I learned an important lesson about tears a few years back, while I was spending time on the Navajo Reservation. During one of the meals, our host began to tell us more about his family and life there. As he began to tell about his parents, who had since passed away, he started to cry. Just there, in the middle of the lunch table, in the middle of talking, just crying, missing the people who had brought him into the world. One of the girls who had initially got him talking on the subject quickly apologized, reflecting all of our discomfort at having pushed our normally stoic leader into such a sad state."
"Don't apologize," he said, getting serious as tears continued to stream down his cheeks. "Don't apologize for tears, that takes away from the importance of what you are crying for. I loved my parents, and I would never apologize for crying on their behalf."
"Way I see it," he says, "is that tears are our body's way of healing. It's not so much a falling apart as a falling back together - it's our body's way of putting itself back together after it is broken down."
Sometimes I wonder why we have such finite bodies. We come from something so vast, how are we suppose to live in these little finite temples.
Maybe it's a gift. God's way of allowing us something to hold on to, something to grab and touch and love. In a hug, maybe we can try and embrace everything a person carries - all the incredible joy and the immense sadness. Maybe when we hold each other, just for a second, we can hold all of that other stuff too.
That way, in holding these little finite bodies, we really hold all of existence.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Fishing
Last night, as a community, Mike, Jessica, and I took the time to walk through the last 4 months of our lives. From Orientation up until this last hectic week before Christmas, we reflected back upon our experiences, the people we have met, the struggles and joys of our work and community life. We took this time to "paint the picture" - not necessarily to interpret or critique, but simply to be aware of it all, bring it into our consciousness. At the end of the reflection, we had to pick a word, an experience, an emotion, that seemed to be coming through more so than the others, something that was speaking about our overall experience.
I had an image that kept coming to mind. Fishing. I am not a huge fisher (although I would like to learn), but I have been a few times growing up. One of my best friends as a kid loved fishing, and he introduced me to the joys of crabbing and fishing for snappers in the bays of Long Island. He showed me how to do it right. We always went early in the morning, with a fully stocked cooler of sandwiches and soda, bags full of snacks, a radio, and some chairs to sit in. These are some of the best memories of my childhood, whole days spent fishing, shooting the shit, and just enjoying the salt air.
I guess my experience here has something to do with fishing, at least in the way I understand it. I do as much prep work as I can. Prepare the bait, make sure the rod and reel are in good working condition, pick a good spot to cast off - all the things to prepare and try and make the trip successful. But after that bait is in the water, it seems to be out of my hands. it's up to the fish. They bite when they bite, will come when they come. The ocean is a mysterious kind of place, and once in that water, it doesn't much seem able to be controlled.
Now, I can pace back and forth, asking why nothing is happening. I can keep reeling in and casting off, re-baiting my hook, adjusting and fidgeting, doing my best to sway the outcome. I can be impatient, and frustrated.
Or. I can bring a cooler full of good food and drink. Bring a friend along, share a beer, good stories, and the simple joy of being present to one another. I can feel the sea breeze and taste the salt water in the air. Watch the sunrise and feel it warm up the day. When the time comes for a bit, pick up that rod and engage, fight, and enjoy that struggle.
I can be focused only on the amount of fish I bring home, or I can be present to the whole experience. Enjoy each part of it.
Being here in South Dakota, on the Rez, it's kind of like fishing. I cast out every day. Do my best to prepare, taking time to be still and reconnect with myself and God, center myself out of the wellspring of love in my soul. Then I wait. Patiently and humbly. It's a mysterious thing to try and meet a community in their place, to encounter a person in the place of sorrow or joy, meet them in their deepest Truth. It is not something I can control. I have to wait to be invited. In the meanwhile, I can be angry or stressed, impatient and frustrated (which at times I certainly am). Or. I can bring my friends, family, and community members with me, enjoy their presence and company. I can enjoy the landscape, listen to good music (and play some), enjoy the whole process. And when the time comes for a bite, for an invitation or an opening up, I can be ready to wrestle, ready to fully engage. It isn't only about the catch, although that often makes the whole experience feel worth it, or gives hope for the next cast - but it's the whole experience.
