Mind of Love

Easter

2011-04-25T06:00:00.000-07:00

My family visited Mount Auburn Cemetery on Easter morning during a week in which I'd spent seven days indoors caring for sick children. As we were about to end our trip and get in the car, I took this picture of my five-year-old, Kinnell, perched in a beautiful and very old tree.

That evening, I remembered an experience I had when my older son, Raimi, was just two years old and I was pregnant with Kinnell. Getting your child to sleep is a challenge for many parents, and at the time we were in the grips of a seemingly endless struggle to get him to go to sleep on his own, in his own bed, without a parent lying next to him. Exhausted and defeated and feeling like the most permissive and unhelpful parent on earth, I lay next to Raimi and prayed to a God I wasn't sure I believed in.

Dear God, I prayed, if you are there - if anyone is there who can hear this: I am so tired. I work hard all day and do my best to take care of this child every single day. I am frustrated. I feel hopeless, and I can't believe that something as ordinary as getting a child to sleep can make me feel so powerless and alone. I wonder what's the point of it all. If you are there, can you please give me some sign -- some reason for hope?

My body was relaxed but I did not fall asleep. An experience filled my senses, more than a vision -- a sense of complete awareness. I felt myself held up by the branches of an enormous tree with smooth grey bark -- the kind of tree I used to climb as a child, whose thick branches contained easy resting places and spots to hide behind green leaves. In another branch I saw Jesus. I didn't think he was God, he was just hanging out there, not making any demand or offering any particular comfort. I felt the smoothness of the bark, its strength and solidity holding me up as solidly as the ground although I knew I was in the air. I felt safe. I knew I was being held, and it would all be ok.

It turned out that both the child I was soothing to sleep and the child I was carrying each was born with a disability. My kids' lives stretch before them, yet thanks to the insights of genetic counseling and neuropsychological analysis, we have glimpses of the course their lives will take. Kinnell will face health problems. Genetically-determined patterns in Raimi's mind mean that he perceives the world differently than most people, and may struggle to understand and have his insights understood.

I wasn't thinking of my experience of God/prayer/tree when I lifted Kinnell up into the tree at Mt. Auburn Cemetery. I just saw the tree, and it seemed to reach out and ask to be climbed. It was open and solid, smooth and ancient. So I lifted Kinnell up and took a picture.

That night I wondered, was the tree that held me when I prayed to God also holding Kinnell as his spirit formed and his body took shape inside my belly? Thinking about these two experiences of trees, a phrase came to mind: I contemplate a tree. Here is the passage it is taken from, from Martin Buber's I And Though (as translated by Walter Kaufman):

I contemplate a tree.

I can accept it as a picture: a rigid pillar in a flood of light, or splashes of green traversed by the gentleness of the blue silver ground.

I can feel it as a movement: the flowing veins around the sturdy, striving core, the sucking of the roots, the breathing of the leaves, the infinite commerce with earth and air--and the growing itself in its darkness.

I can assign it to a species and observe it as an instance, with an eye to its construction and its way of life.

I can overcome its uniqueness and form so rigorously that I recognize it only as an expression of the law--those laws according to which a constant opposition of forces is continually adjusted, or those laws according to which the elements mix and separate.

I can dissolve it into a number, into a pure relation between numbers, and eternalize it.

Throughout all of this the tree remains my object and has its place and its time span, its kind and condition.

But it can also happen, if will and grace are joined, that as I contemplate the tree I am drawn into a relation, and the tree ceases to be an it. The power of exclusiveness has seized me.

This does not require me to forego any of the modes of contemplation. There is nothing that I must not see in order to see, and there is no knowledge that I must forget. Rather is everything, picture and movement, species and instance, law and number included and inseparably fused.

Whatever belongs to the tree is included: its form and its mechanics, its colors and its chemistry, its conversation with the stars--all this in its eternity.

The tree is no impression, no play of my imagination, no aspect of a mood; it confronts me bodily and has to deal with me as I must deal with it -- only differently.

One should not try to dilute the meaning of the relation: relation is reciprocity.

Does the tree then have consciousness, similar to our own? I have no experience of that. But thinking that you have brought this off in your own case, must you again divide the indivisible? What I encounter is neither the soul of a tree nor a dryad, but the tree itself.

I first read these words when I was taking a college course in 20th Century Theology. Religious studies at the University of Iowa exposed me to the idea that religion is the place where human beings can wrestle with suffering and emerge with a sense of meaning. Not that suffering is itself meaningful, but that life has meaning even in the face of suffering. In Buber's writing, this meaning emerges when we are fully present, open, and in relationship with the world as it is and other human beings who are themselves being present and open with us.

Trees and art are part of Martin Buber's work on I-Thou relationships, but his primary concern is the human relating to another human -- the I and the Thou. Kaufman uses Thou to indicate that the you is himself or herself also an I -- it is a mutual relationship between two subjects, not a subject and an object.

Buber wrote I and Thou after a student of his committed suicide. The student had come to him before killing himself, and Buber felt he had failed to fully engage with his student and his suffering. He felt intense remorse that his student had found his suffering so unbearable as to extinguish any sense of purpose, and Buber hadn't helped.

During this time I also read Paul Tillich's The Courage to Be. Writing after an early career as a Chaplain during World War I, Tillich had witnessed and grappled with the extinction of hope; and with its resurrection. The crucifixion of Christ on the cross conveys this experience for Tillich, and as a non-Christian I was moved by the power of this understanding of the symbol of the cross. In practical terms, I realized, we live in a world that is shot through with suffering. The rational response would be nihilism, and yet we have hope. We believe it is worth it to go on living. Most of us do go on.

Studying religion at the graduate level, I hoped to find a clear sense of the way towards deeper connection, truth and meaning. I found many examples of the religious life, but I did not find my own path. The religious paths I studied had been carved out largely in solitude by Buddhist monastics, Roman Catholic mystics, social justice martyrs. I tried prayer, meditation, visited many different houses of worship, posed as a Unitarian Universalist. I lived my life relationally, not in solitude. I met my life partner and settled on working for a living. I became a parent. I felt I lost my way.

Yet, in the moments when I have felt most constrained and burdened by the work of raising a family and keeping a home, I have experienced these flashes of insight and meaning. I contemplate a tree and meaning emerges.

Above, Buber's phrase, "if will and grace are joined" seems to hold some key to understanding the process by which this meaning emerges. Through an act of will, we can choose mindfulness and seek to remain open. Through some external grace, meaning breaks through.

So perhaps the path I am walking is not as well-defined by the footsteps of those with the time to document and map their way; but it does seem to have been worn deep by the laboring of everyday families and communities seeking to live and to love. Not everyone uses their will to create openness to grace, but how is a monastic retreat chopping wood and preparing meals so different from the daily work of dishes and laundry, working and cooking dinner, caring for children? Doesn't patting a child to sleep require the same discipline as sitting zazen? Your body is tired, your mind strains against the monotony, you lose your sense of self. Isn't the work of parenting, working, loving and friendship just as abundant with richness as any work there is?

I'm not trying to be lazy or get out of doing the spiritual work so many teachers have written about. I'm seeing the path I have been given, and finding that the difference between a right path and a wrong path may be an illusion. Is the difference really the path, or the openness of the one who walks it?

What I did over Spring vacation

2011-04-24T19:04:00.000-07:00

I spent most of this April vacation focused on things not going right, that I could do better, that were imperfect and disappointing. In each corner of my family someone I love is suffering with injury or serious illness. It must be frustrating for them to feel broken and sick, and it is frustrating for me to realize there's nothing I can do to heal the people I love.

Uncle Jason came to visit and together we traveled to see Kevin and Jason's mom for an early Passover celebration. Iris and I took a trip to Crown Market for prepared kosher sides and stood together in line, laughing about the mad rush to prepare for the holidays, and the deals the bakery was offering before closing for the holiday. Pareve black and white cookies were 10/$10 -- who could resist? We would take them home since Iris would not eat anything with hametz during the holiday.

Iris cooked a beautiful meal and we ate with silver utensils off of good china. We recited the names of the plagues and the children wore funny masks. We talked about freedom and justice, and considered the meaning of the elements arranged on the seder plate. Something about life and sacrifice, food, family, and staying together as a community. It was a lovely holiday, clouded by the sense of all I'm not doing to raise my children with a clear sense of their religious upbringing. The kids were confused but delighted -- Raimi insisting several times that he was a FIRST BORN and had a special connection to that particular plague.

We returned to Cambridge with Uncle Jason, but Raimi came down with something like the flu -- high fever and chills, coughing, exhausted and achy for days. Jason took Kinnell out to the park and museum while I stayed home with Raimi. It was a godsend that Jason was there to get Kinnell out of the house. We were sad when Kevin had to take him to the airport on Wednesday morning.

The plan had been to travel to Canada on Wednesday but we postponed our trip when Raimi's fever climbed to 103. With Kevin at work all week, I spent 3 more days inside with the kids, making soup and jello for one, entertaining the other. Raimi watched entire seasons of Mythbusters and Kinnell drew picture after picture of his mommy smiling. We decorated construction paper flowers and bunnies. We read books inside a blanket fort in the corner of the living room. When Raimi's fever broke I began to think we might be able to get on the road by morning... until Kinnell's temperature began to rise. I let him nap inside the blanket fort while I did dishes and laundry, coaxing a still pale-looking Raimi to read a book instead of watching tv. I'm such a bad mother, I thought, to let him have so much screen time, sick or not.

When I realized it was almost Easter I became overwhelmed remembering the holidays of my childhood. Yes, my kids were sick and plans had changed, but I thought surely there is something wrong with me that we don't belong to a faith community; that the kids had no new spring clothes; that we don't have friends in the neighborhood we can just drop in on; and I don't have the perfect recipe to pull off the shelf in keeping with tradition.

