopoeia in reference to this quote.


So why am I bothering to write about the Days of Awe, the shofar, Jewish philosophers and onomatopoeias? Well, mostly because inter-religious dialogue remains a theme in my life and work, and because I find Judaism so rich in wisdom, ritual and challenge. And because I believe in an awesome God, so finding myself in the midst of what practicing Jews call the Days of Awe sparks my interest and wonder. Ah yes, wonder. I am curious always about the many ways the Divine finds expression in our lives, and the many rituals and prayers believers of various faiths practice in an effort to articulate the Divine encounter.


Maimonides' words about the call of the shofar strike me as pertinent to the human condition. Wake up! Look at yourself! Are you the human being that you want to be in the world? How simultaneously beautiful and horrifying it is that Judaism brings this front and center each year with Rosh Hashanah. Beautiful, that the faith instructs its followers to turn inward and give an honest, hard look at the life each is living. Horrifying, that each year Jews must come before God and their community with all their dirt and failures. I mean, in theory, Christians only believe in one judgment day in the end times, not a yearly examination of one's self in the world. Perhaps the season of Lent is somewhat akin to this time of inner reflection, but I continue to be struck by the dramatic task of redefining one's self in one's relationships on a yearly basis. How profound, how daunting, how brutal.


I can honestly say that I am not the human being that I want to be in the world. Exhibit A: Tonight I made the misjudgment that I am gifted with the ability to art & craft, and I attempted to make candles. I collected the leftover wax from my candles that have lost their wicks and put them all in a pot on the kitchen stove. I put the burner on high. I went into the next room and began futzing around, something I truly am gifted at, only to be called by the panic of the smoke alarm back to the kitchen. The wax was on fire! How something that surrounds flame is suddenly flammable is beyond me. Again, I'm gifted in futzing around, not physics. Or the art of putting out fires, apparently. I lifted the pot off the burner (plus one for using logic!) and blew on the flames (minus ten for being an idiot!). This of course brought the flames to flare up even higher, and let me just say that I am god damned lucky to still have eyebrows. My next plan of attack was to put the pot of ignited wax into the kitchen sink and turn on the faucet. I cannot tell you why, but this caused the flames to flare up to the ceiling and the fire continued to blaze. At this point, the incessant smoke alarm was more mocking me than saving my life, and I grabbed my phone to call 9-1-1. I think I dialed right, but I don't know because the phone wasn't ringing and I think I dropped it when the flames in the kitchen subsided. Dark smoke filled my apartment--not just the kitchen--but the actual fire had stopped. Thank God! I believe I followed this moment with some actual logic, such as opening windows and calling my roommate to tell her I almost killed everyone in our building and can she please come home right now because oh my god I almost burned down the apartment! I was shaking. My hand got burnt.

Photo courtesy of http://ritard.tumblr.com/

This is one of those distinctive moments in a young woman's life. My kitchen is on fire, I'm home alone, and all I can think is that there's no parent to call for help, no adult that can assume responsibility for this disaster and save me ... I am my own adult. This is a devastating realization. This realization almost makes me want a husband to kill spiders for me and solve the problem of the kitchen-sink-on-fire.


I am not the human being that I want to be in the world. I have the sense that the shofar calls to wake us up from our delirium, from the false world we build up around ourselves. Wake up! Look at yourself! Look at that part of yourself, Kelly, that you are not comfortable confronting. The part of you that wants to be saved, that wants the adult to step in and take over, the part that is passive, dependent, immobile, paralyzed by fear. Wake up! Wake up and smell the smoke filling your apartment. Well, it may not have been graceful or logical, but (thank you Jesus!) the apartment is intact, nothing was actually damaged, and I am not harmed. I am awake to the fact that I am my own adult. And as the Days of Awe fall away and Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, approaches, I can decide what kind of adult I want to be in the world. Probably the kind that owns a fire extinguisher.

A Vast and Fruitful Loneliness

"Life may be brimming over with experiences, but somewhere, deep inside, all of us carry a vast and fruitful loneliness wherever we go. And sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths, or the turning inward in prayer for five short minutes."

--Etty Hillesum

RESOURCE:

An Interrupted Life: the Journal of a Young Jewish Woman, 1941-1943

Henna and the Art of Matrimoning

My dear friends are to be married this coming weekend and I am so blessed as to be part of the preparations. This included a bridal gathering last Sunday for teatime British style, complete with tea cookies and cakes (there was a small pie called a "Bridesmaid") as well as some decadent Indian sweets. I was given a box to bring home as a party favor and spent the rest of the evening tasting the varicolored sugary goodnesses with my roommate. Sweet!

The main event of this tea party was to have the women close to the bride decorated with henna tattoos. The bride, Nina, is half East Indian and will be donning a special made sari at the ceremony. She herself will be decorated in henna art up her arms and legs. I at first assumed this was in reference to Hinduism's predominance in India and a way for Nina to embrace this part of her cultural heritage. However, as it turns out, bridal henna is a ritual in several religious traditions. There is even reference to ceremonial henna in both the Hebrew Bible and the Talmud. This marks my cultural expansions and learnings for the week ...
Above I've included an image of the henna tattoos I received at Nina's party. Natasha from Kent was the artist and she has crazy tattoo skills. She mentioned that she'd done over one hundred hands last week! While painting me with the all-natural plant paste (it was dispensed from what looked like a cake frosting tube in small, dark fecal-esque lines), I asked Natasha what the significance of the design was. She said none, that she'd just made it up. It was awesome watching her work her creative magic over all our arms, each of us presenting hands with our age or youth, soft and dry, a rainbow of complexions. None of us received the same design from Natasha, and yet the honor of coming together to be adorned in honor of Nina and Joe's wedding was touchingly unitive.

