Hiatus II

The above photo is of the Portland skyline, which I will see firsthand on Wednesday.

That's right, dear readers, I am off to present a paper on the theology and poetry of Mary Oliver and Rumi at the College Theology Society's annual conference. After said paper presentation I will be spending a few days in the great city of Seattle. Lauren will also be traveling over the next week, so posting will resume on June 12th, with our theme of: "travel."

Contentment

Our theme for this week: Outside

One of the things I love most about gardening or doing the dishes or running or being on my bicycle is that the monotony of the task is such that it frees my mind to do other things. Sometimes I write poems or pretend I'm the subject of an interview for This American Life. Sometimes I think through theology or fundraising. Sometimes I space out and listen to the radio. Whatever it is about keeping my hands busy, my brain manages to reach conclusions it wouldn't otherwise.

Over the weekend, I had the most ordinary, laid-back Saturday ever. I wrote a paper. Read Lolita. Drank some tea, napped, and made dinner. I did a number of small tasks around the house that left my mind free to churn (or particularly in this case, not churn) away over much of what has happened in the past six months. I realized (right around the time that I woke up from my nap) that much of my writing revolves around the feelings of falling into and out of love. I don't focus very often on the sheer and utter contentment that comes with the feeling of being on your own and being happy about it. Saturday was one of those days--blissfully self-involved and quietly decadent--I reached a number of small revelations on Saturday.

***

Contentment

It as not my first night without you.

Or even night at all.

But an ordinary Saturday morning.

I wrote some letters, drank flower tea,

did the dishes and reread Lolita.

It wasn't until later--after a long nap

but before I was making dinner--

I was in the garden cutting herbs

when I realized that I no longer love you.

And how that feels.

And what it means.

The Stories I Tell Myself

Our friend Mark contributed this for our "fate" theme.

The Stories I Tell Myself

Just the other day, while running, I saw a cardinal. I knew it was a cardinal; that red is unmistakable. That red is brighter than a fire engine. The kind of red that reminds you of lip stick, Corvettes, China. It all happened so fast. I was running and then there it was, on the sidewalk, one wing outspread. Then I saw its head, haphazardly displaced a few feet away. Like a discarded clown nose after a birthday party. Absurd and horrifying. I winced, of course. I wince every time. Squirrels, deer, even raccoons. Snakes make me jump. I told myself a story. Dead on impact; the usual lines. But questions remain. Like, "How did its head get separated from its body like that?" and "Is red more beautiful now than before?" Lately, falling asleep has been easier. I count backwards from a thousand. I don't say "nine hundred and ninety-nine." I say "nine ninety-nine, nine ninety-eight, nine ninety seven..." Either it works or I get distracted and start telling myself a story. No matter the story, sleep is the ending. I drive a lot for my job. Close to five-hundred miles a week. I complain sometimes but driving is my practice. I see and think in relative motion. I try my best to avoid phone calls and I only text when the parking break is on. One must follow the rules. I listen to radio news. I gather facts. I look at clouds. I get irritated by teenagers. I turn my head for boys in Audis but that's a different story. My job takes me to the outskirts. It's where I grew up. A little bit country, a little bit suburbia. Country clubs. Hidden driveways. Lots of yellow signs. Some public, some private. Some depicting jumping deer. Like I said, I wince. I've seen roadkill before. Who hasn't? But I didn't see her at first. No, she "came out of nowhere" as the saying defends. I became fixated on her gleaming white tail. It all happened so fast. Fast and hard towards the silver SUV which I'd graciously let pass before turning into its wake. It was a 55mph zone. The driver - I saw the her hair in profile - was easily approaching 70. I tried not to judge. I've replayed this sequence hundreds of times. Images in motion stay in motion. It all happened so fast. It was absurd; a cartoon crash and flip. She landed in the ditch. She tried to stand up, to run away. She couldn't. God only knows the damage inside. Broken bones. Internal bleeding. I drove past the stopped SUV; the driver inside held her head in her hands. My window was cracked. I felt a breeze, heard birds singing. I glanced into the rear view mirror. Her body writhed but her head stayed steady. Poise, I thought. I started to cry. I was running late. What could I do? Two days later, I told my therapist I was afraid of dying alone. It was a bullshit line. I won't die alone. No matter the circumstance, I know that truth. What I should have said was that I am afraid of dying in fear. I went back. I had to. The SUV was gone. So was the doe. Just a tuft of white in the grass. I imagined a gun. I imagined irises. I don't know what you tell yourself at night. I won't ask. I've come this far. I know a thing or two. I know that we're all headed towards something. They say the sun is a star. Like all stories, there's a beginning, middle, and an end. And I am comforted.

