trying to love the questions

She calls her blanket The Marshmallow because it's white and plump and soft. A jar near her phone stays stocked with candy, either from her roommate or her daughter. Her life's collection of pictures, books, things honed down to a blanket, clothes, and a bag looped over one of the handles of her wheelchair.

On a good day, she'll wake up for a meal, maybe two. She'll be present and make silly faces for her friends and the nursing home staff. She'll use her words, sharing the latest residents happenings. She might even call a friend on her red Droid Razr. Or win a couple of bucks at bingo. 

But usually she sleeps most of most days, dizzy from seizures, sinus issues, or the neurological disorder which steals her memories and emotional control. She often sees things that aren't there; then will shake, frightened as a child. Other times, she stares off into a grey space of no words and stolen time. She tires quickly, not making it through a scoop of mashed potatoes before asking to be checked, changed, and taken back to bed.

Those are the days that worry her friends. And make me cry when I'm alone.

I wish I could tell her how proud I am of her for walking this horrid, clouded path with such grace.

Because she's my mom. And I miss her.

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.” 

― Rainer Maria Rilke

you make good friends

The first time I felt shame happened in first grade. I attended a private school, overseen by my Pentecostal church. Because of the structure, I could study whatever I wanted to at my own speed. Social Studies, Science, Math, English - any order, different every day.

Except then we had to study one topic at a designated time each day, for a specific period of time.

And I got bored. Really bored. On a daily basis. 

After I finished my work, I found other things to fill the time. I'd stare at the wall, imagining unicorns, fauns, or ponder the possibility of discovering Narnia. My pencil became a magic talisman, transporting me into one of those fantastic wrinkles in time.  

The best time-filler, though, was talking with my best friend, Tabby, who sat next to me.

Eventually, my teacher had enough; I was told I talked too much, I didn't focus, I distracted Tabby from her work. She couldn't tell me to stop talking with her because I didn't listen. Talking disturbed the class, making it difficult for others to study and learn. All because I was bored.

My desk was pulled away from the group's, and then turned to face the wall. I wouldn't have any other distractions. Nor would I be one.

Tabby had to be moved to the opposite corner next to boys she didn't like, and it was my fault. 

I was told I lacked self-discipline; that I was selfish and lazy. It was all my fault. Worst of all, I was a bad friend. I could pressure, I could distract; but no one would really want to be my friend.

That's been rumbling around my mental wardrobe for almost 40 years. And I didn't realize it took up quite so much space until this weekend, when someone popped the proverbial lock with a pocketknife of a compliment.

You make good friends.

When I shared this sharp new idea with another friend of mine, he cried.  He said there were multiple ways to take that statement, thanks to the quirkiness of the American English language. And as he talked, I realized I hadn't thought of any of them.

I hadn't thought about the friends I've collected as being good for me. They were misfits, like me, and we misfit together. Birds of a mismatched feather. 

One of the first things I learned in first grade was I didn't offer good friendship, so really the thought didn't occur I might be a good friend, too.

Or that being friends with me could actually be good for someone else.

But then a friend took me to school.

From dust, you came; to dust, you shall return

One of my longest held fears is that someone will depend on me. And that I will fail them.

There are old reasons, deep and ugly. As a child, I said it was because I didn't want anyone to feel the way I did when I was disappointed by someone I loved; and maybe that was originally true. But after the first time, the choice became easier and more comfortable.

Then not making that same choice became the challenge. And accepting the idea everyone else would make the same choice in the same situation made accepting everyone else held the same perspective just... logical.

And here I am, years later, dealing with the consequences of a choice made by a scared, scarred child. Unsure if I hold to what I knew because it's familiar or because it's good for me.

To tell the truth, in the darkest hours, good becomes so subjective, it too starts to look a lot like just another chance to be hurt. And that means it's bad.

Because for something to be good, I have to admit I want it. And that just makes me vulnerable. No good could possibly come of that.

Better to isolate, and nurse old wounds. Seriously. It's healthier. The voices in my head told me so.

And I could believe them so much easier if there weren't other, cooler voices calling me into community. Those voices, broken and not of my own making, speak light into the dark, saying things braver and truer than I can imagine.

They speak of family and roots, of a tribe who accepts and forgives. Stories of betrayal and mistakes, prideful falls and re-learning love seep into my skin, feeling as if such things are possible and workable.

Within a Gothic building of jewel-toned glass and overwatching angels, ashes swirled with frankincense are stroked along my skin. 

And for a moment...Death, that horrid thief, seems not quite so keenly present; the past, that horrid weight, not quite so haunted.

