I’ve been surfing through blogland, and most of the bloggers I admire most have been talking a lot (I mean A LOT) about relationships, love, sex, marriage, swingers, and sometimes God in relationship to all that. Though many of them right now are spent like two lovers in post-coital bliss and are waiting in that in-between time until new energies drive them in different directions and new journeys (and new blogs), for now it’s made me pause and wonder why so much energy is being spent in blogland on discussions of love and relationships, especially in a place where we don’t see each other, don’t touch, our only interactions are our minds and words, a place to vent our psychic scream of anxieties and fears, hurts and longings that in our real lives and face-to-face conversations get hidden behind the mask of “everything’s fine. How are you?”
A friend of mine says that much of what is talked about regarding love is saddening, and maybe it’s true that there’s a lot of grief, pain, confusion, and skepticism in the ongoing discussion, and sometimes bliss, of love. It’s become a cosmic grope session, either in the sheets—reaching for the other person (or persons) to connect with, seduce, control or express something uncontainable—or out of them—wondering why some relationships don’t work while others do, (and for how long?), and whether we were meant to be with one person or not, and why something’s still missing that no relationship, no matter how good, can satisfy.
I don’t have much to say about it. Not today at any rate. Maybe I’m just as spent.
But it does make me think about our loneliness and why we keep reaching out, and why we choose to do this in a world of text and art where the connections are . . . different, nonorganic, and entirely non-sexual, at least in the traditional sense. By expanding the question beyond our most intimate relationships, friendships and families, are we trying to find answers from other voices? Or are we simply voicing our thoughts, desires and frustrations because it’s a driving impulse that we MUST continue talking about, no matter whether those thoughts are driven by hope or disillusionment? We can’t not talk about it. It provides release on some level, and maybe if nothing more, that helps.
Monday, January 30, 2006
Sunday, January 22, 2006
The Persistence of Longing
The road to Sarah and Lisa’s had become overgrown over the years. He would have missed it this time too if his eyes had not stopped, and if the memory of a road had not risen up from the prairie grass, elms and oaks and faded years and drawn him into the wood.
It had been a dirt road once, and never well traveled, but wide enough for a car to pass, and sometimes two if both went very slowly and squeezed close to each other. Now it was nothing more than a foot path, and in places a weaving bike trail, going deeper in, ending who knew where.
He had been this way before, and after the first few steps his feet seemed to know where to lead him. Once on the path, he questioned how he could have forgotten this place. Had he stopped looking, stopped expecting what lie at the end of the trail, had his mind buried it deep in disappointment, waiting for nature to follow suit?
The narrowness of the road irritated him, and he got on his hands and knees and pulled out clumps of grass and small tree saplings, smacking the clods angrily against the ground, shaking loose the dirt and widening the road once again so he wouldn’t forget it next time. It was hot work, and slow. He began sweating freely. It was taboo work for a Sunday, but who would see him or think to look this way? The work was for him and him alone, he guessed, a private penance for letting the weeds grow up where footprints should have been. So he worked on because it must be done. Because it seemed the right thing to do. Because he needed this.
As he made his way through a clearing, into darker woods and around a bend, the two houses were still there, right where they should be, standing side by side, lonely sentinels huddled close together. It was the house he had left as a boy, and their house, only this time no longer abandoned, no longer owned by another man, no longer rented out and then boarded up. It stood as it once had, and light poured out from the windows.
He went around to the side door, the entrance for friends and family and never strangers or unwelcome guests, and lifted his hand to knock, but then the door opened and he didn’t need to. Brown-haired Sarah stood in the doorway, and before he could say anything she grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.
“You should have come sooner,” she said, clearing shoes from the entryway.
“I tried,” he said.
“Not hard enough.”
“But it was years.”
“A little longer. You always did quit too soon.”
“That’s because I never liked the games you would pick.” He stopped, and smiled, then looked squarely at Sarah. “But you weren’t here. You never answered my letter. The letter came back. It said you’d moved.”
“Odd,” she said.
“That you’d moved?”
“No, the letter. As I remember it was mostly about the dog.”
“No reason not to answer.” He paused. “Is Lisa . . .”
“Here,” she said, before he could finish. She smiled faintly. “She’ll be glad you’ve come.”
He tried not to seem too eager, but he brushed past her, a little too abruptly. She stepped back and let him pass, accepting why he had really come, no matter how hard he’d tried to be cordial and pretend otherwise, how hard he’d tried not to look over her shoulder or how hard he’d tried to listen to her without voicing his question. He’d come for Lisa.