Fate

Greetings, all.

Here's my post on fate. This is the first 500 words; I wrote over 1,000, and might post the rest later. For now, this.

Fate was an interesting topic to ponder, especially because Kelly and I have such different takes on it. For her, fate is a dealbreaker; it's as unspeakable as inadequate Christology. For me, fate is after-the-fact perspective. I don't really trust fate or believe in fate; what I do believe is that, as my mother says, God gets you where you're supposed to be.

When I think about all the changes and movements of my life, what I see is not fate but opportunity. Recently I was speaking to a friend about the delicacy of timing: How do we know when it's time to let go or cling? To pursue or retreat? To stick our necks out or be still? As I ponder my life, I'm amazed at the opportunities that have come to me. And they've all come at the right time.

I've no reason to think the future will be any different. Perhaps that's trusting in fate.

At least my Christology is adequate.

Peace,

LLM

***

I made my first trip to Minnesota in January of my senior year of high school. The college counselor thought that the College of Saint Benedict would be the perfect place for me to study. I had spent my whole life in Kansas City, Missouri; I liked it there and wanted to stay somewhat close. At the same time, I was attracted by the adventure and possibility that a place like Minnesota could hold. The school, a women’s college partnered with a men’s university several miles away, sounded like a great fit for me: rigorous academics, strong and sound theology, valued women’s intellect and contribution to the world. The only problem was that it was five hundred miles from home.

Despite the distance, mom and I decided to make the drive. One can’t say no to an opportunity without being fully informed of the decision being made. When we hit hour eight of nine, Neil Diamond was singing “Both Sides Now.” We had just gotten in to Minneapolis and a steady snowfall was coming down around us. I began to cry. Mom navigated the fairly stressful driving conditions and managed to ask why I decided now was a good time to start freaking out.

“I can’t do this,” I said. “There’s no way I can be this far from home.”

“Should we turn around?” she asked.

“No,” I told her. “Let’s go see it. But I’m not coming here!”

Knowing that I wouldn’t be attending the school that coming autumn, the tour was fairly relaxed. We saw the college campus, marveled at the dorms that were connected by tunnels, saw the library and campus ministry offices. All this in the bitter cold with nearly a foot of snow on the ground. As part of the tour, mom and I went to Saint John’s University, the men’s campus that is partnered with Saint Ben’s. Saint John’s is home of the School of Theology, a well-respected graduate school and seminary. I remember nothing of the tour of the Saint John’s campus but our leaving. We headed toward the interstate, the abbey’s bell banner filling the rear window, and I said to mom, “Well, I’m not coming for undergrad, but maybe I’ll get my master’s here.”

***

Early in my junior year of college I contacted the admissions director for the School of Theology at Saint John’s. He knew a friend of mine in Atchison who also taught at the SOT. Sister Irene, a member of the women’s religious community that cosponsored the college I attended, stopped me one day as I was heading to the chapel for prayer. “I hear you’ve been talking to Mr. Duffy,” she said, smiling.

“Yes, I have. How did you find out?”

“He called a few days ago asking if I might know a certain young woman who was looking at coming to Saint John’s. When he said it was you, I laughed and told him I know you very well. We need to talk about Saint John’s some day!”

Not long after that Irene and I had a three-hour conversation about Saint John’s—her experiences as a student and a teacher, her friendships with the monks, her sense that it would be a wonderful place for me.

I left her office determined to study at Saint John’s.

This necessitated another trip north. Again, mom came with me. Again, I was nervous about the distance. But this time there was more excitement than trepidation. We met with professors, sat in on some classes, dined with students, and wandered around the campus. Immediately I knew I was home, that this would be the place for me to study.