In my family Easter meant time with extended family, an indoor easter egg hunt, new dresses, a full sanctuary at our UU church, and a beautiful meal cooked by my mother. I was not raised to believe in the trinity or resurrection, but the holiday offered the chance to welcome the spring and consider the role of Jesus the social justice activist -- alongside other great men and women who have fought for the rights of the poor and oppressed. I was raised to believe that Jesus was just a man, not perfect or better -- as imperfect and human as the rest of us.

Kevin & I took stock on Friday night. One kid on the mend, the other's fever reaching a peak of 103, I raced to the store for more ibuprofen and tylenol, and candy and trinkets for Easter baskets. Saturday morning I left Kinnell with Kevin while Raimi and I ran errands to pull together a very human and imperfect Easter dinner. Kevin suggested dolmades, the kids wanted corn dogs -- Raimi wanted to decorate them like bunnies. We found allergy-friendly cake mix, organic icing and natural food-coloring at Whole Foods. Raimi's vision was to bake a cake and decorate it using the candy the Easter Bunny would bring. We debated what flowers to buy for the table, settling on a mix of fiery tulips and yellow snap dragons.

Today, Easter morning, Kinnell woke up at 5 unable to swallow, feverish, thirsty and sad. We gave him some advil and I snuggled him back to sleep, and when he woke up he felt well enough to appreciate the nests of candy and eggs tucked away in nooks throughout our tiny apartment living room. We ate breakfast and snuck bites of candy. I worked on a project on my computer and kevin read a book on his Kindle while the kids played with legos.

We baked and iced the cake, discovering just how awful the organic frosting and food coloring really was. But the kids excitedly created jellybean flowers and birds' nests, then floated marshmallow peeps on a purple "pond" and brownish "grass." Kinnell unwrapped a caramel egg, declared "this is gonna be funny" and poked it into the surface of the cake.

We got dressed and went for a walk around Mt. Auburn cemetery -- enjoying the view from the top of its mountaintop tower. I realized just how sedentary I'd been all week as my tired and shaking legs carried me back down the 95 steps inside the monument. As we walked around the grounds Kevin and I noticed the many older family plots containing children. We found a tombstone sculpted like a bassinet. Another monument depicted a boy cradling a baby in his arms, with the names and dates of an 8-year-old and 15-month-old.

We are lucky, I said to Kevin.

We saw tadpoles in Willow Lake and two turtles sunning themselves on a log. Dogwoods, forsythia and magnolia were blooming and the graves of the newer section were adorned with potted tulips, hyacinth, and easter lilies. We found the grave markers for Buckminster Fuller, Amy Lowell, and B. F. Skinner. We took Kinnell's picture cradled in the thick arms of a tree that looked as old as the cemetery itself. Its insides were beginning to hollow but its branches were dotted with the bright green leaves of early spring.

We came home and began dinner. Kevin and I rolled out the grape leaves and discussed how big to make them and how tightly to roll them -- our words part of the ritual for making dolmades. How many times have my mother, sister, Kevin, father, brother-in-law talked about the arrangement of ingredients within a perfect stuffed leaf.

We made salad and chicken strips (no corn dogs at Whole Foods). Kevin opened a bottle of wine and I chopped vegetables and apples for the kids. We shared what we were thankful for and talked about whether this had been a good April vacation -- what our favorite parts had been.

It was not a perfect dinner, a perfect week, a perfect holiday. We stumbled through the ancient rituals and I felt inadequate at nearly every turn -- doing my best to soothe my children and connect with family despite all plans going wrong. Holidays bring this out in me, this fear of inadequacy, awareness of my imperfections. I despair at the blooming pile of dishes and nearly miss the blooming branches outside the window of our apartment. I feel time passing us by as I fail to find the perfect OG-certified tutor or social skills group for Raimi, or give Kinnell enough attention as his vocabulary explodes and he needs me to talk with him. Still, I do my best for my children.

Religions speak of sacred time, and it is tempting to think of sacredness as an escape from the everyday instead of finding the sacred within the mundane details of our lives: Drawing pictures for one another with Kinnell inside a blanket fort. Listening to Raimi describe why he loves the mall and delighting him with a warm pretzel. The view of Boston from a mountain in Cambridge. The pots of flowers left by mourners, the thick trunk of a wisdom-old tree. Jellybeans on cake, my husband's hand taking mine while watching Netflix, the squeals of delight as he tickles two sick kids, shouting "laughter is the best medicine!"

It's an illusion that Spring brings new life. Spring comes every year of this same old life. May I be reminded of the beauty of my life as it already was, the beauty of my life as it continues humbly on.

Meditations

2010-11-16T20:33:00.000-08:00

Meditation for Riding the Subway

My feet are flat on the solid floor.

My body is moving through space.

The subway car rattles.

What is that burning smell?

Meditation for Doing the Dishes

Clatter of bowls.

My four-year-old sorts the silverware

carefully into each compartment.

Perched on a chair, he holds up the basket to show what he has done.

Under my washcloth, stains vanish from the countertop.

Water and soap. My son's soft skin.

Meditation for a Science Guy Who Treats Me Like I'm an Idiot

You're not the first boy to make that assumption.

They were wrong, but I allowed myself to fold inward and stop trying.

Math used to appear to me in visual models.

I was filled with wonder at how explainable it all is and how beautiful.

The pop and click of scientific clarity,

a light switch, a light bulb, a lightness, a freedom: understanding.

A stronger girl would have had light sabers and calculus to defend herself.

I decided I was not good at math.

Take a piece of graph paper.

Do you create a graph, or fold it small?

A paper crane. Peace.

the universe, dust and ashes

2010-09-03T15:21:00.000-07:00

Stephen Hawking says we don't need God to explain where the universe comes from. Back in his Brief History of Time days, he was saying it's a mystery what got this whole thing started, our universe. But I guess he's figured out a way maybe we don't need God. He's not saying God doesn't exist, just, there's no particular reason to think he does.

Just what I needed to hear.

This year we learned that our four-year-old son has a heart condition that may require open heart surgery during his childhood, and will likely require open heart surgery during his lifetime. We also learned that our seven year old has Aspergers syndrome, a neurological difference that means that he will need extra help to learn skills that other kids learn more naturally such as how to perform a gross motor task and how to figure out social interactions. For our son, it means he struggles a lot at school despite being bright and insightful and wise.

When my husband was subsequently laid off from his job ("It's not you, we all think you're great. We just needed to restructure our business," they told him) I was beginning to wonder what the universe was trying to tell us.

So this news from Stephen Hawking comes as a kind of a confirmation: the universe isn't telling us much. Things just are the way they are, we don't need God to explain it.

My second thought about Stephen Hawking's new book was about his disability. I thought, "it's interesting that someone with his disability and long-term prognosis would figure a way that we don't need god, rather than a way that we do. I mean, shouldn't he be wanting there to be a purpose, meaning, afterlife, God, etc.?" A patronizing thought, considering we're talking about Stephen Hawking. But still, it's what I thought--I wondered about Stephen Hawking's suffering and whether it would trouble him to believe there might not be any God at all.

In the last few months as I've researched my children's disabilities, I've done a lot of thinking about this question of why. Why did this happen to my beautiful children? Why me? Was it because of something I did during my pregnancies? Is it because I'm not a good enough person?Are we being punished somehow?

These questions led me, at the encouragement of a spiritual teacher, to re-read the book of Job. "Read it slowly," she said. So I read it in several sittings, including two that involved paying a babysitter to let me get a black & tan and read the Tanakh at a local Irish gastropub. I took notes.

One of my favorite passages is when Job says (21:23-26)

One man dies in robust health,
All tranquil and untroubled;
His pails are full of milk;
The marrow of his bones is juicy.
Another dies embittered,
Never having tasted happiness.
They both lie in the dust
And are covered with worms.

The story of Job is that he is suffering, horribly sick, his livelihood destroyed by misfortune, and his friends gather around him to comfort him, but all they can think to say is, in effect, "God has a purpose," and "Repent -- the righteous are rewarded, the evil punished."

And Job rejects that. In effect, he says, "I want God to come to me RIGHT NOW, and explain why I am suffering. I have been blameless. I have been loving to my family and generous to those with less than I have. I have been a good person." And he has.

So God does come, and says, basically, "Who do you think you are, Job? I'm before everything and stronger than everything, I know more than anyone and can defeat anyone who is against me."

But then he turns to Job's friends and says (in so many words,) "you don't know what you're talking about either. I should smite you -- you deserve it for being such blithering, thoughtless, sanctimonious idiots. But I won't, because Job is right, he's a good person. And since he's your friend, I'll spare you."

And Job repents, with one of my favorite lines in all of literature:

I spoke without understanding
Of things beyond me, which I did not know.
Hear now, and I will speak;
I will ask, and You will inform me.
I had heard You with my ears,
But now I see You with my eyes;
Therefore, I recant and relent,
Being but dust and ashes."

In my notes from the pub, I wrote, "Job is blameless in his suffering, and he doesn't know shit.

I hear about Stephen Hawking and I focus on his suffering. What an incredible contradiction, that I would feel sorry for Stephen Hawking. That I would feel sorry for someone because he lives his life in a wheelchair, despite the fact that he has a mind that can comprehend the structure of the infinite. A man whose books are read by thousands of people and who influences the ideas of millions.

I'm just a mom in an apartment in the U.S. -- a person who attends PTO meetings and stresses about bills. A person who feels sorry for those I imagine have it worse, and a person who feels sorry for myself. A person who wonders if it matters whether my children have disabilities because of a scientifically-explainable genetic codes or whether it's just the cruel hand of unseen fate.

Everyone suffers. It's just the truth. We make ourselves feel better by thinking, it could be worse. We feel sorry for others. We promise, I'll be better and different and then my future will be different. If I try hard enough maybe instead of dying embittered I can die with "pails full of milk."

In the midst of our despair, God may appear to us out of a whirlwind and tell us to shut the fuck up. But more likely we will discover in some mysterious and ridiculously undramatic moment that we are loved, as Job's friends are loved, despite our imperfections and dumb ideas about the universe.