Lisa stood at the sink, blond hair shorter than he’d remembered, arms buried in soap suds, but when she looked up she smiled, then quickly dried her hands on a towel and ran a hand through her hair, and turned toward him. Her stomach had become rounder, her face less defined, her hair a little duller, but none of that mattered like it used to. To him she was beautiful.
He pulled her to him and their lips met, a warm, familiar kiss. She squeezed against him for a moment, then pulled back. Her arms went slack and she pushed away. “Stop,” she said. “He’ll see.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
“Why does it matter?” He searched the blue depths in her eyes.
“It just does.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t try,” she said, and before he could bring her back she left quickly from the room. He had a moment to notice the room, the spare orderliness of it, the towel hung neat and straight next to the sink, the swept floors, the stool tucked snugly against the wall. The china in the cabinet, behind glass, in perfect symmetry. The clock above the doorway, catching the last light of the sun across its face held an empty orderliness to it all.
Sarah entered the room, and he saw her like he hadn’t before. What he had remembered was the short girl with limp brown hair, metal braces, and spotty complexion. Now the braces were gone, revealing straight, white teeth. The skin, while not remarkable, was unblemished and bore a healthy, peaceful warmth. She looked happy; she looked content.
“You never met my husband, have you?” she said simply.
“No. Who is he?”
“He’ll be along soon. His name’s John.”
“Any children?”
“One. A boy. Takes after his father.”
“Congratulations. And Lisa?”
“Never married.”
“Why not?” For the first time Sarah shot him an annoyed look, but let it pass. “Father needs her.”
“Since the divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t he let her go?”
“He could, but won’t. She’s his right hand. And he’s fiercely jealous of her.”
He tried to speak, but couldn’t. A tightness formed around his eyes, and Sarah took his hand and squeezed it warmly. “Let it go,” she said, and there was a soothing gentleness in her words.
He heard the front door open then, and heavy booted steps across a wooden floor, and the booming rough voice of their father. “It’s time to go,” Sarah said, and quickly pushed him out the side door.
* * *
The road led away from the house, and he stepped onto it, following it blindly, letting one leaden foot carry him further ahead. The forest closed over the road behind him, but if he had noticed, it would not have mattered. In the distance, the light in the window from Sarah and Lisa’s house winked out, and the house became a silhouette, then faded into mist, and then the house next to it followed. The woods had grown dark, but a light shone in the distance and he picked his way along the trail, trying to head for it as best he could. While the journey in had seemed to take hours, the journey back only took minutes. He stepped out of the woods, onto a concrete paved road with a median. In the center stood a street light. He looked up at it, and beyond it he could see a few stars.
It had been a dirt road once, and never well traveled, but wide enough for a car to pass, and sometimes two if both went very slowly and squeezed close to each other. Now it was nothing more than a foot path, and in places a weaving bike trail, going deeper in, ending who knew where.
He had been this way before, and after the first few steps his feet seemed to know where to lead him. Once on the path, he questioned how he could have forgotten this place. Had he stopped looking, stopped expecting what lie at the end of the trail, had his mind buried it deep in disappointment, waiting for nature to follow suit?
The narrowness of the road irritated him, and he got on his hands and knees and pulled out clumps of grass and small tree saplings, smacking the clods angrily against the ground, shaking loose the dirt and widening the road once again so he wouldn’t forget it next time. It was hot work, and slow. He began sweating freely. It was taboo work for a Sunday, but who would see him or think to look this way? The work was for him and him alone, he guessed, a private penance for letting the weeds grow up where footprints should have been. So he worked on because it must be done. Because it seemed the right thing to do. Because he needed this.
As he made his way through a clearing, into darker woods and around a bend, the two houses were still there, right where they should be, standing side by side, lonely sentinels huddled close together. It was the house he had left as a boy, and their house, only this time no longer abandoned, no longer owned by another man, no longer rented out and then boarded up. It stood as it once had, and light poured out from the windows.
He went around to the side door, the entrance for friends and family and never strangers or unwelcome guests, and lifted his hand to knock, but then the door opened and he didn’t need to. Brown-haired Sarah stood in the doorway, and before he could say anything she grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.
“You should have come sooner,” she said, clearing shoes from the entryway.
“I tried,” he said.
“Not hard enough.”
“But it was years.”
“A little longer. You always did quit too soon.”