The stains supposedly last two weeks and will be their near darkest this weekend at the wedding. I've been walking through my regular week routine with hands that invite glances and comments, and tell the story of ritual, celebration and love. But I must admit that after three days of henna hands I have come to wonder a few things about the meaning of it all. And I mean that in the loosest sense. To what extent is this white lady committing cultural appropriation? Certainly there is no harm in honoring the heritage of a bride and partaking in the ceremonial adornment. I believe the significance will be felt fully at the wedding. In the meantime, I fear that I am rocking some quasi-offensive hand gear. It's mostly my whiteness that brings me pause, but admittedly it is also my Christianness.

I once took a spirituality course that touched upon the question of meditation and yoga as a Christian practice. A guest speaker visited us and we prayed the Lord's Prayer with coinciding yoga postures. Aside from feeling like a child in a school concert that performs hand motions to corresponding song lyrics (skid-a-marink a dink a dink), I felt a little adulterous. Here I was moving through the sun salutation with my body and the Our Father with my words. It was confusing. We repeated this several times and it did begin to feel less uncomfortable, but the questions remained. Traditionally, yogic practice is preparation for prayer. It is prayer. So perhaps there's greater error in doing yoga as an exercise regimen than as a prayer exercise. Regardless, the union of East and West in this white Seattleite feels always a bit dishonest and forced. Which then leaves me with one practical and boiled-down version of all these questions: Do I wear my cross with my henna?

My Harshest Critic

Oh, the expectation and guilt of (not) blogging. I've wanted to make this canvas much more alive with my presence on the page, especially since I have completed school and am often bored as of late. There is not one decent excuse for not updating Our Fodder on a bran-fueled regular basis. And so therein lies the problem. In an habitual and tired attempt at self-sabotage, I've simply stood in the way of articulating my own life, and for damn good reason.


Life these days lacks action or passion, and is quite frankly vacant. Not that thoughts aren't swirling around in my dream and waking lives, but I am encountering a tendency towards pettiness that is unbecoming, if not downright stupid. My mind wanders to such spiritually uninspiring topics as television's The Bachelorette and sometimes settles on the most unhelpful insights therein--for example, that because Ali chose Roberto that means that Chris L. must necessarily be available for me to ride off into the sunset with ... sadly, that's a waking thought. At the opposite extreme of this sort of hollow pettiness, my consciousness tumbles down convoluted paths of fabricated worry. Exhibit A: "Was I impolite with the grocery clerk? Am I impolite in general? What sort of word is impolite? Does my roommate find me impolite? Oh dear ... and what must her cat think!" This typically results in me interrogating the cat once I get home from the store, to no avail.


Ultimately, I need to chill the (insert your favorite four-letter word here) out and stop obsessing about reality television and the unknowable opinions of a certain long-haired feline. I need to stop obsessing about not having anything worthy to write about. How lovely it would be if I could bring my mind to rest on something lasting, how spiritual, really. Rather, I shall work to direct it towards streams of greater depth, streams that hopefully yield some sort of contribution to society, or more realistically, bring my mind to think think think 'til my thinker is sore! Then perhaps there will be silence.


RESOURCES:
My pathetically narrow noggin.

Beneath All the Masks

We all tend to wear masks, the mask of superiority or of inferiority, the mask of worthiness or of victim. It is not easy to let our masks come off and to discover the little child inside us who yearns for love and for light, and who fears being hurt. Forgiveness, however, implies the removal of these masks, an acceptance of who we really are: that we have been hurt, and that we have hurt others.

Forgiveness of ourselves, then, implies an acceptance of our true value. The loss of a false self-image, if it is an image of superiority, or the need to hide our brokenness can bring anguish and inner pain. We can only accept this pain if we discover our true self beneath all the masks and realize that if we are broken, we are also more beautiful than we ever dared to suspect. When we realize our brokenness, we do not have to fall into depression; when we see our true beauty, we do not have to become proud as peacocks.

Seeing our own brokenness and beauty allows us to recognize, hidden under the brokenness and self-centeredness of others, their beauty, their value and their sacredness. This discovery is sometimes a leap in the dark, a blessed moment, a moment of grace and a moment of enlightenment that comes in a meeting with the God of Love, who reveals to us that we are beloved and so is everyone else.

As the desire grows in us to be whole and to struggle for this wholeness in ourselves, in others, in our community, and in the world, and as we desire to be free in order to free others, a new energy is born within us, an energy that flows from God. It is as though we are crossing the Red Sea from slavery to freedom. We can start to live the pain of loss and accept anguish because a new love and a new consciousness of self are being given to us.

RESOURCES: Becoming Human by Jean Vanier

Jean Vanier is the founder of L'Arche, an international network of more than 100 communities in 30 countries for people with intellectual disabilities and their assistants.

"I Can't Read War & Peace Anymore"

I read this yesterday in a collection of spiritual writings from 2010. I find the article relevant to my initial theme of media as an intersection of the secular and what I would deem the sacred. It also raises some interesting questions about the morality of technology, especially with regard to the Internet's impact on how we think. Definitely worth mulling over. Of course, I wouldn't put it past you if you simply skimmed the article ... if I hadn't stumbled upon it in print, I'd most likely have done the same.