I had an image that kept coming to mind. Fishing. I am not a huge fisher (although I would like to learn), but I have been a few times growing up. One of my best friends as a kid loved fishing, and he introduced me to the joys of crabbing and fishing for snappers in the bays of Long Island. He showed me how to do it right. We always went early in the morning, with a fully stocked cooler of sandwiches and soda, bags full of snacks, a radio, and some chairs to sit in. These are some of the best memories of my childhood, whole days spent fishing, shooting the shit, and just enjoying the salt air.
I guess my experience here has something to do with fishing, at least in the way I understand it. I do as much prep work as I can. Prepare the bait, make sure the rod and reel are in good working condition, pick a good spot to cast off - all the things to prepare and try and make the trip successful. But after that bait is in the water, it seems to be out of my hands. it's up to the fish. They bite when they bite, will come when they come. The ocean is a mysterious kind of place, and once in that water, it doesn't much seem able to be controlled.
Now, I can pace back and forth, asking why nothing is happening. I can keep reeling in and casting off, re-baiting my hook, adjusting and fidgeting, doing my best to sway the outcome. I can be impatient, and frustrated.
Or. I can bring a cooler full of good food and drink. Bring a friend along, share a beer, good stories, and the simple joy of being present to one another. I can feel the sea breeze and taste the salt water in the air. Watch the sunrise and feel it warm up the day. When the time comes for a bit, pick up that rod and engage, fight, and enjoy that struggle.
I can be focused only on the amount of fish I bring home, or I can be present to the whole experience. Enjoy each part of it.
Being here in South Dakota, on the Rez, it's kind of like fishing. I cast out every day. Do my best to prepare, taking time to be still and reconnect with myself and God, center myself out of the wellspring of love in my soul. Then I wait. Patiently and humbly. It's a mysterious thing to try and meet a community in their place, to encounter a person in the place of sorrow or joy, meet them in their deepest Truth. It is not something I can control. I have to wait to be invited. In the meanwhile, I can be angry or stressed, impatient and frustrated (which at times I certainly am). Or. I can bring my friends, family, and community members with me, enjoy their presence and company. I can enjoy the landscape, listen to good music (and play some), enjoy the whole process. And when the time comes for a bite, for an invitation or an opening up, I can be ready to wrestle, ready to fully engage. It isn't only about the catch, although that often makes the whole experience feel worth it, or gives hope for the next cast - but it's the whole experience.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Keep It Real
I often write about my experiences working with the youth at the Juvenile Detention Center, mainly because it is a ministry that I have found a well of passion for. No matter how tired, how cranky, how stressed, how busy I am, Sunday night, 5 P.M., you'll know where to find me, because there is no place I would rather be.
These kids have the surprising (but, alas, perhaps not so surprising), ability to give me exactly what I need at any given moment. When I am feeling too comfortable with myself and my situation, they shake me up and smack me around, leaving me feeling disoriented and sometimes angry, staggering at the weight young kids are made to carry just because of where they were born. When I am feeling too prideful, too focused on my "results," they humble me. Hard. Force me back into a space of prayer, of seeing myself simply as an instrument, filled with that More without which I couldn't do any of this work well. When I am sad, and frustrated, and hurting - they hold my heart just as surely as I try and hold theirs each week. They give me a space to be myself. Fully, and without hesitation. They make me laugh and bring my spirit back to a place filled with hope and purpose.
In honor of them and their spirit, and of the love I have for each and everyone I have met, and will continue to meet, here are a few stories of my time with them (I apologize for the tons of curses in the following stories, but it helps convey the environment-they appreciate keeping it real, so we do):
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Victor is a "quiet" kid. The quotes are there because while absolutely silent the first few times I met him, after he warmed up, I cannot get him to be quiet. A thoroughly likeable kid, he is one of the people I love to mess with and joke around with, because it never fails to draw a strong and hilarious reaction. He never stops asking questions. Such a naturally curious person, I hope he will take that and run throughout his life. During our last reflection, I implemented just a few minutes of silence before our opening prayer. The whole time, this kid is whistling, tapping, fidgeting, asking me questions about my hair - anything but what I asked him to do. After "silent" time, I explain the exercise - describe Where You Are - emotionally, physically, spiritually, mentally. In other words, paint a picture of your current situation in life - where are your relationships: with others, with God, with yourself. What are your wishes and desires, what do you want, what do you need, how do you feel, etc. After five minutes of explaining the exercise, we all set into the activity, until I hear Victor next to me.