Like today, as I sit at a table with two children in bed and my husband doing the dishes; with a vase of roses in front of me from my mother-in-law, who thought I could use the cheer, and knowledge that tomorrow we will go to a museum and look at art made entirely out of legos.

We don't need God, and yet meaning appears. I believe in transcendence, and believe I am dust and ashes. Somewhere between those two beliefs is where I'll have to live.

Where we are right now

2010-05-14T16:32:00.001-07:00

"Mommy! I want the Iron Man popsicle." Then he whispers, "Iron Man."

We're relaxed and smiling after a frustrating, tearful, stressful, fight over whether he, a four-year-old, can swallow an adult-sized pill. At one point I was so angry at his refusal that I almost (almost) threw a plate onto the kitchen floor. In my mind it shattered, but my body carefully placed it on the kitchen counter.

His dad and I tried holding him down and putting medicine-laced yogurt into his mouth and holding his mouth closed. His nose and mouth were covered momentarily and I thought, we are suffocating him. We tried joking, we tried threatening. We had started with bribes and promises of how proud we'd be. We ended up so angry we were shattering.

Finally I became the boss. "Time out until you are ready to take the pill." Confident, no longer angry, I told him he could do it. He did it, and we all dissolved in a pile of hugs and praise and relief. I love you so much, we said. I'm so proud of you. I knew you could do it!

Taking a pill this size is a tall order for someone his age, but I've seen him do it three times, twice during our overnight stay in the hospital this week. I've also seen him take what he calls his "small white pills that are just white and small" -- beta blockers intended to prevent the aneurysm in his ascending aorta from growing larger until it bursts.

He needed to take this pill to get rid of strep throat, and he needs to overcome strep so we can restart him on a new beta-blocker, because his small white pills caused his blood pressure to drop so low he couldn't stand up.

So today it is the big pill, tomorrow we'll add a new beta blocker and watch for signs of dehydration and over-medication--the combination that landed us in the hospital for an overnight this week. After a week, the big pills will go away, and we'll slowly increase the beta blocker and hope the next time he gets sick his body can handle it and he won't need iv fluids. When he went faint in my arms, floppy and unable to answer questions, I thought it was his heart--I thought, it's happened. His heart has exploded. I called 911. But it wasn't that. It was just his medicine was too strong and he had a case of strep throat.

My son's aorta is enlarged because the heart valve that controls the blood flowing through his aorta isn't shaped right. When we learned this a couple of months ago, the echocardiographer showed me what his brother's (normal) aortic valve looks like: with each heartbeat three flaps open wide, hugging the aortic wall; then snap precisely shut, intersecting in three ridges that look like the emblem for Mercedes Benz. But our four-year-old has two flaps inside his aortic valve. The third is fused in place, leaving two valves flapping open and shut imperfectly, like slightly leaky fish lips.

This morning I took him to his pediatric cardiologist, a specialty you know exists but can't quite picture until you shake her hand. My son and I sat in the waiting room with serious-looking parents and children at play, and my son played peek-a-boo with a little baby in a stroller. She smiled and gnawed her cheerios, and her mom flashed a worried and distracted smile, then asked her father, "Why are they taking so long? I hope nothing's wrong."

I looked at her worry and saw my own. I thought, here I am, a mother among mothers in a pediatric cardiology waiting room. I said something to my son about going to get a treat at the coffee shop afterwards, and the other mother looked up and said, "There's a healing garden on the eighth floor. You should take him there and he can pick out a stone to bring home with him." I said, "Oh, a healing garden? What a nice thing to have here." With weary warmth, she agreed, "It's a good place." Our eyes connected in a way that scared me. I looked away.

We rode the elevator upstairs. The doors opened and I read, pediatric oncology. I noticed flyers advertising support groups for parents of children with cancer. Things could always be worse, I thought. Beautiful flags decorated by children decorated the hallway. "Think positively!" one said. "Hope, Peace and Love" offered one. Another challenged me, "Live Strong-- I Do!"

The healing garden is a peacefully landscaped balcony with glass walls overlooking the city skyline, Charles River, and Longfellow Bridge. You can see the Red Line subway trains move in and out of the Charles Street station, and you can see the Citgo sign that overlooks Fenway Park. My son threw pennies into the water of a polished-stone fountain and I made a wish on each one. My first wish was too small--I want him to make it to being a teenager without needing surgery. He wanted another penny, another wish, so I wished, "I want him to grow up and become a man and have a family." A third penny, "I want him to be happy."

My son drew a scribble and I wrote in the guest book--our names and "pediatric cardiology patient and his mom feel thankful for this place." My son selected a stone--smooth and brown with layers worn away to reveal black rings like a topographic map. He handed it to me. It was bigger and heavier than I thought it would be.

Hope / Hopedale

2010-02-17T05:12:00.000-08:00

Last semester I took a course on 19th Century Unitarian and Universalist thought. I audited the course but my very generous and supportive professor allowed me to act as if the course were for credit so I could get a grade and get his feedback. For my final paper, I did primary source research into the Hopedale Community, a 19th Century Socialist Pacifist Abolitionist Temperance Feminist Christian community in Massachusetts led by Adin Ballou.

I was interested in the way that the community balanced the values of duty or obligation against the dictates of individual conscience. I was also interested in how concretely they put their feminist values into action. Like many utopian communities associated with Unitarian Universalism, they believed in compensating women for their labor outside the home, but remarkably, they also compensated mothers for the raising of infants and for household tasks. While there were gender divisions--men didn't take up pots and pans--women did assume leadership within the community and carry out work traditionally assigned to men.

Abby Price was one of their most outspoken leaders, and she had a lot to say at major national feminist conventions, particularly about the way that economic injustice led to moral ills such as prostitution. Really, really gripping stuff--ahead of its time in so many ways.

Anyway, I wanted to share my conclusion from the paper because I used it as an opportunity to diverge from the academic issues into the question of why someplace like Hopedale matters. The paper had some errors but got an A (stands for Awesome, btw). I learned a lot.

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Hopedale’s Relevance Today

The Hopedale Collection of Hymns and Songs for Practical Christians contains a hymn by Abby H. Price which reads in part:

Intemp’rance be demolished,
See the light, how it breaks,
And oppression all abolished,
See the light;
Let earth’s poor sons and daughters,
See the light, how it breaks,
Drink free salvations waters,
See the light;
Come of Savior! hasten on,
Make earth a happy home.

When she prayed, “Make of our earth a happy home,” Price evoked the love of an egalitarian family as a model of hope for the wider world. Violence, domination, and individualism make for unhappy homes and unjust political systems. While Hopedale’s interpretation of these “family values” would necessarily have been challenged to include same-sex partnerships and other family structures not recognized during this time period, it is clear that the underlying foundation of love, equality, respect and mutuality are the ingredients of joyful homes and a better world.

Beyond Hopedale’s boundaries of geography and time, feminists have struggled to address inequality at all levels of human interaction. The battles that were easiest to win were those that were fought on male terms—opening male spheres to women while demanding few changes to the way women and men organized and ran their households. Feminist victories in demanding support for children and mothers would have affected women of all economic classes, but these reforms have been much slower in coming. Opposition by men to granting women the right to vote was overcome long before women earned the right to be free from violence in their homes. As a society we have yet to embrace our responsibility to children. While social safety nets do exist, they are tattered. Our politics continues to idealize an elitist construction of motherhood that encourages affluent and highly-educated women to stay at home with their children or pay for expensive private childcare and preschools, while offering shoddy subsidized childcare and demonization to poor women, judging them as bad mothers for “leeching” off the welfare system to provide for their children’s basic needs.

Contemporary platitudes claim that “children are our future,” yet today we fail to provide children with the richness of opportunity and nurturance provided at Hopedale over a century and a half ago. It is hard to imagine what it would look like if the boundary between home and workplace were as fluid as the boundaries between family and community at Hopdeale—if baby swings hung from the doorways of meeting rooms and teenagers were invested with the responsibility of providing moral instruction to younger children. It’s nearly unthinkable that mothers might be compensated by their community for the labor involved in nursing and nurturing infants. And it is considered both radical and self-serving to call for free communal childcare for all parents, in order to maximize their contributions to the broader workforce, while offering flexible hours to parents to allow them to maximize the time they spend raising their children.

Paradoxically today, all kinds of individualistic decisions are justified through reference to our children—we close our doors, buy “safer” SUVs and speak of “doing what’s best for my family.” With the best of intentions and often with painful deliberation, parents blessed with resources and therefore options are confronted with choices that force us to weigh our individual children’s needs against broader community goods. We could learn a lot from Hopedale, which did not romanticize childhood or use child-raising as an excuse for indulging in selfishness. Parents were also not expected to be any more selfless than other members of the community. They were not expected to sacrifice their own fulfillment at the altar of raising perfect children, nor to sacrifice their children in the name of personal fulfillment.

If the residents of Hopedale failed to multiply and replicate their experiment, they did multiply their beliefs through the most common means—their children themselves. While most of Hopedale’s children grew up to lead rather ordinary lives, their memories of Hopedale are among the community’s most evocative and moving documents. Some stayed in the community, others moved on. Lucy Ballou Heywood and her husband devoted themselves to the task of editing Adin Ballou’s unpublished works and distributing them to libraries around the country. Hopedale’s children kept the community’s ideas alive.

It would behoove those of us who work for justice, peace and equality to do so not only through our public efforts, but through the most basic means by which we can transmit moral lessons into the future: our children. As we face new ecological and political challenges, our children will be saddled with the work of solving problems we and our parents set into motion. On the most literal level, the future depends on the values we instill in the next generation.

As we face our future, we must recognize that individualism and freedom must be balanced against the values of sacrifice, duty, and interdependence. Children are both a physical gift to the future, and among our greatest teachers of these values. Freedom means nothing to a parent cradling an infant who is not hungry, has a clean diaper, and is not in pain. Sometimes babies cry, and sometimes we must learn humility about the limits of our power. We are humbled, and also strengthened by our children. Not only my children, but all children are a gift from God sent to teach us about sacrifice and love. We owe it to them to learn this lesson.

