A Moment is a Lot

Yesterday I had a small gathering at my home, a group who usually gathers at church. We had a fire outside in the October cold where we roasted weenies and marshmallows. We were happy as little kids for a little while.

We must come as little children to enter into the kingdom. That language of the kingdom, or the "kindom," is so on my mind of late. And yesterday evening I felt a moment of that, a moment of the kingdom, that safe place of inclusion, of gathering close where we can tell our own stories, sing our our own songs, and laugh together. I finally had comfort with one who has made me uncomfortable. I heard from ones who are quiet, and discovered the power of eggs, especailly deviled eggs. We seem to be the queens of deviled eggs. So I am pleased. The most pleasing thing was the sense of answered prayer, that these friends and nearly friends, for whom I have been praying, are growing. I saw us enjoy a moment of that peace, wholeness, and healing that I pray for, a moment of "thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." And a moment is a lot.

From an Article on Illinois Church Shooting

This is from a note from a church Friend:

I don't know how many of you happened to read Terry Mattingly's column in the Faith & Family section of the NS last Saturday. I'd read online many of the news stories and comments immediately following the Maryville, IL shooting and have been trying decide what I want to write to the congregation given our differences in theology and some of the "God's will" statements that were being made early on. I'd concluded I wanted to share Shonna Cole's poem ("On Earth as it is") from Sunday and Mattingly's piece helped me decide what to write on my own. I think the column will be of interest of others at TVUUC. The article follows:

"Terry Mattingly, March 21, Knoxville NSBullets, Bibles and Big QuestionsBy age 14, Cassie Griffin had collected a bedroom full of toy frogs, each a playful symbol of her F.R.O.G. motto — Fully Relying On God.She was tall for her age, which probably made it easier for gunman Larry Gene Ashbrook to target her on that horrific night a decade ago at Wedgwood Baptist Church in Fort Worth, Texas. Cursing God and Baptists, he stormed into a youth prayer service, firing 100 rounds and exploding a pipe bomb — leaving seven dead and seven wounded.

At a recent meeting of the Wedgwood deacons, Cassie’s father gave his pastor a message for the faithful at the First Baptist in Maryville, Ill., where another disturbed gunman killed the senior pastor while he preached on Sunday, March 8.“Let those people know that my son is still struggling,” the deacon told the Rev. Al Meredith, who preached to the stricken Maryville flock exactly one week after their pastor’s death.This kind of tragedy, said Meredith, is not “something you get over with three points and a poem,” a dose of scripture, a verse of “Victory in Jesus” and a proclamation that, “Everything’s fine. Let’s move on.”

There’s a “Greek word” for that kind of theology and it’s “baloney,” he said, preaching where the Rev. Fred Winters bled and died, his Bible blasted apart by one of 27-year-old Terry Joe Sedlacek’s first shots. Police have not announced a motive.“Every day with Jesus is not sweeter than the day before,” said Meredith, in a sermon that swung from tears to gospel singing to laughter. “Some days are evil. In fact, the Bible says, ‘Stand that you might be able to stand in the evil day.’ Last Sunday was an evil day, and our hearts are breaking. …“People are going to ask, ‘When are you going to get over this?’ You’re never going to get over this, but by God’s grace you’re going to get through it. And God will give you joy and peace in the midst of it, in the midst of the tears and the heartache. Have you learned that? You are learning it. It’s the praise you give with a broken heart that is the greatest sacrifice you can offer God.”

There are few pastors who have faced the challenge of preaching in a sanctuary that has blood on the carpet and bullet holes in the walls. There are few who have had to face the press after this kind of bloodshed, with most of the reporters asking an ancient question that is at the heart of mature faith: “Can you tell us where God is in all of this?”

Meredith, of course, addressed that question when he faced his own shell-shocked flock. That’s why the Maryville church asked him to come preach.Back in 1999, he said: “If God really loves us, if God is all powerful, why in the world did he let this happen? Why does God allow evil to seemingly abound in this world? Why Columbine? … Why do a million and a half unborn babies have their lives snuffed out before they have a chance to breathe a breath? Why do children die of hunger daily around the world? Why is there pain? Why is there suffering? Why is there mental illness? … The question is, ‘Where is God when we hurt?’ “The reality is that there is no way to avoid suffering. Thus, the crucial test is whether believers can face trials and tribulations without sliding in despair.