“That’s because I never liked the games you would pick.” He stopped, and smiled, then looked squarely at Sarah. “But you weren’t here. You never answered my letter. The letter came back. It said you’d moved.”
“Odd,” she said.
“That you’d moved?”
“No, the letter. As I remember it was mostly about the dog.”
“No reason not to answer.” He paused. “Is Lisa . . .”
“Here,” she said, before he could finish. She smiled faintly. “She’ll be glad you’ve come.”
He tried not to seem too eager, but he brushed past her, a little too abruptly. She stepped back and let him pass, accepting why he had really come, no matter how hard he’d tried to be cordial and pretend otherwise, how hard he’d tried not to look over her shoulder or how hard he’d tried to listen to her without voicing his question. He’d come for Lisa.
Lisa stood at the sink, blond hair shorter than he’d remembered, arms buried in soap suds, but when she looked up she smiled, then quickly dried her hands on a towel and ran a hand through her hair, and turned toward him. Her stomach had become rounder, her face less defined, her hair a little duller, but none of that mattered like it used to. To him she was beautiful.
He pulled her to him and their lips met, a warm, familiar kiss. She squeezed against him for a moment, then pulled back. Her arms went slack and she pushed away. “Stop,” she said. “He’ll see.”
“Who?”
“My father.”
“Why does it matter?” He searched the blue depths in her eyes.
“It just does.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t try,” she said, and before he could bring her back she left quickly from the room. He had a moment to notice the room, the spare orderliness of it, the towel hung neat and straight next to the sink, the swept floors, the stool tucked snugly against the wall. The china in the cabinet, behind glass, in perfect symmetry. The clock above the doorway, catching the last light of the sun across its face held an empty orderliness to it all.
Sarah entered the room, and he saw her like he hadn’t before. What he had remembered was the short girl with limp brown hair, metal braces, and spotty complexion. Now the braces were gone, revealing straight, white teeth. The skin, while not remarkable, was unblemished and bore a healthy, peaceful warmth. She looked happy; she looked content.
“You never met my husband, have you?” she said simply.
“No. Who is he?”
“He’ll be along soon. His name’s John.”
“Any children?”
“One. A boy. Takes after his father.”
“Congratulations. And Lisa?”
“Never married.”
“Why not?” For the first time Sarah shot him an annoyed look, but let it pass. “Father needs her.”
“Since the divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t he let her go?”
“He could, but won’t. She’s his right hand. And he’s fiercely jealous of her.”
He tried to speak, but couldn’t. A tightness formed around his eyes, and Sarah took his hand and squeezed it warmly. “Let it go,” she said, and there was a soothing gentleness in her words.
He heard the front door open then, and heavy booted steps across a wooden floor, and the booming rough voice of their father. “It’s time to go,” Sarah said, and quickly pushed him out the side door.
* * *
The road led away from the house, and he stepped onto it, following it blindly, letting one leaden foot carry him further ahead. The forest closed over the road behind him, but if he had noticed, it would not have mattered. In the distance, the light in the window from Sarah and Lisa’s house winked out, and the house became a silhouette, then faded into mist, and then the house next to it followed. The woods had grown dark, but a light shone in the distance and he picked his way along the trail, trying to head for it as best he could. While the journey in had seemed to take hours, the journey back only took minutes. He stepped out of the woods, onto a concrete paved road with a median. In the center stood a street light. He looked up at it, and beyond it he could see a few stars.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
The Writing Specialist
It’s 6 pm on a Tuesday night. Also, what I’ve come to call “show time” (at least to myself). The last few students arrive, leaving behind their 9-5 jobs so they can sit through another four hours of a lecture and workshop on writing. Four hours is a long time to have to sit through anything, but especially writing, and I know better than to think the students have come to hear me talk about it because they love writing, like me, or like my voice (though I’ve been told it’s kind of soothing, much like a dentist’s voice right before they start up the drill). Many of them are wondering what they have to do to get an “A”. Some are feeling sicker than they’ve felt before a first date or big job interview, and many of them are wondering if they can do this “school thing” after being away from reading and writing and the classroom for a number of years. At home, their spouse may be waiting, their children, Survivor, or a number of more appealing alternatives.
Even I don’t like hearing myself for four hours. In fact, I don’t talk much at all. The same knots in their stomachs are also cramping my own. I can’t eat. My mouth feels dry but I can barely swallow a mouthful of water. It’s opening night and I feel like I’m on stage and want to run anywhere but here. A few things keep me here. One of them is my love for writing.
