Lent 2015

He came to save us...to save the world. He still does it every single day. One time, he even went all the way to hell, and back again. He did it for you. He did it for me. He did it, and would do it, all over again, even if there was only one of us left. He did it for people who have no idea what or who or how he is or was or will be. He did the one and only thing he was ever born to do--he saved the world.

There’s no magic in what Jesus did in his life, and with his life. Oh sure, there are big and giant events of the radically unexplained all in and around and through and beyond his life. But there’s no magic. There’s just love. There’s an absolutely transcendental refusal of the will to power, and a daily acceptance of the fact that we are broken and dying, and the only real way any of us can be saved or be called good is to love and be loved.

Jesus lived fully committed and enfleshed to that reality, and stood eyeball to eyeball and toe to toe with the broken and dying world, and did the least rational and most redemptive thing he possibly could have done, and just loved the hell out of it. Loves the hell out of it. Loves our sharp and pointy edges and wheezes and insomnia and hardness and forgetfulness and spite...loves us down to the bottom of where all those things wrestle, and sits down with us in it, and wipes our faces, and helps us get back on our feet, and put our faces to the sun, and start to become whole and...holy.

 Jesus talks to Nicodemus about being lifted up the desert, like the brazen serpent of Moses, during the forty years of wandering. See, that serpent was a healing talisman, and it went up, at the head of camp, at the same time and with the same attention and fervor that the Tabernacle went up. It was huge, and way up high, so to be seen from most every vantage point. The Children of Israel had been tasked with treading upon the adder’s head for even longer than they had been wandering in the desert, and this desert seemed to have an abundance. People were bitten, people died. It was unpleasant. It was not unexpected or unheard of. But it sure made the going tougher than it already was. A remedy was lifted, and all anyone who was bitten had to do was look at it, and be healed. 

Sometimes, we get too deep into the fancy business of church or trying to live self-actualized and adult lives, and we get bitten. And it stings. The sting reminds us that we are actually kind of fragile, that no matter how hard we try we may still be caught off-guard. When we come to that kind of understanding about our brokenness--by being broken, it’s hard to look up. It’s hard to look at Jesus and see that the love he lived and lives is the only way to get better. We feel bad for falling, in the first place, for not seeing a snake in the grass when we should have been paying closer attention than ever, and maybe we feel like looking up is like taking a get out of jail free card, and that’s bad, because we’re not playing by the rules.

We get caught up in the pain and shock and hurt of the bite, of the blood and the mess, and forget to look up, because OH MY GOD, NO ONE HAS EVER FELT PAIN LIKE THIS EVER, EVER, AND IT MUST MEAN I’M ALL ALONE AND FINALLY GOT WHAT WAS COMING TO ME. Or maybe that’s just me. When life bites, and it’s always when I least expect it, always at the worst time possible, always when my defenses and reserves are running low, it’s hard to remember to look up, to see Jesus and his love lifted up in front of me, and sometimes, it’s just hard to meet his gaze, to admit my weakness, my inability to save myself, my lack of vigilance and competency laid bare for Jesus all the world (or so it feels) to see.

But I know that’s the only way to not die in the dust, with the curse of the ages clinging around my feet. I know it’s the way back to life, to love, and to the deep joy Jesus offers us with a life among God’s people of all shades and shapes and sensibilities. I know it’s the way I remember the some of the very best and deepest things I know--that God so loved the world.

That’s you.
And that’s me.
Every single day.

 mil besos, rmgj

Mixtapes From Babylon: Conspiracy Theory, Pt. 3

I was on my yoga mat one day, twisting and turning myself and trying not to worry too much about going to hell for chanting mantras along with the video.  I’d done this series of exercises enough times to be able to do most of the whole practice with my eyes closed. About half-way through the warm up, I could feel myself just grinning from ear to ear, smiling so hard and so big that I could feel all my teeth showing and my head tilted back. As I was holding a deep breath, with my arms and clasped hands over my head, just at the point where I was sure I was going to have to take a breath or pass out, this incredible wave of peace and bliss and awakeness and deep, fathomless love leveled me. In the maybe-30 seconds of that held breath, something so precious was made clear to me--in that next breath I took (as willful and purposeful as every single one I’ve taken before or since, or ever will until I breathe my last), I felt inside myself and around myself and in all the places there are to go in the whole wide universe a deep and profound connectedness to God as the source and very substance of my breath.  God was so very very big, and so very very good, and still found the time to love me so much as to show up under my very nose.  To have such a kindness extended to me, this breath...this life...all the goodness around me...to have that personal and intimate exchange with God just by breathing is awe-inspiring, and so incredibly humbling. That the Creator of All Things bothers with something as silly as my next little breath...or yours...or any of ours...that’s a wonder and a mercy.

This breath took place on a little rectangle of carpet, in my old bedroom, on my blue yoga mat.  I’m sure the cat was looking on disdainfully from the edge of the bathtub, in that odd and judgey way that cats have of staring at their humans. It was a perfectly ordinary breath, but it changed everything. That breath was so sweet, not rushed or hiccupy or choking.  I remember taking this long, luxurious sip through my nose, of feeling warm/not hot, kind of buzzy, and that strange feeling I always think of as the Scorcese Stretch--you know the one, where the dolly zoom gets all up in your head and you realize what you’re really supposed to be seeing. And even as I felt myself taking the breath, I felt utterly detatched from it--my lungs were glad to have it, and immediately began putting it to good use.  But my head and my heart and my soul, I guess, whatever Trinity of self I possess, basked in the glow of a Presence, of that first and always animating breath, of whispers of the true and best things about life and love, of sighs that transcend words, and the angelic harmonies of all the voices that ever were praising a God who just loves, loves, loves; who hopes and strives mightily with us to help us find ways to love God back, to see and feel the breath of God under the nose of every single person we meet, to love the next breath in our brother’s nose as much as we love the next in our own.

This feeling I felt was like nothing I’ve felt before or since.  I’ve reconciled myself to knowing that something like that may be a once in a life-time deal.  I read the story about how Moses had to veil his face after seeing just God’s back, because being in the presence of the Almighty rubs off on a person, and seeing Moses all aglow in the suntan of I AM apparently really freaked out the Children of Israel. I also read the story about how Elijah climbed the mountain to give God the finger--the really bad finger, the one you take out and point and shake and use to gesture with when you want to say, “Listen, dude...I’m doing what you asked me to do, what you made me to do.  I’m doing it.  We’ve got a situation you wouldn’t believe, and all I’m asking for you to do is WORK WITH ME HERE, LORD.  What, with all due respect, is the damn deal?” And God (using one of the three approved voices I really wouldn’t mind God sounding like) tells him to go stand outside the mouth of the cave in which he’d been hiding.  You probably know the rest, but I’ll fill you in--God ditches the obvious entrances of wind storm, pillar of fire, and earthquake, and instead Elijah finds himself clinging to a cleft in the rock and veiling his face with his cloak as a whisper of wind blew by him.  Just a whisper, a breath, a tangible and transcendental and utterly common occurrence, just God being God. I felt like that...awe struck by the regularity, the normalness, the banality of my breath, even as I revelled in this glow of compassion and loving kindness, this dazzling golden light that seemed to be all I could see behind my closed eyelids. God was there, loving me, right under my nose, and I stretched out as long and tall as I could and rested in that warm and lovely place.