Meanwhile, said Meredith, far too many churches are fighting about the “color of the carpet or the music they sing,” while suffering people keep looking for some sense of hope — in this world and the next. It doesn’t help that anyone with a television remote can find scores of “health and wealth boys” who claim that true believers will avoid pain and strife altogether.“Tell that to every saint that’s died. Tell that to the saints that are struggling with unmitigated pain,” he told the Maryville congregation. “God never promised us a life without trials. As Americans, we want a carefree and happy life. We think that’s God’s will for our lives. Get a clue. God’s will for your life is to make you into the image of His Son, and that only happens through the heartaches and trials of life.”

Dreamy

What a dreamy weekend. Though I hesitate to chronicle events of no particular interest to you reader, (I always wonder if there is a reader), the set does form a lovely whole. Friday afternoon featured a called from a stranger asking to send a proposal for one of the largest single consulting job I have ever been involved with. Miracles. In the evening I took myself downtown to where Central Avenue is brightening up nicely and attended a free lecture at Gypsy Hands, where Sara is Goddess of small realm of royal blue and crimson rooms.

http://www.gypsyhands.com/heal/html/events.html

There I listened to Maori Healers from New Zealand. An unusual barefoot man spoke for about two hours and I grew used to his notable speech impediment due to a significant harelip. Such surprising packages people come in, this wise healer with his huge belly, and his potato nose was a delight, with a powerful message of awareness and personal responsibility couched in stories that could be written up for children, perhaps they were being presented for us children. I was charmed, especially by his wife, Atta. Her dimples alone were beguiling, but to add her voice, so smooth, and her wisdom. She was another humble one, sitting on a stool crocheting as her husband spoke, her bare feet turned up and crossed. She would nod as she listened, perhaps to the same stories she had heard a hundred times. She spoke of the smells of people in there illnesses, and her willingness to tell, to let the words be in the air. It was clear that her awareness was given in so much love, that harsh news could be harvested, a feast, if one was willing. She talked about the grounding power of food, of eating, "just look at our bodies" she laughed. Indeed she is another sturdy island person grown heavy with powerful heaviness of women, the weight a thick layer over the whole torso, her arms were formidable and her hands, muscled. Later on Sunday I got experience her power first hand. After the meeting, though I had not intended too, I signed up for a session. But first to Saturday.

Saturday my friend returned form a journey gone wrong. I welcomed her with tulips and lilies, cooking and time. We attended a poetry reading of Marilyn Kallet at Carpe Librum http://www.redroom.com/blog/marilyn-kallet

She is a mentor of mine Her poems delight me. Her readings sound as if these finely crafted poems are her conversation to you. And I as repeat jeweled lines in my mouth I turn them on my tongue, and make umm, yum, sounds, they taste of such depth and delight, layers unfold. She is lovely, and the years rest so gently on her, I cannot believe time is passing for her. I am so honored when she greets me as she does, telling me that my presence made the event an Event. So precious. I read her book with wonder, a treasure chest.

Sunday was a large day. At church for both services I read a long poem that Rev. Chris had requested early in the week. "Do you have something about the power of the spirit to overcome evil with good?" Do I? I live that poem every hour as I keep the darkness at bay for a little while, and then a little while again, to build a day, and build a day, quick before the night falls hard again. I read "On Earth as it is," the long poem of the vision that we are making progress, is it a patient dream. After each service I greedily stood in the receiving line with Rev. Chris and our beautiful guest musician Jonathan Sexton receiving hugs, and praise, licking it up like ice cream and laughter, my belly fuller and and fuller.