I begin with introductions, and prayer, and ask everyone to describe their enjoyment of writing, what kinds of writing they do, and one movie they like (I like movies too, so this helps me decide whether certain movies are worth seeing). Some of them say they hate writing and don’t know why they signed up for a writing intensive program, others say they really enjoy writing and are really good at it and expect an “A.” After teaching a while, I’m not sure if they’re saying this because they really do love writing or if they think that’s what I want to hear. The next few weeks will prove this as they put thoughts and words onto paper.
Usually people bring food and we have a potluck at the beginning of the night or halfway through. It feels a bit like an AA meeting, and many of my students have been to those.
In their other lives, their lives outside school, many of them are husbands or wives, moms or dads, managers, employers, sons and daughters and caretakers. Some of them are going through divorces. Some are trying to figure out how to raise their kids. Some are getting married. Others are getting ready to bury their parents. Many of my students have worked in hospitals, or prisons, are fire fighters, police officers, EMTs, veterans or social workers.
One man comes to class the first few weeks, then gets emergency orders and is shipped out to Iraq within the week. Other than the phone call telling me he is dropping the class for now, I never hear from him again and don’t know if he’s still there, is alive, or back home with his family. I think he has a young son, and maybe a baby on the way. Another woman is waiting to be shipped out soon and has to find some friends to take care of her three kids while she is overseas. She’s a single mom, going to school, and enlisted in the national guard on the weekend.
One student comes to class and announces her ex-husband was waiting for her in the driveway when she came home from school. Since then she has gotten a restraining order, but is still afraid to return home and asks us to pray for her. The next week she misses class and the week after that. The following week she calls and drops the course.
Another woman pulls me aside before class, in tears because her paper for that night isn’t done. She’s been living in a shelter the last week, lost her job, and her ex-husband has taken her oldest child until she is out of the shelter. Thanksgiving is less than a week away and she asks if she can get an extension. Of course I say yes.
We meet in banks, in business complexes, either downtown or in out of the way areas of the cities. I teach in four different cities and often my car becomes my office. In the last couple years I have logged tens of thousands of miles, have learned bits of new languages, have heard a number of books on tape, and have tripled my CD collection. Even though it’s a writing class, we don’t talk about Shakespeare, Milton, or even Faulkner, but sometimes I refer to Stephen King, John Grisham or Patricia Cornwell, Chuck Palahniuk, and even E.B. White and William Zinsser. “Writing is a conversation,” I say. “Writing is music, it has rhythm, and characters and drama, and action and personality, emotion and humor, and is above all human.” The students nod in agreement, or question this, or share their own experiences from watching Sex in the City or L.A. Law, reading the newspaper, or having conversations with their spouse about who will pick up the kids from band practice. We wrestle together, talking about, thinking about, and doing writing together.
Many of the students write about their own personal experiences. My first year teaching writing to adult students I learned a lot. I think I aged a few years in that one. Now I have a few gray hairs to prove it. We used to meet for an hour, one-on-one, to conference over their papers. I got to the point where I’d bring a box of kleenexes, sometimes for me, sometimes for them, sometimes for both of us. Some of the students wrote about getting shot, some wrote about watching their mom or dad get lost in Alzheimer’s. A few wrote about getting married or having kids. Someone wrote about losing her best friend to cancer (that was hard). Some shared how they had been abused as kids, raped, molested, or merely neglected. One in particular wrote about her miscarriage. Another told me how, when she was in high school, four girls pulled her into the back of a van and raped her. A few of them wrote about wrestling through the alcohol demons, or drugs, or coming out of a gang. Many of them as students were looking at these situations from the other side. They saw hope. They were going to kick this. Coming back to school was their way of proving it to themselves, their families, their friends, and the world.
Writing is a solitary activity; writing is a community activity. Over the next few weeks, for four hours a night we become like family. We laugh, cry, and vent our frustrations over not finding the right words, over mutual deadlines and the pressures from school and outside it. I love being in the classroom; I hate grading. I have a hard time looking at students in the eye as I pass back grades. Some have called me a hard grader. Others have called me fair. Some have even said they’ve learned a lot about writing in the process. I used to get frustrated, even angry when I talked about a writing principle in class, or spent time going over how a paper was to be formatted, only to find it not done in the actual paper. Now, on some of the harder nights, I wonder if any of it matters or if there’s any growth at all. It helps me realize how slowly I learn as well, and lessons that should be obvious to others aren’t as obvious to me. That puts things in perspective. I begin to understand why Jesus’ disciples could live with him for three years and still not understand what he was trying to tell them. I realize how we’re all slow learners in some ways.