The Sound of Music

2009-07-25T13:50:00.000-07:00

My sister Carol posted a link to a Sound of Music dance performance in an Antwerp train station on her Facebook, and watching it made me so happy I started crying.

I love the surprise and delight on the faces of the people at the train station--to have stumbled into such a wonderfully well-conceived work of art and dance on their way to catch a train. What a gift!

I love that the dancers are all different ages, with tons of children mixed in. Then there is the clever simplicity of the choreography -- especially when they Vogue to "La, a note to follow Sol." So good!

But the main thing, I think, is just that these people are dancing, in public, just for fun. When was the last time I did something beautiful and joyful just for the sheer fun of it? Even with my children, I'm so often playing for a few minutes "before" -- "we can play for a few minutes and then we need to go to the grocery," I'll tell them. Being home with them this summer, I realize how hard it is for me to just enjoy the moment, much less do something creative and art-filled just because.

I'm reading a book about what happens in the rest of your life after a mystical experience or experience of awakening -- Jack Kornfield's After the Ecstasy, The Laundry. He prefaces one of the chapters with this quote:

A young monk asked the Master:
"How can I ever get emancipated?"
The Master replied:
"Who has ever put you in bondage?"

For me, the answer is, "I have." My ideas about how I should be, or what's the right thing to do, or how other people should treat me--these ideas have not always been helpful. Over many years of growing up and young adulthood, I've gotten in my own way and limited my own possibilities. When the truth is, every day is a new day.

It's not a new idea... but still, a new day!

I remember my father quoting Blake at my sister's wedding: "He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy; But he who kisses the joy as it flies lives in eternity's sunrise."

To kiss joy as it flies. Not holding onto the moment--grasping after love and happiness--but simply giving it a kiss as it flies by.

I've lately been telling people that I figured out the secret to happiness is, "be happy." I don't always practice this rule, but I do hope I can find my Do Re Mi Fa Sol La Ti Do.

Safe Neighborhoods

2009-07-12T17:58:00.000-07:00

My family has moved to Cambridgeport, a neighborhood in Cambridge near Central Square. Our apartment is nice, newer than many, small, and just about right. Some of our neighbors are young single people but many are families, some are retired.

There's a lady across the street who I hear shouting nonsense sometimes, and I think she's probably imagining people are talking to her. There are children who ride bikes and scooters in the nicely maintained courtyards -- we've met some of them. Denalise, Isabella, Ahmed & Nora, Ting-Ting, Leh-Leh and baby Kai-Kai. I love these children--these city kids who are glad to climb and bike around with my kids.

I broke up a fight between some teenagers the other night -- one told me, "this is just how we work out our problems. It's ok!" as his friend rubbed his nose and caught his breath. Their younger, more responsible-seeming friend had been videotaping, and he encouraged his buddies to cut it out. "I've got little kids, ok? So keep it cool so they don't have to see you fighting," I asked. "Ok," they said, and told me their names when I asked them--names I can't remember, except Eric, with the camera. Good kids, just bored on a summer night.

I love my new community. I love asking someone which way is a particular store and them answering in an unexpected accent. I love the young Ethiopian woman wearing a long headscarf, who rang up new sneakers for Raimi at Payless, asking about our kids' names and ages. I love the store down the block that sells Indian clothes and spices, and the shop nearby that sells gaudy suits and shoes "from Italy." I love meeting my neighbors, who tell me what country they were originally from before I ask. Sweden. Egypt. China. Ethiopia. I wonder if they expect me to believe I'm the one who's "from here" -- me, the person who just moved here from the Midwest, who grew up in an affluent white suburb in Connecticut. If anything, I am the foreigner among the Boston accents and Brazilian cultural centers, the tatooed skateboarders, reggae muscians, barber shops and Middle Eastern restaurants.

I love the Boston accent of my downstairs neighbor. I love to see the way people let their children decorate the doors to their apartments. I even have come to love the sound of a horn honking, announcing that someone has arrived to help the old woman across the street--take her to the grocery store, make sure she's ok. At first I thought it was rude--go ring the bell, I thought. Now I imagine they tolerate and appreciate the relationship, and it is nice to see that an elderly person on my street has someone watching out for her. So I tolerate the horn. I tolerate the cigarette smoke wafting in from a neighbor's balcony, and I tolerate the drum kit I heard someone banging on at 11:45 last night. They stopped, after all, and anyway it was a Saturday night. These are my neighbors.

I didn't grow up with such a rich and diverse neighborhood. I imagine that the neighborhoods I grew up in, the pools I swam in, were a lot like the Pennsylvania pool and community you may have read about, where elementary school children were recently denied access to their contractually-arranged swim schedule on the first day they showed up. Over the phone the pool club was happy to accomodate an extra 65 kids; when those kids appeared in person--and when those kids were African American and Latino--the pool could no longer accomodate them.

Some children heard racist comments from pool members. Chaperones witnessed parents taking their kids out of the pool, leaving to complain to management. One of the children asked their teacher "if I'm too dark to swim there."

The really remarkable thing about this story is not that it happened. What's remarkable is that it was caught and the outcry was so widespread. After major media attention and a federal investigation, the pool club is now claiming it was a safety issue. Isn't it always?

Of course we're not racist, the board members said. We live in a white suburb of a racially divided city. Yes, our membership is all white. We weren't comfortable with these kids coming into the pool--but it was about safety. The pool felt unsafe when these children arrived.

Look. I've got my own baggage and work left to do. I've grown up white and privileged in this racist culture. But I am sick and tired of hearing stories about black children getting told to quiet down, move out, break things up, move along. White people: this is our problem! Racism isn't something that can change unless we want it to. So let's figure our paranoid, stupid, fearful, racist baggage out and address this problem.

When I was growing up, I remember believing a racist story about a peer who was Muslim. I remember him approaching me to tell me that he heard I was repeating this story and that I shouldn't talk about things I know nothing about. I was ashamed, and years later, I am also grateful for his courage to call me out for being so stupid. I remember when a new girl moved to our affluent CT suburb, how there was this buzz and excitement because she was African American... and rich and ultimately very popular. She passed the test... but the test was there. How she dressed, talked. Her light skin, her preppy hair. Several years ago I reminisced about about the lack of racism I'd witnessed in the small town where I went to high school, and my friend from school, who is Colombian-American, asked me if I was serious. Despite growing up in the same town, we lived in different places, it seems.

More recently, when we sold our home to move to Massachusetts, a neighbor told me that another of our neighbors had asked if the people buying the house were white, because, "we've got enough black people on our street."

....

Ten or so years ago, my partner and I decided to remain unmarried in solidarity with same-sex couples who were denied the right to marry under the law. We did not want to belong to the married people's club when so many of our friends and loved ones were denied entrance. In the last few months, we legalized our commitment because I needed health insurance and we were moving to a state where gay marriage is legal. It was a compromise I'm not particularly proud of.

So now I'm thinking about the other clubs I'm a part of and wondering, is there anything we do to get out of this club of whiteness--this place where being white earns my children the right to swim wherever they want to? This place where our children can gather in large numbers without being told the situation has become unsafe?

How can we, a white family, make the world safer for all of our neighbors? How can we make it safe for children on their bikes and children in swimming pools? How can we make sure it's safe for children to be children? Because a world in which 6 year old, 11 year old, 17 year old children have to change their actions to avoid making white people feel uncomfortable is not a safe world.

Nothing New Under the Sun

2008-12-31T06:34:00.000-08:00

Talk of Blagojevich and impeachment has turned my mind toward my favorite movie, All the President's Men. This is the film I rent when I'm feeling blue and looking for something that will give me reason to hope.

Corruption is a baseline expectation, so I'm not discouraged by the film's depiction of Nixon's blatant lies, the vastness of the conspiracy and cover-up, or the recognition of how little has changed in politics. All of that muck is so cleanly stepped through by Woodward and Bernstein as portrayed by Redford and Hoffman. This film makes me believe that you can make a difference in the world by being smart and paying attention. It's also a story of courage and stubborn persistence -- and good writing.

The film emphasizes writing first with its closeup of a blank page being imprinted by a teletype -- the words pounding onto the page, revealing the truth. Then there is the scene where Bernstein steals and rewrites an article that has been turned in by the less-seasoned Woodward. Redford conveys mild annoyance tempered by an eagerness to learn. He asks Bernstein not to go around his back but bring edits directly to him, nodding at the revisions and saying, "Yours is better." In the film it's not only the truth that matters, but also how it is told.

There are convictions in these two characters -- but in the film those convictions don't translate into self-aggrandizement. Yes they want to get the big story, but they're also passionate about learning the truth and telling it right.

It's startling that these two young journalists were perceptive enough to pick up on a small story-- buried deep within the pages of the Washington Post--mentioning a break-in at the Watergate hotel. Like all the best detective stories, something in plain sight turned out to be a clue to something much deeper. When Woodward and Bernstein saw those few paragraphs they recognized, quite literally, that there was more to the story. To see the unwritten story, and to write it. What a feat!

In a way this speaks to a broader truth about facts and what's behind them -- the way in which there is always "more to the story." To question what's behind a brief crime report is to recognize that events have underlying causes. Just as a break-in on page three has a cause, so does any other seemingly plain fact.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm often consumed by questions--peering under the surface of things to see if there's some underlying problem that can be solved and acted upon. The hope (or fantasy) of All the President's Men is that sometimes these perceptions and questions can make a difference.

Despite my love for the film, I also recognize it as a fantasy and piece of entertainment--the characters so likable and cool, the answers so neatly uncovered. And although Woodward and Bernstein's efforts did in reality help end a corrupt Presidency, far worse corruption has followed in the succeeding decades.

So I enjoy the film, while also always being left with the awareness that the triumph it depicts is just a moment in time. The pursuit of justice and truth are as old as human history, and each victory is tempered by the complex intersection of competing interests, human greed, and versions of the story.

