What’s New This New Year?
“The sun came up and five years gone. Life goes on…” – Brandi Carlile
The older we get, a year becomes a smaller fraction of our life and therefore goes by faster. Or at least this seems to be the case. Brandi Carlile perfectly expresses what I’ve been feeling lately as I watch the days pass so quickly it feels like I’ve barely blinked and the weeks and months and, yes, the years zoom by. Some days I wake to feel the passage of time so intensely, it weighs heavily, and I want to drag my feet to slow the planet’s turning. I’m still doing my best to breathe into each moment, that I might not regret the passage of this time five years down the line.
At the close of each year, we engage in the collective ritual of life review. We read the lists of the top movies, people, books, and events of the past year. We resolve to kick that habit we’ve been meaning to kick for as long as we can remember.
Last year at this time, my spouse and I had learned just before Christmas that the baby I was carrying was not developing; I would miscarry soon after the New Year. I had never been so ready to let go of a year. I said goodbye to 2012 long before January 1st and moved into 2013 with fervor. We were fortunate that a second pregnancy began a short time later and, this year, I write with a seven-week-old baby sleeping next to me. Now, I am reluctant to let go of 2013, a year that held so much grief and loss and so much joy and elation.
This year, our family is attempting a not-so-generic life review or a rote renewal of the resolutions we make each year. Instead, we are looking back on the very specific events of our year-gone-by and reflecting on what we have learned from the experiences we shared. And, knowing that our daughter will make many developmental leaps and milestones in the year ahead, my spouse and I are moving into the New Year with specific developmental goals for ourselves as individuals and as a family. As she becomes more and more herself, we ask ourselves who we want to be in the year ahead.
And you? What was new in your life in 2013? What do you let go of? What are you ready to leave behind and what do you wish to hold on to as we move into the New Year? What newness awaits you in the year ahead?
As much as I’d like to sometimes, we cannot slow the passage of time. But this liminal, in-between time here at the end of one year and the beginning of another provides us the opportunity to ask “What’s new?,” to really take stock of what has been and to turn our eyes towards what will be and who we will become in the year ahead.
Wishing you a New Year filled with blessing and beauty.
Being Responsible- A Story of Two Men
The daily paper on Christmas Eve carried this story:
“Richard F. Morrow, 69, died when he was struck by a car in the village of Canton at 10:49 p.m. Mr. Morrow was pronounced dead at the scene. … Daniel W. Lester, 28, was driving northbound when he allegedly struck Mr. Morrow and fled, according to police. Police charged Mr. Lester with second-degree vehicular manslaughter, second-degree vehicular assault, leaving the scene of a fatal motor vehicle accident, driving while ability impaired by drugs, driving while intoxicated with prior convictions and aggravated unlicensed operation, all felonies.”
Who was Dick Morrow? He was a kind and gentle man, quiet but responsible. When he didn’t show up at his night shift as auditor at the local Best Western Hotel, the manager knew something was wrong. Dick was always there. Whether it was serving on the board of the Canton Church and Community Program (a local social service agency), or as treasurer of the local UU Church, volunteering with the Red Cross, advocating for bikers’ needs with a local biking group, shoveling the front walk at church (just because it needed to be done), teaching math at a local high school, or picking up the tab at the hotel for a struggling family, Dick was responsible. When he saw a need, he was there, quietly doing what needed to be done. He was my friend; he was a friend to everyone he met, but he asked for nothing but the opportunity to help anyone who needed it.
Who was Daniel Lester? I honestly don’t know. From the report in the paper, he was not a person known for being responsible… not responsible for himself, or for the rights of others. Anger swells up from within me. How could he have been so irresponsible that he got behind the wheel of his car, drunk and impaired by drugs? How could he run another person down and not stop to render aid? How could he continue on his way before crashing into another person’s house?