"Hey, so what're we doing now?"
"What do you mean what're we doing, I just fucking explained it..."
"Yeah, something about where we are?"
"Yeah, but not just the physical place, where you are in a soul sense - like, for instance, you could write about why fuck you can't sit still and shut the hell up for the 3 minutes I ask you to. Or you could write about where it is you go whenever I explain any of the activities we do!"
Cue laughter. Relationships blooming.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\
Since being on the Rez, my hair has become a pretty constant topic of conversation. The first couple of weeks of teaching religious ed. to the younger kids, I quickly had to adjust any lesson plan we had. "Yes, you can touch my hair and beard, but only at the end of class/if you get this question right." One of my friends from the community came up to me one day and said to me, "Hey, people like you around here. They joke and tease with you, that's a good thing. It's your hair, they like it, there's something about it." I think it has some sort of disarming effect. "Shit, this kid is a nutjob, we don't have to be too closed off." The kids at the JDC are no different.
"Is that your real hair?"
"Yeah it's my real hair."
"How you get it like that?"
"Just twist it up, knowt it up, it's pretty easy."
"You wash that shit?"
"Yes. I wash it."
"Don't look like it man. And it looks like you're going bald. I don't know about it. But I guess it works."
(Well thank you! How kind of you for sharing, really, keep it coming).
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Why you always trying to get us to think about this stuff?"
"Cause, I think it's important to know who you really are and where you are in your life. It's good to be aware of this stuff."
"You tell us where you are then" So I do, tell them about what I am struggling with, where I am hurting, why I like being with them so much, etc. Keep it as real as I can, maybe they will too.
"Damn, you're pretty good at that.'
"Yeah, but not always. I practice, a lot. It's hard work, and it's painful too. You gotta confront a lot of things about yourself, it's tough shit."
"Why you tryin to make us do it then!? Cheeeee."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another staple of my wardrobe out here (much to the chagrin of my mom - sorry!), has been my poncho. I love the thing, it is so funky and warm, and I can't pass up on stuff like that. Of course, the kids at the JDC can't either.
"What's with the blanket?"
"My poncho?"
"Yeah what's up with that, is it warm? Why do you wear it?"
"It's real warm! I don't know, I just like it i guess."
"Oh, definitely feels pretty cool, he thinks it's cool," (like I am not even in the room), " You feel pretty cool when you wear it?"
"Mmm, yeah kinda (grinning sheepishly)."
Everyone laughs, "Yeah it's pretty cool, you got it."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Person meets person. Experience meets Experience. Heart meets heart. And we both meet at the deepest, truest place.
These kids have the surprising (but, alas, perhaps not so surprising), ability to give me exactly what I need at any given moment. When I am feeling too comfortable with myself and my situation, they shake me up and smack me around, leaving me feeling disoriented and sometimes angry, staggering at the weight young kids are made to carry just because of where they were born. When I am feeling too prideful, too focused on my "results," they humble me. Hard. Force me back into a space of prayer, of seeing myself simply as an instrument, filled with that More without which I couldn't do any of this work well. When I am sad, and frustrated, and hurting - they hold my heart just as surely as I try and hold theirs each week. They give me a space to be myself. Fully, and without hesitation. They make me laugh and bring my spirit back to a place filled with hope and purpose.
In honor of them and their spirit, and of the love I have for each and everyone I have met, and will continue to meet, here are a few stories of my time with them (I apologize for the tons of curses in the following stories, but it helps convey the environment-they appreciate keeping it real, so we do):
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Victor is a "quiet" kid. The quotes are there because while absolutely silent the first few times I met him, after he warmed up, I cannot get him to be quiet. A thoroughly likeable kid, he is one of the people I love to mess with and joke around with, because it never fails to draw a strong and hilarious reaction. He never stops asking questions. Such a naturally curious person, I hope he will take that and run throughout his life. During our last reflection, I implemented just a few minutes of silence before our opening prayer. The whole time, this kid is whistling, tapping, fidgeting, asking me questions about my hair - anything but what I asked him to do. After "silent" time, I explain the exercise - describe Where You Are - emotionally, physically, spiritually, mentally. In other words, paint a picture of your current situation in life - where are your relationships: with others, with God, with yourself. What are your wishes and desires, what do you want, what do you need, how do you feel, etc. After five minutes of explaining the exercise, we all set into the activity, until I hear Victor next to me.