And if prayer is the breath of those who love God, then I exhale fear, failure and remnants of my ghosts. Because it is once again Lent, and I can inhale the truth: God understands.

witness lent

Lent begins today, and I have no idea what I am to give up this year. Much change since September means sacrifices have already been offered. All the missing leaves voids, like holes freshly dug for new seeds. 

Or the longing for a long-known, recently departed friend.

Since first being embraced by a Methodist community, I've embraced Lent as the chance to bury old fears, or habits, relationships which bring no good. Truth be told, I look forward to it, because at the end of the forty days, I feel cleansed and centered.

This year, Lent arrived sooner than I expected. Which means I'm the guest at the party without a gift.

Searching around for something, nothing easy comes to mind. 

I could offer to write every day for the next 40, but that tends to narrow something I love doing to a religious obligation. And as I understand it, that's sort of the exact opposite purpose of Lent.

Still, I need a gift for the party; not to observe social graces but because I really like the host. I could share dark secrets, or show scars, but doing that in public so's rarely the way to make friends. 

Funny, Lent's so often seen as all ashes and shame, overwrought darkness before Easter chocolate and pastel dresses. And viewed through that medieval lens, Lent's not a party I can see anyone really wanting to attend. 

For me, Lent means a period of meditation, the chance to craft a holy, separate space for things to grow. And the roots of these new, green things plunge deep into the shaved-off, not-helpful discards I offered at the altar.

The point is meditation, to consider what things to keep, to keep giving life to; and what to let die, to release and stop feeding. Lent provides time and space in a too-full, too-distracted world to remember the beauty beyond the veil.

Because there is a party, full of green, growing things and friends we long to see.

Michael Allen Campbell

My friend died 6 days ago.

His wife called after he coded in the hospital, early enough in the morning I thought it was a dream. Mike, with his definitive opinions, love of musical theatre, and University of Texas orange-blood, was... gone. A phone call and my friend had gone somewhere I could not follow.

Mike was born with a unique heart condition, one of those with the long medical-sounding names and horrifically short life expectancies. Really, the fact he lived long enough for us to meet is amazing. And being his friend was a gift.

To be honest, Mike and I fit like pickles and peanut butter: great individually, but not fantastic together. Which makes being friends mean so much more.

Mike debated passionately, presenting an informed, conservative view of God, the world, and the most grace-filled theology I've ever experienced. We counterweighted each other. He thought I was an overly compassionate progressive; the coolness of his debates drove my thoughts to violence.

I can't explain why we were friends. But our lives were better with each other in them.

We met online back when Yahoo! had chat rooms. And I can't remember what exactly drew us to each other - music preferences, God or something else. We've been friends long enough, too, favorite debates, what I liked about him, what he liked about me, what made us friends faded.

Mike would know. And probably have a copy of the conversation. The date and topic, at the very least.

Mike was always the planner. Even his passing this week was typed out years ago, planned step by step, with designated music pieces and names for the private burial. He had a plan for everything, not seeming to know how to say no. Because if you gave him a minute, he'd have a plan. Then he'd nod, grin, and it could be done.

He knew there was a plan for everything; that he would meet his one love, that there was a right and a wrong and grace for in between. He lived in a world I didn't understand but loved seeing because he was there.

Mike met Sarah in 2009, and they were peanut butter and jelly on toast. Watching them grow into each other felt like being granted access to a secret love story. And I gained another friend. Who loved my friend already. Complete. Total. Win.

Sarah had a medical background, a sweet smile, and serious steel under her dimples. She filled in Mike, understanding what the heart condition meant, juggling lifelong friends and unplanned drama with grace. And she moved to Texas from Michigan just to be with Mike.

Mike appreciated snark, which is great, as I tend to maintain an ever-abundant stash of the organically grown stuff.  After Mike married, he settled, his edges kinder. He, she, and I spent time watching movies, discussing the merits of different Star Trek series. We figured out each other's edges and soft spots, we tended to talk about nothing a lot. Those conversations, the time and spaces they created, make his not-here-ness most keen.

One of the highest compliments he gave me was choosing a song by my favorite band to play during his viewing. I didn't know he had until the lyrics drifted into a conversation. Between blocks of 80s pop, a random Western version of some expected hymn, and perky-shiny Chris Tomlin-heavy praise/worship slid in a Southern alt-folk group belting out an Irish hymn with serious guitar chops and a soft spoken lead singer.

It's still stark to think Mike loved me, that simply and that authentically. It's still striking to realize he shared something so intimate as his death. 

I lost a very good friend last week.

broken valentine

Dementia is evil. If it were possible, it should be unmade.