There’s a lot that goes into teaching, and teaching writing, that I didn’t realize when I was a student and before I began teaching. A lot of it is lonely, behind-the-scenes work. Nobody told me about the hours of grading I’d be doing on my own. Some of my writing profs who had been teaching for a while also hated grading, but said I had to grade quickly, not read every word, and get at “mostly just the highlights.” Maybe that’s why we have such a difficulty with writing. I don’t spend as much time at the office as I used to, it’s hard to get work done there, at least the reading and grading, so I often grade in my living room, my bedroom, or a coffeehouse. I do like the community at the office, though, and sometimes need that just to stay sane.
The end of the night comes, the end of the course comes, and we shake hands as we say goodbye to each other. Many of the students say it was the best/worst experience they’ve had, but feel like they’ve grown and have had a world opened to them. We promise to keep in touch, though I know deep down something has come to an end. I drive home in the dark, thinking about the night—the people, the conversations, the questions, the stories—and feel both connected to something real, and also very alone.
Even I don’t like hearing myself for four hours. In fact, I don’t talk much at all. The same knots in their stomachs are also cramping my own. I can’t eat. My mouth feels dry but I can barely swallow a mouthful of water. It’s opening night and I feel like I’m on stage and want to run anywhere but here. A few things keep me here. One of them is my love for writing.
I begin with introductions, and prayer, and ask everyone to describe their enjoyment of writing, what kinds of writing they do, and one movie they like (I like movies too, so this helps me decide whether certain movies are worth seeing). Some of them say they hate writing and don’t know why they signed up for a writing intensive program, others say they really enjoy writing and are really good at it and expect an “A.” After teaching a while, I’m not sure if they’re saying this because they really do love writing or if they think that’s what I want to hear. The next few weeks will prove this as they put thoughts and words onto paper.
Usually people bring food and we have a potluck at the beginning of the night or halfway through. It feels a bit like an AA meeting, and many of my students have been to those.
In their other lives, their lives outside school, many of them are husbands or wives, moms or dads, managers, employers, sons and daughters and caretakers. Some of them are going through divorces. Some are trying to figure out how to raise their kids. Some are getting married. Others are getting ready to bury their parents. Many of my students have worked in hospitals, or prisons, are fire fighters, police officers, EMTs, veterans or social workers.
One man comes to class the first few weeks, then gets emergency orders and is shipped out to Iraq within the week. Other than the phone call telling me he is dropping the class for now, I never hear from him again and don’t know if he’s still there, is alive, or back home with his family. I think he has a young son, and maybe a baby on the way. Another woman is waiting to be shipped out soon and has to find some friends to take care of her three kids while she is overseas. She’s a single mom, going to school, and enlisted in the national guard on the weekend.
One student comes to class and announces her ex-husband was waiting for her in the driveway when she came home from school. Since then she has gotten a restraining order, but is still afraid to return home and asks us to pray for her. The next week she misses class and the week after that. The following week she calls and drops the course.
Another woman pulls me aside before class, in tears because her paper for that night isn’t done. She’s been living in a shelter the last week, lost her job, and her ex-husband has taken her oldest child until she is out of the shelter. Thanksgiving is less than a week away and she asks if she can get an extension. Of course I say yes.
We meet in banks, in business complexes, either downtown or in out of the way areas of the cities. I teach in four different cities and often my car becomes my office. In the last couple years I have logged tens of thousands of miles, have learned bits of new languages, have heard a number of books on tape, and have tripled my CD collection. Even though it’s a writing class, we don’t talk about Shakespeare, Milton, or even Faulkner, but sometimes I refer to Stephen King, John Grisham or Patricia Cornwell, Chuck Palahniuk, and even E.B. White and William Zinsser. “Writing is a conversation,” I say. “Writing is music, it has rhythm, and characters and drama, and action and personality, emotion and humor, and is above all human.” The students nod in agreement, or question this, or share their own experiences from watching Sex in the City or L.A. Law, reading the newspaper, or having conversations with their spouse about who will pick up the kids from band practice. We wrestle together, talking about, thinking about, and doing writing together.
