A Priest: A Woman

There is a woman at my church who I think is really beautiful. She catches my eye every week and when I see her, there is a sense of warmth that I feel as I rest in her presence. Sometimes at mass she sings or she will read and I delight in those moments. I don’t know this woman personally, but friends have pointed her out to me. One friend said that she is studying to be a priest, which in my church, is not unheard of, but in all of Catholicism, her vocational journey is rarely supported.

I don’t know why I am drawn to this woman but I suspect that I see a part of myself in her…and in really, I revel in that.

Yesterday evening I went to the Good Friday service with friends in my community. I saw this woman in the back of the church. A friend told me her name, mentioned that her ordination was coming up and he went over to shake her hand. There were others going over to shake her hand too. She was wearing simple white vestments, like and alter server would wear and I remember saying to myself, “we must be blessing her tonight.”

I had no idea that a simple ordination blessing (as revolutionary as that is) was not the only thing in store.

As custom in a Good Friday service, everything is stripped down. We are a church of the faithful, a cross and the holy Eucharist. Priests wear simple vestments, alter cloths have been put away and the incense comes out. The reverence about the evening is what I appreciate most and last night was a very powerful moment for me.

The procession began as normal and there….there she was again, at the back of the line, where the celebrant is accustomed to walking. Our parish priest was in front of her and he was carrying the foot of the cross while two other women lifted the sides. I smiled to a friend thinking that this symbolic gesture was really beautiful and in my heart of hearts I would have settled for that, hardly knowing that her presence could be so much more.

They processed to the alter, and this woman….this beautiful, God filled woman stood at the alter and began the service with some opening remarks. I remember melting, looking around in amazement thinking that what I was witnessing couldn’t be true. I wondered if I had missed a memo in the bulletin. And as I looked into the eyes of my friends around me I saw the same gaze of utter joy and amazement. We were witnessing something beyond our expectations…

We began, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

I took a very deep breath and smiled…relishing in the symbolism. And she continued on… and I continued to be completely struck with just how beautiful this moment was going to rest in my heart.

There were other women and men who did the first two readings and the passion of Christ, according to John was read. Three women read the passion, representing each part, and our priest….she represented the voice of Jesus. It was all so very moving…

After the Gospel was the sermon…done by ANOTHER WOMAN who carried herself with poise and dignity. She spoke and we were all glued to the importance of her words. And yet, I wondered if this was it. I wondered if the next piece of the service would also include women. I thought that maybe during the Eucharistic blessing things would change. I thought that a man might take over now….and then he didn’t.

Knowing that the Eucharist was already consecrated the night before, as per tradition in the church, I detected the loophole of the situation and thought of it as irrelevant during that time because the actual reality was right in front of me. And as she held up the small wafer for all of the congregation to see, I breathed deeply again.

I remember the words coming out of my mouth, “Lord I am not worthy to receive you but only say the words and I shall be healed.”

I shall be humbled
I shall be stripped of my assumptions
I shall be rid of the box that I sit in
I shall recognize the fear that stops me
I shall realize love in my life
I shall embrace the goodness of transformation
I shall be filled with spirit
I shall BE without counting the cost

I was humbled in so many ways yesterday evening…stripped to reveal pieces of my core and gestures of possibility. Joy might be a good word to explain my state of mind, reverence as I walked up to kiss the cross.

There was a woman who celebrated mass at my parish last night.
A beautiful, God filled woman celebrated mass at my parish last night.
Our priest celebrated mass with us last night and her presence was powerful.

Walking Justice: Good Friday 2010

I began yesterday morning in prayer, reflection and poetry, curled up in my blanket as I sat on the couch of our common room. The poetry of Mary Oliver seemed to comfort me as I began meditating on the day ahead. I even put one of her books in the bathroom as if to say that I needed a little more connection than usual. And so I asked myself, why today?

Today was Good Friday, the day that marks the death of Jesus, nailed to a cross. And like a typical Catholic, I went to a solemn event portraying the stations of the cross. Actually, I was a part of the stations…

I went downtown with my larger community of friends for the event. When we rode the El downtown, I meditated and talked very little. I’ve been sick for the last few days and my energy level has been low but mostly I was intentionally slow about my preparation. Like the Buddhist, I wanted my actions of the day to be fully mindful. I wanted to be reverent for the day that Good Friday is and for the respect that I would be representing with my body. I sat in my seat, breathing, watching the buildings go by, watching my friends have conversations, smiling…I thought about Mani al-Utaybi, the who died on June 10, 2006 while he was being detained in Guantanamo. He, and two other men, Salah Ahmed al-Salami and Yasser Talal al-Zahrani apparently committed suicide during their time of detention. I’m not sure that this is true, but I do know that their detention in Guantanamo was painful and lacking in justice and so with my body as a symbol, I represented Mani al-Utaybi.

When we arrived to the walk a few of us gathered. I slowly put on the orange jumpsuit, an outfit that characterizes prisoners in places like Guantanamo, Bagram and Abu Ghraib. We took some moments for prayer and then I put the black hood over my head and became the silent symbolic representation of Mani al-Utaybi. There were others standing with me, representing more people who were tortured and died in pain. I became a mindful presence of a man I did not know and yet intimately connected with in his death.

We walked through the streets of Chicago with hundreds of others involved with the stations of the cross. They talked along the way about many things. I did not speak.

I walked and I heard people huff in disgust. I heard the curiosity of others. I heard the reverent understanding of how powerful the representation was. I found myself to have a sense of acceptance for all of this, a realization of the reality and then moving on. I didn’t dwell in any one comment but rather rested in the person that Mani al-Utaybi was.

At the ripe age of 25 years old, Mani al-Utaybi was committed to his faith. He desired to get married, have a family and continue his schooling and religious studies. I find that these are dreams that I too share for my own life. And in 2006, when he died, I remember processing my own hopes and dreams within the context of life. Mani al-Utaybi did not have the opportunity to live.

When we got to each station, each of us dressed in the jumpsuits stood in a straight line. We were still and connected. People looked on. Some took pictures and others simply glanced. Yet it was apparent that our role in this event was different. I was different.

We went through each station, each location was different. Friends were around us in solidarity. I could feel their caring presence. I wondered if Mani al-Utaybi knew that people cared for him. I wondered what he would think of this representation of his body.

And then the 9th station of the cross, the execution….

Kairos Chicago and the Witness Against Torture communities took the responsibility to bring the reality of modern day execution to the forefront of our minds. Using the bodies of those of us in jumpsuits, we reenacted the symbolic death of Salah Ahmed al-Salami, Mani al-Utaybi and Yasser Talal al-Zahrani. Each man died yesterday, rested on the ground with only a sheet for a cover. And I too died…just for a moment with Mani al-Utaybi.