Breathing has become a sacred thing for me.  It’s the simplest of the sacraments I celebrate in my life.  It’s my outward and physical sign of an inward and spiritual grace. Every single one is precious. I want to be careful with them, spend the well.  A phrase I heard on NPR the other day strikes me as particularly insightful, “I knew the moments were finite, yet unknowable.”  So it is with my breath, and with yours, and everyone else’s, and that’s one of the reasons why we should be mindful with whom we share our breaths, with whom and over what we may conspire. 

In the final analysis, one more breath can mean one more step, one more kind word, one more time to do what God has for you to do to the best of your ability, one more time to fully accept and love the world around you even when it's broken and dying and hard. One more breath will sink you or save you, but the reality of that breath is that it's not yours, it's borrowed and recycled and regenerated and so full of possibility and potential and fathomless love and mercy. It comes from the very mouth of God, and pours life and wonder into our little clay lumps of self, and it's job to conserve that breath, to use it well, to focus the intention of our life-force--our nephesh, our ruach, our prana, our whispers and sighs--into words of love and peace and kindness, even when the words are hard to find, and seem to get caught in the backs of our throats. 

To breathe together, to conspire, connotes a kind of intimacy.  Whispers, susserations, mutterings, sighs, noises that could barely properly be called vocalizations, almost mouthing the words--this is what we do when we hatch a plan, when we share breath, when we conspire, when we say i love you in the dark of night, when we argue in the bathroom surrounded by a houseful of people, when we take a cab to the airport, or conference in the hall before a meeting.  We share breath and intention and life in those breaths, with those people.  We should be careful that they are good people, that we and they are using those collected breaths to move onward and upward, people who can remind us, even on our worst days, that the wonders of a mighty God, lie just under our nose. In a place like Babylon--this broken and dying world around us, this place where we don’t fit right, where we are so painfully reminded of our own brokenness and that of others just by rubbing up against each other--we have to remember that, we have to be reminded of it--the real trick at the heart of it all is for all of us, just to keep breathing. 


mil besos,
rmgj

---
P.S. 


I remember taking a deep breath, one afternoon, not too very long ago. I took this breath and looked right into his big blue eyes, and told him I loved him for the very first time, ever. I'd been thinking it for the entire back half of the last week, before I saw him, again. Every time I thought it, this thought that I loved him, I felt like I had to take a deep breath and find my legs, again.  

So, I found myself looking at him, in his blue flannel shirt, sitting on my green couch, windblown from riding 90 miles in his van with the windows down, and still wearing his super-long beard, and I took this breath, and tried so hard not to be afraid or timid or talk myself out of it. In an outrush of breath that I was supremely happy did not come out as vomit, I told him that I loved him.  

And then he took a breath, and said he loved me, too. There have been many breaths between us--plans hatched, comments shared, dreams said out loud, discussions about all the house keeping minutae no one can make romantic, concerns and struggles. To be able to share breath with him is a precious thing to me, something that goes deeper than words, and into my bones. To know that we share breath together, and share it with a Creator who loved us into being and loved us into each other...well, that makes me have to take a big breath, and breathe out a very ardent and grateful sigh, a deep prayer of joy and thankfulness.  xoxo-r

 

Mixtapes From Babylon: Conspiracy Theory Part 2

to read the first part of this essay, follow this link...

at various points in my life, yoga has been a really important practice.  sometimes, i even dream about yoga poses or classes or things to do with yoga, besides the really comfy pants. sometimes, when i can’t pray or don’t know what to pray for, and i feel restless and ill-at-ease, i can do a practice, and feel better. some people walk labyrinths, some people have therapists, some people do yoga, go to confession, take long walks, read their Bible, journal, whatever.  when i feel my brokenness poking through, i know the place i most belong for God to say what needs to be heard is on my yoga mat.

which brings us up to the present day.  i’m thirty-five.  i’m married to the absolute love of my life. we’re about to celebrate two years of knowing each other.  he is amazing.  he loves me so much and so well that some days, i even believe i’m the badass he says i am. and there are other days when i am hopelessly unconvinced of my awesomeness, and just pray he doesn’t figure out all the terrible shitty things i know to be true about myself and know that he will stay married to me, anyway, because he’s amazing and loves me, just the same, and poor him.  gross.

i can’t overstate the fact that i am terribly grateful for this man, and for the life we make together.  i could not have picked out a more appropriate and perfectly suited mate for my soul. every single day, i become more and more convinced he was absolutely custom made.  he is one of the best and brightest ways i see the face of Jesus in the world, and know the love of God in my life.

all of that is true, and so is the fact that right now, i’m just having a hard time feeling settled inside my own head. there’s kind of a lot going on.  life keeps happening, and whether or not i really could go for a two-week break on anything new happening at all, anywhere in the world, and just get kind of caught up doesn’t mean jack squat, in the grand scheme of things.  this is not how life works. sometimes, i have to get right with the fact that occasionally life gets a little busy and pokey and super-tiring and hard, and the thing i need to do most is just keep breathing. but holy smokes, my brain is so full, and it's a really good thing my brain remembers to breathe for me, because if i had to remember to do it every few seconds or so, at some point in the day, i would probably die.

we may be moving into a new house.  i have 2.5 jobs, and six email addresses to manage.  my work life is going to quintuple over the summer, and my job is still kind of strange and new to me, and while i know it’ll be fine, i’m kind of freaking the deuce out, because TRANSITION TO NEW THING I’VE NEVER DONE BEFORE.  and until that time, i’m trying to bill as many hours as i responsibly can at two very different but equally lovely non-profits, and subbing for the public school system.  it's kind of hard not to worry about those things...and other things...to just breathe through them, the way i have to remember to breathe through at charley horse at three a.m.

mostly, i worry about money and not making enough, and it always being winter and never Christmas and cancer and car wrecks and vulnerability and resilience and not being a whiner and is this shit normal at all and why does every third person seem to want to vote on whether we have kids or not and the damn bells have stopped being charming because sometimes it’s nice to sleep uninterrupted until 9:30 and should i cut my hair or leave it or does it make me vain to even think about that and i really need to buy a new jar of eye cream and did we eat enough protein this week i have no idea what i want to watch on tv and this rug is puckering in a funny way and i’m excited about buying a new dress but i don’t want to try one on and god i hope i don’t look like a dumb shit in the pictures (tangent--it’s not my wedding, why should i be giving a shit about if i look good in someone else’s pictures...so tacky to be so selfish) and why did it bother me so much that those kids were mean to me and called me a bitch and why was i afraid of them why did i feel like i had to shout to be heard or that i had anything worth saying to them that would make a difference in their lives did someone tell that child they were loved before they left the house did they have a house to leave why do i feel so white and so naive and does this mean i’m secretly this dumb about everything else in the whole world and no one had the heart to just tell me to wake up and smell the fried okra god i hope i remembered to put salt in that...

i don’t mean to issue heavy silence, because this shit, this broken tape of things I’m not even trying to hear, is not about anyone but me. and i suspect, at our toughest and most tired moments, all of us have unwound just a little bit. and i am quiet, right now.  on the couch, at night, during the day.  i work a lot from home, when i’m not in meetings or in a classroom.  our house can feel very big and very quiet.  and sometimes, that is really great.  when i’m doing what i like to think of as “reassessing”, it’s sometimes easy to get swallowed up by a big space, and i end up feeling even smaller than when i started.  i think that’s why lately, i’ve been sticking to the kitchen table and the backyard. even while i’m feeling kind of pokey and broken, right now, it’s nice to be able to watch the light change across the table and watch spring creep into the backyard.  the light and the color remind me that this part won’t feel so pokey and broken, forever.

and yoga breathing...i didn’t forget...part three to follow...

mil besos,
rmgj

The Least of These...