And so it proved.

Understanding A Car Crash

This week's theme: Fate

Somewhat recently, Lauren was editing a paper I wrote. She left the following comment in the margin: I hope you never have any reason to criticize my theology. You're brutal.

When I asked her, later, what she meant by this she told me that I wasn't wishy-washy in my critiques of other theologians. I am almost completely intolerant of what I view as inadequate theology. I take my position and defend it strongly.

It wasn't until recently that I discovered how much this aspect of my theological life spills over into my regular life. I had a social engagement in March and the topic of fate came up. He is a great believer in fate and destiny (Are they the same thing? He seemed to imply that they aren't.) and how people are destined to come into one another lives.

"Bullshit." I responded.

"I'm sorry?"

"Bullshit."

The conversation that followed grew increasingly tense and heated. He kept claiming that fate is inexorable. We owed our very friendship to fate. I contended that belief in fate is a major character flaw. It is, in fact, a dealbreaker when it comes to relationships in my life. Believing in fate is a blunt refusal to take responsibility for one's own choices and actions in the world. You are no longer accountable for the people you hurt, the jobs you screw up, the small triumphs in your life. They are nothing more than the universe's will. It is the ultimate test of immaturity in another person.

We haven't spoken since. Perhaps it was not meant to be.

***

Understanding a Car Crash

I was baking a cake and realized that we were out of butter. The grocery store is right through the alley, so I pulled one of your shirts off the clothesline and buttoned it over my camisole and jeans. It smelled like expensive laundry soap and sunshine. It was a warm May day was filled with the sound of bees humming in the lilies of the valley and lilacs. My neighbor drove past in a newly restored '69 Mustang, a car I've been coveting since I moved into this house. He was listening to something loud, I think it was the Eagles. There was a warbler building a nest in the trees. I was thinking about the cake I was baking, worried the frosting wouldn't set. The sun was so bright I wished I had thought to grab my sunglasses, even for this brief walk through the alley. Thinking about it now, the sunny silence of the morning shattered, it must have been terribly bright--why else would that glossy black car have missed seeing the golden retreiver wander into his lane, causing him to swerve suddenly into oncoming traffic, then crumple into a rainbow of broken glass and chrome.

Fear

I've not done a reflection for a while. Today's gospel reading is the one where Jesus assures the disciples that he will send the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, to be with them after he is gone. As I listened to the gospel today, I pondered the creative chaos bred by the Spirit.

Such creative chaos is present in storms as well.

Peace,

LLM

***

The wind blows where it wills, and you can hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes; so it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.

(John 3:8)

I grew up in Kansas City, Missouri, just east of tornado alley. The storms of the midwest can be threatening, cantankerous, unexpected. I fear these storms, not because I’ve ever experienced the terror of a tornado, but because their unruliness cannot be controlled or reigned in or stopped. They simply go until they wear themselves out. I have no influence over them. They are reminders of my humility. I can only stand in awe at the rush of water beating down on the earth, on cars, on buildings, on plants. Lightning splits the sky, a web both beautiful and terrifying; thunder rolls and shakes and deafens.

To this day such storms have me contemplating the safest place in whatever shelter I’m occupying. I take note of the presence of blankets and sturdy shoes. I avoid windows and check weather stations to see how immanent the threat. In other words, I exert control over the things that can be controlled.

Nevertheless, in recent years I have found myself needing thunderstorms. I desire the reminder that the world can be shaken, that stability is a human construct. Sometimes we are drawn to that which we fear most.

John’s gospel tells us of a holy unruliness: the Spirit blows where it wills. It moves and dances and creates and destroys. And this Spirt makes noise. That is the noise I crave. That is the noise that nudges and inspires. I frequently hope that the voice of the Spirit is loud and obnoxious. I want her voice to be as demanding as a thunderstorm in June.

Instead, she whispers.

Storms

This week's theme: Storms

I have always, to use an Austenian turn of phrase, been of an anxious disposition. When I was a little girl I used to sleep on the floor at the end of the hallway between the bedrooms because I was afraid of any number of things including but not limited to: demonic possession (thanks Roman Catholicism!), burglars, ghosts, my sleepwalking younger brother, and thunderstorms.