Anger is not an emotion commonly felt at this time of year, but it is anger that I feel today. Responsibility is what we all owe to each other. Responsibility was what guided Dick Morrow’s decisions throughout his life. I am angry today at all those who refused to be responsible that night – the one who chose to drive impaired, the one who left another human being dying on a cold winter road, anyone who was with Daniel Lester that night and who didn’t stop him from setting out on his deadly travels. I am angry because there are families tonight who must live with the aftermath of one man’s irresponsibility. I am angry at a culture that sees alcohol and drug use as a simple right, a personal matter.
What do I do with this anger? I honestly don’t know. I must of course pledge to take responsibility for my own actions everyday, but Dick’s model of responsibility to others is also a take-away from this tragedy. Responsibility as a neighbor and citizen must certainly play a role; it is simply not enough to shrug and say, “What can one person do?” One person could have saved Dick Morrow’s life.
Empty Suitcase
The cat snuggles down
into my empty suitcase,
out to fill for a trip. She
knows something’s up.
It’s a bed, she insists.
A warm place, even an
instrument of stasis. I
let her nestle there,
passing on to other
bustling that needs
doing, done. That I’ve
lived out of a suitcase
won’t perhaps make
my obituary. Not much
does. Yet it is the things
we’ve lugged place
to place; it is the cat
let sleep that is,
was, what we were.
That old Zen mind
Basho said, “Noble,
noble, not to think of
life when you see
a flash of lightening.”
I say, impossible too
to pack for the long road
and not dwell on passing.
Complicity: A Christmas Story
One spring had me moonlighting on crisis response. I was far from an expert. Only shadowed whoever was on-call, to learn what to do when there’s nothing to be done. Mostly, the work took you out into homes where the children who are wanting to harm themselves live. But one Friday night, the call was from a prison several counties away, near the Kentucky line. It took forever to get there, and, when we got near, you could not see a thing because that low valley had been drained of all light.
The prison wasn’t for everyone. Only if you got locked up before the age of eighteen. Like training wheels, to prepare you for the prisons they build for adults.
At the heart of the complex was a windowless room. It had bolted-down tables and the cheer of an emptied-out bottle of glue. Wide-body guards pressed themselves to the cinderblock, like bashful teens at a dance. A prison administrator came in, then went out. And then came in again. There was paperwork, but no one knew exactly which of it was necessary for this kind of case. Of course, the woman I shadowed and I had our usual documentation: cataloging the horror, making a safety plan, writing down at least five positive personal goals.
Finally, one of the guards went to bring back the cause of the problem. He came shuffling out of solitary confinement. Dressed in a pink paper gown that covered only his front. But it wasn’t the gown or the bare ass you noticed. What you saw was the wounds. What he’d done to himself. Gouged furrows of injury striping his legs. Arms like the ground beef that bleeds in its plastic. Any sharps, if it had a point at all, they had taken from him: pencils, forks, spoons, his toothbrush. They’d cut his fingernails, so he couldn’t use those on himself. But still, he kept on. Had spent the day chewing away the side of his lip, so it hung in a flap, giving a direct view on yellow teeth and sick gums. His lip hanging free slurred his speech, but you could tell somebody somewhere had taught him to say “sir” and “ma’am.”
They’d put him in solitary because the psychologist that morning had said, “suicide watch.” This psychologist was young, the prison administrator let us know. Prone to making things out to be more than they were. But, financially speaking, it just couldn’t go on. Suicide watch ties up your staff with the one-on-one coverage. It means you’re understaffed elsewhere, or you’re paying overtime. Surely, we understood.
In fact, it was why we were there. Crisis response could change things. Could override prior orders. Maybe somewhere, they could afford to do suicide watch. Maybe somewhere they had the money to give all the prisoners neck-rubs and footie pajamas. Maybe somewhere. Not here. Surely, we understood.
Of course, there was a story. When he was very young, someone had done horrible things to this boy, to his innocent body. After that, he’d been passed around, house to house, up there back in the mountains where his family was from. Now, what had been done to him, he had done to other small children’s bodies. The trial kept getting delayed for one thing or another, but there was no question. It was open-and-shut. This boy would not see the outside of a prison for as long as he lived.