With the death of Mani al-Utaybi and the others I couldn’t help but think of all the other things that died with them.
Their hopes and dreams.
The pieces of them that rest in the hearts of those they love.
The reality of a life not fully lived.
The stark realization of a detention never examined.
The understanding of a story never fully told.
The investigation into the reality of how they left this earth.

As Christians we read the passion of Christ on Good Friday and we wonder if Jesus will remember us when we die. We wonder if Jesus is really like us at all and if he is, how is it that people like Mani al-Utaybi are still being crucified today (literally and figuratively).

Mani al-Utaybi, through the representation of my body, was removed from the circle by six pall-bearers, and the action was done. Shortly after I took off the jumpsuit and became me again. I sat down and looked at all the same people that I had once seen through the black hood. I was grateful to be alive and humbled to be in the heartfelt presence of my brother, Mani al-Utaybi. It took me a while to transition into being me again and yet I never fully left.

Today as I write this, I remember Mani al-Utaybi and all the other in prisons across the world. People who are held in conditions that strip away dignity. People who yearn to be released…people who struggle to find meaning in their existence…people who desperately grasp at each day in order to hold on to what little they have left.

Today, there are men and women being held in prisons who do not belong there. They have not been tried in a court of law. They do not have access to attorneys. And for many of them, their reality rests in a state of torture and impending death.

I cry out for them in prayer and mourning.

Salah Ahmed al-Salami…PRESENTE

Yasser Talal al-Zahrani….PRESENTE

Mani al-Utaybi…..PRESENTE

My 30th Year

Greetings on this day that celebrates the 30th year of my life. In the words of the Grateful Dead, "It's been a long strange trip."

Lately I find myself in a space of gratitude and a lot of introspection, which I guess isn't out of the ordinary but maybe to a greater degree than the norm. I certainly have a lot to be thankful for...a loving family, friends around every corner, my good health, a supportive community of accountability and care, a challenging work environment and a fulfilling academic life that is emerging into part of the work of my life. I am very blessed indeed.

When I reflect on the twists and turns, I remember those moments of uncertainty, the second thoughts and the holy jumping in that my heart has been provoked to do. I love the newness of a relationship, the gradual process of becoming and even the bitter edge of defeat reminds me that I am alive...so very alive.

Today as I sit by beautiful Lake Michigan (which isn't quite an ocean) I recall memories. I have no real words of wisdom to offer, but fragments of my life that have meant something to me....interactions that have changed me to my very core. Despite the fact that there are many of these (big and small), I will list a few that have been very present to me lately in the hopes that might know what a life well lived looks like from my perspective.

Moments of great importance:
* visits to the tide pools with friends and alone...soaking it in
* My time spent with the people who live near / in the Guatemala City dump
* Long New England drives
* Swimming to the rock and back again
* Drifting in Belize and getting lost in the essence of love
* The Island with the Adlers (my other family)
* Phone conversations in the weeee hours of the morning
* Chats with Dad on the back and forth
* Sailing, the cottage and the boat
* Ice cream chats in the parque
* Fiestas y comunidad
* Chicken bus revelations
* Remembering to breath deeply
* Moments of unexplainable honesty
* The Pilgrimage through Mexico with Tom y los migrantes
* Protest, vigil and resistance
* Las palabras de mi corazon: comunidad, amor, paz, libertad, confianza, compartir, solidaridad, justicia
* Heartbreak and liberation
* Butterflies in my stomach
* Sunrise...Sunset
* Belting out the words to the most beautiful music ever
* Sharing the Story
* Prayer...
* Walks on a dirt road to change
* Frog hunting in the rain
* "When Sunny Gets Blue" and others
* Milestones and Markers
* Family gatherings
* Irish tea, lemon meringue pie, cheese and crackers
* Long walks home
* The waves, crickets and gulls
* That day on the Quad
* Everything just clicking
* Falling apart
* Manifesto on a napkin
* Many moments of love...

The list goes on..and on...and on. My life goes on...with joy, thanksgiving and reflection.

Bread of Life

Lately I’ve been reflecting on my identity and the nature of my role in this world. Lent is sort of conducive to soul searching and desert treks of the heart and I have not been very far from that nature of questioning.

On Thursday I read the parable of the rich man and Lazarus at our Kairos meeting. I was struck by the tension inside me. The pull between my identity as an advocate for the poor and the actual reality of my life is a lived frustration that is hard to bare. I do admit that I readily practice the sin of cynical rationalism in this country where my heart is often buried below “higher” priorities rather than connecting with my neighbor. Yet I also know that I can hide between the cozy confines of carefully chosen rhetoric and a comfortable economic situation. Despite my concern for the poor on a global level, the more immediate evidence of a caring heart is often removed from the integrity of a situation. I fail to address needs right in front of me and worst of all, I don’t even make an effort to engage the poor right in front of me (think poor of spirit as well).

And so, when I walk past men like Lazarus on the street, I carefully prioritize my thoughts and actions into an interaction that is stale and often lacking heart. I reach into my pocket perhaps, exchange a smile, but I fail to see the complete reality that is so very apparent in hindsight and times of reflection.

You see, I am nothing more than a beggar myself (as pointed out in today’s homily at church). I crave to be seen and connect in meaningful ways. I find myself being attached to needs unfulfilled and dependencies that hold me back from fully growing. And certain pain and self-judgment might surely get the best of me if it wasn’t for the moments when I am reminded of the frailty of humanity.

Yes, the frailty of humanity is what ties Lazarus and me together. And all the cynical rationalizations in the word cannot negate this lived reality.

Lazarus and I drink of the same cup so to speak. We share experiences of community and are offered renewal and moments of understanding who we truly are. In many ways, I will never know the truth of my inner life without a profound conversion within the context of relationship. I will never know the nature of my soul without the challenging connections of agony, defeat, joy, wonder, admiration and patience all wrapped in one. And most importantly, I will never know my calling until I can embrace the discrepancies between who I am and what I do.

As much as I am a globe trotter, crossing boundaries, voluntarily breaking my heart and mending it again, I must succumb to the fact that my personal evolution and identity is found within the daily interactions that create the pilgrimage that I am on. Each day, I am finding myself. And hopefully I slowly let down my guard so that the mirror image of Lazarus does not provoke a tension within.

Patient Trust

Waking up to the reality ahead of me, the long journey and the tough conversations, I have to remind myself not to get too far ahead. I have to remind myself to be humble and live all the moments in between. You see, I sometimes have the tendency to get overwhelmed. I take my concerns to bed, dream them away for eight hours and when I wake up, the existence of the weight is still shocking. And yet, I feel that I am on the edge of transformation.

Yesterday I heard this piece (again) from a larger prayer by Pierre Teilhard De Chardin. I once read this poem every single day for about a year. Yesterday is was sort of like hearing it for the first time. I find that it is fitting for this time in lent and this place in my journey.

Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
Give Our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you,
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.

Save my life...or lose it

Somewhere in the Gospel of Luke, Jesus says, “For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will save it. What does it profit them if they gain the whole world, but lose or forfeit themselves?”

Recently I’ve been pondering my vocation…and not really that seriously because in my head, “I have time”. I actually thought I had some things figured out a few months ago before grad school hit me, and then some things changed. And really, what changed isn’t a matter of logistics or possibility, but more so a matter of scope.

I live in sin you see. Most specifically I live in the sin of giving from my profit. I give from my excess and not from my need when it comes to the work of my soul. And somehow I know that I can get away with it.

It’s a hard sin to live while being a so called “social justice advocate”. And yet, I still live within the realm of possibility, that I might change my ways and follow my source of authenticity. However, each day I keep choosing the well-traveled groove that is familiar…that is, what is planed, plotted and just edgy enough not to get called out on.

But there have been times, when I was closer to living fully while being lost in the process…

A few years ago, I lived in the small country of El Salvador. Before that I lived in Belize, Guatemala and even Detroit. There is something in me that loves an underdog, and each of these places takes a prize in my heart for being just that….

I could explain all the things I did in those places. I could recite stories, tell jokes about my friends, show pictures and even give a few lessons learned for the ride home. But few people hardly ever ask me what really happened to me there. They don’t even necessarily know that something DID happen. And sometimes I think that’s because I don’t always live as though I have been changed.

To put a statement on my experiences with the poor of those beautiful places would be trivializing. And yet, it all boils down to Jesus’ words in Luke.

I lost my life.

I lost the life I thought I might have, back when I was a little more than wet behind the ears. I lost my life as I rode busses in the countryside and ate food that I knew would make me sick. I lost my life in worship, the daily expression of my love for God and humanity AND the faith filled breaking of the bread on Sunday morning. I lost my life when talking to my taxi driver about human rights before he makes his trip to the US. I lost my life when I took deep breaths and realized that I was meant to struggle in the midst of suffering. And I really lost my life when I actually thought I could do something about it.
I am not trying to say that I am going to heaven. Nor am I trying to point out any good deeds worthy of praise. However, I am trying to hold myself accountable in some sort of authentic way. I am trying to reclaim my soul, which I apparently lost in transit…somewhere between here and arrogance.

I say “arrogance” because I thought I had my soul all along. I thought I was committing people, places and experiences to memory as if to continually lose my life. But I’ve been going through the motions of being a good…..(fill in the blank).

But I haven’t forfeit myself just yet.

I still have those moments of remembering. There are books that I am reading now that have been nudging at my heart. And there are people here who are starting to understand a little bit of the fabric of who I am and meant to be. And, like any good grad student, I am thinking about my future.

I think about working for change. I think about being present to people. I think about working with migrants and refugees…the poor…children who have been affected by HIV/AIDS. I think about working with the rich too. And I think about working with myself…letting my heart change for something greater than the parameters of these few thoughts.

Today I heard this Gospel in Luke four separate times. It wasn’t until the fourth time that I realized I heard it at least one other time earlier in the day….later to realized it was more. Apparently I wasn’t listening until just now, and I needed the extra emphasis.

I hope to consistently lose my life…even here in the comfortable confines of social justice graduate school living. And I hope that someday my soul will meet my praxis in the ways I have always dreamed.

Lent 2010

I am a pilgrim. I travel. I journey. I dig….deeper into the source of my being. I am lost. I am found. I am full of paradoxes. I am moving forward. I seek a challenge and run. I search for color and argue black and white. I pray. I find judgment in my soul. I lose myself in beauty. My affect is present. I cling to a past. I obsess about a future. I live in a present moment. I monopolize conversations in a stare. I quiet myself to understand. I grasp on to meaning. I listen intently. I leap for joy. I sink in sadness. I wake before my alarm. I appreciate many and say very little. I carry gratefulness in my head. I express deep thought in a breath. I dream of the ocean. I love many. I ignore some. I cry out for justice. I find mistakes daily. I forgive others. I condemn myself. I search for moments of clarity. I write, hoping truth will be revealed.

I go…on and on…in this pilgrimage.

Greetings to a New Year - 2010

I’m sitting here looking out the window at the snow-covered back yard sipping my Moroccan tea and reflecting on all the great things I am thankful for. It’s a new year and transitions like these are a good time to take stock.

Today I am grateful for the stillness in my heart, for the place of calm that I now rest in. Waking up to a lack of stress is a good thing. Living my day with hope and generosity is even better. I’m glad that these days I feel very centered and generally connected.

Today I am grateful for my family, as we have endured a great deal together. There is a sense of resilience about us, and some profound wisdom that we hold in our hearts. Even though I live far away from many of my family members, I think of them daily as part of the fabric of who I am in the world.

Today I am grateful for the people I share my daily life with, my friends, co-workers, classmates, community members and seemingly random individuals that I keep in my thoughts. These connections, however brief, are what sustain me as I look to find evidence in the world that I am not alone and that I am truly loved and capable of reciprocating that. Friendship and soulful interactions reach into the core of me.

Today I am grateful for my location in the world. I am glad that I call my Chicago life “home” and that this beautiful and difficult transition came with support and care from others. I am encouraged that Latin America is always in my thoughts and that one day I will return with great anticipation. And I continually yearn for the fresh breaths of New England ocean air, that even a glimpse in my dream can keep me going. I look forward to a new year of exploring the excitement of the city as well as the beauty of nature.

Today I am grateful for my journey of spirituality. I am glad that I do not settle for the story at hand but intentionally dig deeper to find soul. I am surprised to find that for as long as I left the church, my self still felt connected. That means something to me. Yet beyond a doubt, I am most grateful to find that I continue to grow in relationship despite my efforts of preoccupation and persistence at pushing away.

Today I am grateful for the relative safety that I live within. Despite a recession and these uncertain times, I do not spend my days looking over my shoulder. I do not live in a location where war, torture and occupation exist. And despite my involvement in these evils with tax dollars, I do not feel discouraged in using my voice. I will continue to work in resisting the oppression of the poor, the imprisoned, the tortured, the occupied, the violated, the bombed, the weak of heart and all those who daily face the product of humanity gone wrong.

As I begin to live my life in the year 2010 I look forward to the many surprises, challenges and connections that will be made. I’m eager to work on some goals (not resolutions) to expand my capacity to love and live well and I am happy to welcome a new year of life con muchos saludos, amor y paz!