A film like All the President's Men and the story it tells gives us the sense that change is possible. But once you start searching for the whole story--prying up the paving stones of "how things are" to see what's beneath, it's hard to stop questioning. I sometimes feel the way the teacher in Qohelet/Ecclesiastes describes when he laments:

What a heavy burden God has laid on men! I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind.

Ecclesiastes contains a desperate search for truth, describing a teacher's exploration of many potential sources of meaning in life--work, pleasure, wealth, knowledge, love. How can we find meaning when everyone's life ends the same way, it asks? Near the end it states:

...the dust returns to the ground it came from, and the spirit returns to God who gave it. "Meaningless! Meaningless!" says the Teacher. "Everything is meaningless!"

Although everything is declared meaningless, there's still a paradox within the story as the Teacher repeatedly returns to his questions, holding out hope that an answer can be found. He shares a story that reminds me of Woodward and Bernstein:

I also saw under the sun this example of wisdom that greatly impressed me: There was once a small city with only a few people in it. And a powerful king came against it, surrounded it and built huge siegeworks against it. Now there lived in that city a man poor but wise, and he saved the city by his wisdom.

Despite the greed and hunger of a powerful king, a poor man was able to save a small city (a metaphor for the truth?). Unfortunately, the lessons of quiet wisdom don't last as long as the impact of a powerful fool. The Teacher concludes:

But nobody remembered that poor man. So I said, "Wisdom is better than strength." But the poor man's wisdom is despised, and his words are no longer heeded.

The quiet words of the wise are more to be heeded
than the shouts of a ruler of fools.
Wisdom is better than weapons of war,
but one sinner destroys much good.

In the end, a small act by an individual can bring down a King... but a powerful leader can do lasting damage.

Just as All the President's Men is bookended by a teletype, Ecclesiastes begins and ends with a narrator who is not the Teacher. After the Teacher has proclaimed everything to be meaningless, the narrator seems compelled to come up with a more tidy ending. He explains, "Of making many books there is no end, and much study wearies the body."

Then he offers what sounds at first like a platitude: "Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil."

I see two ways to read this conclusion. At first it seems like a pat on the head: don't worry so much about meaning and why -- just follow the commandments.

But then, it's also a practical bit of advice. Yes, the struggle to do good and live wisely is unending, but still, we've got to do the best we can.

The New Symbol

2008-11-06T20:15:00.000-08:00

The election of Barack Obama comes as a relief. It means so much for the future of our country -- speaking volumes about our capacity to take care of one another and our shared commitment to solving crises like war in the Middle East and global warming. It feels like an end to a long era of injustice that started...when? With Reagan? Segregation? Slavery? The colonization of this land?

Something hopeful seems to lie ahead.

I've been moved by the many reflections by African Americans about what this election means to them personally. I have read and heard young men of color say they hope this will change how people see them -- and that it changes how they see themselves. When I picked my son up at school yesterday, a little girl was hanging up a portrait of Barack Obama. Like our next President, she is biracial, and she had carefully colored his skin a rich shade of brown. She lifted the portrait to the wall to see how it looked before running to get some tape.

Marian Wright Edelman recently wrote:

[This] election is a reminder that the United States is still a place of bold ideas and a beacon of hope. It says to every child of color and every poor boy and girl that you belong too, and you do have a future. Throughout America’s history, race has been a noose choking our capacity to soar. At a time when we face a great litany of problems, it is moving to see the American people's common sense and faith trump fear. It is truly a triumph that yesterday Americans voted for competence and a new vision, regardless of race.

She then goes on to call us to see this not as the end that it feels like, but the beginning of the next era of justice-making. She writes:

Leaders are only as good as citizens demand them to be, and we must create a citizens' movement that will fight to provide every child in America with health coverage, that will work to end child poverty, and that will stop funneling children down a prison pipeline that threatens to re-segregate our nation.

There is much work to be done. On health care, poverty, education. Justice work. Edelman urges us not to become complacent or overly proud of ourselves for the symbolic importance of this moment in time. But I do want to linger here just a bit longer.

Although I can be only an ally in the long struggle against racism and white supremacy, I was deeply moved by the sight of Barack, Michelle, Sasha and Malia Obama taking their place as our nation's "first family." Seeing them standing on that stage in Grant Park was powerful in the way that moments of symbolic, historic, and ritual importance are.

I have never been much of a flag-waver, but seeing that beautifully multi-racial crowd so filled with unity and with joy, waving the American flag: the flag looked different to me. It looked to me so much more like America.

I felt and feel such a strong sense of "this changes everything."

The next day, that phrase came to mind again as I read the results of the anti-gay marriage ballot propositions that passed during this same election. I have heard married couples express surprise at the power they have experienced by being married. "I don't know why," they say, "but it just changes everything."

How disappointing that in an election that I believe truly changed what it means to utter the words "United States of America," voters in states as diverse as California, Arizona, Florida and Arkansas chose to cling to old definitions of marriage and family. By banning gay marriage or the adoption of children by gay couples, large groups of Obama supporters seem to have spoken the message, "Yes we can... as long as we're not gay people wanting to marry or build a family."

I have always been open to the possibility that civil unions are enough. Pragmatically, I wonder if federal Civil Union legislation might be possible in the next 8 years.... But watching the Obamas onstage in Grant Park, knowing that this moment transcended party platforms or social issues--watching the world change in a moment--I understood why it really does have to be marriage.

No church will be forced to change its doctrine or sacraments, no one will be forced to show up at gay weddings. Send a gift or don't, but the world needs gay marriage just like the world needs an African American President of the United States.

When Kevin & I first set out on our marriage boycott, we did it for our friends. We did it for solidarity and feminism and justice. It was also for ourselves, because we wanted our life to be the testament to our commitment--not the words on a legal document.

We believed then, and believe now, that love makes a family. We believed that our relationship was no more authentic or valid by virtue of the fact that we can procreate. We didn't find weddings to be particularly expressive of who we are as a couple. We knew that as an opposite-sex couple, we wouldn't actually endure much discrimination for our choice; and felt that maintaining our legal separateness was a feminist act and assertion of our individual identities. We felt that marriage is overly-romanticised and too easily entered into.

Today I realize that marriage matters, but not for the reasons that get the most press. It's not because children need two parents or need one role model of each gender to live with them. It's not because it protects you from breaking up or makes taxes easier or because little girls grow up wanting to be princesses.

It matters because marriage changes things. A co-worker told me yesterday that his daughter is getting married, and as a parent, and seeing the pride on his face, I exclaimed, "Aw! Congratulations!" I was swept up in what this means for him and for his daughter. Swept up by the way the world changes when you get married. When you have a child. When your child gets married. Marriage matters at a symbolic, ritual level. And so for the homophobe, the simple legal recognition of same-sex unions feels like a desecration.

As I experienced the power of symbolic change on election night, I was also aware that during these world-changing ritual moments, old symbols must be shattered. White supremacy has lost some of its power as the white male monopoly on our nation's highest office comes to an end.

While the archetype of marriage is becoming cracked and worn with age, it still stands. It's sad to develop a deeper appreciation for the alchemy of the marriage rite while being so clearly reminded of why my relationship won't fit inside such an inadequately-defined vessel.

I believe the marriage archetype will shatter one day and that a new symbol will replace it. The new symbol will not be defined by body parts. It will look much more like love. The new symbol will stand tall and complete as a family on a stage: smiling, waving, filling hearts with joy.

2008-08-21T19:48:00.000-07:00

It's been a difficult few weeks for me professionally. Being a human being within a community means that sometimes things are not fair. I won't describe the situation in detail, but it's not a new story. Just a story of individuals and systems and power, and the experience of being unable to affect the outcome.

In the challenges I faced these last several weeks, I had a strong sense of calling -- an urgent pull towards action, and clarity about what I needed to say and do. And in the end, my actions and words were helpful to some of my colleagues, but had no direct impact on the situation I was speaking out about. However in the process I gained clarity and insight into my own life's path, and developed a much stronger ability to listen to my own insights and speak with my own voice.

For a brief moment I thought maybe our prayers would be literally answered. But that's not how it works. If it worked that way, no one would suffer. (Which of course begs the question of why we suffer, a question for which there is no compassionate answer.)

Instead of faith bringing us the outcome we were working so hard for, I was reminded that faith is its own reward. You don't get to pray for things to get better and then they do. You pray or meditate on the questions, and what comes to you is not a particular outcome (miraculous cure, wrong righted). What comes to you is a sense of purpose. That's it -- clarity for your own actions.

Anyway, through this experience I've questioned once again whether insight is god-given -- something you connect with and listen for; or whether it comes from within -- psychologically explainable but still genuinely comforting, healing, and powerful.

Agnostic that I am, I feel compelled to question where insight comes from, but in the end I guess it doesn't really matter. What matters is to do your best to be open to insight it when it comes.

Reflecting on the events of the last several weeks, my boss quoted our chaplain at work, reminding me of one of my favorite passages from the Prophets, Micah 6:8 --

...what does the Lord require of you
But to do justice, to love kindness,
And to walk humbly with your God?

I have always felt that the key to the first two - doing justice, loving kindness - is the third requirement: walking humbly with your God.

I truly don't believe it matters if you find your God is in nature, in reason, in meditation or in art or music or poetry or the Bible. Whether God is understood as a real entity or force, or understood as a metaphor for that which is greater than ourselves, God can be found in many places.

And what we are required to do -- what we must do -- is guard against becoming too proud of ourselves for how smart, pious, artsy, or wonderful we are. We must walk humbly.

I'm not a sports fan, but what inspired this post was watching a video of a small women's softball game that was witnessed by fewer than 100 people, but still gives me every reason to hope that doing what's required is possible. This video on YouTube, linked by a deeply spiritual acquaintance of mine, reminds me of a story my Buddhist studies professor, Charles Hallisey, once relayed.

He described two Buddhist monks reaching a river and finding a woman who was struggling to cross, clinging to a branch, and calling to them that she couldn't swim. Because they were prohibited from touching women, the first monk did nothing. The second monk walked into the river and helped the woman across.