After Jesus dies on the cross, and is laid in the tomb–but before Easter morning–he goes missing. Scripture is silent on exactly where to. But people began to say that, after his death, he must have gone straight to hell, to set free the captives. Maybe something like freeze-tag, Jesus tapping each person gently, saying, “You’re free now. Un-frozen.” But, arriving into that windowless room, with us all in a tableau of stone-faced despair, what could Jesus have done? Who among us could have been unfrozen? The prison administrator? The guards? The prisoner? The woman I shadowed and me, with our black ball-point pens and unfinished documentation? And what is it we’d do? Sing and dance? Clarify our positive personal goals? Open the gates and run free till the Sheriff caught up?
It may be too late here to say the word, “sin.” Well, whatever the word, listen: sometimes, it isn’t any one thing any person has done. Sometimes, it is the overall ruination. The unholy mess we have found ourselves in. Maybe it’s not an Easter story we’re wanting, of rising up from the wreckage. Maybe what’s needed is a clean break, a fresh start, maybe no less than Christmas.
So, here is a Christmas. It’s a starless dark night in a forgotten dark valley, and somehow, we have ended up huddled together in prison–the prison administrator, the psychologist, the guards, you, me, everyone. Not a prison of cinderblock. Stronger: made of suffering, and of the blindness to it, with walls so high and so distant, we cannot find the gate, and don’t always remember it is where we are. Our hearts are scabbed over. We live without hope. But on this night, the news comes: all of that is now over, the prison dissolved, like a change in the weather, and the world is made new. It is the strangest thing, and we cannot believe it. Here we are, shy in our love, in the presence of God. And here, Lord, is this child. He needs cleaning, a blanket, to be held, to be cherished. He has not yet been wounded, his flesh has not yet been torn, he is not yet in prison near the Kentucky line. Mortals that we are, we cannot promise our adoration will prove to be more than fleeting. But for this flickering instance, in the holy presence of the tender child we will one day betray, the doors of our hearts now are standing wide open, and we are amazed.
Joy to the World!
As the Community Minister for the Greater New Orleans Unitarian Universalists, I spend a lot of my time immersed in the injustice of layers of oppression. New Orleanians still trying to get back into their homes over 8 years after they were flooded out, transgender women forced to be housed with and often abused by men in prison and in shelters, a football field of wetlands lost in this state every half hour … Each day there’s more. Family diagnosed with chronic diseases, babies born too soon, people die… and.
AND Christmas comes each year in this country, whether you celebrate it or not. While I often find myself in the position of protesting the dominion of the dominant culture, I don’t fight Christmas. I choose to enjoy Christmas. I think that Christmas can be sweetly subversive.
Hey World – people are ill and homeless and jobless and imprisoned and killed! For most of the year, most of the world ignores these hard truths, pretending that the poor are poor because of poor choices instead of acknowledging a system of oppression that radically tilts the playing field towards some –and away from others.
But come Christmas, pretending stops – at least for a moment. Suddenly we collect coats and toys and feel good stories about providing shelter and hope to families down on their luck.
Suddenly we tell a story about a great leader born in questionable circumstances, sharing his birthday crib with the donkey’s dinner, soon exiled to the immigrant life in Eygpt with his family.
Rumors of premarital sex, poverty, immigration … you name it, the Christmas story goes there…
And tells us – joy to the world. Hope has come.
Let there be peace and kindness and respect among all creation.
It’s a 6th Principle: The Goal of World Community with Peace, Liberty, and Justice for All!
Yes, I know. That’s not exactly how the scriptures or even the carols go.
But I am grateful for the promise of this season…For once a year our deeply embedded cultural story tells the world:
Children are precious.
Where you are born should not predict the quality nor the value of your life.
Women too have the holy within them.