Then we hurried over to Gyspy hands where I was the last client scheduled for the Knoxville event. I waited patiently on the floor. There were four massage tables in a row, lots of singing, chanting, and oh the sounds of pain. Directly in front of me was a large mat, that I later realized as a wrestling mat, so apt. This became my focus. A large woman lay face down on that the mat. Atta sat on a chair at her feet, placing her own feet on top of the prone women's upturned feet. The woman groaned and twitched, though I could not discern that anything was occurring. Atta was doozing, her head down, slipping from time time off to the side and catching herself from falling out of her chair, never looking up. Eventually Atta began to walk up the woman's legs, then her back. Atta is large, the woman on the floor screamed as the weight came up her body, up even onto her chest, she gasped and begged for air. Then Atta moved down onto the floor and Sara joined her. With the woman now lying an her back, they folded the her legs up toward her head as if she were giving birth, and just as I thought that they began to yell at her "Push, Push." As so the wrestling match, the birthing labor began. It continued forever, screaming and writhing. I have never seen women behave in such a manner. I was determining how to gather my few things and leave unnoticed. This was more that I cared to view and way more than I wanted to experience. Eventually the big man lay on the wrestling woman. "Push him off, Fight him" they cried, other women in the room joining in the chant, slapping the hard wood floor. I was both fascinated and digusted, what possible good could this torturous display bring about? But eventually the woman began to try to poke the eyes of her captor and he set her free, satisfied that she had found her power to fight for her life, for her freedom. Oddly, she was even grateful, and like me, paid money for that.

Soon it was my turn. I told the big Maori man I was frightened about what I had seen. He did not assure me, he only laughed. I submitted. I laid face down, he began to work my feet. Soon he moved away and Atta came to me. I was grateful for her, for her touch. Over and over as she hurt me, I mumbled bless you Atta, bless you Atta. At two points the pain was the greatest. When she pulled the tendons under each arm, I flinched, toes curling, groaning. And then she worked my belly. For that time, I was turned face up. She mounted the table between my legs, like a lover. I found myself reach out to her as if she were my lover climbing up my body. But she was not. She pushed her elbow into my womb. I kept my fingers gently on her arm. She asked me about my children, how many children, two live births and two lost. I released everything, Bless you Atta. My belly was pushed to my spine, and in that one moment I rose up and cried out, and she was done. Then I wept. Other women I knew came and held my hands, stroked my forehead. I saw many things, so much drifting away. I heard over and over, "I am almost home, it is almost done." The women exhorted me to cry out, but I did not. Instead that deep hard laughter rose out of me breaking over me, that laughter that rises up out of the light, laughing and laughing, the tears flowing.

Others gathered laughing. It is a dream, a dream of freedom. We will all pass over into laughter. There is nothing else. We will see all our sorrows, all our pain rise up out of us. Bubbling up and out in laughter. That is what I saw with Grandfather on the other side. In a vision after he passed over, we watched together the stories of the pain we shared, the pain we cause each other, and we laughed. So beautifully had we both played our roles, he the Pharisee and me the rebel. We were very fine in our roles. And it was done. Nothing was left but to laugh, loud and hard. Yesterday I laughed as all the victimizers and all the victims floated before my eyes and drifted away, further away, far enough removed to be a tale from long ago and far away, not today's pain lived again and again. We will all pass over into laughter, laughter and song.

A Real Job?

The other day I was taking with a dear friend of mine about financial insecurities, a frequent topic on my tongue of late, and I stuck my foot in my mouth, another frequent item on my tongue. I said something about "getting a real job." And she replied, "oh, so you think I don't have a real job?" She went on to remind me of the importance of childcare. (So right my dear, my apologies yet again) Oh my, foot extraction is so cumbersome, rarely fully effective. In truth I was using a phrase I often use in reference to myself. As a freelancing consultant, a contract worker, I feel I have not had a real job in nearly ten years. It's been a good run, praise Goddess. This week though I have been thinking it is at an end. The last of my major clients ran out of money for the apparently frivolous work of occupational ergonomics, and will not complete the final phase of our long term project. With the loss of the automotive industry work over two years ago, this client was my last hope to keep my independent business open. I'd be okay getting a "real job." I like getting a real pay check. I have been putting in applications, but I have heard nothing, like my resume has arrived with a bad odor, nothing. Hum...