By latest count, UNICEF estimates that one million Syrian children have become refugees, since the start of the civil war.  One million children are displaced, homeless, and surviving in camps or have been taken into homes and communities in Jordan, and elsewhere.

Let me put that into perspective for you.  Imagine if the entire city of Austin, Texas were made up of children, and that whole city was forced to evacuate to Houston or San Antonio, and they had to walk the whole way.  Some of them would be alone, without a grown up to love and care for them, or make sure they were safe at night.  Some of them would be wounded or recovering from attacks. Most of them would have seen things that no one, no matter how old they are, should ever see.  Some of them would have watched their parents or siblings or relatives die in front of them.  Some of them would be in shock.  All of them need to be loved.  Chaos…chaos and questions with no good answers, and the incredible strain on infrastructure, and no end in sight, either to the conflict or the on-coming tide of more people being forced out of their homes.

One million children who don’t have political loyalties or understand why they are being forced to leave have seen with their own eyes the horrors of sectarian violence that you and I cannot even begin to fathom.  And that’s to say nothing of their parents, caretakers, surviving relatives, and remnants of their communities.  These children, by and large, unless an almighty change begins and is effective, will spend months or years growing up in refugee camps.  Most of them will not have access to the kind of educational opportunities, or physical and  mental health care that should be the right of every child, everywhere.  And we have to ask ourselves what coming of age in a refugee camp does to a person.  One of my political science professors was fond of reminding us that moderates do not grow up in camps.

I don’t have any answers for what to do with or for these children, except to pray.  One million children…one million little lives, just at the cusp of understanding, little people who should be out in the sunshine, and not walking a long and dangerous road into a tented camp…it’s enough to break your heart. I'm absolutely bowled over by the hospitality the people of Syria's neighboring countries have shown to those displaced by war, especially the people of Jordan.

Not to get all geo-political and preachy on you, but I wonder what we would do if over two million refugees from Mexico or Canada started pouring over our borders, seeking refuge and solace and peace.  Would we take them into our homes, into our families, would we be willing to make space for them in our parks and industries and daily lives?  Some days, I doubt that very much.  I am so grateful to the communities in the Middle East who have taken Syria's displaced people, especially the children, into their lives with such grace and mercy.  I am humbled by it, and challenged to ask hard questions about the way the US treats refugees and those seeking asylum from all sorts and kinds of violence and strife.

If you have a few extra pennies, there are a several very good and very reputable organizations that can put them to work, helping these little people and their families have better days.  Some of them you can find here: http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/06/world/iyw-how-to-help-syrian-refugees/index.html.  You can also visit www.episcopalrelief.org to find out how you can help, as well.  As always, your thoughts and prayers, your awareness of the situation and willingness to share your information goes a long, long way to helping them, as well.

mil besos,

rmgj

Conspiracy Theory, Part One

conspire 

v. conspired, conspiring, conspires

v.intr.

1. To plan together secretly to commit an illegal or wrongful act or accomplish a legal purpose through illegal action.

2. To join or act together; combine: "Semisweet chocolate, cocoa powder, espresso, Cognac, and vanilla all conspire to intensify [the cake's] flavor" (Sally Schneider).

v.tr.

To plan or plot secretly.

Middle English conspiren, from Old French, from Latin cōnspīrāre : com-, com- + spīrāre, to breathe together.

conspirer n.

conspiringly adv.

--The American Heritage Dictionary

 “Love is a portion of the soul itself, and it is of the same nature as the celestial breathing of the atmosphere of paradise.”

--Victor Hugo

““And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life;

 and the man became a living soul.

Genesis 2:7

“

“Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand

will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and

with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.”

--George Eliot

In Babylon, the strength of your conspiracy theories, seriously having the courage of your convictions, will sink you or save you.  Now, I’m not talking about whether or not you believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone, or if you only drink bottled water because you think fluoride is eating your brain.  I’m talking about conspiracy theories in the strictest, old-school, deep and nerdy Latin meaning.  Conspiracy means, most basically, to breath together--like whispering, sighing, saying things just barely out loud enough for the person right next to you to hear.  With whom you choose to conspire, to test your life theories—the breath that backs up what you have to say about your life and the world, and what you think God means, or what love feels like, or what to do about the hard hanging curveballs that life throws…that, friends and neighbors, is what it’s all about. 

Without inviting you into the inner sanctum of our life, I can tell you when I wake up in the middle of the night, sometimes scared or anxious or nervous about whatever life stuff I or we are in the middle of processing, I put my ear up against his back, and listen to the love of my life breathe, and try to match my own respiration to that rhythm.  Usually, instead of dropping off to sleep, I’ll fight to stay awake just a bit longer to kind of marinate in our shared breath. I may have laundry lists of tasks to complete, and fight anxiety about my extended family, or jobs, or selling my condo, or third world debt, or the climate change, but in those breaths in the quiet hours of the night, I find myself really believing that all things shall be well. 

I remember the night one of my besties came to my backdoor, weeping inconsolably because some ridiculous asshole masquerading as a grown-ass man with his life together had just broken her heart into about a million pieces.  Before we could unpack the hurt, and find a way forward, or go pick out new shoes, we breathed together for a long time.  At first, there were the wracking sobs, you know the kind—you’ve breathed those breaths on your own, or with someone. 

They feel like they start at your feet, somewhere just behind the cuticle on your big toe, and tear their way out of your insides, making your throat and everything else in between burn and smolder, and even as deeply as they are drawn, you never feel like you can really catch your breath.  There are hiccups, there are shallow gasps, and words to try and chew out, or explanations or apologies. And at some point, you start to slow down, the thoughts slow from ludicrous-speed-plaid to warp-speed silvery-white, and you start to hear the sounds you’re making, and begin to compose yourself.  The hot tears start, rather than just the apex of emotion tear-quirts, rolling long and fat down your face, and puddling in the well of your throat or on your pillow, or the steering wheel, or the shirt of whoever is holding you.  And mostly you’re not trying to talk, you’re just trying to stop making noise, and you’re breathing a little bit deeper, a little bit longer, and are starting to catch up with yourself.  And you get better.  And soon, you’re back to  your breath, your normal breath, with just a tremble, every now and then.  And the breath draws you back to yourself, to hear, and to now.  You may be sobbing again, in another hour, or in the morning, or over something stupid on tv or the radio, or because you remember the sharpness of whatever it was that made you cry in the first place.  And you’ll do it until you’re done.  It was that way the night in my driveway, with my bestie.  Catching our breath, catching up to the hurt, catching up to the present moment was what brought us back inside, and helped my darling friend figure out how to dust herself off, and process, and move forward. 