As an aside, I'm a huge Annie Dillard fan.

RESOURCES:

Philip Zaleski, ed. The Best Spiritual Writing 2010 (New York: Penguin, 2010).

Kelly Original, I

Loving source of all wisdom,

I pray that I might

accept

the things I cannot change.

I pray that I might

accept and express

the way I feel.

I pray that I might

grow

in wisdom,

in understanding.

I pray that I might

pay attention

to opportunities for growth,

to my strengths and gifts.

I pray that I might

be fearless

in the face of life's lessons,

knowing that growth eases the way for love's relentless hounding.

Amen

Raw Ruach*

It’s been awhile. My initial optimism on all this elimination diet business has quite subsided, to put it lightly. At this point in the process it is perhaps more accurate to say that my detestation for the elimination diet, for my stomach and body, and for my nutritionist’s recommendations is quieting to a small but sincere grumble—“grumble” being a pun. As I am moving once again into a phase of … well, acceptance is too strong a word for it … perhaps tolerance, yes … as I have put down my swinging fists and become tolerant of the situation, I have the slightest distance from which to reflect upon my angry resistance. Let me recap my tummy’s journey over the past few months in bulleted fashion:

• March: discovery of potential allergies to eggs, dairy, gluten; referral to nutritionist
• April: meet with nutritionist and agree to seek health; begin elimination diet
• April/May: detox brings mood swings, headaches, rashes, acne, etc. to surface; Kelly feels like she’s on crazy pills
• May: challenge foods by reintroducing eliminated foods, one at a time, to determine tolerability; irritability down, impatience up
• June: exhausted. Meet with nutritionist while mistakenly thinking it’s the last session (wrong!). Rather, it’s on to liver support diet: no gluten (still), no sugar, no alcohol, no CAFFEINE. Appointment promptly followed by shameful tantrum in the privacy of my apartment.
• April-June: several breakdowns, sob fests, questioning of my sanity, getting back up and dusting myself off, return to crazy land, depression; interspersed with notable improvement in stomach function and times of extreme gratitude and enthusiasm

I am not miserable and I am not complaining. This is simply a depiction of my state of self as I’ve adhered to this process. It is working, it is worth it, and as difficult as this has been there are far worse health concerns I am so grateful (lucky?) to be free of. That said, I would like to share my musings on the correlation between my tummy’s journey and my spiritual journey. As always, apologies for the hokey language, please do not let it hinder you from reading on.

After a particularly draining day of inexplicable weeping and an equally inexplicable five pound weight gain (!), I emailed my nutritionist (heretofore referred to as my “angel”; read into this as you will). It was pure panic. I had successfully finished the food challenge portion of this nightmare, ahem, regimen and was flying to New York for a wedding. I’d spent the previous weekend at a music festival where I had the foresight to purchase “safe” foods to bring with me and had done all right, save for the beers and burger. But my tummy was stronger by now and all was really not so bad, except that I hadn’t met with my nutri-angel since before the challenging had ended and was terribly troubled about how to move forward with eating. So my email went something like, “Please help! I hate my stomach! I am depressed! I don’t know how to feed myself! I’ve failed!” My angel wisely gave me a call. When she did, angel that she truly is, she urged me to celebrate my victories thus far, noting that, “People pay thousands of dollars to go away on detox retreats, yet you’ve done all this on your own in the midst of your graduate studies and busy life!” Sweet, sweet angel; sweet, sweet allergy-free victories.

My angel recommended that I do what is called a “raw day” on my cross-continental flight. Here is where the angel begins to sound crazy-anorexic and where my skepticism regarding the extremeness of this work (though softened by her profound words of support) peaked. Her advice? Oh simple: eat ONLY six to seven green apples that day, with a whey protein beverage. Pishaw!!!! What am I, a giant hamster? As in, the literal and figurative “guinea pig.” This recommendation struck me as psychotic, unbalanced, unhealthy. But I am not a quitter. Actually, historically I am a huge quitter—theater, track & field, cross-country, lacrosse, rugby, and my college foodservice job—but apparently I’ve grown out of that habit. Or the crazy really got to me. So I followed this seemingly sickly advice and did the apples-only raw food day as I travelled from the left to the right coast of this great nation up in the friendly skies.

Turns out, “raw” is the perfect term for describing how this plan to heal my stomach has felt. My relationship with my body and with food, the social alienation of being different at table, my physical and emotional wounds, the challenge of having to mindfully choose again and again and all day everyday what is allowable versus what is being craved or what is easiest … all has been exposed. Not so much in the sense of looking behind the curtain to discover some lie that has always been there, but more as if I have been stripped of all my masks, shields, weapons and armor. And I’m just sitting here, looking at the mask that seeks approval, at the shield that protects me from the arrows of painful memories. Raw like the bare body, raw like the open wound, raw like the uncooked self that is so literally not prepared for consumption. Not prepared for the simplest of trials. My spirit is raw, scraped out, open and naked.

As for the green apples-only day, my trip and the wedding were incredible! And also followed immediately upon my return by yet another cry fest—and another anorexic raw day. I remain a raw wreck.