I have considered the option of a really bohemian life. Perhaps I could lease out my house. I even talked with my niece and her new husband about leasing it from me. I could go somewhere... But anywhere I go I take my hungry belly and my fragile self who needs a safe warm place and friends and church and especially family. See I still have a son at home. And his father could take him full time instead of half time as we do now. They would manage. But only manage. He still needs momma, and there's only a few years left. I give him things he can't get with dad, like clean toilets, and vegetables, and Sunday school, and I don't know, but I have tears now because whatever it is, it is important. And we need each other. So need to stay here, not go to some bohemia. I need a real house, and a car, and all those mom things, like taking him for a long bike ride in Townsend yesterday.

I have been a bit afraid. But friends have been comforting me, at the women's group at church and on the phone. One old friend said, "oh you say it is the end, but something always comes through." She has known me a long time. Yesterday a little sparrow sat on a bush where my son and I rested during our long bike ride. The little bird lifted her head and sang. I heard the old hymn "I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free. His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me." Praise Goddess. It made me feel free and fine.

So today I got a call from a project manager with whom I have had subcontract work for several years. He thinks might be getting me a "real job" back out at ORNL doing safety oversight. That would be fine. It is not as free as I am now but it is not straining either. I spent the 1990's at ORNL. For a real job, it is about as low key as you can get, not like building cars where people work round the clock and fight machines day and night. It would be tedious and petty. But there are many fine bright people there and occasionally they do something of value. I have high hopes. So if you are inclined that way, pray for me.

But not just for me, for all of us. So many of us are unemployed, marginally employed, self-employed, and slowly slipping under. One need not be buried under sports cars and second homes and five TV's and on and on, to be struggling. We are cooking at home, turning down the heat, wearing the old shoes, skipping the preventive medical screenings and dental work, just waiting. I do think we will be okay. But for me, I'd rather have a real job, than lose my home and my son and wonder off from my community here. I want to stay and have a place where a calmness can gather around me, at least from time to time, a calmness encircling large enough to make a little shelter for others, from time to time. We shall see. "His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me."

Fish outa water

Just a fish outa water. This was pianted by a friend at lovely party featuring the most beautiful canvases. The artisit is here http://www.jessicagregory.net. However the poet is here:

Divine Madness

I have been a worm against the wall.
I have been warned against my call.
I have been made small
under the thumb and flat on my back.
I have whined and writhed under attack.

But today, today I say: Enough.
I am done looking among the blind
for visionary paths they cannot find.
I am done sitting among the crippled
who cannot walk in the spirit
The day has past when they can cast
me down in the pit of psychiatric pills
The day is done when I try to become
as small as they see me to be.

I am a Believer.
I’m in super vision of the supernatural.
I have seen the white light
that shines from my eyes
and I will not hide.
I have witness to the pillar of light
that pours in and out of my crown.
I will not sit down and pretend, no.

I can spin balls of light in my hands.
I can push that light into skin
and bring convulsions of passion
at the passing of my hand.
I have witness to the stars
I gather in the dark of my room,
stars that throb and spin
when I sing their names.
I claim the power of the spirit in my hands.
I have healed the sick. By my hand
I have cast out sorrows and shadows
at my command.
I can see the buried stories
of the attacked and maimed
I release them from shackles of pain.
By the spirit I am powerful beyond the natural
and I will not walk in shame.

I can see lairs when they talk
and deceivers when they walk.
The force field of my anger has stopped the clock,
smoked the computer, and choked the coffeepot.
And I’m not gonna stop believing in what I got.

I utterly submit to the madness of my divinity.
It is within me.
And I testify -
It is in you.
You can shine, I don’t mean rhetorically,
I mean literally, shine,
like a light bulb, like a lightening bolt.
You can hear the holy dead
and you can dream where you are led.
You have not begun to believe
what you really are.
You have been too long deceived
crushed like worms in the mud.
Oh ye of little faith,
escape the prison of rational naturalism.
You are super-natural.
Rise up.
The light they speak of?
It is real.
The tongue of fire on your head,
is real.
Be crowned in the spirit,
a beacon in the dark.
Rise up,
Rise up you stars
and crawl no more.