Breathing is something that’s easily taken for granted.  Two experiences in my life have radically reformed the way I think about breath, about the way I try to value my breath, to be connected to it, even as I realize I don’t control it, my brain and God are in charge of that.  One is really easy to talk about, easy to share with you, and the other is one I’d rather not relate, because it’s a sad story, and I don’t want to end up at the end of this paragraph sobbing.  But, tell the truth and shame the Devil, right? 

Yoga…yoga helped me to connect to my breath in a very…and I hate this word…spiritual way.  I was able to access the idea of the Holy Spirit in a whole new way, to see around the corner of what grace might look and feel like in that every day and sacramental banality of breath.  Breath, in yoga-speak, is known as prana, or life-force.  Your prana is what connects you to everything in the Universe, it’s what connects you to the Infinite Divine.  It’s the way I came to understand the story of Adam, and God’s animating breath.  Learning to connect those dots, man…it changed the way I pray, changed the way I calm myself down when I’m upset, how I teach Sunday School…everything. When I am mindful of my breath, when I can lose myself in breathing during my practice or during the Eucharist, or when I have my ear pressed up against my husband’s precious back, I feel so deeply connected to a well of love and mercy, to a source of comfort and compassion that can only be called God. It is my life-force, it is what animates me and empowers me in this experience of this life, this present and incredible life. And in those breaths, I am never afraid, I never think about not taking another breath, there is nothing but love and hope and light and good things. Such deep breaths, and so restful.

The night my father died, I learned some hard lessons about breath. All those days before that day, over fifty of them, that last time in the hospital, all those days, that last breath seemed like it was going to happen any minute.  There’s a point at which I guess I just became numb to that fact, to the exhausting inevitability of that last breath, and not knowing whether to be relieved or horrified or both.  Mostly, I just put my head down and went to school, and prayed to God that I wouldn’t hear my name over the loudspeaker. I remember being convinced that he would die while I was at the prom or Six Flags Senior Day.  He died on a Sunday, two weeks after prom and the day after Six Flags.  And five days before I graduated.  Honest to God, I don’t remember if I was in the room when it happened, or if I saw him after he died.  If I was, or if I did, I have no memory of it, and I am so thankful for that.  I left the room, I know, at some point, because I couldn’t stand the noise, couldn’t handle all the feelings I was feeling, of how the walls felt like they were closing in and I knew there was no way I could unsee or unheard anything that was happening. 

I felt like a coward for the longest time about that, about leaving that room when I did. But I forgave that 18 year old girl a long time ago. I couldn’t stand how it made me feel to hear those breaths.  I wanted them to get better, to clear up, for the last nine months to have been reconciled, but I also just wanted them to stop, because I knew it wasn’t going to get better. And I honestly could not conceive of a way for things to have gotten worse, unless it was for him to just keep breathing like that for another…day, week…?  And he stopped.  For the first time in two weeks, he opened his eyes, and focused on something at the far end of the room, and he stopped. And that’s the day I learned in a concrete and visceral way that people really do die.  Even people you love the most in the world, and it doesn’t matter how much you love them, or how much you pray, eventually, we all die.  That next breath, however tortured or peaceful, will not come. And that is a hard thing to know, on a bone-deep level, and not just in some philosophical blah-blah kind of way.

The yoga story came after the part where my dad died, and I’m grateful for that.  Coming to an understanding about how my breath is borrowed from the mouth of God means that everyone else’s is too, and that’s changed the way I treat people, how I love them, what I do with my breath.  And it makes me less afraid of the day when I or someone I love stops breathing.  I know it will be hard, harder than I can imagine.  And I don’t want to think about those days.  But this is real life, and we can’t just pretend it’s all baby farts and rainbows.  You have to hold that reality in both hands, or go crazy. 

End of Part One

A Babylonian Ice Cream Social

The universe is an intelligence test. 

--Timothy Leary

One day when I was practicing chanting in my temple in Vietnam, there was a 

durian on the altar that had been offered to the Buddha. I was trying to recite the Lotus Sutra, using a wooden drum and a large bowl-shaped bell for accompaniment, but I could not concentrate at all. 

I finally carried the bell to the altar and turned it upside down to imprison the durian, so I could chant the sutra. After I finished, I bowed to the Buddha and liberated the durian. 

If you were to say to me, "Thây, I love you so much I would like you to eat some of this durian," I would suffer. You love me, you want me to be happy, but you force me to eat durian. That is an example of love without understanding. Your intention is good, but you don't have the correct understanding.

Thich Nhat Hanh, 

The real damage is done by those millions who want to "survive." 

The honest men who just want to be left in peace. Those who don't want their little lives disturbed by anything bigger than themselves. Those with no sides and no causes. Those who won't take measure of their own strength, for fear of antagonizing their own weakness. 

Those who don't like to make waves — or enemies. Those for whom freedom, honor, truth, and principles are only literature. Those who live small, mate small, die small. It's the reductionist approach to life: if you keep it small, you'll keep it under control. If you don't make any noise, the bogeyman won't find you. 

But it's all an illusion, because they die too, those people who roll up their spirits into tiny little balls so as to be safe. Safe?! From what? 

Life is always on the edge of death; narrow streets lead to the same place as wide avenues, and a little candle burns itself out just like a flaming torch does. I choose my own way to burn.

--sophie scholl

There was a time in my young life when it was necessary for me to go to daycare.  I hated it.  My dislike for daycare was so strong and fierce that when I didn’t have to go anymore, my dad made me a daycare graduation certificate.  It’s not like I was molested or kept in a cage, or anything dramatic.  But daycare was not my house, not my toys, and it felt like (even though there were probably only 10 or 11 of us) there were 40 kids crammed into this little house.  The lady who kept the daycare was a nice lady, as I remember, who had a penchant for daytime soaps.  One of the three things I vividly remember about daycare was being introduced to The Young and the Restless (which I called the Lung and the Restless until I was about five or six), a fact I’m sure didn’t delay my parents in pulling me out of day care as soon as possible.

Vivid memory number two: peeing my pants and getting into major trouble for it, from all directions, and getting teased for doing it.  Never mind the fact that I was waiting for the bathroom, and Craig, who I already didn’t like was taking the longest dump in kid history and I told the lady I HAD TO GO.  I remember standing in that hallway and feeling the gush down my legs, soaking through the terrycloth of my little kid shorts.  Ever since then, I’ve tried my very best to make it to the bathroom at the very first hint of needing to tinkle.  Some shit I don’t forget, people.