Many of the students write about their own personal experiences. My first year teaching writing to adult students I learned a lot. I think I aged a few years in that one. Now I have a few gray hairs to prove it. We used to meet for an hour, one-on-one, to conference over their papers. I got to the point where I’d bring a box of kleenexes, sometimes for me, sometimes for them, sometimes for both of us. Some of the students wrote about getting shot, some wrote about watching their mom or dad get lost in Alzheimer’s. A few wrote about getting married or having kids. Someone wrote about losing her best friend to cancer (that was hard). Some shared how they had been abused as kids, raped, molested, or merely neglected. One in particular wrote about her miscarriage. Another told me how, when she was in high school, four girls pulled her into the back of a van and raped her. A few of them wrote about wrestling through the alcohol demons, or drugs, or coming out of a gang. Many of them as students were looking at these situations from the other side. They saw hope. They were going to kick this. Coming back to school was their way of proving it to themselves, their families, their friends, and the world.
Writing is a solitary activity; writing is a community activity. Over the next few weeks, for four hours a night we become like family. We laugh, cry, and vent our frustrations over not finding the right words, over mutual deadlines and the pressures from school and outside it. I love being in the classroom; I hate grading. I have a hard time looking at students in the eye as I pass back grades. Some have called me a hard grader. Others have called me fair. Some have even said they’ve learned a lot about writing in the process. I used to get frustrated, even angry when I talked about a writing principle in class, or spent time going over how a paper was to be formatted, only to find it not done in the actual paper. Now, on some of the harder nights, I wonder if any of it matters or if there’s any growth at all. It helps me realize how slowly I learn as well, and lessons that should be obvious to others aren’t as obvious to me. That puts things in perspective. I begin to understand why Jesus’ disciples could live with him for three years and still not understand what he was trying to tell them. I realize how we’re all slow learners in some ways.
There’s a lot that goes into teaching, and teaching writing, that I didn’t realize when I was a student and before I began teaching. A lot of it is lonely, behind-the-scenes work. Nobody told me about the hours of grading I’d be doing on my own. Some of my writing profs who had been teaching for a while also hated grading, but said I had to grade quickly, not read every word, and get at “mostly just the highlights.” Maybe that’s why we have such a difficulty with writing. I don’t spend as much time at the office as I used to, it’s hard to get work done there, at least the reading and grading, so I often grade in my living room, my bedroom, or a coffeehouse. I do like the community at the office, though, and sometimes need that just to stay sane.
The end of the night comes, the end of the course comes, and we shake hands as we say goodbye to each other. Many of the students say it was the best/worst experience they’ve had, but feel like they’ve grown and have had a world opened to them. We promise to keep in touch, though I know deep down something has come to an end. I drive home in the dark, thinking about the night—the people, the conversations, the questions, the stories—and feel both connected to something real, and also very alone.
Monday, January 02, 2006
Breaking out of the Box
Last night I dreamed that I went to a church that was religious, but not spiritual. The place was packed, and somebody asked me to play the piano, but it’s been a long time since I’ve played and I was never very good at it anyway. So I sat and listened, and waited for something to happen. The guy up front talked about everybody’s duties to keeping the kitchen clean, and greeting, and making sure communion was set up, and made a joke about some guy buying a boat who hadn’t been going for months. Everybody looked back at the guy as he was walking in and started applauding, because he gave a lot to the church.
When it came time to read from the Bible everybody started talking. I realized I had only been there five minutes, and didn’t know if I should say anything, but I was angry and stood up and said something. I don’t remember what I said. All I remember was I was angry. I felt guilty, not knowing these people, and thinking I was going about it the wrong way, and felt like I was the last person to say something like this. I’ve had this dream pretty often.
I don’t think I’m religious, or even a good person, and am aware of a lot of ways where I screw up. I’ve often felt like and defined myself as an outsider, on a lot of different levels, and even though I grew up in the church I often didn’t feel “part of the family.” Lately I go, but have often left feeling pretty bored or empty. The conversation I go for and want to have usually doesn’t happen. There are glimpses sometimes and moments when I feel like, “I need to live differently. This is bigger,” or I feel more alive. At those moments usually the person’s talking about Jesus, but a lot of times church people talk more about pop psychology or making sure we’re not like “those people out there,” or “having faith to believe everything’s going well,” which seems sometimes like putting on spiritual blinders to the harder realities of life where most of the rest of us live, and where they do too if they were willing to admit it. Wrestling in the midst of those hard realities, those are some of the stories I want to hear about, and it seems like those are the ones the Bible talks about.