A New England Life

Every once in a while I get a taste for the New England life. I fantasize about quaint rural towns with a strong history and neatly formed stonewalls. I dream about building a yurt in the woods or buying a big colonial house and calling it a “center for hospitality”. I always imagine the beach in my dreams, the calm presence of the waves, the way my skin feels in the air, and the seagull poop on my car. In this New England life of mine I drive on the back roads at night, pick up frogs in the rain and make random stops to take pictures of nature. Sometimes I just take deep breaths and remind myself that life is pretty good. I read books about simplicity and spirituality as I sip my tea in the morning and I push my eggs around in the skillet thinking that this will last me through the morning hike before I stop for lunch. In these little moments of thinking about the possibility of having a New England life, I imagine myself as a writer carefully collecting stories and precious moments to put on paper. Sometimes I sit in the town diner to connect to humanity, knowing that my dog and cat just aren’t cutting it. I have a favorite place at a creek that I go to often, I work on my fly fishing technique (currently non-existent) and wonder about heating my place up for the winter. Sometimes in this life of mine I escape to the city (I’m not sure which one) to watch a movie, buy some books and music and get a few treats to hold me over. I catch up with a few old friends, but my real home is somewhere in the thick of it all, tucked away.

The reality is, this dream is a collection of memories, of moments I have already lived in some way. They are the “bests”, the pieces I miss in the chaos of this Midwestern, not quite so east way of living. Even in Chicago, I remember the ocean as I go to sleep, and think that even if a grid system helps people navigate a city, I still like the winding roads of back home.

Fear of Living a Radical Life...

I had a lot of time to think this weekend. Bus rides for hours, dreams I remembered and the life I lived…they all melt together, bringing me to a place of distant joy and constant vigil for El Salvador. It was only yesterday that I stood at the gates of Fort Benning in Georgia and wept for my friends in the land of the Savior.

Resurfacing my memories of the rose garden where the Jesuits were dragged on the lawn in 1989…the place I took the #46 bus to in search of clarity…or the sweat dripping heat of the mid-day sun as I stand on the place where the church women were buried in a shallow grave….and then la capilla, the cold marble and the community of nuns who give tours of Romero’s small house amidst the ever present pain of the cancer hospital that he gave his final sermon at. I am humbled by the people of El Salvador…blessed to share my existence with them…forever changed in the mystery of why my journey led me to such a place. And so as I stood at the gates, with the tears flowing with each breath, I remembered these realities…the current violence, poverty and migration…why does my emotion surprise me?

Back in August of 2005 I was a bit innocent and filled with vague concepts of job descriptions. I didn’t quite know what I got myself into answering this call to service. And yet I knew I was already ruined…living some life that I had no role models for…some beaten path of my own drum or something like that. It rained for days for the first month I was there…full on hurricane, earthquake and volcanic eruption…forget about the martyrs, THIS is the reality. And the real depth of my experience came with each day, building relationships and living a daily abundance of gratitude.

I spend my days back then stuck to a computer, buried in human rights files or chatting with high school kids in some dusty town about the American Dream that doesn’t really exist…somewhere past Mexico. There were no expectations of being something I wasn’t…I don’t think. I lived differently…more fully. And I was terrified and in love…all at once. Was this a radical life?

I protest at Fort Benning, holding up my cross with the names of Ignacio Martin-Baro (a Jesuit psychologist), Ida and Jean and Romero….my spirit sings Presente! And yet I don’t know how present I really am…I drift to memories and longing. At the Kairos meeting a question I pondered was, “If I was not afraid, what would I do?” I made a list in my head, now converted to paper…I realized that my life is too calculated. And despite my intentionality in life, I still falter in facing my fears.
If I were radical, I might consider taking up a few of these issues on my list. I might …put my life where my mouth is.

If I was not afraid, I would….
o Take time each day to write my thoughts down
o Speak up more in groups, class and conversations
o Spend money on things I want to do (travel)
o Give away my possessions to the poor
o Wake up early in the morning and pray
o Tell people how much I appreciate them
o Begin full discernment for Maryknoll
o Cry more often (good insight comes)

Poetry that Speaks

Recently I've just begun coming out of a fog, a portion of my journey filled with questions and wonderment...a little dichotomy of pain and joy. Within that, my love for poetry, for creative thought has been present, but sometimes distant. Just the other day, a professor began one of our classes by reading a poem from a guy named David Whyte. http://www.davidwhyte.com/home.html

I jotted down the name and just yesterday I found his website while I was searching for reflection / prayer resources. I'm a little obsessed now but I thought I would share this poem as a glimpse into my journey.

To me, this is poetry that speaks.


Self Portrait

It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.

I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

-- David Whyte
from Fire in the Earth
©1992 Many Rivers Press

A Long Time Coming...

I knew in 2002 that I needed to go to grad school. I was 22 then and full of idealism and adventure. In addition, I was still finishing up my undergraduate years and the idea of more school didn’t sound so awesome at that point, so I put the idea in the back of my head for a while and lived my life.

It’s been a good run, and I find myself finally ready to go back to the world of academia or some semblance of it.

Tomorrow will mark my first full week in Chicago, the new city to add in the destinations of my life. I just quit my job (which I really liked), said goodbye to my family and friends and moved half way across the country (hey, at least it’s not a whole different country entirely).

Really, this has been a tough move…and it was a difficult decision to leave Connecticut. It might sound a bit strange in comparison so some of the other places I have galavanted, but I built a life in CT….and it was a good one. However, I think that I am following the right path…something that has been a long time coming.

Thankfully, once I made my decision to move to Chicago, everything clicked. I snagged a sweet internship with the Ministry office at Loyola (my school), found a really great place to live in a community called Open Hands (think Jesuit Volunteer Corps with folks who have been out of undergrad for a few years) and I will be studying Pastoral Counseling (enough said).

So far, what I have to report is this…

1. Great decision #1… take the Prius upgrade over the Kia…$50 in gas from CT to Chicago can also ROCK your world.

2. Lake Michigan is pretty darn big and people say, “it’s like the ocean…,” and I can respect that with the exception to that fact that it doesn’t smell or taste just right. But that’s fine, because this giant lake is just down the street from my house and that is sweet!

3. Public transportation is really great…I live on the Red Line, which goes pretty much everywhere you would want to go and next to the chaos of San Salvador, Chicago’s CTA schedules are really easy. I’m sold…

4. I already found my new favorite taco place, Thai place, coffee shop and book stores.

5. I live next to a sweet church. (no explanation needed)

6. I am within walking distance of at least two gay bars and a short bus ride away from the lesbian Mecca of Chicago.

7. I met a lot of new folks who will probably be my friends (no payment needed)!

8. Surprisingly there are a lot of free things to do in the city including concerts, lectures and the Zoo!

Leaving friends and family behind is tough. It always has been. There were some tears but, within time I will settle in like I always do and Chicago will feel like hope to. So stay tuned to more adventures.