I have, for the most part, overcome many of these fears (partially because I no longer live in a creaky house surrounded by people who talk and walk in their sleep). One of the few fears I have not managed to master is my fear of and distaste for thunderstorms.

I am not talking about the occasional hard rain shower with a little thunder or lightening, but the huge windy, wild, midsummer storms we have here in the midwest. The kind of storms that can easily bring about hail and high winds. Pounding rain and tornados. While I no longer sleep on the floor in the hallway, when one of these storms blows up it takes every ounce of self-possesion and rationality I have not to run into the basement and cower under the stairs with a blanket over my head.

Storms do not bring out the best in me.

***

Storms

When we were young, we had a dog who was afraid of loud noises. Thunder, mainly. But also, the way cars backfired, the vacuum cleaner, the sound of my father's motorcycle pulling into the driveway. It was my job to walk him and more than once it started to storm. We lived in the country then, so, angry and drenched, I would have to half-drag all ninety pounds of frightened dog through the mud. Once, after a fight with my mother over clothing and money and grades and boys, I stormed from the house pulling the dog after me. After a few miles it began to rain and then to thunder. When the dog balked I pulled his leash ferociously, nearly choking him. He refused to move, just sat and looked at me and trembled until I knelt, put my arms around him, and wept.

Breaking Bread

Hey, y'all. Here's my contribution on both bread and kinship. That's kinda cheating, I realize, but as I contemplated the two topics, I knew I couldn't separate them. Aixois is my family and we are that because we have shared so much over "bread."

Also, I realize the criticism of "not enough" will come here. This is something I would like to play with and expand at some point. That's just an FYI.

Enjoy!

LLM

***

“It was never more’n just a little knockabout place. . . . It’s funny how a little place like this brought so many people together.” This is how Mrs. Threadgood describes the Whistle Stop Café to Evelyn Couch in Fried Green Tomatoes.

“A little knockabout place”—I’ve known a few of those. The most significant of them is a little French restaurant and coffee bar called Aixois that’s not a hundred paces from the home where we moved when I was a junior in high school.

At that time my grandparents moved out to Washington state, and my mom and her partner bought their house. Mom and I had been in our little house on Madison for thirteen years. For me, the move meant leaving the house that symbolized our survival after dad’s death; it meant I could no longer hide from my friends that my mother was in a relationship with a woman, something I had not shared with anyone since I’d been teased about it in grade school; it meant saying goodbye to the grandparents who had been such a big part of my growing up; it meant moving out of the parish that had been my home. I recognized it as a good thing for mom and Ruth, but I did not see it as such a good thing for me.

About three months after we moved into the house Aixois opened. Ruth started working there as the coffee bar manager, and the place became a regular hangout. On Saturday mornings I would wake early, grab a book, and head across the street to claim one of the round wooden tables by a window. With a cup of tea and a chocolate croissant I would immerse myself in whatever I was reading at the time—Joan Chittister, Lord of the Rings, schoolwork, Toni Morrison.

Coffee shop regulars are a particular breed. The baristas know their drinks of choice. They have particular places they like to sit. They watch, somewhat haughtily, when nonregulars navigate coffee shop intricacies—trying to find the sugar and creamer, figuring out the menu, discerning the best table to occupy. Coffee shop regulars know one another and congregate.

And so it was that after several months of early mornings at Aixois, a regular crowd formed. They included mostly middle-aged women, some men, and me, the communal daughter. Gay and straight, professors and doctors, chiropractors and journalists. We gathered on Saturdays and Sundays to check in with each other, to laugh and share, to break bread.

Our lives are a succession of communities: we’re part of one and then we move on, carrying the memories, the people, the places. It’s odd anymore for people to remain part of one community for their whole lives. They may maintain contact with the people, but the community shifts and changes. Such has happened with Aixois. I consider the men and women of that regular group of customers to be family. They are home to me. I no longer live one hundred paces from the door of Aixois; I no longer have the gift of breaking bread with these people daily or weekly. But it is a comfort that they still go, they still laugh and meet and talk. A little knockabout place indeed.