*Ruach is a Hebrew word used in the Hebrew Bible that generally means wind, breath, mind, spirit. I use it here in the title to mean all these, especially spirit. I am also playing with the word "raw," as the phrase "Raw Ruach" demonstrates alliteration and consonance as well as semi-assonance. I've read my Nabokov.

DIY Communion Wafers – Gluten-Free

(Thanks to the Washington Celiac Support Group)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Mix together:
2 Tblsp. potato starch
1 Cup minus 2 Tblsp. (7/8 cup) cornstarch
3 Cups brown or white rice flour
1 Tsp. baking soda
1 Tsp. salt
2 Tblsp. Xanthum Gum

Cut 1/2 Cup margarine into ingredients.

Add 1 Cup buttermilk, and mix with fingers until workable.

Roll with rolling pin on a rice floured surface as thin as possible.

Use bottle caps to cut in small circles. (These can be obtained by consuming gluten-free beer beforehand).

Place in oven for 6 minutes.

Serves several hundred.

Tending the Fire

Below is part of my synthesis presentation for the completion of my graduate degree in spiritual studies Seattle University's School of Theology & Ministry (STM)

I have played with the image of fire as a spiritual metaphor in myriad ways over the years. The theme of my graduation from Boston College was the scriptural command to “Go and set the world on fire!” The first written work for STM in my Hebrew Scriptures class in the fall of 2006 was a reflection on God as the burning bush that appears to Moses in Exodus, the fire that does not consume as it blazes. I gave a presentation in my Mysticism and Transformation class on fire as a spiritual metaphor. In the course Theological Reflection in Ministry I was asked to symbolically image myself as minister and I once again incorporated fire, describing my minister self as the glowing embers of a quiet campfire. For Roman Catholics like myself, fire appears liturgically in all its physical states: the candles that brighten the darkness as we light an additional flame each week during the Advent season; the ashes that mark our brows at the start of Lent on Ash Wednesday; the incense used at high masses; and fire is present at Pentecost, baptism, marriage, vigils, and in many, many other forms of sacramental and ritual worship. My parents and siblings and I have always gathered around the fireplace in winter and the fire pit in summer, sitting in the warm glow of God’s love. In approaching this presentation, then, it should not be surprising that I could not escape the image of fire as a lifelong presence on my journey.

Today I invite us to gather around this campfire in intimacy and love as I tell the stories of where I am on the spiritual journey at present, the trail that brought me to this gathering, and the open road before me that stretches beyond the transformative STM circle that’s held me for the past four years.

1. The campfire glows with red-hot embers and crackling sparks.

“I have set the LORD continually before me; Because He is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my glory rejoices;
 My flesh also will dwell securely. For You will not abandon my soul to Sheol; Nor will You allow Your Holy One to undergo decay. 
 You will make known to me the path of life;
 In Your presence is fullness of joy;
 In Your right hand there are pleasures forever.” Psalm 16:8-11

My family and friends, especially my parents, siblings, grandparents and my roommate, offer me unconditional love and guidance. Recently, I have come to accept that I deeply love and lead myself as well. It’s liberating and affirming to be able to say this aloud.

One of the most powerful God images for me is that of the divine sculptor, chiseling and forming me with intricately carved love and grace. Being formed by a cosmic goodness is not always easy to recognize—often, it feels like a violent cutting away that bruises as it refines. However, the tough choices and painful losses in my life have in some way bred growth and shape me in ways I could not have predicted—in ways I would perhaps not have chosen. And yet I find myself feeling blessed and extremely grateful for my life and my loves. It’s as though the fire of God’s love purifies me as it burns off my fears and anxieties, all the while holding me in the divine sculptor’s warm hands.

God has many faces in my life: Jesus, Rumi, Valerie Lesniak, Annie Dillard, Flannery O’Connor, Christian and Hebrew scriptures, Hindu scriptures, Buddhist mantras, Thich Naht Hahn, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Graham Greene, Jack Kerouac, Mother Earth, my spiritual director, my shadows. Present also around this fiery circle are many companions on my journey: John, Carolyn, Reid, Sara, Jana, Rita, Beauch, Marcelle, Maralyn, Jack, Audrey, Yates, Hilary, Jessie, Beth, Kate, Chris, Mia, Nina, Joe, Kelly.

I feel the sparks of my inner fire calling me to write about my spirituality and to creatively converse with the spiritual wisdom in all aspects of life. I am working on my writing and would like to pick up playing the piano again, a love of mine that I set aside when I was twelve or so. I also long to join flames by collaborating with others in my writing and music, and I see myself traveling to experience other fires in different parts of the world.

I tend to my inner flame by being in nature, walking, running, meditating, practicing energy medicine, kneeling at my prayer altar, and remaining connected to my many loves through various forms of socializing, laughter and play.

There’s much kindling that helps to ignite in me passion and joy: Russian literature, living near my family, social justice, prayer, intimacy, creating sacred beauty in the spaces I occupy, the food I eat, and the overall manner in which I live.

“God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.” Romans 5:5

This is where I am now.

2. The fire that is not fed turns quickly to ashes.

"No one lights a lamp and puts it in a hiding place or under a basket, but on a lamp stand, so that those who enter may see its light.” Luke 11:33

In somewhat masochistic fashion, I seem to vacillate between harsh self-judgment and immobilizing self-pity. I wish to end the life-draining habits and commitments that I fearfully hide behind, such as my attitudes about food and body image, and my tendency to avoid taking risks that could lead to amazing opportunities and joys. Rather than fueling my inner fires, I once settled for the safe office job. I once chose to stay in an unhealthy relationship and was of course burned. My beloved grudges and bitter resentments must be smoked out. I need to extinguish the belief that I am not worth it.