This brings me to vivid memory number three, and possibly the central reason I hated daycare.  The lady who kept us was a nice lady—nice enough to let us be in the same room when she watched her soaps, nice enough to not yell too much when I had a hard time napping, and nice enough to give us ice cream.  Not a bad deal, really.  Except that the ice cream was always Neapolitan.  Always.  Hear me now: on the list of things I really don’t like in this world--including cancer, crushing poverty, bigotry, and violence—Neapolitan ice cream ranks just below the threat of thermonuclear warfare and slightly above having to go to the mall at Christmas time.  I hated it as a little kid, and I hate it as an adult.  If given the choice between Neapolitan ice cream and something you scraped off the bottom of the cat box and froze, I’d have to give it a real long think.  Seriously.

See, the real problem with Neapolitan ice cream is that there’s just too much going on. I know, I know…it’s only three flavors, and it’s the three favorite flavors of the entire ice cream eating universe, all smooshed up together in one big happy carton.  All I really care about is the chocolate.  I can handle the vanilla, if I have to.  But, you guys…there is no flavor in the world that makes me want to barf more than fake strawberry.  Ugh, I get all spitty and burpy just thinking about it.  As luck would have it, the daycare Neapolitan always had chocolate in the middle.  You’d think that would be the prime spot to put the chocolate, since it’s sort of the main attraction to all right thinking people in the world.  But it’s invariably played down by the vanilla, and the strawberry leeches into it, and you just taste everything all at once.  And it’s not just one flavor…it’s all of them.  And that, to my three-almost-four year old mouth (and to my almost-35-year-old mouth) was just too much business, especially when one of the overriding flavors is one that makes me want to barf.

Living a real life in Babylon is a lot like eating my way through a huge freaking carton of Neapolitan ice cream.  The best stuff, the stuff to get excited about, to stand in line for, to sweat, work, cry, bleed, and truly love is usually sandwiched between the insipid and the outright awful.  And I almost never get to take one single bite of any one flavor.  There’s no working my way through the strawberry awfulness with a furtively hidden gag and watery eyes, knowing that in two more bites I can have the ho-hum vanilla and the truly sublime chocolate.  And that is hard.

My father and my grandfather used to remind me, often in identical phrasing, that we all have to take the bitter with the sweet.  And boy, do we ever.  And the bitter and the sweet come in the most exhausting combinations…like getting all excited to see my far-flung cousins, and crying for an hour because the reunion is at a funeral, or having a really great tax refund, only to blow out two tires and have to spend the money on the car instead of a fun weekend.  It’s knowing that my wedding day was the most special and holy and wonderful day and I got to marry the most incredible man who loves me more than I can possibly comprehend, and that my brother showed up drunk and late.  It’s peeing in my pants and having my mother bring me dry ones and giving me a big hug in the middle of the day, and still getting dessert at lunch, except it’s freaking Neapolitan ice cream, every damn time.  But that’s life.  And it’s life in Babylon, for sure.  We take the bitter with the sweet, and know that somehow, in some way (that’s both magical and miraculous) the two sensations buffer each other.

Sweetness can kill us and numb us just as much as bitterness can suck all the moisture from our mouths and make us feel jaded.  But because they come together, it’s just about impossible to be carried away by either one, and hopefully, we end up, if not satisfied, at least sated...and if not sated, well, at least we know we had something to sustain and nourish us.

T.S. Eliot understood that concept, and I think that’s why he said that April was the cruelest month, and this month has reminded me of that quote, over and over…the whole world is blooming, and winter is receding and we’re all set to work on our gardens and tans, and I’m celebrating meeting my husband a whole year ago, and along comes North Korea, and the Boston Marathon bombing, and a building collapse in Bangladesh, and George Jones and my Aunt Lu freaking die.  The sweet reek of the flavor I most ardently dislike encroaches on the ones I love best, and they are all in my mouth, and there’s nothing to do but swallow and take a big drink of whatever is nearest to hand to clear my palate.

It’s hard to swallow all of those things gracefully and gratefully.  But the alternative isn’t as simple as it was in daycare.  Refusal is not an option.  We lick our plates and bowls clean, in this part of the world.  Even the crappiest tasting, crappiest feeling, crappiest of crappy desserts is still dessert.  It’s still nourishment, and nourishment brings life—a life that is moving and being and changing and rising and dying, and I don’t want to forget that.  Because even thought the strawberry bleeds into the chocolate, and the vanilla is just so…vanilla, there’s this big, wide ribbon of chocolate moving through the middle, and somewhere, I’m convinced there’s a bite that is unsullied by the lesser tastes, telling me that I can and I will finish, and I most likely won’t throw up on the rug, when I’m done. And on most days, days when all I can see are dish after dish of frozen tri-color nightmare stacked up in rank upon rank, with just one spoon and only me to eat them, that is enough.


Mil besos,
rmj

force of nature: a portrait of a lady

	force of nature
Part of Speech:	n
Definition:	in physics, one of the four fundamental forces that occur in nature and affect thestructure of the universe, including gravitation, electromagnetism, strong force, andweak force
Usage:	science --dictionary.com

When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

--mary oliver

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

--ts eliot

¹⁷ She girds herself with strength,
    and makes her arms strong.
¹⁸ She perceives that her merchandise is profitable.
    Her lamp does not go out at night.
¹⁹ She puts her hands to the distaff,
    and her hands hold the spindle.
²⁰ She opens her hand to the poor,
    and reaches out her hands to the needy.
²¹ She is not afraid for her household when it snows,
    for all her household are clothed in crimson.
²² She makes herself coverings;
    her clothing is fine linen and purple.

...

²⁵ Strength and dignity are her clothing,
    and she laughs at the time to come.
²⁶ She opens her mouth with wisdom,
    and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.
²⁷ She looks well to the ways of her household,
    and does not eat the bread of idleness.
²⁸ Her children rise up and call her happy;
    her husband too, and he praises her:
²⁹ “Many women have done excellently,
    but you surpass them all.”
³⁰ Charm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,
    but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
³¹ Give her a share in the fruit of her hands,
    and let her works praise her in the city gates.

--proverbs 31

it's hard to know how to write about her.  she wasn't my mother or my grandmother, but she had a firm and honest hand in raising me, in helping to mold me into a woman.  i'm not over-exaggerating when i say that the women in my family are known for being forces of nature unto themselves, and she was no exception.  i can't remember a single time i saw her or had an update about her that she wasn't doing something active, wasn't involved in making something, wasn't relishing time with her family.  she was a doer.  she was relentless.  she was never bored, and it was impossible to be bored when you were in her presence.  

i wasn't the only little girl in my generation of cousins, but i was the one who lived closest to several of my great-aunts and uncles, and it was good to be a girl.  when i was three, and went crazy over weddings and being a bride and conducting pretend marriage services for everyone in the family, aunt lu made me a little white dress, head piece, and flower.  someone, probably my momma, took a picture of me in that dress, on my birthday, grinning wide enough that i'm surprised my head didn't split in half, standing just in front of my dad.  the look on his face was priceless.  and even though it's sentimental and probably a little stubborn (no shocker there), when it came time to buy the dress i would wear to wed my beloved, i just couldn't imagine buying a white dress...i'd already had one that was perfect, and i was sure that no white dress i ever tried on in the store would be as perfect as that one was. i wore that thing until it fell apart, wore the headpiece until it cracked beyond repair, carried that fabric flower until it had enough dirt on it to grow a whole garden.  