January 22, 2009

Working hard

Today I finally got to work. I had a small job with a rad waste facility. It is not appropriate to go into details, but it break my hearts to see how people work. Four ten hour days plus an 8 hour day - 48 hours per week in full dress out. That means plastic suits and supplied air respirators or full face filter respirators, up to four layers of gloves, steel toed shoes, shoe covers, air lines to drag around, and glove boxes to fight. All this while bending, grasping ridiculous tools, lifting, and sweating in unairconditioned warehouses. I have seen workers in auto plants walking fast for 7 or even 10 miles a day - I calculate it - carrying 18 tons total. I have seen one man lift 40 tons per day, day ofter day, a little skinny guy smaller than me. I have seen workers cut and bleed right in front me, seen their scars, and amputations. I have listened to stories of workers who haven't had a day off in 70 days, 70 days straight in front of smelters with radiant heat like an oven, blinding light. My heart aches.

I read a blog today from Katie Granju, whom I like and respect, but this story is more than she notes. If you link, scroll down to the one from yesterday with the clean coal video.

http://blogs.knoxnews.com/knx/granju/

Coal is complicated whether clean or dirty coal and there is a difference. It is about the sulfur content and the amount of resulting acid formation in the air. But that is not my point. I once had a job working on a strip mine in West Virginia with a guy named Dusty, seriously, third generation coal miner. His daddy was Rocky, swear to god. This is mountain top removal, a moonscape. I got some shit about working for them. But its not about the company, its about the people. I've worked for Haliburton too, good men on those oil rigs. Strip mining is one of the scariest jobs I've had, trucks bigger than a house. They once ran over a van, driver and all, because the van was too small to see from the drivers seat of the truck. I was helping blasters, men who carrying around fifty pound boxes of explosives and dig holes to set charges, bless their hearts, walking a moonscape, carrying death boxes in their arms and breaking their backs. But we need coal.

And I hate taking down a mountain. But I hate sending men down into mountains more. They die down there, in the dark. Men go into those mines and work for 20, 30 years, ten hour days under ground. In winter they never see the sun. I know the first female underground coal miner, an old lesbian, precious, too sick to work at all now.

Well, my point in all of this is everything you use, including energy, is made by a person, by their hands, by their backs. Coal is a hard life. We need new energy. Bitching about clean coal and arguing over word campaigns is stupid. We need tidal energy, solar energy, wind energy, hydroelectric dams, and lots more nuclear power plants. We should have been building them twenty years ago. We need to open up the waste storage facility at Yucca Mountain and quit bitching about the ten thousand year probabilities of containment. We need to help coal miners today. Coal is dirty. It gets in your skin and won't come out til you grow new skin. We need a vision, a new future. The little bitching is silly. The coal miners are real.

Edgy Photos

Too bad photography requires those pesky cameras. My friend brought over the movie "Fur" a fictional biography of Diane Arbus, photographer of freaks and other normal people. Then she shared this biography:



http://www.amazon.com/Diane-Arbus-Biography-Patricia-Bosworth/dp/0393326616/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1236783484&sr=1-1

Diane Arbus committed suicide in 1971 at the age of 48. Her photos are intense. I feel correspondences with her, being a mother, coming out of a very conventional life into an independent "alternative" life, struggling with depression, trying to live creatively. But she is far more courageous than I am. I think some of my poems are edgy like her work. Recently I've been experimenting with photographic collages set in shadow boxes. I use multiple images of a subject, cutting them out by hand and piecing them onto mats in the foreground or back ground and layering them. I am looking at the presented image of the person and the shadow form. I like to use photos taken when they are unaware or unposed or even resistant and layer these with more posed images, or with other objects like mushrooms and staircases. I think they are lovely. One disturbed my son. It showed my parents at their wedding and layered with them now at my niece's wedding. It was harsh. I rebuilt it with more friendly images, layering the old photo with images of my niece and her new husband. I still like the original. I want to do a study of sleeping people.
Here are a few interesting photos that may be a bit in the style of Arbus. These are digital and color so nothing like hers, but I will work on it. The first one, above, I took of me being very sad and mad. It was new year's day, happy fucking new year.
This next one at left is a mother of the bride and bride. I love the way the bride is moving away from mother and the mother watches with some anxiety on her face. Mother's hands are so tense. This one was used for the shadow box layered pieces, the first one of these I did. I removed all the background and used multiple images of the two figures. The final result appears to have four layers over gray silk fabric.