Dementia steals big things, small moments, entire people. It gives nothing back, leaving a trail of blank greyness where there once was evidence of a life well-lived.

Tonight, a partner of one of the residents at Mom's nursing home noted she seems like an entirely different person when I'm around. Not to make me feel guilty, she said, but because the change was so striking.

And all I could think was, she's like she was before all of this; I wish you could have known her then.

She was taken, you see, a piece at a time. Some pieces I noticed; some were returned, only to be taken again later. The pieces I miss the most are the ones taken while I thought she was present and she wasn't.

Mom was always quirky and different; I got that from her. She taught me sign language before I was old enough to talk so she would have someone to sign with. Later, she taught art when I was in elementary school.

She packed a small car with a tween, a kid, and a dog to leave an abusive relationship in the 80s; not because it was brave or empowered, but because she had to protect her kids. She traveled to San Francisco, the Bahamas, and London.

And it feels as if I am writing her obituary, as if she has already gone. Because dementia is an insidious thief.

Valentines, labels, and an octopus

http://dabbled.org/tentacle-hugs-valentine-day-card-printable/

Valentine's Day being Saturday, I've been thinking about labels, about what distinguishes one group from another, and how we try to show love to each other.

I have to own, I'm not big on the idea behind labels. Their usefulness tends to end after initially getting to know someone, while limiting the ability to authentically know anyone. Applied to others we don't know, they're a sadder-yet-somehow-more-universally-acceptable version of those "hello, my name is" stickers worn at conventions because they have to be. They never really do what they're supposed to (name the person), and end up stuck in inconvenient places before they're torn off in frustration and discarded.

Labels are great as basic vocabulary, as smaller stepping stones to deeper conversations. But tensions seem most likely when they become the end of the conversation, or when they're applied to someone else without their consent.

Talking with a friend about labels, he commented on the challenge of figuring out what someone else means when they self-identify, or claim a particular label as their own. What I heard him say was it can be challenging to hear what someone loves most. And because what we don't all use the same basic vocabulary, we miss someone trying to share their valentines.

We love imperfectly, through filters of doubt and mistrusted instincts, so sometimes our valentines suffer from misshapen hearts, poor word choices, or octopuses with too many clinging tentacles.

Oklahoma seems to offer the valentine of overwrought tradition. Decorated with men holding doors open - and being confused when I asked them to ask me if I'd like that first, aisles of pink toys promoting traditional gender expectation, and women who flirt rather than ask directly for what they wanted, it's been challenging for me to see the beauty in the offering.

But it's not for me to decide what is beautiful to someone else; only to see there's a different sort of beauty presented. In doing so, I can show what I love; I can offer my own valentine in response.
And here's what the note on the back of my valentine would say to Oklahoma: 

Hi. 

I'm a feminist (which means I love the idea of my sexuality not being judged solely by my short haircut, my ethical core depending on how long my skirt or my gender identity resting completely on the fact I really, really dig movies with robots and dinosaurs and obscenely large explosions. because I really love those things. almost as much as chocolate.) and a progressive christian (which means I own I love imperfectly, and I really love imperfect people). 

I suspect I could love you, even though I don't understand you. And I hope we can be friends. So here's a valentine with an octopus. Because it's adorable and hugs rock.  

Maybe we can learn how to talk with each other slowly. Show me what you value, what you find beauty in, so I can appreciate the world through your eyes. And maybe we can find more in common than in what we don't know we love than in what we think we should. 

Also? I'll always share my chocolate. 

Amber

Aspen, change, Oklahoma

There’s a tale I heard once about the aspen leaf. It seems that in one of the older faiths, the day Christ died, all the earth mourned the loss. The skies rumbled and the veil tore; the sun hid, trees bowed.

All but the aspen. It stood in its place, unmoved and unaffected.

God the Father saw, and touched the aspen’s leaf gently. And ever since that brush with the Divine, the leaves of the aspen tree tremble even when no other tree feels a breeze.

I wear an aspen leaf, given to me by my mother. It’s the only piece of “religious” jewelry I wear. It’s a weighty silver piece, and my fingers tend to find it like a comforting worry stone.

It’s been a reminder to think of my self less and others more. And to remember what we present isn’t always what we intend.

The doctor just called again, with more test results showing nothing wrong with my mom but time and age. As if being functioning and fully present to being bedridden with no bodily control in two years were normal.

My fingers stroke my leaf as I begin to pray. Again. Caught between feeling absolutely unempowered and wondering if I have the right to be afraid of something the doctors seem to think waits for every person.

Wondering if I am being proud and willful by holding to the straw my mom might not die soon. 