when i was five and totally underfoot all the time, putting on shows and telling crazy stories, and wanting to be everywhere the grownups were, she made me a red apron with a goose on it, just like the one she wore.  i found it in my box of little kid things, a few months ago, and marveled at the detail she put into this little scrap of cloth, for a little scrap of girl.  the tucks, the pleats, the way it laid just so when i tied it on...such love and care over such a little thing that made such a huge impression on me, even at such a tender age.  i knew that apron meant i could be in the kitchen, and i knew the kitchen gave me access to magical smells, stories i'd never heard before, and lessons on how to peel things and stay out of the way.  it also meant i got to help make bloody mary's, which were one of the hallmarks of Christmas at aunt lu's house.  

at around age seven or eight, i was absolutely delusional over "little house on the prairie".  G-d knows how many episodes i've seen in my life, or how many times i've seen the reruns.  obsession doesn't even begin to cover the depth of my devotion to that series.  aunt lu made me this incredibly "little house dress", out of black calico.  there was a petticoat, and bloomers, and...my favorite of all...a sun bonnet, made out of bright white cotton.  the bonnet became a staple of just about every knock-around outfit i wore, and i loved to run as fast as i could, to make it trail out behind me.  i guess i figured if i looked the part, and ran fast enough, i'd end up back in 1880, and might turn into laura ingalls wilder.  i was so crazy about that outfit that i wore it to school, not ever thinking that it might garner unwanted attention from my classmates.  it was exactly right, the fall of the skirt, the buttons, and that wonderful bonnet.  it even scored me a spot in a fashion show, my only modeling venture to date.  i wore it until i couldn't wear it anymore, but it's still in the dress up box.  

the mean girls came calling in late elementary, like they do.  there was a huge flap over poodle skirts, and i was pretty sure if i didn't have one, i was going to die, or at least be a social outcast for the rest of my young life.  well, of course aunt lu had a pattern for one, sandy and susie had had them, and aunt lu wore full skirts in the 50's and 60's with the best of them.  and so, on my 12th birthday, this absolutely gorgeous blue poodle skirt, complete with rhinestones on the collar of the poodle, AND bobby socks, were presented to me.  i was absolutely over the moon.  i can't tell you what it was like to open that box, and see that poodle staring back up at me.  it wasn't pink, like the mean girls had.  it was blue.  bright blue like a springtime sky, like the one over my head, today.  that skirt made me feel special, not just because the meanies couldn't be mean about me not having one, anymore, but because at 12, i was finally starting to understand and appreciate my place in our family as an individual, not as Slana and Bill's daughter, or Callie and Bobby's granddaughter, but as my own self.  aunt lu always, always, always made me feel like i was special, apart from who i belonged to, or what i did or didn't know how to do or be.  

by the time i was in high school, i'd outgrown all my playclothes, and they had long since been packed away.  but i still loved playing dress-up, and found myself school plays. aunt lu never missed a performance i invited her to.  that goes for band contests, too.  she showed up.  she cheered.  she loved.  it's no secret that my senior year in high school was difficult, and much of my spare time was spent with my parents in San Angelo, or working on homework.  the play gave me respite.  i could be someone else for those hours of practice in the afternoons and evenings.  that last year, i played a woman who was a lot like aunt lu, feisty and firey and always for good reason.  i had my costume almost all worked out, but couldn't find a bag or gloves that were right for the time period in which the play was set.  naturally, aunt lu had a bag, and gloves, AND a hanky that she lent me.  and of course, they were perfect.  putting those gloves on, prissing around with that handbag, and waving this gorgeous hanky let me jump into my character's skin.  and knowing they were from aunt lu, that those gloves had hugged her hands, that bag had held her things, that hanky had dried eyes and blown noses...that helped me relax and not think so much, and not be afraid i was going to get out in the lights and forget everything i'd ever learned in my whole life.  

the clothes she put on my back, on all our backs, in our lifetimes with her, made me warm, made me know how much she loved me, made me understand my place in our family that much better.  she had a knack for telling stories, for laughing at herself and the world, of being incredibly creative and kind that is hard to look at dead-on, without raising a lump in my throat.  what she gave and did, she did freely.  what she said and though, she said and though freely.  you never had to wonder what she thought, or where you stood in her book.  she was an incredibly woman, an independent woman long before that was something women thought about being.  whether she was putting finishing touches on a meal or a garment, she was focused and determined, and we all shared in the riches from her table and hands.  i'm grateful every day for the time i spent with her, for the stories she told me about our family, for the drive to provide for her family, to do amazing things with short supplies, and for the way she loved.  

the women in our family are incredibly strong, devoted, resourceful, and kind, and aunt lu was and will always be one of the legends in our family lore.  she had beautiful, strong hands, and there was always room at her table,an open bed in her home, and a heart that loved her friends and family in life-changing and life-giving ways.  she was a wonder and a blessing.  

mil besos,

rmgj

mixtapes from babylon, vol...10 or 11, i think...

bro·ken  (brōkən)

Share: bro·ken

v.

Past participle of break.

adj.

1. Forcibly separated into two or more pieces; fractured: a broken arm; broken glass.

2. Sundered by divorce, separation, or desertion of a parent or parents: children from broken homes; a broken marriage.

3. Having been violated: a broken promise.

4.

a. Incomplete: a broken set of books.

b. Being in a state of disarray; disordered: troops fleeing in broken ranks.

5.

a. Intermittently stopping and starting; discontinuous: a broken cable transmission.

b. Varying abruptly, as in pitch: broken sobs.

c. Spoken with gaps and errors: broken English.

6. Topographically rough; uneven: broken terrain.

7.

a. Subdued totally; humbled: a broken spirit.

b. Weakened and infirm: broken health.

8. Crushed by grief: died of a broken heart.

9. Financially ruined; bankrupt.

10. Not functioning; out of order: a broken washing machine.

--American Heritage Dictionary

Ring the bells that still can ring.

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.

--Leonard Cohen

I never saw a wild thing

sorry for itself.

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough

without ever having felt sorry for itself.

--DH Lawrence

The Word became flesh to communicate to us human beings caught in the mud, the pain, the fears and the brokenness of existence, the life, the joy, the communion, the ecstatic gift of love that is the source of all love and life and unity in our universe and that is the very life of God.

--Jean Vanier

What I can tell you for sure about living in Babylon is that getting right with brokenness (my own and the world around me) was and is what could be categorized as “a major undertaking”. I don’t deal with brokenness, especially my own, very well, at all.  Other people’s brokenness or the way society is broken—those just make me uncomfortable, like the way a tension headache sets into your back teeth, and slowly heats up the back of your head and neck-- just achey enough to not be able to concentrate, but not achey enough to stop what you’re doing and take an Advil.  I’m realistic enough, on most days, to deal with the fact that brokenness, as a construct, exists. 

When I say “getting right with brokenness” I’m not just talking about those odd days when brokenness rears a very obvious head, all wobbly and woozy and wonky in the middle of my regularly scheduled Tuesday.  I’m talking about the brokenness that lives at the bottom of all of us, the gaps that gape over chasms, the way we have such a hard time being kind to each other, and how sometimes, for no good reason, people are broken in ways that cannot be transcended in this life.  I’m talking about 24/7 broken. 