It no longer works to see myself without passion for independence or for a successful career. I must learn to loosen my grip on the narrow dream of one day being a wife and mother and broaden my view to illumine the ways in which I am already a partner and nurturer to the loves in my life.

Deep healing is needed in my relationship with my body, in the corrosive ways that I have turned away from smoldering depression and scorching anxiety, and in the ashy wound of my heart that was painfully scalded after the incineration of a lengthy romantic relationship.

I pray that as these ashes cool, my shadows, regrets, grudges and harsh habits which smother my wholeness will be reduced to smoke and vapor, powerless to further singe or brand me.

“… If therefore your whole body is full of light, with no dark part in it, it will be wholly illumined, as when the lamp illumines you with its rays.” Luke 11:36

This is the trail that brought me here.

3. Feeding the fire—life beyond STM.

“For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jeremiah 29:11

This transition from student to graduate is enkindling new energy in me towards seeking a job that is grounded in my gifts and passions rather than finding a job simply to make ends meet. I’m finding greater freedom in owning my vision of self as a spiritual writer and discerning a vocational path that will propel me towards that reality.

Being “grown up,” for lack of a better phrase, is flashing in me and I am taking hold of independence, ablaze with certitude about who I am and I’m enjoying the process of claiming my life as my own.

I feel called to rekindle in a serious way a life of service and ministry. This has never quite materialized in my life due to a zillion excuses, including time, energy, guts and follow-through. There is a new brightness about myself as Kelly-in-the-real-world that entices me to confidently put out the image of myself as student, which I have in essence always been.

I believe that moving out into the world as authentic-Kelly will soothe the burns that I have inflicted upon my body and that I feel in my charred heart. In many ways I feel capable to demand more of myself than I’ve ever had the nerve to, because I feel changed by this program, prepared and cooked, as it were, by the divine mystery to step into the light of my true self, a self that shines her light, always.

“This day I call heaven and earth as witnesses against you that I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Now choose life …” Deuteronomy 30:19

Her Fodder

My fellow grad student and dear friend Kate has begun a blog in which she delves into the spirituality of eating. This aligns nicely with my recent posts yet provides an alternative approach to food and spirituality. Rather than bitch and complain about food allergies, elimination diets and being kept from celebrating Eucharist (eh, she's Lutheran as it is), Kate has started to eat like a monk--literally. Over several weeks she ventures to try a faithful taste of various monastic communities' menus, being mindful of the ways in which food nourishes more than just the body, but the whole person. If my elimination diet were influenced by a group of friars, they would probably call themselves the Anselm's Allergic Ascetics or St. George's Gluten-Fearing Gurus. That's all I got. I'll work on coming up with something of greater wit.

Image taken from Kate's Blog, www.eatinglikeamonk.blogspot.com.

Grace & Gluten

I meant to mention this a bit ago. During Lent I made the Novena of Grace, which is nine days of consecutive masses on a chosen theme. This year's theme was Free Our Hearts and included nine reflections from the three presenters. These can be heard on the Ignatian Spirituality Center's website. The reflections aren't that long and I recommend listening to them over nine days or so in a prayerful way, if it interests you.

For me the experience was doubly special as my parents and grandparents attended most of the days. It's also the most dutiful church-going I've done in months. Which reminds me that as the Communion host contains gluten, I'm off of Christ just now. Jesus blood, er, wine, is perfectly admissible though. I imagine there is some spiritual significance in all this, but I keep ruminating over how folks in first century Jerusalem I'll bet didn't suffer food allergies--in part because of the wisdom of Judaic cleanliness laws, but also thanks to parasitic hookworms.

No joke.

Novena Graphic by Jan Richardson - www.janrichardson.com

Detoxifixion

The food allergy situation has been amended. After meeting with a nutritionist, I am currently following what is called an "elimination diet." The name does not mislead. Foods eliminated include eggs, dairy, gluten, soy, corn, "nightshades" (tomatoes, eggplant, bell peppers, potatoes) and peanuts. Pretty much all processed foods are out, as well as my cherished ice cream, which in all honesty is probably favorable to me. This is basically a whole foods diet. I find myself eating copious amounts of rice, nuts, fruit, vegetables and MEAT. Savory, delicious, protein-packed meat! While alcohol ought to be eliminated as well as coffee, my gracious nutritionist has allowed me these things. Thus I survive.

The elimination diet is temporary--clearly no one could possibly survive in America or the First World with such restrictions. The process remains an adventure, to say the least. The first few days of food elimination result in some rather grievous physical reactions: irritability, mood swings, headaches, blemishes, rashes, etc. These effects ought only last the first few days, then things clear up and health is on the way! The theory is that by eliminating all these foods--and then gradually re-introducing foods to see my tolerance of them--my body both heals and "re-sets" itself in balance.

Now, the irony is not lost on me that while this blog endeavor began as an investigation into myself as a Catholic American consumer of various media--books, movies, policies, norms, etc.--the actual texts I have taken up here have become more and more literal to the consumer theme ... so literal as to include the unexciting details of my eating habits. I could not possibly have planned for this. But I will continue to run with it.