Prison in Belize

A few years ago when I lived in Belize I heard about the prison in Hattieville. I heard that “outsiders” were not allowed in. I think I was misinformed. And of course, I wanted in. I later met a Jesuit Volunteer who once worked in the prison. We didn’t talk too much about the prison then but I remember being intrigued that an “outsider” got in. How exotic!
Being a traveler, an adventurer of sorts, the “road less traveled” brings a certain thrill into my existence but more than anything, I always want to see things for myself. I don’t simply want to hear about the conditions within a town, school, organization or prison…but I want to see them with my own damn eyes (thank you very much)!
However, in the case of the prison, I have to admit my professional interests as well. Before I was born my parents did some sort of prison ministry. My mother also wrote letters to one man. My father later worked with violent (and mentally ill) criminals. The thought that I might carry on my life’s work in a prison is an interesting and potential full circle of sorts. And so, maybe this whole prison trip during my “vacation” to Belize was just a bit self serving. But what an experience it was.
So let’s start a few days before we got to the prison.
In true Belizean form everyone knows someone and any little connection helps. As it turns out, I have some good and well connected friends. One friend knew a priest that goes to the prison daily while another friend has a connection with the director (aka the warden) of the prison. Now we have our names to drop at the front gate after we leave our wallets, cell phones, and everything else in the car.
Ok, but the really funny part about this whole pre-trip to the prison was letting other friends know our plans for Friday. A typical conversation would go like this.
Person A: “What are doing this weekend?”
My friend: “Oh, we’re going to the prison and then to Bakab for a swim.” (*Note: Bakab is a resort that has a nice pool and some animals.)
Person A: “What?! Why would you want to go there? (turning to me) Meg, why would you let them bring you to the prison on your vacation?”
My friend: (to my defense) “Oh, Meg wants to go…she’s going to be a social worker.” (*Note: in Belize a social worker is anyone who does counseling.)
Person A: “Oh”
Ya, so basically, the idea of going to the prison in Belize, is a conversation stopper. Everyone has a good laugh and walks away thinking that I’m a little crazy (which is really ok with me). However, the whole interaction is very telling.
The Prison:
It’s Friday morning and my friends and I stayed out late the night before at some rasta bar downtown. We still managed to wake up early but I’m dozing off in the bus and car on the way. I could tell that my friends were getting a bit nervous because they start telling jokes about going to prison and never coming back. “Well as long as we get out (of prison) then we can go to Bakab,” one of them says.
She is only half joking…
We drive out into the bush on the highway. It’s been a while since I’ve seen houses and a friend points to the prison coming up. There are people behind this shotty fence, working. It’s already hot out at 9:30am and I think to myself, “oh, this is a working prison.”
We pull up in front of the gift shop and someone says, “we’ll have to go there when we come back,” and we nod in unison.
As we get to the front gate I hold back. Sometimes when people see a gringo they get nervous and/or suspicious, so I let my friends to the talking as I watch a woman pour packets of kool-aide into a ziplock bag of sugar. Family members often come for visits bringing extra provisions for loved ones that are not provided by the prison. Everything from clothing, bedding and food are coveted items for those behind the fence. I know that they guard had searched her bag before we arrived but the interesting thing is that we were never searched at the gate. The guard just told us to leave money and cell phones in the car so we did. But that was it. I wasn’t really looking forward to the frisk in the hot sun anyway.
So we got through the first gate and then waited in the reception area. Walking into this building a gringa woman was going up a staircase above me with a man who wore a long sleeve shirt that he buttoned to the top of his neck, the style I am accustomed to with some gang members. I wondered if she was a counselor, a minister or maybe a lawyer. I remember catching myself saying, “I wonder what he did,” with the added internal commitment to stop sizing people up while I’m in the prison. Note to self: Human Dignity.
In the reception area men passed back and forth. Some of the men had uniforms and the rest did not. That was the only distinction I could make between people who went home at night and those that didn’t. We waited around, got our visitors passes and Mr. Perez, a guard with three stripes on his shoulder, began our tour. As the only gringa in the group, Mr. Perez first began to address me, probably thinking I was the reason the rest of our group was there in the first place (partially true). But in typical Meg fashion, I played it off and hung to the back, knowing that my talkative friends would begin asking questions soon enough. The first stop was the cafeteria where I learned that an outside organization prepares breakfast, lunch and supper for the inmates. Inside the kitchen, the head cook brought us around as big pots cooked rice and beans. It was REALLY hot inside there and we soon took the questions and conversation outside.
One thing that I became immediately struck by was just how polite people were. Probably part of it was because we were visitors and everyone was on their best behavior. However, I think there is also a certain cultural understanding of politeness within Belize. So as prisoners and guards passed by, we were always greeted with “good morning” as if we were walking down a Belizean street. I think that helped in keeping my wandering mind away from the potential crimes of the men I was meeting. And to be honest, I wasn’t really afraid while I was within the prison compound, but rather I was more attuned to treating those I met with a sense of compassion lacking in judgment. My friends on the other hand, they were afraid.
We walked a bit more into the compound as Mr. Perez explained the different sections to us. Men played a game of barefoot soccer as Mr. Perez pointed out the buildings and the “Tango” system. Tango seven, to our left was a maximum security building. There were not allowed to leave their metal fenced wall and play soccer or work in the field. They were here for long sentences and Mr. Perez that they might try to escape. He says this just as we begin walking towards Tango seven and he points to the armed guard on the roof holding a large semi-automatic rifle. The doors to the Tango seven compound open. Two men, prisoners, open the door for us. It’s a sort of honor system. They know who can come and who has to stay. One of my friends begins her nervous laugh as we walk past the gates bidding them a “good morning”. We walk into the building of Tango seven, there are men outside watching us and I remember thinking, “this is not the tour I expected…maximum security!”
The short entry corridor before the office presents two rooms on each side with a metal barred door that locks. There are seven bunked beds within each room and I see men walking in and out of the rooms freely. In one room, men gather around a very small TV and watch a rap video on MTV. They look at us and I smile, looking at the tattoos on the arms of one man. He looks like a stereotypical gang member. I am more interested in understanding the meaning of his tattoos (I’ve always been interested in body art).
At the entry way to the office behind a plexiglass window, a man with dredlocks walks up to us holding two baskets made of paper that he just finished. Inmates make crafts to sell in the gift shop. The baskets are small and colorful. My friend later buys his two baskets for $5BZ each. Later we plan and plot about prison marketing initiatives to sell those “cute” baskets at Easter time.
Inside the office of Tango seven we give the woman in charge our names. They write everything in a daily log, including visitors. Mr. Perez explains the “Prefect system” of prisoners who serve as peer supervisors within the Tango. The Prefect is the person that you go to if a light is out, the water stopped running or there is a general problem. He’s the guy who will contact the correct people to get things done and from what I understand, they have a bit of leeway in the Tango as well.
We didn’t make it any further than the office before we continued with our tour outside of Tango seven. One friend of mine gave a sigh of relief as the doors of the compound opened to let us out. On the walkway we passed by the Jesuit priest we knew. He goes to the prison every single day for mass and counseling. He was carrying a bag while some other men were hauling the amplifier and some more materials. We greeted him in passing and continued on.
Mr. Perez pointed out the building with the technology and radio system, as the current piece of entertainment was a recording of a gringa evangelist televised over the loudspeaker. She talked about sin, resurrection and conversion. I wasn’t interested and felt the synic in me wondering why the prisoners had to be subjected to such garbage. Then I realized that some of them might actually be listening and/or be looking for that kind of message. To each his own…
The pond to our right had a little turtle in the center, sticking his head out of the water. Men pass by and smile at us as we point to the turtle. For once we aren’t looking at them. We continue on our way around the pond, Mr. Perez points to one of the Tangos. “That’s where the crazies are,” as he points.
Apparently, this is the part of the prison where the mentally ill are kept. He doesn’t bring us any further into that Tango as he explains that those people “went crazy when they got here.”
We asked him if there are counselors and he says yes. I wonder about the frequency or what else happens behind closed doors but I don’t ask and we continue on to the juvenile section.
The juvenile section is for boys 17 years and younger. It’s run like a military unit with marching and barrack style sleeping. Apparently, they are preparing these young men to become part of the military later on. That seems common. They wake up at 4:30am, do exercising, make their beds, wash up and continue on with their regimented day. The guards who look over this section act as parents according to one man we met. He has two stripes on his guard uniform and brings us to each building explaining how things work. We even go to the room where boys are carving wood figurines to sell in the gift shop. Some of those boys are very talented.
The man giving us the tour of the juvenile section explains that they can leave prison with a craft and earn money. Some will learn to carve and others will learn how to farm, pointing out the garden to the side of the classroom. As it turns out, he was once an inmate but he changed his life around. Now he works at the prison. He says that he understands these boys and they respect him for it. He later invites us to come back someday and talk with the boys, ask them why there are there. “They will tell you everything,” he says.
“Poverty…abusive fathers…stealing to eat…they will be honest with you,” he continues.
His long lecture / conversation in the hot sun is a bit annoying because it’s so hot and it feels so long, but it’s also very interesting. I appreciate his invitation for a follow-up visit. I think to myself, “maybe I will come back someday.”
At this point in the tour I am dripping with sweat and I’m hungry. I can feel the sun beating down and I am planning my next meal. Mr. Perez brings us on to another section. From my understanding this next area in the far back corner is not technically part of the Tango system. The men inside are not prisoners anymore but are there on their own will. It’s a really a rehab program where men with substance abuse issues go through a three month workbook series before they leave the prison system. The Prefect who greets us at the door is very jovial and explanatory. He is eager to explain how this program works, emphasizing that he is a graduate himself. We later learn that he chooses to live there because every time he leaves, he gets hooked again and evidently ends up back in the system. According to Mr. Perez, he likes giving back to this community and prefers staying.
I was really quite impressed with this section of the prison. It was the first time during my tour that I saw evidence of officials helping the inmates transition into civilian life again. The fact that so many men decided to participate in this program seemed hopeful to me. Maybe it’s a “rose colored glasses” kind of thing.
Our next and last stop was the women’s section. Also set off in a far corner, the women’s section is not only far removed but very small. When we entered there were two AA meetings going on, one for English speaking and the other for Spanish speaking. Apparently everyone is in AA. As it turns out we knew one of the women. I recognized her from Orange Walk, where I once lived. I couldn’t remember her name but my friend talked to her for a while. She explained that she was just let out of the prison but they hired her to work there in the AA program. She wants to go back to school to be a social worker. As we leave the women’s section Mr. Perez talks about when she first came to prison and how skinny she was. Now she has meat on her bones and is back on her feet. She too prefers to live at the prison, knowing that life on the outside just might be too challenging for her right now. People seem to respect that.
As we leave the prison and return our visitor badges back in I think about returning. There are a lot of unanswered questions I still have. And there’s a part of me that wants to do something or help somebody. I’ve got to get over that and just BE sometimes.
Nevertheless, the experience was quite interesting. I’m sure I will be thinking about that day for a long time.