As the monks continued on their journey they were silent for a bit. Then the first monk broke the silence. "How could you carry her across the river? We're forbidden from touching women," he said. The second monk replied, "My friend, I left her at the river's edge. It appears you are still carrying her."

It's very difficult to find rules for living that work in every situation. Doing justice and loving kindness can feel nearly impossible when we become caught up in conflict and competing values. Yet with openness and by walking humbly, sometimes it's possible to understand what to do right now, at this moment.

The video I linked above has an obvious connection to the story of the monks in the image of carrying. But it is also about having a set of rules that limit your choices, and finding that you are called to do the right thing -- to answer the law that transcends the rules you have been given.

What does the Lord require of us?

To do justice

To love kindness

To walk humbly with our God.

May I answer this requirement with humility, compassion, and courage. May I find I am not alone in this walk--that this walk takes place alongside that which is greater.

And, I wish the same for you.

I want to share two things.

2008-06-10T19:24:00.000-07:00

First, an article from Harvard Divinity Bulletin by Chris Hedges, "A Hollow Agnosticism," which is a review of Bart Ehrman's God's Problem. I have not read Ehrman, or Hedges' new book, I Don't Believe in Athiests.

The essay's title drew me in, and despite the kids running around socking each other with plastic swords and begging for my intervention, I had to read it all the way through. It helped me answer some questions I have recently had about what's next in my life. Well, not answer them exactly, but reinforced my sense that the answer is not, "treat yourself to something nice" or "just don't worry about it."

Anyway, read it if you're wondering why we suffer. Not that he answers that question. It's more like, "so glad you asked."

Then my dear friend Parisa sent me a link to a sermon she gave on doubt. Again, focusing on the importance of questioning, doubting, even of heresy. And yet rather than despair at the un-knowable-ness of questions like "where do we come from?" "why are we here?" and "what happens after we die?" she finds wonder and miracle in the very fact of being alive.

Michelle Obama

2008-06-08T20:20:00.000-07:00

I ended my last post bracing myself for the treatment of Michelle Obama in the media, and soon after saw this piece in Racialicious discussing how both conservative and liberal media and bloggers have begun to dissect Michelle's appearance, strength, career, and etc. Where Hillary's supposed dowdiness was used against her when Bill was President, now it appears that Michelle's attractiveness will be used against her. (See the photo from a "progressive" blog depicting her in a revealing evening gown, hanging from her wrists and about to be branded by the KKK supposedly illustrating the racist and sexist attacks of right wingers. As if composing that image were not itself a threatening act against her.)

Laura Bush is the ideal "first lady" as that concept is constructed. She is white, Christian, demure, and attractive, but in a conservative way. She is deferential towards her husband even when she disagrees with him, is patient and kind, forgiving him for his youthful excesses. A librarian and a mother, capable of keeping the household harmonious and preventing any distractions from impinging upon her husband's important work.

That the Obamas, like the Clintons and Roosevelts before them, have a marriage based at least in theory on equality and respect is deeply disruptive to the conventions of politics and running for office. (I say in equal in theory because obviously, Bill has shown deep disrespect through his behavior--although he worked like a dog to help get Hillary elected, and supported her attempt to transform the role of "first lady" during his presidency into a job description his wife would want.) I guess it should be no wonder that politics is still such a male dominated profession, when there are such rigid roles prescribed for our nation's highest office and its "first lady."

Here's an idea: I would like to retire whole "first lady" concept. The fact that there were questions about what you would call the husband of the president begs the question of why one's spouse should have anything to do with the office of President in the first place. Spouses/partners show up at the office holiday party--they are not part of the job interview.

More importantly, our country needs to be cured of its first lady fetish--the demand that the wife of the President reflect some idealized notion of feminine domestic perfection: Donna Reed without the sass.

Barbara Bush couldn't live up because she had gray hair and was overweight, even though her personality perfectly fit the bill. Nancy Reagan was too strong and shrill, even though she looked exactly the part.

These are real women, not rarified "ladies." And in the case of Michelle Obama, the "first lady" narrative is going to be an oppressive prison for a woman with her own career aspirations and political convictions--for a woman of color who is bold enough to have spoken out against racism.

Based on a mythological creation of the Christian, white, wealthy, and powerful, it is no wonder that the attacks on Michelle Obama as unfit for the role of "first lady" have so quickly begun.
The fact that she doesn't fit the mold may be all the more reason to elect her husband President.

Mamas for Obama

2008-06-06T09:06:00.000-07:00

Barack Obama's speech Tuesday night was a wonderful speech, and he is a wonderful candidate.

He is also so, so smart to be doing what he's doing to reach out to Clinton supporters--to recognize what she has accomplished and not dismiss her as so many have done. He not only needs to do this on a practical level, but he is right to do this.

It's also subtle and smart that he has made it known that he is taking the weekend off to have a date with his wife and go on a bike ride with his daughters. The image that came into my mind as I heard that this morning was so human, and such an image of a man who values and respects the women in his life. Good husband, good father... good way to woo women voters.

When I was a little Rosalie, I listened to Marlo Thomas's Free to Be, You And Me -- an album filled with a multicultural group of actors, musicians and athletes talking about the ways in which gender and race don't need to define or limit us. Songs like "Mommies are people, Daddies are people," "Sisters and Brothers," and "It's Alright to Cry" (aimed at boys) taught me that, in the words of one poem, "A person should wear what he likes to, and not just what other folks say. A person should be who she wants to. A person's a person that way."

As I got older, I experienced and witnessed the same gender indoctrination that everyone does. There were plenty of painful examples, but I still believed I could do anything I wanted to do as I went off to college. Daily, I saw and see messages in the media and heard words on the radio that indicated that women's primary value is as a sexual object or as a passive, dutiful wife and mother. But still, I did not feel defined or limited by my gender until I became pregnant and had children.

I'm so grateful for my beautiful, hilarious, clever little boys. But still, having children has meant making choices for the good of my family that mean compromising some of my own wishes and dreams. If I did not have children, I would be in a much different place in my career because I would be willing to travel, to work different hours, to live someplace where school quality is not something to be concerned about.

The limitations on my personal ambitions have been self-imposed, but still, it's hard to convey just how powerful it has been for me to witness Hillary Clinton's words and actions as a woman who is also a mother -- a woman who works so hard and has inspired so many people and who seems to have a healthy relationship with her brilliant and self-actualized daughter, Chelsea.

Being a mother and a professional is incredibly hard--it's no coincidence that the highest-level women in the executive branch to date--Condoleeza Rice and Janet Reno--do not have children. And that most of the women you see in legislatures and governor's mansions have grown children--whereas you see many fresh-faced young men with delightful young children bounding exuberantly down the aisles of state and federal legislatures.

Investing in children is critical to the work of building a strong community and strong nation, but the daily work of raising them takes so much effort that it's best to have a wife, or if you are a woman, to remain childless and leave that work to others as you pursue your career. And, you don't see many single parents -- moms or dads -- in politics. It's just too hard.

To be clear: I bear no negative feelings toward women who don't have children, and in fact applaud them for the courage it takes not to become a mother--a radical choice in a world that doesn't know what to do with women who are neither sexually available nor devoted to the domestic sphere.

It's just that growing up, I always assumed that we would have a woman president in my lifetime, and it would have surprised me that that's not going to happen before I'm at least in my 40's. I hope that we will some day.

So although my heart did melt just a little bit to hear Barack had plans for a date with Michelle and bike ride with the kids, it's also a little sad, because although Barack Obama is a man I will be proud to vote for, I'm bracing myself for the fashion stories on what Michelle Obama will wear to the inauguration and the plans she has for redecorating the White House.

Because although she is herself a professional and a brilliant woman in her own right, like Hillary, next January (I hope and pray) she will be our nation's next "First Lady."

Of Bonnets and Belly Fat

2008-03-15T19:01:00.001-07:00

I loved I Heart Huckabees the first time I saw it. Existentialism, feminism, global politics, quantum physics-inspired spirituality, compassion, anger, comedy. Each time I see it, I see something new.

But every time I've watched it, when Naomi Watts decides to stop dressing in skimpy clothes and performing the sexy-girl act as the face of Huckabees, I've turned to Kevin and asked, "what is up with that bonnet?"

Watts' character, "Dawn," is having an identity crisis in which she realizes that she has based her life on appearances--her own beauty, the appearance of success and the appearance of a good relationship. Recognizing that appearances can mask what lies beneath the surface--including a crappy relationship, an unsatisfying career, and a human being of true depth; she gives that all up and demands that she should still be able to do her job--be a spokesmodel for Huckabees--wearing bib overalls and a bonnet.

It's funny, of course, that she insists on being a model but refuses to dress like one. But the bonnet troubled me -- it went beyond funny to just confusing. I mean, baggy clothes I get... but, a bonnet?

Today as I was reading this piece, I thought again of the bonnet. In it, Fatemeh Fakhraie writes about a handful of articles she is seeing recently that focus on the idea that Muslim women aren't necessarily dowdy and can in fact be quite interested in fashion. Even those who choose conservative dress, head scarf, etc., may in fact choose quite flashy - even racy - clothes to wear underneath. One article goes so far as to speculate about hot pants and bikinis.

She writes:

All this “beneath the veil” crap is tired. Women who wear more conservative clothes in line with their interpretations of Islamic requirements just wear clothes under those things! But these articles can’t be satisfied with that. What kind of clothes?

She later goes on to say:

So, according to these articles, Muslim women walking around in austere black robes are practically naked underneath. Ironic, isn’t it? The majority of these women wear conservative clothes to take focus away from their bodies (in line with cultural practices or certain Islamic schools of thought), and these articles bring it right back to them.

I went through a period in my life when I was suspicious of Muslim women who chose to cover their hair or bodies. This was during my college-age feminist awakening, and I mistakenly bought into the idea that this wasn't a truly feminist choice--that this choice was driven by a patriarchal culture and religion.