I don’t see myself as religious, but want to be “spiritual” in the sense that Jesus was, reaching out to people, meeting their needs, living life in a real and adventurous way. I think if I did that and more people did that, the whole religion question would fade away.
I feel like box man though sometimes, and had a dream about that too. Writing another blog feels a little empty, and there are times when I get uncomfortable and don’t want people to get too close that I fall back into some safe and secure place, saying things I think people want to hear (I’m sorry about your loss, that’s too bad. Anything I can do to help?), and yet shutting off a big part of myself in the process.
I’ve seen that tendency, and have wanted to push beyond that and live out some of the dreams I’ve thought were good ideas, but for me especially, that’s scarier and a lot harder than talking about it and saying it’s a good idea. Maybe that’s where a lot of people in general are, and what is behind some of the religious community that turns my stomach sour. Probably it’s the same thing in me.
Here’s an example. A few months ago a friend of mine started living with me for a few months. I wanted to live in community again, had lived for years on my own, and was looking forward to not coming home to an empty house. We were good friends and the idea of being roommates for a few months seemed like a good idea to both of us. Then I came home and couldn’t find the remote, or there were dirty dishes in the sink, and a lot of them weren’t mine, or we kept different hours, and I found myself getting irritated. It was supposed to be easier, better, or something, and we were supposed to get along all the time. On one level I’m a lot more realistic than this, and the realistic side of me would step up at these moments, but honestly this was probably some of what I was thinking on the emotional side. In short, it was a lot harder actually living out community than it was talking about it.
I was afraid I’d get lost, get sucked into some of the other person’s darkness, or habits, or . . . I don’t know what exactly I was afraid of. I’ve been in my own dark places at times, and it’s scary enough that I don’t want to go back there, and when I see hints of it in someone else, I don’t just see their darkness, but see hints and edges of my own clawing at me, trying to regain some kind of a hold.
I didn’t get lost. I learned a lot and grew a lot, and so did my roommate. We fought like brothers sometimes, but it felt like we grew like brothers as well. I’m grateful for the late night talks, and sorting through things, and the ways we grew in music and movies and tennis matches and soccer games.
But back to this fear of difference. Sometimes I’m afraid of becoming friends with gay people, or African Americans, or Buddhists, or people who like to party a lot. I’ve been friends with all of them, and have worked with internationals and see myself as a pretty open-minded guy while still sticking to the core of who I am (being a Christian and wanting to follow Jesus is part of this). But I’m afraid of becoming lost, and when I feel that way I feel backed into a corner and threatened, and part of me retreats until I figure it out. I think I want to have everything figured out and fit into neat containers. I am box-man, after all. Then I have friends who come along, take a look at the boxes, and shake them up and create a mess. At first I’m upset by this, but usually the reason they got into the boxes in the first place was to see what was inside, to play, to help me see that not everything fits neatly inside the boxes.
Jesus loved all kinds of people and didn’t get lost in the midst of that. Yet our own fear (mine included) gets in the way of this, and makes us want to hang out with people who are exactly like us, that we click well with, and can relate to easily, and soon we’ve got our clubs and yuppy churches all over the place. I don’t know what holds me back, probably scared mostly, because when I do step outside of my comfort zone I usually really like it.
I wasn’t sure if I could do the whole roommate thing again. I had gotten so used to living alone I had forgotten what it would be like to live with another person 24/7. I had gotten so used to hiding parts of who I was that I wasn’t sure I wanted someone to see that. I may have to someday ask the same questions when it comes to having a wife, a family, or being a parent. When you have never been there, it looks scary and foreign on the other side, but most people who are in it say, “There are adjustments, but it’s got its perks too :)”. Maybe working more with the homeless, or immigrants, or inner city, or AIDS patients, or other areas would feel the same way, a definite stretch, but more like living than anything Boxland could offer.
When it came time to read from the Bible everybody started talking. I realized I had only been there five minutes, and didn’t know if I should say anything, but I was angry and stood up and said something. I don’t remember what I said. All I remember was I was angry. I felt guilty, not knowing these people, and thinking I was going about it the wrong way, and felt like I was the last person to say something like this. I’ve had this dream pretty often.