A Surprising 2008

Short of any catastrophes, I’d like to call the game early and say that 2008 was a pretty good year…especially when I compare it with the humdinger of 2007! Heck, 2008 was a walk in the park. (Sort of)

Let’s take some stock here…2007 had a whole lot of changes packaged wrapped into 12 short months. New country, new job, new time-zone, new food, new friends, new path, new everything really with the exception that I moved back to my home state and so I didn’t have new roadways to navigate…but that aside, I was the new kid on the block.

This year…this year was different…and there were even a few surprises to boot!

1. I rediscovered kayaking and had a great time doing that! Let me tell you, there is nothing like a good paddle after a day of work. Throw in an early afternoon and that is one damn good day!

2. I can cook….a new discovery in my life. It took a while but I am getting better and better. Sure, pasta and eggs are great…but what about stir-fry and chili. (PS. I love my slow cooker!)

3. Let’s talk about resourcefulness…I have about five area libraries wrapped around my little finger, which is great! Some of the librarians even know me by my alias now! Simply amazing!!!

4. How about my apartment…a little oasis as some like to call it. Quaint, cute and cozy are familiar words to describe my humble abode. Really, the place is just ME, small and simple with a lot of character! I even got a bed upgrade and just purchased some rodeo sheets! That’s right…the Wild West is now part of my motif!

5. I make a living and I like it…I like it a lot actually, which is part of the reason that I work so many hours. I must say, not selling my soul to make money was a great decision!

6. Now my friends, they are the ones that steal the show! I’ve made a lot of new ones this year and we have built quite the community. Eclectic, fun and generally good people, sometimes I wonder how it is that I got so lucky! They are exactly what I needed to make 2008 great!

7. Max and Charlie…they take the cake (quite literally)! Max is three and his sister, Charlie is one and I simply love spending time with them. I have dinner with them at least once a week, I go on family vacations with them, and we read stories and do craft projects. Max considers me one of the family and Charlie gives me hugs when I walk in the door. It really doesn’t get much better than that!

8. I’ve read some great books….watched some inspiring movies and even created some things myself.

9. I see my family enough and there is a general appreciation for each other. After being away for so long the luxury of easy phone calls and spontaneous visits aren’t taken for granted quite so much anymore.

10. The largest surprise I think is that I really like it here. I sort of dreaded coming back to the States. There was a good deal of anxiety in moving back for various reason but after this year, I find myself doing odd things like making local investments, saying things like, “next year we will have to do_____,” and even considering another year in these parts just because I like it so much.