"Hey, so what're we doing now?"
"What do you mean what're we doing, I just fucking explained it..."
"Yeah, something about where we are?"
"Yeah, but not just the physical place, where you are in a soul sense - like, for instance, you could write about why fuck you can't sit still and shut the hell up for the 3 minutes I ask you to. Or you could write about where it is you go whenever I explain any of the activities we do!"
Cue laughter. Relationships blooming.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------\
Since being on the Rez, my hair has become a pretty constant topic of conversation. The first couple of weeks of teaching religious ed. to the younger kids, I quickly had to adjust any lesson plan we had. "Yes, you can touch my hair and beard, but only at the end of class/if you get this question right." One of my friends from the community came up to me one day and said to me, "Hey, people like you around here. They joke and tease with you, that's a good thing. It's your hair, they like it, there's something about it." I think it has some sort of disarming effect. "Shit, this kid is a nutjob, we don't have to be too closed off." The kids at the JDC are no different.
"Is that your real hair?"
"Yeah it's my real hair."
"How you get it like that?"
"Just twist it up, knowt it up, it's pretty easy."
"You wash that shit?"
"Yes. I wash it."
"Don't look like it man. And it looks like you're going bald. I don't know about it. But I guess it works."
(Well thank you! How kind of you for sharing, really, keep it coming).
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Why you always trying to get us to think about this stuff?"
"Cause, I think it's important to know who you really are and where you are in your life. It's good to be aware of this stuff."
"You tell us where you are then" So I do, tell them about what I am struggling with, where I am hurting, why I like being with them so much, etc. Keep it as real as I can, maybe they will too.
"Damn, you're pretty good at that.'
"Yeah, but not always. I practice, a lot. It's hard work, and it's painful too. You gotta confront a lot of things about yourself, it's tough shit."
"Why you tryin to make us do it then!? Cheeeee."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Another staple of my wardrobe out here (much to the chagrin of my mom - sorry!), has been my poncho. I love the thing, it is so funky and warm, and I can't pass up on stuff like that. Of course, the kids at the JDC can't either.
"What's with the blanket?"
"My poncho?"
"Yeah what's up with that, is it warm? Why do you wear it?"
"It's real warm! I don't know, I just like it i guess."
"Oh, definitely feels pretty cool, he thinks it's cool," (like I am not even in the room), " You feel pretty cool when you wear it?"
"Mmm, yeah kinda (grinning sheepishly)."
Everyone laughs, "Yeah it's pretty cool, you got it."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Person meets person. Experience meets Experience. Heart meets heart. And we both meet at the deepest, truest place.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Holy Longings
Something that hit me pretty hard last night as I sat in the kitchen with Mike and Jessica, sharing pieces of our lives from home - it is the simple realization that, in order to present to someone or somewhere, we have to be absent in other places.
I got a restless and rambling heart. Many times I have said that, if I could, I would send it out and let it envelope the whole world, everyone and everything in it. Haven't quite figured out how to do that trick yet, so I have to content myself with longing for the places and people I miss.
I couldn't be happier in South Dakota. I am learning so much every day, about who I am and what I believe, about my talents and weaknesses, about my passions and the drive of my heart. I am meeting beautiful people who are continuing to show me more and more of the face of God, and to hold my heart captivated. I realized though, that as I am on my own journey, one that is completely and totally right for me at this time, that others who I love and care about are still making their own journeys as we'll. "Life moves on without us," Jessica said, and she couldn't be more right.
Part of walking my own path is dealing with the sadness and longing that comes with being separated from the people and things I love. My family is growing up every day. New boyfriends, college searches, growth spurts - after 4 years of being away for college and missing all of those years of my siblings lives, I continue to only hear about them through phone conversations. My parents are getting older, and while it may be weird for a son to comment on how much wiser they have seemed to grow (although it was probably just that I was a dumbass and couldn't see it, right mom??), I think they have. Our relationship ahs completely changed as I have gotten older - and being so far away, I can't just trek off to see Handel's Messiah with my mom during Christmas-time, or grab a beer with my dad and talk about the big questions of life. Things I cherish and miss terribly.