It matters that we bear witness to each other and to the vast brilliance of the universe.
Sometimes knowledge needs to bow to intuition.
Life is a gift, utterly unpredictable, infinitely possible.
There is hope for change.
And where there is hope, friends, there is joy. Beloveds, may there be joy for you and your loved ones today and every days.
Is This Christmas, Mama?
Every time we say “Christmas,” our little one points at the Christmas tree. The period between Thanksgiving and Christmas being short this year, and our own lives being fairly scheduled, we went and got our Christmas tree the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Though it seemed a little early at the time, we (okay, I) also got out the Christmas children’s books and the Christmas carol piano book. We learned the ASL (American Sign Language) sign for “Christmas” and started pointing out all the other Christmas-related things as they emerged in our home and city—stockings, decorations, carolers, ZooLights!, Santas, and so on. Still, for weeks, every time we said the word “Christmas,” our Little Bean pointed to the tree in our living room. Every time she does this, I smile. She thinks Christmas is already here, actualized in the tree. The sparkling, decorated tree with the ornaments that she likes to pull off (the Big-Bird-playing-the-drum ornament in particular)—to her, that’s Christmas. And whenever this little communication occurs (I say “Christmas,” she points: “tree!”), I am jolted again into realizing: it is here. Everything that matters to me about the season is already happening, already around us. Instead of “the elephant in the living room,” there’s a 6-foot-tall decorated tree with glittering lights, silently proclaiming: “I’m already here.”
I believe that all the holidays celebrated at this time of year are, basically, about the solstice. In the midst of the darkest time of the year, we long for light and community. And so, we have holidays. With holidays come celebrations—lights, rituals, gatherings, feasting, community, songs, stories. I savor all these things at this time of year. It truly isn’t the day itself that is special to me—though I lament every time another store decides to open earlier on Thanksgiving, because we take so few days off anymore as a country and a culture. So that it is a shared day off for many, many people (not all, I know) makes it stand out. I do wish that someday we could make the solstice the actual day off, though I’m sure it’s heretical to someone to say so. Only some days do I feel like debating the literal-ness of biblical stories. At Christmastime, as a Unitarian Universalist minister anyway, I also long for time off, for time to not debate theology but savor symbology, the mementos we give each other to convey our love, the foods we make and time we spend together because we are glad to.
It is an amazing, marvelous thing to watch a small child making sense of the world. I see her making connections, putting two-and-two together, all the time. During these last few days before Christmas, I see her noticing the lights on other houses, the red so many people are wearing, the Santa hats, the presents, the decorated sugar cookies. I experience her starting to recognize the songs, and going along with unfamiliar outings to get-to-know new friends, thank our mail carrier, connect with communities-in-need through our congregations. And oh, how she is loving the special, extra-playful time with her grandparents! It’s a little abstract for a one-and-a-half-year-old, but somehow, I strive to convey to her that all of this is Christmas. All of this is Christmas. Just like that tree is decorated with a hundred ornaments, each of which has a story—so are our lives full right now with all this extra wonderment. And this is Christmas. All of this is Christmas. May the season be sparkling, stunning, and surprisingly simple for you as well.
Survival Tips for Holidays with Difficult People, AKA, Home for the Holidays!
I’m hearing from many folks these days about their fears of being with families of origin over the holidays. Fears of getting into fights about political differences. Fears of being expected to conform to religious language and practices that no longer fit. Fears of being ridiculed about life choices or decisions. Fears of family members getting drunk, or abusive. Most often, the fear of loneliness, right there in the middle of the family.
So here are some survival tips. These are ways to stay present with yourself, so even if no one else sees you, you’ve still got a witness! You’ve decided, for presumably good reasons, that you want to be with your family, or your in-laws’ family, for the holidays. So you can also decide to make the visit fun, even if you have to work at it. Here are some tactics I’ve used on different occasions—may they be of use to you!