It’s startling sometimes when I think back on how much has evolved in the last year…or even the last two. And I’ve even been able to notice changes within myself…more verbal, less scheduled, more conscientious of doing good things for myself…(the list goes on). I’m certainly not perfect but it is more evident to me that I do change, and I can name those changes and claim them as my own. Sure, there are certain things that remain true…the general character of me, the contents of my heart, my hopes/dreams…but the good news is that we are all evolving. Little pieces make and create us each day.

Today I am a collection of those ten different surprises (and more) that I wasn’t a year ago. Next year will be the same thing…but more. And I am grateful….for all of it…even the parts that break my heart. Certainly I am changed because of it…

Obama and Donna Rose

Obama and Donna Rose


Wow! Today was quite the day. Waking up to change is a beautiful feeling…a beautiful recognition of hope! I went to sleep early after a string of very long and stressful days. Obama won Pennsylvania and I felt it was ok sleep instead of wait in anxiety. As it turned out, it was a good decision.

Lord knows that I haven’t been a huge fan of any of the candidates. At times I am a cynic about politics but mostly it’s hard for me to trust politicians and even though there was an Obama bandwagon going around, I just couldn’t get on board. Even yesterday, as I cast my vote, my reluctant heart felt vulnerable in trusting something that seemed so unsure…in trusting a person…an idea that has a historical precedence of a let down. But nevertheless, I voted…I waited and I rejoiced this morning with the news…the speech…and the reality check that this wasn’t all just a dream.

Let me tell you, to talk into work and hug a friend…knowing that we were entering into a new age together…a time of change….was a remarkable feeling. To reflect back on the day that Bush was re-elected just a few years ago and spend that day I disbelief and sorrow…to live in that moment of knowing that life would drastically change…My God, the contrast from today is startling.

And so as a reluctant….partly cloudy Obama supporter I relished in the day that at least some of my views of equality and justice were represented and that there is a chance for more change.

And as if that wasn’t enough, work turned out to be not all that bad as I got to spend some of my time learning about the life of Donna Rose and spending some time personally with her.

As an undergraduate, I learned about Donna as a transgender warrior in our country. I looked up to her then as the kind of social advocate I wanted to become, that is, an “everyday” kind of person who chooses to stand for something greater.

Donna Rose, a celebrity of sorts in the LGBTQ world, is know for her personal transformation from being a man (David) to becoming the candid, articulate and REAL woman that we know her as today.

Over dinner this evening, before her lecture, I had the opportunity to learn more about her journey from living as a man (for 40 years) to becoming a woman. I learned about some of her friends…some of her struggles…some of the funny moments and some of the nuances that I take for granted in what it takes to “be” a woman. From the way we walk, to the way we carry ourselves and even the way we shake a person’s hand, the transition and transformation of one’s socialization is quite radical. And I couldn’t help but to think about how passionate she was and how unique of an experience it was (sort of happenstance) that I was there to be taking it all in.

I thought of my friends, gay, lesbian, transgendered, that probably need someone like Donna in their life. I thought about what it would be like to switch places with them so that they too could have the moment…the connection. After all, it’s not an easy road to change…to change your appearance or how you identify. And you need community…you need understanding and I felt that Donna was that kind of person.

At any rate…it was quite the day…change is in the air…after a whirlwind October, November is looking up and I can only imagine and hope for what 2009 can bring.

Marriage

I gotta say, it’s good to wake up to marriage, taking fresh breaths of freedom and equality. Ahhh….it feels good to be gay in Connecticut today!

In case you’ve been living under a rock, the Supreme Court of the great little state of Connecticut legalized same-sex marriage yesterday around 11:30am and I am just beside myself with joy.

As a gay person in this world, I will take the small victories and always dream for the big ones, and yesterday was one of those kinds of days. The anticipation…the hope in the air was historic and unforgettable. The kind of hope this country needs.

When the decision came out I just told everyone I saw, acting as if everyone agreed with the outcome from the beginning. Truthfully, I didn’t even care if the disagreed. I was going to live the moment to it’s fullest…resting in the fact that it wasn’t all an illusion and completely in awe of just how monumental October 10, 2008 would go down in history.

My God, when I think of how painful the history of GLBT history has been, the victories of today are even sweeter. I think of my friends in other countries who still live in the closet (that’s where we were 20 years ago…even less) and I have the choice to be OUT in the open. Sometimes the distance between these two realities…these two worlds can be discouraging but then that spirit of hope comes to me, inspired by the decisions of California, Massachusetts and now Connecticut.

As I watched couples hold hands, dance and laugh together last night I thought, “Three down, 47 to go and other countries to follow.”

It’s good to wake up to marriage today, tomorrow, the next day and the next…..

Critical Conversations for Critical Periods

Lately I’ve been thinking about a few key concepts and how they relate to my life. For the most part, many folks think of me as “very grounded”, which in some ways I am. But what people don’t realized is how much I really do reflect and evolve over time. This is a concept that is hard to see in me unless you are one to stick around for the long haul because the subtle realizations don’t happen every day and are only verbalized after the repetition of said realization has been mulled over for a bit (ie. I am not a verbal processor).

At any rate, back to the key concepts.

1. I’ve been thinking a lot about identity. I know, a huge concept…how uncharacteristic (notice sarcasm)!
2. I’ve been thinking about what I consider my “spiritual home”.
3. I’ve been thinking about love and relationships…mainly because of this great film I saw the other day called “Chris and Don”. A great documentary that I highly recommend!
4. I’ve also been thinking about the quest of strengths…aka “Strengths Quest”.


Ok…now I’ve been thinking about these issues for some time now (you know, my whole life) but recently they have been coming up in conversations a lot more than usual. And I think that is where I have been seeing these changes take shape….changes that were barely manifested three years ago but are now the beginning of a paradigm shift of sorts. I’m not talking monumental mountain moving, but something more along the lines of what I like to call “deliberative heart exploration”.

I know…sounds a lot more Zen than it really is.

But after being back in the US again, being close to home again, refraining from the regular practice of going to Mass and actively engaging in self analysis, these changes have really taken a front row seat in the life that many people perceive to be so (insert word) focused, guided, grounded, deliberative etc.

Hmmm which makes me wonder…if these things are in a process of changing now, I wonder what 5 years will look like?

Certainly, these things can freak some people out. Self analysis and all that stuff…it can’t be tough. But so far, I’m taking it all in stride…one day at a time…and even prioritizing fun over heavy reflection.

It’s good to be in this place…I’ve got to say. To give myself permission to think creatively…to change and melt ideas. It’s liberating even to name this stage as something less firm and more moveable so as not to count of any realizations as “truth” but rather “process”.

And I would recommend this for anyone but then again…everyone is on their own journey.

On that note…off to live it and breath it.