I can't help but find spiritual implications in all this elimination and detoxification business. The connection between healing and spirituality is obvious to me, but I am educated to have "spirit vision," or whatnot. I find that I am a psycho-spiritual being and that the various transformations and traumas that I experience at an emotional, subconscious level manifest themselves physically as well. I won't get into the boring details of my personal life, save for my diet dramas, but the entire stomach strife began in sync with particular life circumstances that left me psychologically ill. The healing of emotional pain, however, did not necessarily beget healing the critical damage my body suffered. Notably, my physical healing has thus far bred much recovery in the psychological and spiritual realms of my person. Hopefully this clarifies my understanding of the body-spirit connection. If not, I'm sure this theme will arise again.

The detoxification bit causes me to wonder about such cleansing on a spiritual level. If eliminating foods that trouble my system brings about a few days of acne, itching and migraines, what might eliminating spiritual hindrances release? What might spiritual blockages be? Do I recognize the ways in which I am spiritually blocked? I'm not so sure.

Recently meditation's not working for me. I told my areligious friends this information, prefaced by the statement, "You will most likely be neutral on what I'm about to say." They were. I told my Christian friends this and received looks of pity, a rub on the back that said "I'm so sorry," and the comforting permission to stop trying if it's not working. I mention all this because the changing face of God and ever-shifting movement of the divine spirit is elusive. My non-Christian friends know this on some level, expressing doubts about the direction of their lives and feelings of being lost, off-track, or stuck. My faithful friends know this as well, telling me that sometimes God is silent, way closes, we find ourselves at an impasse. Please know that I am not dividing my loved ones into two neat groups of Christians and atheists; my point is that what I would call "spiritual blocks" materialize for us all and we use similar language to describe feeling disconnected and low. Difficulty in meditation does not equate a depressive state for me, but it does bring me to contemplate what might be blocking the peaceful flow of gathering myself each morning before the great mystery of the day in prayer and breath. It's probably the lack of soy in my diet.

RESOURCES:

Mary Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo (New York: Routledge, 2000)

Marvelous Error!

Last Night As I Was Sleeping

Antonio Machado

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt--marvelous error!--

that a spring was breaking

out in my heart.

I said: Along which secret aqueduct,

Oh water, are you coming to me,

water of a new life

that I have never drunk?

//

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt--marvelous error!--

that I had a beehive

here inside my heart

and the golden bees

were making white combs

and sweet honey

from my old failures.

//

Last night as I was sleeping,

I dreamt--marvelous error!--

that a fiery sun was giving

light inside my heart.

It was fiery because I felt

warmth as from a hearth,

and sun beacuse it gave light

and brought tears to my eyes.

//

Last night as I slept,

I dreamt--marvelous error!--

that it was God I had

here inside my heart.

In other news ...

I forgot to bring in the charity of my "rice bowl." Fail.

(transformation)

The season of Easter is upon us. Or at least, it's upon me and other practicing Christians. The few and the stubborn. Easter is actually a season guys, who knew! So while Easter Sunday happens for just a day, the season of Easter lasts several weeks and celebrates the time J.C. spent walking around after the resurrection before he ascended into heaven.


I can't speak much to the historicity of this event and I'm not about to get into the various scholarly approaches regarding Christ's rising from the dead ... not because I can't (clearly!), but because it doesn't interest me. Seriously--I've gone down that road and it's confusing, there's very little fact to go off of (not that I'm so stuck in modernity that I need scientific facts to believe something, but come on ... undead Christ?), and ultimately the significance of the resurrection does not lie in whether or not it can be proven. Sounds blasphemous I know, but it's about time I told you (spoiler alert!): I'm a flaming progressive.


In all seriousness, the resurrection means a lot to me. Like any still-faithful Catholic, Jesus' rising from the dead is the basis of my belief in Christianity and the ground of the meaning of life, the universe and pretty much everything. In my limited experience on this planet with those who've trickled into my precious life, the message of the resurrection resonates as a deep, deep truth. Not the undead, zombie Christ message--that's just creepy. The message: Death is not the last word.


According to modern theories of cosmic evolution, in the beginning of the universe there was matter and antimatter, which annihilated each other and created light. From the death of elementary particles came the primordial energy from whence all life arose. Death leading to new life is also exemplified in nature. Think about the cycle of the seasons: from fallen leaves in autumn to the frozen ground and dormant trees in winter, all serve as the fecundation period for the bright mosses and budding cherry blossoms of spring. The most prominent analogy is probably the life cycle of the caterpillar, which closes up into its cocoon and melts down into life-matter as it transforms into its butterfly self, completely different from the plump insect it once was.


I find that in the life of my relationships death is rarely the last word . The people I grew up with fade away as time and distance tumble onward, acquaintances and dear friends constantly swirl into and out of my realm of awareness as their own lives carry them on their journeys. Even those relationships that end in actual death leave a near-tangible space that remains, and I am transformed as much by the departure as I'd been by the presence. I once read that although people die, our relationships with them do not. How does a seemingly one-way relationship between a fleshy, living person and someone who has passed away continue on? In memory only?


In his book Transitions: Making Sense of Life's Changes, William Bridges describes the life cycle in a somewhat counter intuitive manner. Bridges suggests that rather than birth-life-death, the patterns of our lives appear to follow the course of ending-neutral zone-new beginning, or death-life-birth. The question is no longer which came first: the chicken or the egg; the question becomes: what goes on after the chicken? I can refine this analogy even further and posit that the event of the egg is in essence the neutral zone/life that happens after the ending/death that is the laying of the egg, and before the new beginning/birth that is the baby chick--or breakfast, whichever. And Easter is truly about this pattern that Bridges describes. It is the resurrection that shows us that the ending is truly the beginning of new life and that this cycle repeats itself throughout the evolution of the universe and the history of the earth and our lived experiences.