It’s miserable.  It’s life-changing.  Once I engaged it, nothing was ever the same.  See, I think sometimes we forget that part of being a real person, with his or her shit together doesn’t mean that we only get to feel one thing at a time.  We imagine the divided lunch room tray of adult life, where the fun parts don’t touch the sad parts don’t touch the romantic parts don’t touch the political parts don’t touch the religious parts don’t touch the delayed or impaired or physically or mentally impaired parts.  And everything, whether it’s sad or happy, is tied up in 30 minutes, with only four two-minute commercial interruptions.  That’s the format.  That’s the way be believe we do business, because that makes us feel safe and kind of superior.  Because when our broken edges rub up against the veneer of polite or politically correct or post-modern society, things have a way of bleeding in a rather unsightly manner.  And we hate seeing things that are unsightly, or hearing  a cry that can’t be soothed, or knowing that some things just stay broken. 

Which brings me to Theodore.  God…Theodore.  Poor Ted.  I mean it.  Poor Ted.  He was just “with it” enough to know he wasn’t “with it” enough to really be independent and live on his own.  Ted’s momma was older than Enoch, and probably had Jesus in Vacation Bible School, and I think was just too tired to die, when it came right down to it.  I imagine it had just been Ted and Momma for a long time, because I knew they hadn’t driven themselves to church in…decades.  Same for the grocery store.  Ted’s momma fought to keep that much independence for her youngest son, and managed to do it at a time in history that wasn’t particularly kind to children and families with the kind of differences Theodore exhibited. 

I don’t imagine growing up in that house was much fun for Ted’s brother.  I don’t know how much fun it was for Ted, either.  I hope it wasn’t just awful.  I don’t know many details about the early chapters of Ted’s story, or the middle, really either.  I sort of inherited Ted and his momma through my job.  For much of my tenure, all I did was check in on them, every week or so.  They handled their own transportation, and shopping, and doctors’ visits.  All I had to do was wonder what was in the rolling suitcase Ted carried with him EVERYWHERE, and whether or not his mother would ever part with her old-school Czech kolache recipe, which I knew had to be good.

And then one day, his momma went to the hospital, and Theodore was left at home, all alone.  He’d been on his own for a day or two, here and there, but this time, Momma wasn’t going to be able to come home.  And despite everything I tried—down to bribing him, Theodore refused to even consider moving from his home into a group home, or retirement center, or even the place his mom was living.  RE-FUSED.  I’m talking heels-dug-in-over-my-dead-body-this-is-a-closed-subject refused.  Whether I agreed with his choice or not, I had to admire his desire for independence, his desire to organize his day and his space independently, for the first time in his life. 

I know Ted missed his mother terribly, even as he relished his version of a swinging bachelor life.  We went to see her on Sundays, and he would take her a donut from coffee hour, and the Czech-language newspaper she still had delivered to the house.  And we’d all have communion together.  Then, I’d drop Ted back home, and back out of the driveway, silently praying that this wouldn’t be the week he’d decide to try and boil eggs on his own, on the gas range, and blow up half of the neighborhood and parts of the interstate.  Ted, among all the interesting things he could do that would surprise you, did not see well, at all.  I mean, Mr. Magoo aced his vision test, comparatively. 

Ted understood and used the entire bus and handicapped accessible taxi system all over town.  He could navigate them like a pro.  And he would stand there, asking questions of drivers, ticket vendors, station managers, what-have-you, until he understood where he was, and what he needed to do to get to his next destination. 

He loved figuring out how things worked, and as a result, took apart several medium-end men’s electric razors, trying to clean them.  He understood how to do this, understood how the mechanisms worked, but couldn’t see well enough to put them back together without breaking these really irritatingly small and oddly fragile little plastic filaments.  And Ted was not interested in waiting for me to clean them, when I brought him his groceries once a week.  So we went through three of them in six months.  Three.  I could almost have charted out when he was going to break one.  And even though I knew he couldn’t help it—not that he was on the bad side of blind, or that the pieces were really small and tricky, or that he loved to tinker—it still drove me ape-shit every time I had to go buy a new razor. 

During a time in my life when I was solely shopping at the grocery store for cat food and litter, cans of soup, toilet paper, bagged spinach, and shampoo, I agreed to go to the grocery store once a week for Theodore.  And truth be told, it probably saved both our lives.  There was a stretch of weeks that the only things that kept me sane were ritualistically grocery shopping for Theodore, and cleaning out the cat box.  Theodore only got Meals on Wheels during the week—he was on his own during the weekends, and Meals only delivered two a day.  (The cat…well…you know cats—if I had just died from being worn out and sad, Jinx would have waited maybe two days to eat my eyeballs, depending on how much food was in his bowl.) This was something I could do, I could help.  I could make someone feel better at a time when I had no idea how to do that for myself.  Because I’d gotten to that point in life where I had realized that some things, no matter how much therapy to you’ve had, or how realistically you’re looking at a situation, hurt us down to our bones, and it takes us a little while to get back up.  And that is just life.  And it happens no matter how much you love Jesus.  Loving Jesus just helps you make a way to get up.  I had also realized that sometimes, the best thing you can say about what you’ve accomplished in a day is that you didn’t lose any ground.  Being with Theodore taught me those things.

Shopping for Ted was easy—it was pretty much the same thing, every single week.  The only variances would be choices for breakfasts, or a different lunch meat, or cookie option.  Sometimes, he would need toilet paper, or shower soap, or would want ice cream.  During one month, he asked me to buy dishwashing soap three times.  I finally asked him why he was going through so much soap—hoping he wasn’t developing some kind of hand-washing thing.  Come to find out, when we were putting his groceries away, I’d put it too far back in the sink cabinet, and he couldn’t see it.  …so he had three huge bottles of Orange Ajax lurking under the sink.  We moved the soap. 

The putting away part of the grocery shopping mostly made me want to have a drink. Ted was a close-stander.  He would stand in your armpit, if you let him, occasionally whacking you in the knees with his giant roller bag, which he sometimes had to be reminded not to bring into the kitchen (…because we’re just unloading groceries, Ted.  You won’t need those missile launch codes, or anything else in that overhead-compartment sized-suitcase, any time soon, buddy...).  I think part of that is because of his visual impairment.  I also think part of it is just Ted…there is something about him that is odd, and has nothing to do with his visual impairment.  After about ten minutes with Ted, you’d know he was not like anyone else you knew, and that his physical and psychological differences really weren’t what made him different.  But that’s just my opinion.

What I can guess is that Ted would probably have been an odd little bird, even if he’d hadn’t been visually and cognitively impaired…some folks are just different, all the way down. But because Ted is impaired,  it’s impossible to ignore his brokenness. 