It strikes me as odd moving to Oklahoma focuses my thoughts on arrogance and selfishness. It’s a quiet state, full of farmland, Republicans, and the quickest sunsets known to man. Change comes slowly, is warily considered and rarely welcomed.

Internet only fully reached southern Oklahoma a few years ago. And no one blinks when a man to tell a woman she'd be so much prettier if she just smiled. Questions asked about the way things are seem to be taken as questions about why things aren't different, like curiosity were synonymous with change.

As someone who could use some time to adjust to quite a few changes in my life, Oklahoma and I should suit each other like Goths and torn fishnets.

We really don't. But we should.

During a conversation last night, a friend commented I don’t like change. And I was offended, which got me thinking. I realized part of the reason Oklahoma I snag each other's pantyhose is because it's not that we don't like change; we just prefer comfort.

See, in Dallas, I wasn't too anything; like just another tree in the forest, I blended in quite well. I had just enough different kinds of friends to convince myself I was fine as I was. Comfort took the form of familiar foods, expected rules of behavior, even speeding in traffic. I knew where my roots were, and I knew how to take care of myself.

I didn't have to try to be better or more.

But then everything changed. The sky grew dark at noon, my rock started rolling away. And rather than tremble, admit something profound and beyond me happened, I froze.

Resentful, I only saw what I had been cost, what changed without consideration of my comfort.

And I blamed Oklahoma for not being familiar and home, for not being Texas.

But now I tremble with the knowledge I have been touched and my life has been changed.

Thanks be to God.

this is my light

It was supposed to be a quiet weekend.

Then a friend invited me to a birthday party for a friend of his. The party happened in a warehouse in Dallas, and started after dark. So after 8 hours of work and an art reception (complete with cheese, crackers, and polite congratulations to unknown fellow artists), I drove for two and half hours to spend several hours with complete strangers from a different community.

Walking in the door, greetings and introductions happened quickly. The walls, painted to look more complex and rich than the concrete block they were, felt aged and solid. I followed my friend, the party inviter, through the winding doorways to the buffet. Plates filled with finger foods, burgers, tacos before we grabbed Cokes and sat to talk. I was welcomed.

Only knowing two people in the gathering of 50, it could have been a dragging night of jaggedly ended random comments. Or worse, awkward silence punctuated with piped in music. Hours wandered past easily, conversation flowed.

A multi-rainbow layered, volcano-topped cake disappeared in chunks and contented grunts.
My friend ended up staying to help clean up; I fell asleep around 3 but still ended up being given beer bread to take home.

Saturday, a Facebook friend had a book signing. How novel a concept, I thought, to go actually meet in meatspace someone I’d only known going on a few years in cyber. The bookstore was busy in peculiarly rhythmic spikes, with lines formed for the important things in life: coffee and help at the information desk.

A tight cluster of people rotated around the writer whose intense gaze rarely penetrated the shoulders of his people-bubble. Even knowing him through mutual real life friends, being interested in his book, and having a conversation starter wasn’t enough for me to register as a blip on his radar.

Moments dragged as I fiddled with mentally re-arranging my day. Trying to catch his eye or find a spot in the jumble of rotating devotees felt too much like scaling walls of a castle unwelcoming to outsiders.

I found other books to read, coffee to drink somewhere else. And spent my time breaking bread with a friend who knows me but likes spending time with me anyway.

Sunday found me in a rough part of Dallas, surrounded by more rows of strangers and a few pastors I thought I knew. A fiery redhead spoke of how fear begets scapegoating, scapegoating begets violence, violence begets retaliation, retaliation begets fear…

During the call to discipleship, a dark skinned man with prophet-sad eyes asked the young people to stand. He asked for one man aged 21 to stand before him, another 17 girl with a shy smile; then two 10 and 11, to stand behind them. He asked them to lay down, and he named them: Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, a nameless child lynched recently in a school playground.

He spoke softly in his deep voice, “we have more names than we do children here to represent them.”

Driving back home in an inky night, my eyes sought stars as the weekend's happenings swished in my head like a jar of shaken water. I thought about how small my life is, driving back and forth between where I want to be and where my mom needs me. All the paths I travel were paved by others, for which I give tanks, but rarely take the time to sincerely appreciate.

I don't know what it's like to be pulled over and be more scared than inconvenienced.
I don't know what it's like to be condemned by the color of my skin.
But I do know what it's like to be alone with pain and fear filling all the spaces; to not see tomorrow or hope or different anything because breathing through right now takes so much.

And into that leeching, wearing space, I can speak some light.

A light that thrives in the depths of darkness,

blazes through murky bottoms.

It cannot and will not be quenched.

John 1:5, The Voice