Epic Kayak Trip

I had only been 22 for a bit less than a month when my grandmother died. Mary…she died two days before her birthday. I was devastated. But still, a month later I got on a plane headed for Belize for my summer vacation. My last conversation with gram, on the phone was about fish (she had fish for lunch)…important relationships in my life…and my upcoming trip (which she felt uneasy about because I was flying by the seat of my pants always). I talked to her on a Thursday I think…she died the next day (the same day I was coming home to visit…the same day I was going to say goodbye).

She knew she was dying…we all did. She said all her goodbyes and she went on her terms. Of course she did.

She knew she had cancer (again) way before the doctors did. She had the surgery and refused the chemo. Mostly so she would have one good year left in her. It was a quality of life issue. And she lived her life well.

When she died, there were instructions. She asked for a memorial service at her church…food (everything is better on a full stomach she preached)…and cremation of her body so that the ashes could be scattered in the bay that we put grandpa in two years before (who also died of cancer among other things).

As a family we did all of the above but the ocean part. Instead my father kept the ashes. I guess people weren’t ready. At least until yesterday.

Six years later, my family felt ready. Of course, some things changed. We didn’t scatter the ashes because that’s against the teachings of the Catholic church…so we had to improvise instead.

So yesterday afternoon, on an overcast Sunday, my father, uncle and myself took our boats (two kayaks and a canoe) out in the ocean to the breakwall, a mile off shore. We paddled against the current, against the wind and into the choppy September swell. It was a little crazy given the conditions. But damn, it’s been six years! There was no turning back. Who knows when we would have actually followed through with it if we postponed the experience?

As my father tossed her box into the ocean to sink 30 feet below the sting of death came back all over again. Our family just hasn’t been the same without her and we’ve had six years of more painful deaths, including her oldest son, Butch, who died a few weeks ago.

Butch the free spirited, black sheep (if there ever was such a thing in a family of no-conformists), died after his 15 month battle with esophageal cancer. Butch tried his best to live life right up to the end. Reading books, spending time with family and taking walks out in the back woods of his West Virginia property, we all hoped for the best in a situation that just wasn’t working out. Even with the radiation and chemo, his tumor couldn’t shrink enough to make him a good candidate for surgery and then the poison spread…everywhere. Damn the cancer that took him before he was ready to go.

Needless to say, I had a lot to paddle through yesterday…a lot of stuff to work out in the waves. And as much as the timing of all of this stinks, my family certainly knows how to take the road less traveled. Nothing is quite done normally. And everything is quite unique and adventuresome.

Gram probably would have been pissed at the big “to do” that was created in burying her. But she would have laughed at the absurdity of it all. And if she had her way (which she always did) she would have told us how to do the whole thing better.

But the one thing that I have learned from all of this is that it’s not about how you are let go in the end. It’s not about the obituary or the eulogy or the people present at your memorial service. It’s more about all the days that lead up do that experience.

It’s about the conversations about tasty fish…talking with people about the ones you love…sharing your favorite books…digging a hole and planting flowers. It’s about singing in church, even if you are tone deaf and spending too much money on your grandkids. It’s about taking vacations, enjoying each day and spending some time reflection on how blessed we are.

No Woman is an Island

No Woman is an Island

The book “No Man is an Island” is one of my favorites. Written by Thomas Merton, the late Trappist monk, I’ve found a lot of wisdom in his writings and the greater concept that was revealed to me when I was in high school. That’s the last time I read the book. A few years ago I lent out my tattered, musty smelling copy to a friend, hoping that hope might be revealed in the words.

I think what I like about Merton is his sense of justice, mixed with his conviction that life is not lived in a vacuum and therefore, careful balances of patience, active humility and community are essentials for sanity and solid communion.

Sometimes when I am in a bookstore I see copies of this book and the title screams at me!

I am not alone.
I am a collection…of people, places and experiences.
This is all a part of my life.

Sometimes I wonder if a crisp shinny copy will ever say something different. If a new copy will bring new perceptions?

In this last year or so of my life in the States, I have come to find community in some unlikely places. It’s taken a while to cultivate. And like any new place I go, the process is slow…mostly due to my fears. But day-by-day I deal and overcome and give up little pieces…

I’m certainly looking forward to what the future might bring in the next year and beyond but I can honestly say that not a day goes by that I am not grateful for this exact moment. This day….this realization. Because as much as this independent heart of mine goes off into the world and risks desertion, I always go back within my collected self and consult the reflections of the people, places and experiences that have created and nurtured me along the way.

Saying Goodbye

A couple of days ago I took off work and headed for Rhode Island; the place I went to college and the place where my heart feels at rest these days. I met a friend and we walked like 10 miles on the Newport Cliff Walk (ok, more like 2 miles but it felt like more). We drove around and looked at the houses, passed by beautiful picturesque scenes, talked about life and had some good laughs. Then we went to this river she knew of, and inlet to the Narragansett Bay. After a somewhat quick change in the car on the side of the road under the guise of a towel I was ready for swimming. Well, it was more like wading in the mud. After all the rain, the silt was all soft and I pretty much sank as I tried to walk in the waste deep water. I didn’t last too long there and we decided to go to the tide pools instead. The tide was coming in so I could swim around and find creatures. The water was a little chilly and I hyperventilated a bit (due to the cold and the initial idea of sharks and other creatures below). But it was a nice swim and more good conversation. Then dinner with some more friends at a favored watering hole. And then lying on a blanket on the quad…talking some more and drawing out the inevitable.

You see, my friend is leaving. She is beginning a new phase of her life. And for a change, I am not going anywhere.

I’ve said goodbye to friends and loved ones before but somehow it’s different when I am the one going away. There is a preparation ahead of time…a rehearsal in my mind of the last hug and kiss. And I can get use to the idea over and over again with each departing. Plus there is the excitement of change. But when someone else leaves there is no rehearsal. It’s a one-time deal. And a hard realization that I am staying and she is going. And although we will miss each other, moving on to good things is bitter sweet no matter who leaves.

It’s like when I move away to other countries. There are people I wish I could take with me and experience life with. And maybe they will visit for a few weeks (that never happens) but I always want to share those moments with people who are special to me. Which is probably why I write.

This friend of mine…we will keep in touch…talk on the phone…visit over breaks and someday, who knows, we may even live next door to each other. But for now, I am in CT and she is out in the big world and it was simply hard to say goodbye.

But life goes on…and I can count on that.

Today I left work early because I caught a cold/the plague. So I did some work at home…I took a nap (I love naps), I watched a movie, ate some good food, blew my nose a bunch, took a shower and drank lots of healthy tea (I love tea). Thank heavens I have AC. And I am certainly glad that all I have is a cold…because it could always be so much worse…

On that note…off to do some more work before bed and another early start tomorrow to do it all over again! Oh the routines in life!