Ted was also deeply paranoid.  He would worry a lot that people had been listening in on his phone conversations.  Sometimes, when he’d call the office, he’d almost be speaking in code, in these very veiled references to conversations we’d had about his grocery list or the next time we would be going to see his mother.  Ted was constantly reporting to me that things disappeared and reappeared, and he had no idea who or what was happening.  He also had periodic focal point and grande mal seizures, which were only kind-of –sort of-not -really-well-controlled with medicine.  All those things would run through my mind when I was finally ready to get into my car and go home, every week.  But I could only do my little part, I couldn’t fix the vast majority of things that were broken in this scenario.  I could just do my little part to make the mess less bad, or at least not to contribute to it.

I could kind of tell when he’d maybe had a seizure, or when he might be about to have one, but I was mostly just guessing.  I’d try to convince him to sleep at night (because there was that three week period when he convinced himself that he could speed up his metabolism, if he kept moving all the time), or not to work on his projects so late.  Or to sleep on the bed, instead of the sleeping bag next to his perfectly good bed.  I’d ask him if he was eating.  I’d ask him if he had any doctors’ appointments he needed help getting to.  I bandaged his head when he fell, trying to put up a book case out of brackets and boards that had collapsed.  There was blood everywhere, and I was worried he’d poked one of his eyes out.  He kept insisting he was fine, that he was just distracted, that he thought the bracket was right by his hand, but it had disappeared, and then everything came crashing down. 

Being with Theodore, trying to help him live on his own terms, was sometimes so frustrating I would cry from the minute I left his house, until I arrived back at my own.  I wasn’t angry with Theodore, ever.  Not really.  Most of the frustrations I had were about the ways he was broken, about how that brokenness made me feel, about how confronted I felt, about how sad I was that I had no idea how to help Theodore plan and execute any kind of long-term independence. Every call I made to his family was a dead end.  Every call I made to social workers put me in a message queue, and I’m still waiting for a couple of returned calls.  There was no way for me to save Theodore.  I was having a hard enough time managing to keep myself independent, so becoming a conservator or guardian wasn’t something I was even remotely equipped to handle…but I thought about it.  I thought about it a lot. 

Those last months at that job were brutal.  And at the same time, they were some of the most important months in my adult life, and I knew something really important was happening inside me. Some days, it felt like everything around me was broken.  There were no soft places.  There were precious few safe places.  There were car rides from all manner of places, back to my little house, where I would run a bath and cry for hours, because everything was broken.   And buying groceries for Ted, and unloading them and explaining them to him in that abysmally small and claustrophobic kitchen both seared and soothed my tender spots. 

On the one hand, I was engaged in an activity (buying Ted’s groceries) that was never, ever going to end, unless I ended it.  Ted would have lost at least half a day in a grocery store, and likely suffered physical and verbal abuse in the cereal aisle, not to mention what might have happened in the freezer case.  Every label, every coupon option, every bit of information on every box and bag he purchased would need to be read and understood before it went in the buggy.  I know this because I took him to the market with me once.  I can’t say much about that trip, but I will say these  things: 1) I never took him to the market with me, again.  2) I totally understand why parents beat their kids in grocery stores.  3) I didn’t yell at Ted.  This took a lot of doing.  On the other hand, the act of buying essentially the same items every week, unloading them in the same fashion, issuing instructions for when to throw things away and when to put them on the grocery list for next time became a kind of liturgy for me.  It became an offering not just to Theodore, but to God. 

When we see people who are broken on the outside, broken in un-ignorable and unmistakable ways, we are sometimes confronted with the inner brokenness in ourselves.  Some of what is broken on my insides (and probably yours, as well) has been caused by interactions with people who have been less than careful with me and my little self.  But there are other jagged edges, hidden faults and knicks that just come with being human, come from living a life that is full and active, come because everything in this world is broken and dying.  That is something that I must intellectually accept as a tenet of faith, stemming from my understanding of the allegory of the Fall. 

We break things all the time—each other, the planet, the church, homes, relationships, you name it.  And this is why we can’t have nice things, people.  We are so twitchy, sitting next to brokenness, watching it be awkward and lost and other.  And if we touch the different, it might get on us, or make us sad or remind us that we really are all in this together.  It might bruise our shins with its giant fifty pound rolling suitcase, or breathe all over us while we put the Oreos in the stay-fresh container in the fridge, and it might take up every inch of the front seat of the car as it fumbles around for the seatbelt clip.  Sometimes, the different keeps us up at night, and we spend sleepless hours trying to figure out how to see it from another angle.

Ted had to deal with my brokenness, too.  I couldn’t always come at the same time, every week.  Sometimes, I wasn’t able to take him to his mother’s assisted living facility. There were also days when he’d ask for a specific item that I couldn’t find in the regular grocery or big box store, and I’d have to explain to him that I couldn’t find something.  When he asked me to help him figure out how to make his handwriting better, so he could start sending Morse Code messages, I was unable to be of much service.  But what I could do was buy his groceries for him, once a week.  I could also teach him how to peel boiled eggs, after they ‘d cooled down (and after I’d made sure they were boiled, and the gas was turned off).  One time, he asked me if it would be ok for him to buy some new underwear and pants, and showed me a couple of pair that were mostly holes, and I said that yes, I thought that would be fine.  He said he had a bunch of clothes money, but because he couldn’t see well, he didn’t know if he needed anything new.  And that was one of the days I cried in the driveway.  Because there were things that he had never had to do for himself, and that I never anticipated he’d need to have explained.  There were so many ways in which my brokenness was something Theodore had to deal with.

Going to the grocery gradually became this thing I loved to do.  I mean, the list making was total hell, because it would necessitate at least four phone calls between me and Ted, and BOY…he was not good on the phone.  And he would try to read his list to me, but wouldn’t be able to see well in the hallway where the phone was, or he wouldn’t be able to find his list, or he could only find the lists from two months ago, or he didn’t think he would need milk until the middle of the week, but that would be between visits, or he might need batteries but would need me to double check the sizes on his (insert only partially-working electronic gadget here:  see also: tinkering with shit) before I went to the store.  That list, as I have previously mentioned, ALMOST NEVER VARIED.  Like ever.  Except that I refused to buy him prune juice and Fiber One Bars on the same bill of groceries.  We had to have a very candid conversation about constipation, and I made Ted promise me that he’d never have a prune juice cocktail with a fiber bar chaser.  I told him there was not enough toilet paper in the world to deal with that issue, and he even laughed a little bit. 

If I had stayed where I was, I probably would still be doing the grocery run for Ted, once a week.  I couldn’t and can’t do anything to fix any of Ted’s brokenness, and he couldn’t and can’t fix mine.  But for a chunk of time, I like to think we didn’t further any breakages.  I can’t fix his eyes, or his mind.  Ted couldn’t fix the brokenness at my office, or the sadness I felt at leaving a life I’d spent years building.  But I could buy his groceries, and he could help me put them away.  An exchange like that—kindness and cooperation—goes a long way to roughing down some of those jagged places.  I’m not saying that Ted was broken for my benefit, that somehow his otherness were some kind of boon to me.  And I’m not saying that my brokenness was for Ted’s benefit, either.  What I am saying is that we were broken in corresponding ways—ways that for a season in our lives intersected in a powerful way, that our brokenness fit together, and made a whole space. 

That’s amazing to me.  

mil besos,

rmj