I don’t think I’m religious, or even a good person, and am aware of a lot of ways where I screw up. I’ve often felt like and defined myself as an outsider, on a lot of different levels, and even though I grew up in the church I often didn’t feel “part of the family.” Lately I go, but have often left feeling pretty bored or empty. The conversation I go for and want to have usually doesn’t happen. There are glimpses sometimes and moments when I feel like, “I need to live differently. This is bigger,” or I feel more alive. At those moments usually the person’s talking about Jesus, but a lot of times church people talk more about pop psychology or making sure we’re not like “those people out there,” or “having faith to believe everything’s going well,” which seems sometimes like putting on spiritual blinders to the harder realities of life where most of the rest of us live, and where they do too if they were willing to admit it. Wrestling in the midst of those hard realities, those are some of the stories I want to hear about, and it seems like those are the ones the Bible talks about.
I don’t see myself as religious, but want to be “spiritual” in the sense that Jesus was, reaching out to people, meeting their needs, living life in a real and adventurous way. I think if I did that and more people did that, the whole religion question would fade away.
I feel like box man though sometimes, and had a dream about that too. Writing another blog feels a little empty, and there are times when I get uncomfortable and don’t want people to get too close that I fall back into some safe and secure place, saying things I think people want to hear (I’m sorry about your loss, that’s too bad. Anything I can do to help?), and yet shutting off a big part of myself in the process.
I’ve seen that tendency, and have wanted to push beyond that and live out some of the dreams I’ve thought were good ideas, but for me especially, that’s scarier and a lot harder than talking about it and saying it’s a good idea. Maybe that’s where a lot of people in general are, and what is behind some of the religious community that turns my stomach sour. Probably it’s the same thing in me.
Here’s an example. A few months ago a friend of mine started living with me for a few months. I wanted to live in community again, had lived for years on my own, and was looking forward to not coming home to an empty house. We were good friends and the idea of being roommates for a few months seemed like a good idea to both of us. Then I came home and couldn’t find the remote, or there were dirty dishes in the sink, and a lot of them weren’t mine, or we kept different hours, and I found myself getting irritated. It was supposed to be easier, better, or something, and we were supposed to get along all the time. On one level I’m a lot more realistic than this, and the realistic side of me would step up at these moments, but honestly this was probably some of what I was thinking on the emotional side. In short, it was a lot harder actually living out community than it was talking about it.
I was afraid I’d get lost, get sucked into some of the other person’s darkness, or habits, or . . . I don’t know what exactly I was afraid of. I’ve been in my own dark places at times, and it’s scary enough that I don’t want to go back there, and when I see hints of it in someone else, I don’t just see their darkness, but see hints and edges of my own clawing at me, trying to regain some kind of a hold.
I didn’t get lost. I learned a lot and grew a lot, and so did my roommate. We fought like brothers sometimes, but it felt like we grew like brothers as well. I’m grateful for the late night talks, and sorting through things, and the ways we grew in music and movies and tennis matches and soccer games.
But back to this fear of difference. Sometimes I’m afraid of becoming friends with gay people, or African Americans, or Buddhists, or people who like to party a lot. I’ve been friends with all of them, and have worked with internationals and see myself as a pretty open-minded guy while still sticking to the core of who I am (being a Christian and wanting to follow Jesus is part of this). But I’m afraid of becoming lost, and when I feel that way I feel backed into a corner and threatened, and part of me retreats until I figure it out. I think I want to have everything figured out and fit into neat containers. I am box-man, after all. Then I have friends who come along, take a look at the boxes, and shake them up and create a mess. At first I’m upset by this, but usually the reason they got into the boxes in the first place was to see what was inside, to play, to help me see that not everything fits neatly inside the boxes.
Jesus loved all kinds of people and didn’t get lost in the midst of that. Yet our own fear (mine included) gets in the way of this, and makes us want to hang out with people who are exactly like us, that we click well with, and can relate to easily, and soon we’ve got our clubs and yuppy churches all over the place. I don’t know what holds me back, probably scared mostly, because when I do step outside of my comfort zone I usually really like it.
I wasn’t sure if I could do the whole roommate thing again. I had gotten so used to living alone I had forgotten what it would be like to live with another person 24/7. I had gotten so used to hiding parts of who I was that I wasn’t sure I wanted someone to see that. I may have to someday ask the same questions when it comes to having a wife, a family, or being a parent. When you have never been there, it looks scary and foreign on the other side, but most people who are in it say, “There are adjustments, but it’s got its perks too :)”. Maybe working more with the homeless, or immigrants, or inner city, or AIDS patients, or other areas would feel the same way, a definite stretch, but more like living than anything Boxland could offer.
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