1. Remind yourself, in advance, about why you love each person who will be there. Call up that memory and dwell on it while they are holding forth on a topic you do not want to hear about it. If they seem to be waiting for your comment on their favorite Fox News show, just smile a little bit and say, “Hmmm. Sorry, I spaced out. I was just remembering when we were kids and we built that treehouse! That was so fun!”
2. For some elderly relatives, keeping them focused on favorite parts of their past can be much more fun than hearing their frustrations about the present. They may be lonely, or in chronic pain, or bitter right now, but that doesn’t mean they always were. Think about parts of their lives you are interested in, and ask them questions. Childhood may or may not be a good place to start. One question I’ve found can open doors is, Looking back, what would you say was the happiest time of your life? And then dig in there.
3. Try responding to negativity or bitterness with observations about the weather. (This tip could have saved me years of therapy. It helped me to realize that people who were complaining usually were not asking me to make their lives better—they simply wanted to complain!)
4. Program your smartphone with the names of some of your closest support network in chat or instant message, so that on a quick trip to the bathroom, you can cry out for help, share the awful thing someone just said or just say, “Remind me that I am loveable.” Technology can allow you to have in-the-moment support. I suggest 5 or 6 people at once so that at least one of them can get back to you before your hands are washed!
5. Again with a smartphone, scroll through the newsfeed on your facebook page. Remind yourself there is life outside of your family!
6. If you don’t have a smartphone, try some old fashioned ways to take friends with you. Have them write affirmations, jokes, or poems for you to open and read when needed.
7. There’s always the good-old bingo card. Just making it is a kind of inoculation! Make a bingo card with words or topics that are likely to come up and upset you. Then, when they say hard things, at least you can work your way towards a bingo! Possible squares: Grandchildren, weight loss, your haircut, better job, Obamacare, gay marriage, people who are going to hell.
8. At meals, ask to sit at the kids’ table. You’ll be lifted up as a hero and you’ll probably have more fun.
9. Remind yourself that, as annoying and frustrating these people are, they are yours, and you will miss them when they are gone!
And, Happy Holidays, to you and your kin!
Beauty of the Season? Really?
I did not plan to write this post. In fact, I had intended to write something very, very different.
Given that this weekend marks the winter solstice, I had wanted to write something poignant and insightful about the beauty of the season. I wanted to write about the joys that winter brings, about sledding and snow angels and hot chocolate. I had planned to write something spiritual about the way that winter’s long nights give us a chance to rest and reflect. I wanted to write something optimistic about all of the warmth that lingers in the chilly winter, about growth and rebirth, about the the changing seasons as a reminder that everything is temporary.
I wanted to write about these things. I had planned to write about these things, had hoped to write about these things.
But I just couldn’t do it.
Because, honestly, I FREAKING HATE WINTER.
Try as I might to dig deep spiritually and see all the good that winter offers, I just can’t seem to do it. In fact, I hate almost everything about winter. I hate the snow and ice and frigid temperatures. I hate the bulky sweaters and heavy boots and the way my hands are always cold. I hate the muddy puddles that pool by the door. I hate that it’s dark at 4:30 in the afternoon. I hate shoveling. And I hate that it takes longer to get my kids dressed in their winter gear – coats, snowpants, hats, and mittens – than it does to actually get where we are going.
The optimist in me wants to learn to love all of life’s seasons, even the cold and dark ones. And the UU in me is trying desperately to “respect the interdependent web” and enjoy winter for its role in that cycle of connectedness. Yet despite my spiritual, optimistic, glass-is-half-full attempts to appreciate winter, the simple truth is that I HATE WINTER and I’m only hoping to survive the next few months.
I want to be more tolerant of winter’s harsh personality. I want to see God’s beauty in the dormant bud as much as in the flowering bloom. I want to be stronger, more resilient to the bitter and biting cold. I want to be more flexible to the changing seasons on the calendar and in life.