The challenging piece is accepting that the "neutral zone" between endings and new beginnings makes up the large bulk of our lives. Very rarely am I living in constant joy or constant despair, what St. Ignatius refers to as times of consolation or desolation, respectively. For the most part, life happens in the murky in-between times, when what has ended continues to ripple through our lives as a fading echo and when what is coming is yet mirage-like in the distance. In this space of processing and waiting, we grow.


Liturgically speaking, Lent is like this neutral zone in which we take time out to reflect on our values, relationships, motives and longings as we prepare for renewed life at Easter. Microcosmically, the entire movement happens at Easter with Good Friday (death), Holy Saturday (neutral zone) and Easter Sunday (new beginning). On a larger scale I find that death and life invariably accompany each other. It is no wonder the phrase so often heard is "life and death," as if life always came before death. Easter reminds me that all life springs forth from death, hence Lent begins with the ashes of last year's palms and the benediction to Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return. Between dusts life transforms us.


RESOURCES:


William Bridges, Transitions: Making Sense of Life's Changes (Cambridge, MA: Da Capo, 2004)

EASTARRRRGH!

Fourteenth Station

Jesus is Placed in the Tomb

The church preaches your liberation just as we have studied it in just as we have studied it in the holy Bible today. It is a liberation that has, above all else, respect for the dignity of the person, hope for humanity's common good, and the transcendence that looks before all to God and only from God derives its hope and its strength.

Last Supper

Celebration of the Passover Lightsaber. Er, seder ... I am a twelve year-old boy on the inside.

John Turturro Would've Been a Better Christ

As a devout follower of the Onion, in addition to my devout Catholicism, I rediscovered this article from years past. I realize the delicious humor isn't meant to be taken seriously, but for the sake of joy and all that is fun in the world, I'd like to imagine that "Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ" spoke up in protest regarding Mel Gibson's The Passion while remaining silent and satisfied with Jesus Christ Superstar. Which leads me to believe that in terms of historical accuracy, Gibson's antisemitism is deemed far more offensive by Jesus the Jew than is Superstar's black Judas or disco heaven. Ah yes, I can see it now ... rhinestones, platform shoes and exposed chested males = heaven. God help those hell bound sinners.

Thirteenth Station

The body of Jesus is placed in the arms of his mother

The church, the defender of the rights of God, of the law of God, of human dignity, of the person, cannot remain silent before such an abomination. We want the government to face the fact that reforms are valueless if they are to be carried out at the cost of so much blood. In the name of God, in the name of this suffering people whose cries rise to heaven more loudly each day, I implore you, I beg you, I order you in the name of God: stop the repression.

Hey J.C., you're all right by me

Whatup Palm Sunday.

I attended mass last evening with my parents. My mom was one of the lectors along with another reader and the priest, reading Luke's version of the Passion. It's pretty juicy with a quasi sword fight, betrayal, denial, an angry crowd, etc. This marks the near end of the Lenten season and the beginning of Holy Week which culminates in the Easter Triduum of Holy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday, then Easter Sunday. For those outside the Church, I feel obligated to mention that this is IT. Easter is hands down the biggest deal in Catholicism, even more than Christmas. I realize secular society hasn't quite gotten the message on that one, otherwise Good Friday would be the busiest shopping day of the year. "Black Friday" is a much more relevant name for this day as opposed to the day after Thanksgiving, but I'm not in charge of these things. Getting back to the glory that is Holy Week (and I mean this in all seriousness--I L-O-V-E Holy Week), I've included a video of mainstream cinema depicting the event that Palm Sunday is based on, Jesus' triumphant return from the desert to the city of Jerusalem. Granted, the film was made in 1973 and some might find the look the Pharisees have got going on a bit dated, but I do not. Besides, Jesus is totally hot in this flick. I think this movie is a fabulous portrayal of the Passion as it is based more on the Gospel of Mark than on Luke's, the latter having been written several decades after the Christ event. Mark's gospel also ends without any resurrection* (just like in the movie!) and carries the storyline of a Greek tragedy with a fallen hero. Anyhow, enjoy the clip. I recommend starting at 3:45 seconds into it. Hosanna Superstar!

*Mark 16:8 ends with the empty tomb and the following scripture verses were added later, according to most scholars. More on this can be found in most bible translations and also at the always reliable (sarcasm alert!) online encyclopedia Wikipedia.

Twelfth Station

Jesus Dies on the Cross

I would like to make a special appeal to the men of the army, and specifically to the ranks of the National Guard, the police and the military. Brothers, you come from our own people. You are killing your own brother peasants when any human order to kill must be subordinate to the law of God which says, "Thou shalt not kill." No soldier is obliged to obey an order contrary to the law of God. No one has to obey an immoral law. It is high time you recovered your consciences and obeyed your consciences rather than a sinful order.