While in college, I missed a lot of my cousin's growing up, and when the youngest of them was born, I wasn't there for most of it. With another cousin on the way, I realize that, again, their oldest cousin Michael (or "Mahk-nul" as they used to say when they first started talking) won't be there. That is a hard thing to swallow.
College brought some great things for me. Some of my best friends wrote and produced a musical that I had the privilege of being a part of. Cowboys Don't Sing is the next big thing, for real. After selling out every show we did at Fordham, we were invited to take it off-Broadway the summer before my senior year. We killed that show, taking home every award possible for the festival we were a part of, making everyone who came forget life for a while and laugh their asses off. This summer, while I took that next step at JVC Orientation in Indianapolis, my cast members got ready for yet another off-Broadway production, this time at the much acclaimed Fringe festival in NYC. Big deal for a little show from the Blackbox at Fordham. As I spent my first moments and days in South Dakota, they were killing it in their first shows, making the same waves we did nearly a year before. I am so happy for them, and proud of them. And my heart hurts to not be there, celebrating with them and going through it all with them.
Towards the end of my senior year, I was a part of a band that absolutely helped make my year. The Keating Steps will always have my heart, and they have spoiled music for me, because I'm not sure I'll ever find such a great group of people - of friends - to play with again. Watching them this year? Killing it. Music videos, tons of concerts, triple-booked in one night, photo-shoots - just rockin it. The love and spirit of that family (get it guys?) trickles out to everyone around them. You can't help but clap and laugh and have a good time. it is absolutely contagious. Seeing them starting to write their won music, add fiddles and accordions, all good things that make my heart swell for them with pride - and hurt for my absence. There are many a day I rock around in my room, by myself, imaging them all there with me, belting out a chorus of "Leave Your Troubles" at the top of our lungs, full archway in front of us and the best time had by all.
None of this is to say that I wish I could be anywhere other than right where I am. I am occupying the exact space at this time that I need to be in. But much in the same way that F. Scott Fitzgerald said that the mark of a first rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time and still function - well, I think the same for our desires. The ability to hold equal and opposite desires, emotions and feelings in one's heart at the same time. Immense joy and gratitude for my current experience, and large amounts of pain and longing at what I am missing.
Holding everything in one heart, all the complexities of being human.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4sa2HoXpsE
I got a restless and rambling heart. Many times I have said that, if I could, I would send it out and let it envelope the whole world, everyone and everything in it. Haven't quite figured out how to do that trick yet, so I have to content myself with longing for the places and people I miss.
I couldn't be happier in South Dakota. I am learning so much every day, about who I am and what I believe, about my talents and weaknesses, about my passions and the drive of my heart. I am meeting beautiful people who are continuing to show me more and more of the face of God, and to hold my heart captivated. I realized though, that as I am on my own journey, one that is completely and totally right for me at this time, that others who I love and care about are still making their own journeys as we'll. "Life moves on without us," Jessica said, and she couldn't be more right.
Part of walking my own path is dealing with the sadness and longing that comes with being separated from the people and things I love. My family is growing up every day. New boyfriends, college searches, growth spurts - after 4 years of being away for college and missing all of those years of my siblings lives, I continue to only hear about them through phone conversations. My parents are getting older, and while it may be weird for a son to comment on how much wiser they have seemed to grow (although it was probably just that I was a dumbass and couldn't see it, right mom??), I think they have. Our relationship ahs completely changed as I have gotten older - and being so far away, I can't just trek off to see Handel's Messiah with my mom during Christmas-time, or grab a beer with my dad and talk about the big questions of life. Things I cherish and miss terribly.
While in college, I missed a lot of my cousin's growing up, and when the youngest of them was born, I wasn't there for most of it. With another cousin on the way, I realize that, again, their oldest cousin Michael (or "Mahk-nul" as they used to say when they first started talking) won't be there. That is a hard thing to swallow.
College brought some great things for me. Some of my best friends wrote and produced a musical that I had the privilege of being a part of. Cowboys Don't Sing is the next big thing, for real. After selling out every show we did at Fordham, we were invited to take it off-Broadway the summer before my senior year. We killed that show, taking home every award possible for the festival we were a part of, making everyone who came forget life for a while and laugh their asses off. This summer, while I took that next step at JVC Orientation in Indianapolis, my cast members got ready for yet another off-Broadway production, this time at the much acclaimed Fringe festival in NYC. Big deal for a little show from the Blackbox at Fordham. As I spent my first moments and days in South Dakota, they were killing it in their first shows, making the same waves we did nearly a year before. I am so happy for them, and proud of them. And my heart hurts to not be there, celebrating with them and going through it all with them.