The next one below is more straightforward but I like the rejecting posture of the boy and the red spot on his hand like a wound. The flash was too much though. I used this in a complex layered piece with photos of another child, a total of four different images expressing a conflict between the children and between their individual presented selves. The last one is just fun. I am working in a layered piece with this one using a shadowed nude image of me as a "cake" on a cake plate in the foreground of this photo of a pastry case with reflections. It seems to be too complex though, especially in the small size.

Makes all things new

How is it that paradoxical contradictions sit one with in the other? They are every where, "out there" and within. For example policemen serve and protect; they also beat people and are often corrupt. Perhaps not the best example. I'll try another one. Religious organizations are a huge source of real charity, service, and spiritual comfort; they are also institutions of destructive divisiveness, subjugation, and cruel condemnation. A similar case could be made for governments. But all of that is too far removed.

This week I got to see a very personal example of paradox in my mother (my little southern lady voice is speaking in my head saying "bless her heart" which has many translations including "can you believe this shit"). So I had a good visit with my mother. It was redemptive, full of grace that shines a new light, and makes all things new. But what does that mean? That language is religious and trite. It means that I changed my mind and I like the new one better, but I needed help to do it. To break that down; I changed my mind. I exerted my will to think different thoughts. I decided to view this part of the paradox more than that part of the paradox. I like the new mind better. It is gentler to me, less sickening to me, and it still resides in truth. I just turn my head a some of the time to take in more of that part of the view and a little less of the other part. But I needed help to do it. That is more difficult to explain without the religious language. In making my decision to change my mind, I asked for help. And I got it from invisible, intangible source that can be called, in religious terminology, the Holy Spirit. When I got help from the invisible, intangible source how did I know that? It feels like falling in love really. Suddenly the other person looks better, more attractive, though not sexually in this context. I'm just making an analogy. Instead of passion you feel compassion. But that is what the holy spirit feels like, like falling in love. Only in this case you fall in love with yourself and with everything. And like falling in love it is not a permanent state, not without constant maintenance. But with constant maintenance it is not only permanent but ever growing.

So the paradox I witnessed this week can be illustrated in a couple of stories. My parents took me, my sister, and my niece (who is a grown up) to Disney world during my visit to Florida. It is a big scary place for me, but I really love the flowers. So it was fine. Mother loves Disney World but hates people as a group, especially foreigners and especially children. Guess what Disney is all about - large groups of people with lots of children and lots of foreigners. Well, mother rides one of those little power scooters around because of obesity and a very bad heart. I got to drive it a couple times; it's fun. But she needs a race track and pit team. She will go about 5 miles an hour through a thick crowd, pushing her horn little button, and yelling at small bewildered children to get out of the street. It is mortifying. I wander off at the sidelines somewhere and pretend I have no idea who that horrible person is. Restaurants are worse, I can't wander off easily. She growled at very small child who coughed as she walked near mother. We were sharing a table with their family. When I requested that she keep her peace, she said the child should be controlled and not cough on her food but mother didn't even have any food. So that is one side of the paradox. There is more to this story.

So we were at home and having a few friends in. A neighbor called and came to visit. the neighbor sat up erect on the sofa and told the group of friends and family effusive stories of how my mother had been an angel to her and her sick husband. How she would not have been able to cope without mothers loving help, bringing meals and coming to their house to cook, helping them find medical care and learn about options, listening and checking in on them. She literally felt that my mother was possessed of an angel spirit and acting as god's hand to her and her family. The woman was beaming. And I have known other friends of hers who had similar feelings toward my mother, similar stories.

How do these two persons reside in the same being? I don't know. Guess it is the same as the daylight and darkness we see in the outer world each day as our planet turns. This daylight and darkness also exists in our inner worlds. I know that I want to live the light as much as I can, and sit quietly with my darkness when it comes. I am trying to learn to sit quietly with the darkness of others. I don't know how we challenge the destructiveness of their darkness without participating in it and exacerbating it, like a storm that darkens the twilight. I do know that light dispels darkness, and that perfect love casts out all fear. That is all I can try for.