Then I started reading what Muslim feminists had to say about that, and, needless to say, I hadn't been getting it. As a statement against the sexualization of women in the west and as a personal choice that frees women from an intense focus on their physical attractiveness, the choice to cover oneself is powerful. And of course I had missed the religious dimension--the possibility that one might choose to take the focus away from one's body in order to emphasize one's spirit.

Which brings me back to the rather Amish-looking bonnet. It's not just a hat or a scarf, but a bonnet worn by religious women who consciously choose to turn away from physical beauty in order to focus on spiritual/religious matters. In a movie that also rails against US dependence on oil and raises the specter of September 11, 2001 -- the violence done in the name of American progress and the violence done in reaction to our imperialism -- I now realize that the bonnet in the film is like a western version of the Muslim woman's head scarf.

And what was my reaction the first five times I saw the film? To laugh and dismiss the bonnet. I could not fully appreciate Watts' wonderful acting as she portrays Dawn's awakening and rejection of the insistent and exhausting compulsion of our culture to value women primarily on the basis of their sexual attractiveness. I missed it, because I was focused on her clothes.

It gets exhausting to constantly go on about the objectification of women, the male gaze and all that, but heck, until things change I guess it bears repeating -- and recognizing the moments when I have bought into it.

As a younger feminist, I became acutely aware of the connection between rape and the notion that women's bodies are not their own, but exist as an object of sexual satisfaction.

When I became pregnant with my first child, I experienced anew the ways in which women's bodies are viewed as public domain. People would touch my belly of course, but what truly troubled me was the political claim people seemed to feel they had to my uterus. How I behaved during my pregnancy, what I ate, how I would give birth and what I did to prepare for that--somehow, my body was everyone else's business.

And now, as an overweight woman, I have lately begun to feel that many people take the shape of my body personally. They see my being overweight as a sign that I am lazy or not very bright. Or more charitably, they assume I am unhealthy and pity me for not caring enough about myself to make being thin a priority.

The reality of course is that my body size has nothing to do with my intelligence, my happiness, or my self esteem. It doesn't even tell the story of my health--because when I was thin I smoked and drank to the point of vomiting on an at least weekly basis.

These days I sleep well, drink lots of water and not much else, eat my fruits and veggies, stay active -- mowing the lawn, gardening, walking and chasing kids. Could I eat better? Sure. Could I exercise more? Well... it's not as important to me as quality time with my kids, partner, or writing, but sure, in theory, I could. So, I'm fat. And emotionally and physically healthier than I was when I was thin.

I don't even like to write all of that explanation, except that it feels like what's really heavy is not my weight, but the weight of the expectations that are placed on my body. My skin looks patchy, I've got belly fat, my dark hair grows in "unfeminine" places like my upper lip. I've got stretch marks from two pregnancies, a twice-opened C-section scar, flat feet and stubby fingers. I sometimes worry about whether my hair cut flatters my face or whether my ears are so crooked that no pair of glasses will every sit straight. And none of these things tell you much about who I am, do they?

In graduate school, I read an essay that discussed the idea that men hate women because women's bodies contain the one form of power that men can never have--the power to create life. I'm not a gender essentialist -- not all women are mothers. But, all women and all men have mothers. We are not self-creating, no matter how much the misogynist might wish to pretend it were so.

I don't know if misogyny has its roots in the symbolic power of childbirth, or whether its roots can be better understood in studying primate behavior. Whether evolved or psychological, misogyny is alive and well despite our best efforts. Thankfully, not all men hate women, and there are even a large number of men who don't view women as objects.

This I also know: our bodies are just vessels for this life.

The most beautiful man or woman eventually will recognize this truth as their body becomes frail in old age. The skin hangs off no matter how thin you are, the veins show through the make-up. What's inside this skin can grow richer with each life experience--but only if what's inside is cultivated and nurtured.

My belly fat hides a belly that has contained three human beings, two of whom were born into beautiful little boys. My splotchy face masks a mind that jumps between associations and delights in bringing ideas to life through words.

This skin contains a life that calls out for love and connection, that grows deeper with age, that wants to understand.

Half Magic

2008-02-12T19:26:00.000-08:00

When I was a little girl, I read Edward Eager's Half Magic, at my mother's insistence. She had read it as a little girl. We just finished reading it to my five-year-old tonight.

The story involves a family of four children who find a magic charm on the sidewalk. Mistaking it for a coin, it takes them a little time to figure out that it is magic -- but only half magic. If they make a wish, it will come half true. For instance they wish their cat could talk, and he does talk... but not very well, sputtering unintelligible nonsense words. They figure out that they need to double each wish--wishing that an attacking knight would grow two puddings on his nose, or wishing themselves twice as far as home.

Part of the background of the story is that their mother is a widow, and Jane, the oldest, is the only one who really remembers their father. As the plot unfolds, their mother meets a wonderful man named Mr. Smith, who believes in believing in six impossible things before breakfast. Mr. Smith helps them through their adventures, finally marrying their mother and bringing new support and security into their struggling family.

After they go through some harrowing and hilarious adventures, the children discover that the magic of the charm has been used up, at least for them. I'd forgotten the part at the end that I read to Raimi tonight. My voice wavered as I read these paragraphs to him:

The last wish was Jane's alone, and she never really knew she made it.
That night, as she was getting undressed, she found the charm in her pocket, and sat on the bed looking for a long time, and pondering the mystery of how it had come into their hands, and why.
And from that she went on to thinking about their mother's being married, and the changes it would bring into their lives.
She was quite contented about everything. But because she was the only one of the four children who remembered their father, she would have been more contented still if she could have felt sure that he knew about what was going to happen, and approved of it.
It had been a full day, and she was ready for sleep. Already her eyes had begun to close of their own accord. But as she put out the light and tucked the charm absentmindedly under her pillow, her last waking thought was that she wished her father were with her now, so she'd know how he felt about things.
She wasn't worrying about the charm, or working out the right fractions, as she wished it. But because there was still this one small corner in Jane that wasn't completely happy, the charm relented, and thawed out of its icy used-upness, and granted the wish, according to its well-known fashion. Immediately her father was half there.
He was there like a thought in her mind, ensuring her that everything was all right, and exactly as he would want it, and that he was happy in their happiness.
And a wonderful feeling of peace filled the heart of Jane, and she went to sleep with a smile on her face.

For some reason my son has recently had a lot of questions about death and spirits -- about burial rituals and what happens when we die. He's interested in Egyptian tombs and has asked about graveyards. He questions whether God exists and whether God created the Universe, because we've spent a lot more time talking about evolution and cosmology than about our spiritual roots.

I want to help him find his own spiritual answers, and connecting to my own helps with this.

As I write, I'm watching a documentary on the Mormons. It's really very beautiful, the absolute certainty that Mormons feel about the afterlife -- that they will rejoin their families and go to be with God after death. The film interviews a young woman in her twenties with a condition that will take her life within years. It's not a happy thought -- there are tears in her eyes as she describes not being able to see her youngest brothers and sisters grow up. But then she seems so peaceful, saying she will be with them again -- her family will be ultimately, and eternally, reunited.

The Mormons are unusually devout and certain in this conviction, but of course they aren't the only ones to believe in an eternal afterlife. I recently attended a memorial service conducted by the United Methodist chaplain at the agency where I work. The memorial was for one of our former kids, who was killed in a car crash, leaving a five year old son, an eight year old who called him daddy, and an infant he was planning to raise as his own. Their mother was also killed. The chaplain acknowledged the tragedy and sadness, but quickly - too quickly for me - began offering words of comfort. "Today we are united by our grief, and yet we know that he is with God, and he is in a better place. He is at peace."

I don't think I do know that.

My father was too much of a scientist and my mother too much a free thinker for me to grow up with many certainties about the spiritual realm. The best memorial service I've ever been to was for the Orthodox Jewish grandmother of my partner. The Rabbi asked, "Why would God take Helen from us?" And then he paused. "I don't know," he said. "But, we believe that there is an order and a meaning to the Universe." I can't remember his exact words, but the message stayed with me. We don't know why we live and die. But we believe there is a reason, and so we must go on.

So as I read Half Magic to my son, I remembered my father describing the exact sensation Jane experienced--that his mother, long passed away, was with him during some of the most important decisions he'd ever made. He was agnostic as to whether this was a psychological or spiritual experience. Himself influenced by Spiritualists, Theosophists and Unitarians, my father's scientific training and humility about what he did not know allowed him to find comfort in the experience without needing to explain it.

Since he's been gone, I've felt my father's presence with me at times. Never when I expected it, yet at times when I needed it. I know my four sisters have described feeling him with them, too, as they fished or taught or puzzled through a problem.

What I'm thinking, and so grateful to Edward Eager for describing, is that although the children in the story are confused by the half-ness of the magic they find -- they ultimately learn that half magic is enough. Maybe this is what we can hope for, enjoy, and celebrate. The semi-conscious feeling as if in a dream that those we love are with us at moments when we need them. The revelation in our hearts when we witness something transcendent, like a spectacular sunset or the birth of a child.

These experiences both are and are not magic. They're half magic, and fully human.

These Gifts

2007-12-16T20:48:00.000-08:00

"Julian" (not his real name) delicately placed five items on the table in front of me and carefully chose the paper for each gift. Gold foil for his sister. Cream with golden musical instruments for his mother. Gold with pictures of candy for his grandfather. Each gift wrapped in gold.

Last Thursday I wrapped Christmas presents picked out by young people in the residential treatment program where I work. Each year, items are donated by the local community and churches around the state, to help make Christmas special. People are incredibly generous, donating toys, journals, clothes, make-up kits, hand-knit blankets, books... anything a child or teenager might want. Many of these things are given to the children, but a variety of items are set aside to create a "store" where the children can "shop" by picking out gifts to give their family and loved ones.

Some of our kids don't have anyone to give a Christmas present to. Their staff work as a team to create a special Christmas for them; and these children are allowed to shop for 1-2 staff, to experience the act of giving and receiving. Other kids have parents or foster parents, cousins and siblings. Some have very complicated families, with siblings they don't know very well because they've never lived with them.