24 March 1980

Today marks the 30th anniversary of the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero in El Salvador by paramilitary trained here at the U.S. Army School of the Americas (SOA) in Ft. Benning, GA. It's sickening. Having visited El Salvador a couple of times and having seen the chapel where Romero was shot dead while delivering mass (the Hollywood version doesn't exaggerate the gruesome reality), I feel connected to this modern martyr if by Catholic proximity only. The Jesuit institutions of my high school, undergraduate and graduate education have pumped Catholic social justice teaching into my veins for the past thirteen years. I found an excellent article on the National Catholic Reporter's website about the life of Romero and his influence in the Catholic Church and on the Christian imagination.

Lent opens on Ash Wednesday with the command that we are to remember that we are from dust and will again return to dust ... so, in the words of poet Mary Oliver,

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

RESOURCES:

Paulo Friere, Pedagogy of the Oppressed (New York: Continuum, 2000)

Marie Dennis, Renny Golden, Scott Wright, Oscar Romero: Reflections on His Life and Writings (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2000)

Life in the Fast(-ing) Lane

To date, the Facebook/Twitter fast has been rather anticlimactic. Abstaining from Twitter has proven so easy, in fact, that I am relieved to find my dependence on the status-update-driven site simply not extant. That said, abandoning Facebook leaves me feeling disconnected from the lives of my friends, especially those living outside of the Pacific Northwest. I have the horrible feeling that I am somehow missing out on something ... as if checking in with Facebook several times a day kept me better attuned to those I care about. This is an illogical conclusion for several reasons, one being that some of the most important people in my life (my mother and father, for example) do not even have Facebook profiles. It's also unreasonable to think that Facebook is a more direct mode of connection than other technologies, such as my cell phone or email. Ultimately, I find this feeling that something is going on without me stems from the many pictures posted on Facebook, the event invites I miss out on viewing the second my profile is included, and the stream-of-consciousness-like nature of tweaking my profile to reflect the music I am listening to, the books I read, and my random thoughts about the universe I determine must be shared publicly. What void in me does this desire for Facebook occupy? Do I really need Facebook to feel connected to my friends, to myself? Or is it just a means for further complicating my life and distracting myself from real relationships with real people in the real world?

As I sit with these musings I have to be honest with myself: I am terrible at this Facebook fast. I "cheat" every Sunday as Sundays are traditionally not considered part of Lent, and I unabashedly checked my profile on my birthday last week, justifying this by embracing St. Patrick's Day (my birthday) as a feast day and therefore it's not subject to Lenten stipulations. But really using Facebook at all, even if only once a week, feels as though I am being adulterous in my abstinence. All this just makes me wonder as to the power of abstaining ... is it the intention that matters, or the practice, or something else? People abstain from a variety of things for a variety of reasons--some folks are forced to abstain, some fasts are necessary due to limited means, some people are simply reaching for personal betterment.

I received a call from my doctor at eight o'clock the evening of my birthday. I've been experiencing rather severe stomach pain since last August and was referred to a functional medicine specialist a few weeks ago. On the phone my doctor--a small woman with a smart-sounding, soothing voice--let me know the results of my allergy test were in, and that of the twenty-two food allergies I was tested for, I am allergic to around six or seven foods. My most extreme allergies are to wheat, cow's milk and eggs. She kindly explained that these allergies may not be the entirety of my tummy troubles, but that removing these foods from my diet should help with the pain. There were other issues discussed, and I will avoid making the mistake of over sharing here, but ultimately the tangible plan for my recovery means eliminating wheat, cow's milk and eggs from meals. This news came as a rather disturbing blow. No more ice cream? No bread? What on earth am I to eat when I dine out for breakfast? I've been eating these foods my entire life and until last August there was never any problem! There has to be some mistake ... I can't eat pizza? As my roommate has gently coughed under her breath, this is a "First World" problem for sure. Much like most eating disorders or lap-band surgeries, people struggling for basic food, shelter and clothing probably do not bother worrying about whether or not they can eat a chicken pot pie as their next meal. I certainly have no experience with worrying about having a next meal.

Like any self-respecting, spoiled First World brat, I threw a childlike fit in response to the food allergy news. Passing through the stages of grief as if a sacred piece of my person had been violently torn away, I sat in denial eating pasta and muffins the first day or so. But as my stomach responded with insufferable cramping that left me depressed and couch-bound an entire day, I angrily caved and went one very grumpy day without any wheat, cow’s milk or egg foods. Still not feeling so great, I passed through into the acceptance of my new hobby, eating rice, fruits and plain veggies like a vegan, but with as much meat as I can justify. At present (it hasn’t even been a week since the news and my spirits broke) I find myself working towards getting excited about the foods I can have and trying to discover new recipes. This ordeal has left me with new ponderings about the nature of abstinence. Despite my whining, food allergies are extremely common and it is no great burden to simply avoid consuming certain foods. But I am finding it difficult to act very gung-ho about fasting against my will. Tuning out of Twitter and attempting to do so with Facebook seems palatable as it was my bright idea to do so, and to write about the experience here. However, declining quiches and cakes has never been my idea of a good time. Perhaps the forced fast from poisonous chocolate-chip cookies and ruinous burritos will yield greater spiritual insight than have my voluntary (and slightly failed) attempts to abolish social networking sites from my universe. If nothing else, I imagine less ice cream might leave me with less cellulite this swimsuit season.

Eleventh Station

Jesus is Nailed to the Cross

According to the spokesman of Amnesty International, at least three thousand five hundred peasants have fled from their homes to the capital to escape persecution. "We have complete lists in London and Sweden of young children and women who have been assassinated for being organized," Fuentes stated....