But some days, it is just so hard to be tolerant, to see the beauty, to be resilient. Some days it is really hard not to be consumed by the darkness. Sometimes it is almost impossible not to rage against change, almost impossible not to scream “ENOUGH ALREADY! I CAN’T TAKE ANYMORE!” (By now you’ve probably figured out that I’m not just talking about winter here.)
It feels selfish and self-indulgent to wallow in my disdain for what amounts to a minor inconvenience, a slight discomfort. It seems short-sighted and pessimistic to focus on the darkness and the harsh conditions. It feels feeble and gloomy to wallow in the ugliness, desperate and ungrateful to long for lighter, warmer days.
But does loving life mean that we have to hide our disdain for the colder times? Does respecting the web of connection mean that we have to delight in all aspects of a network so complex and delicate that we cannot possibly make sense of it all? And does the cultivation of gratitude mean that we are prohibited from yearning for better, brighter days?
Hardly.
Maybe tolerance doesn’t come from looking with favor on every hassle and indiscretion, but rather through an admission of our unhappiness and a willingness to move through it. Maybe resilience and flexibility don’t ask that we greet bleak conditions with delight, but simply that we acknowledge the discomfort with truth and kindness.
And maybe Grace isn’t found in pretending the dark and cold times aren’t exactly what they are – hard and difficult. Maybe Grace comes from a simple acknowledgement that “THIS SUCKS,” followed by a deep breath and the inherent understanding that, for better or worse, this too shall pass.
This article originally appeared on the author’s website.
For the Beauty of the Earth…
I was walking in City Park with a community organizer this week when suddenly we were only the width of the boardwalk away from a Great Egret, its fancy fringe plumes fluttering in the morning breeze. We paused, taking in the beauty, marveling at the unexpected joy of such a close encounter.
A few minutes later, on the other side of the lake path, I was startled by the sudden appearance of a pelican swooping in for breakfast. (With all due apologies to the fish), I clapped my hands in delight when I watched the pelican give the throaty head waggle that signifies success.
And I noticed, as our walk continued, that our conversation had transitioned as we were present to the beauty and wonder of where we were. A talk that had begun with the challenges and frustrations we were facing was giving way to some creative collaboration, some hope, some joy.
May you too find beauty in this world to give you hope and joy, to point the way towards collaboration, community, creative resistance to all that would tell us we are less than, not enough.
His Day Is Done
Since hearing the news last Thursday of the passing of Nelson Mandela, our beloved Madiba, I have been longing to be able to share the experience with my friends in South Africa. Although we all knew the time would come when he would no longer be physically with us, it has been hard to absorb. He had been through so much, accomplished the seemingly impossible.
But his time has come, as it must to all of us. On Sunday he will be laid to rest with the ancestors. We are left to remember, to cry, to celebrate, to sing and to dance, to carry on his work. Watching the SABC-TV live streaming of the memorial service all day on Tuesday, I was reminded about the meaning of his life for ours. As I reflected on all the news pieces flooding in on the radio, TV and Internet, I feel a sense of gratitude for this life, and yes, a sense of sadness. The words of Maya Angelou in her tribute poem … His Day is Done, written after Mandela’s passing, says it all… The final verse reads: :
…
Nelson Mandela’s day is done.
We confess it in tearful voices
Yet we lift our own to say
Thank You.
Thank You, Our Gideon.
Thank You, Our David.
Our great courageous man
We will not forget you
We will not dishonor you
We will remember and be glad
That you lived among us
That you taught us
And
That you loved us
All!
Mandela has given the world so much; now it our turn to receive these gifts and to pass them on. Our beloved Madiba showed us the way forward when he asked that his birthday be honoured by each of us giving at least 67 minutes of service to our communities, our countries, our world in recognition of the 67 years he had devoted to the struggle for freedom and democracy in South Africa.
He gave… we received the blessing… and now that he has joined the ancestors, it is our turn to give, to pass on the blessing … to make the world a better place for all.
How will you honour Madiba’s life today? To whom and what will you give?