Many of our kids approach the task of gift-giving with nonchalance and bravado. It's just something they're doing because everyone is doing it and it's Christmas, and whatever. They aren't thoughtless, just self-protective and afraid of making an effort that might result in rejection. Other kids are deliberate, thoughtful, and precise in their choice of gifts and gift wrapping. You can tell that they are holding their loved ones in their thoughts and allowing themselves to want each gift to be appreciated.

Here is what I want to say about Christmas and commercialism: it's not about things. But that doesn't mean that gifts don't matter. Christmas presents are a symbol--a vessel through which something is communicated. If you start to get caught up in caring about the price tag attached, or believing what other people think is signified by a particular item... well then you are misunderstanding the nature of symbols.

An expensive watch does not communicate more than a matchbox car chosen for a dad who likes racing. Yet jewelry is a wonderful gift for someone known and loved for their sparkle.

I'm trying to keep this in mind as I finish my Christmas shopping and wrap everything up in bright, store-bought paper. As I wrap each present, I will think of the love of my family and friends and the blessings they bring into my life.

I would like to live more simply--to be able to hand-knit an organic cotton shawl for my mother, compose a love song for my partner, take seaglass and scavenged wire to fashion a necklace for my sister, and whittle toys for my kids. I know that there is an unseen cost that comes with factory-printed wrapping paper and toys manufactured in china.

Imperfect and store-bought, expensive or bargain-bin: these gifts that I give and those I will receive are a sign of love and appreciation. Just a sign. Nothing more, but also nothing less.

These gifts point to the gifts that my loved ones are to me. I don't particularly deserve them, yet here they are.

Sharing

2007-10-24T07:39:00.000-07:00

A guy I went to graduate school with, Kurt Shaw, was recently honored by the school with a "First Decade Award" for his work with homeless children in Latin America. His organization, Shine a Light, links NGOs doing grassroots work while also bringing attention to programs that use the arts to give homeless Latin American children a voice.

In an article in our alumni magazine, Kurt describes and reflects on his work. He begins by describing giving a videocamera to a boy who lives on the streets of Cordoba, Argentina and the film the child created. The boy experienced the act of creating a film about his experiences as a way to give back. Kurt writes:

We have this idea that the poor are, well, poor. Children, blacks, any oppressed group: they are defined by their lack, by what they are missing. The more time I spend on the streets and favelas of Brazil, Argentina and Colombia, the more I realize what a completely wrong that idea is. In fact, the poor are immensely rich: in art, in culture, in kindness and laughter and solidaritiy. And like anyone else, they become richer when they have a chance to give this wealth, instead of feeling like they must always be the victims of charity.

Later, he writes:

In church when I was a kid, we learned how to give gifts: the offering for the Heifer Project, the CROP walk, door-to-door collections for Church World Service and UNICEF. All of that was great, of course, and I wouldn't be doing what I'm doing now without it. But now that I know the kids who get the donations I gave, I'm more concerned about it: when their gift comes from no-place and they have no way to give a return gift, they end up in an eternal debt. Charity without relationship, without love--to use the Christian word--becomes not only paradoxical, but damaging. Without a way to pay in the same currency, they pay with their dignity and autonomy; it's not chance that debt and guilt are the same word in Greek.

What I'm saying, I guess, is this: charity and sacrifice and altruism are the wrong metaphor. We have to come to see social change movements as an opportunity for relationships. And in that exchange of gifts, we all become richer.

I was so moved and inspired by Kurt's essay that I wanted to write to thank him, but haven't yet. His words spoke to me about the work I do as a fundraiser for an organization working with marginalized children--challenging me to be thoughtful about what I do and how I go about it.

It's a complicated thing because I'm on the side of the process where I solicit acts of charity. I feel very good about the fact that the kids my organization serves are encouraged and supported to use their voices and to give back. We talk a lot about the difference between taking and receiving--we teach our children and young adults about the power and connection you can experience by allowing someone to reach out to you with the understanding that you also will give to others.

Many--probably most--of our donors see their gifts as building a relationship with our kids. But there are those who are throwing money at a problem that troubles them but they really don't want to think about too much. Then charity really does feel like a wall dividing a donor from a seemingly-passive recipient. I imagine that this is why some people feel their lives are enriched through giving, while others feel anxious about being asked to give--each charitable contribution leaves them feeling more impoverished.

When I worked with the Quakers, there was a written policy that images used in publicizing programs would be respectful, positive, and humane. For instance a program working in an area experiencing hunger would depict people farming or milling grain; not flies crawling across a baby's eyelids. In my own work, we sometimes show kids receiving a gift but mostly we show them being the interesting, creative, strong individuals that they are. I take a lot of photos and share a lot of their words about their own volunteering and work giving back to the community.

There's a lot more to say, but last night I wrote about Kurt's article in my diary, and his words became connected in my mind to the bedtime story I read to Kinnell about Gossie the Goose.

Gossie is a gosling who loves to wear red boots every day. One day she can't find her boots...until she finds them on the feet of another gosling! "Nice boots!" says Gertie, clomping around in Gossie's favorite boots. Does Gossie feel robbed, angry, and poor? No, the last page of the book shows the two goslings playing together, each wearing one red boot.

It's such a simple childhood lesson--if you share, you will make friends. Or as my mother and grandmother used to say, "Share and share alike."

I like that phrase. We each give what we can, and in the process not only our possessions are shared, but also our common humanity.

Absence and Presence

2007-09-11T14:27:00.001-07:00

Today a poem from Mary Oliver was on Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac, and I'm going to copy and paste it here and then say a few things.

The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

I heard this poem on my way to therapy today. I love my therapist. She is a Gestalt therapist and the wife of a retired Presbyterian minister, so it's the closest I've come to spiritual direction. She leaves a lot of space for questions about meaning and purpose and death and God.

So today I asked my therapist if she believes in God, and then quickly told her I wasn't sure I want to know. I had been telling her how difficult and painful it is not to believe in God and yet to care so much about the pain and suffering of others. I had received an email about legislation to help grandparents who raise their grandchildren, and a second about the lack of access to basic healthcare services if you are on Medicaid and live in our community. And doing the work that I do, it's hard not to feel despair about the ways we fail to invest in families and in children in the interest of building healthier and more just communities.

She asked me what it feels like not to believe in God. "Empty?" she asked. "Dark," I replied. I told her that I imagine death as being like a light goes out. It is difficult and sad to realize how hard life can be--to witness the pain of others and then imagine a person suffering... and then the light goes out.

Then I remembered reading about the new biography of Mother Theresa, which apparently describes a "dark night of the soul" that she experienced for most of her life. According to this article, Mother Theresa felt abandoned by God and spent most of her life doubting that God even exists. But she apparently also felt that this feeling of abandonment helped her experience a greater sense of connection to the despair of the people she served.

My therapist responded, "Isn't that amazing that she felt abandoned, when she brought God into the world?"

"I KNEW you believed in God," I said, and then laughed and thanked her for saying that, because it meant a lot to me.

Maybe we don't get to know God's presence all the time. Maybe it would make us too secure or fanatical. Maybe feeling abandoned teaches us compassion. Maybe it would be like when you think too much about breathing and begin to feel like you are suffocating--if you felt God's presence all the time and really concentrated on it, how could you get anything else done?

I love the poem by Mary Oliver and the question she asks at the end. I am also very far from a place in my life where I could spend the day walking through a field and examining grasshoppers. If I had that time, I think I would feel God's presence, or the presence of whatever "God" represents.

But for now I'm raising my children and doing my work. Maybe that is enough.

The Binding

2007-08-22T12:17:00.001-07:00

When I was in college, my family and I attended a reception where a Jewish Studies professor gave a lecture. At the time I found the talk interesting but it quickly faded from memory. Some years later, I remember my dad asking me about that lecture and reminding me what it had been about.

The subject was the Akedah -- The Binding of Isaac. Abraham is called by God to climb a mountain and sacrifice his son Isaac. Isaac walks with his father to the top of the mountain, where Abraham binds him to an altar and is ready to kill him when an angel appears telling him he does not need to perform the sacrifice. Abraham discovers a ram in the bushes nearby, sacrifices a ram, and returns home with his son.

This is a gripping, perplexing story. Dr. Jon Levenson, my graduate school Hebrew Bible professor, argued that Isaac is a grown man when this occurs, and that he accompanies Abraham to the top of the mountain -- walks with him spiritually as well as literally -- and is therefore not a victim but willing participant in doing as God commanded. Other interpretations say that God was testing Abraham and never intended for him to go through with the sacrifice. What kind of God would do this is hard to comprehend.

The talk that day, as my father remembered it, focused on the chilling image of a father agreeing to kill his child. The central question this professor asked was, if God tells you to do something, how do you know it's really God?

This was a question dad found very interesting, and which I've been puzzling over lately. Even if you are a believer and know that God exists, how can you be sure it's God talking to you, especially if you are being told to do something painful or difficult? It could be insanity. It could be the devil. It could actually be God. Even healing experiences, moments of powerful insight, connectedness and love -- how do you know they are from God and not just some useful psychological reaction or other self-delusion?

Thinking about the Akedah today, I'm struck by how powerfully it works a metaphor for the everyday gift of life. Let's say there is a God, and that God is all-powerful. When a person is hurt or dies, God has chosen for that to happen. And when a person is saved from the brink of devastation, that is also God's doing. The truth is, whether or not you believe in God as an active agent who runs the show, we don't get to decide when we will die.

Now imagine Abraham not as a father who gives in to the insane idea that he should kill his son, but as a man who has come to terms with this reality. The idea of killing your own child could be imagined as killing the idea that you are able to keep your child alive. In other words, Abraham in the story is submitting to the reality that he is not in control of his or his child's destiny.

"Ok, it's Isaac's time to die," he thinks. "It's not up to me to decide." And then at the top of the mountain, blessing of blessings, Isaac's destiny is revealed: life!