Towards the end of my senior year, I was a part of a band that absolutely helped make my year. The Keating Steps will always have my heart, and they have spoiled music for me, because I'm not sure I'll ever find such a great group of people - of friends - to play with again. Watching them this year? Killing it. Music videos, tons of concerts, triple-booked in one night, photo-shoots - just rockin it. The love and spirit of that family (get it guys?) trickles out to everyone around them. You can't help but clap and laugh and have a good time. it is absolutely contagious. Seeing them starting to write their won music, add fiddles and accordions, all good things that make my heart swell for them with pride - and hurt for my absence. There are many a day I rock around in my room, by myself, imaging them all there with me, belting out a chorus of "Leave Your Troubles" at the top of our lungs, full archway in front of us and the best time had by all.
None of this is to say that I wish I could be anywhere other than right where I am. I am occupying the exact space at this time that I need to be in. But much in the same way that F. Scott Fitzgerald said that the mark of a first rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposing ideas in the mind at the same time and still function - well, I think the same for our desires. The ability to hold equal and opposite desires, emotions and feelings in one's heart at the same time. Immense joy and gratitude for my current experience, and large amounts of pain and longing at what I am missing.
Holding everything in one heart, all the complexities of being human.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L4sa2HoXpsE
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Eyes to See, Ears to Hear
"What is the message God created you to bring into the world?" my reflection read not but a few days ago. I'm not sure I can answer that, but it might go something like this.
I am here to hold up a magic mirror in front of every person who crosses my path. A mirror that allows the person to trade in their eyes, if but for a moment, and borrow God's for a while. That way, even if only for a moment, they will know the fullness and splendor of their very being.
I seek to empty myself, of the small vision of my ego and the crippling effect of my fears, allowing those spaces to be so completely filled with God that I will no longer have to put unnecessary pressure on myself for a task I could never achieve alone.
I want to say to everyone person, "You are loved," and have them believe it. Have them know why. I want to say to the kids at the JDC, you are more than all of the abuse you have endured in your young lives; you are more than your crimes; you are more than your shame. To have them see that it isn't about changing to get more love, or acceptance, but about accepting the love they already have. Embracing the the beauty they already are, and living from that most basic truth.
And having everyone know that in living from their own beauty, from who they truly are in God, that they can help reflect that truth to me too. Be a magic mirror for my own hurting, doubtful heart.
May we have eyes to see, and ears to hear the truth that trumpets from the very core we are.
"We are love, and we are made for love, and our natural abiding place is love." (Richard Rohr)
I am here to hold up a magic mirror in front of every person who crosses my path. A mirror that allows the person to trade in their eyes, if but for a moment, and borrow God's for a while. That way, even if only for a moment, they will know the fullness and splendor of their very being.
I seek to empty myself, of the small vision of my ego and the crippling effect of my fears, allowing those spaces to be so completely filled with God that I will no longer have to put unnecessary pressure on myself for a task I could never achieve alone.
I want to say to everyone person, "You are loved," and have them believe it. Have them know why. I want to say to the kids at the JDC, you are more than all of the abuse you have endured in your young lives; you are more than your crimes; you are more than your shame. To have them see that it isn't about changing to get more love, or acceptance, but about accepting the love they already have. Embracing the the beauty they already are, and living from that most basic truth.
And having everyone know that in living from their own beauty, from who they truly are in God, that they can help reflect that truth to me too. Be a magic mirror for my own hurting, doubtful heart.
May we have eyes to see, and ears to hear the truth that trumpets from the very core we are.
"We are love, and we are made for love, and our natural abiding place is love." (Richard Rohr)
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Stand There
It is probably no coincidence that much of my favorite literature over the past few months has addressed, in some way, what I have come to know as a "ministry of presence." If you are familiar with Christian service circles, you have definitely heard this term (and are, perhaps, tired of hearing it - oh well!) It is the type of ministry that runs the risk of being ridiculed, of being pushed aside, because it may not produce tangible, traceable results. It is, exactly what the name sounds like - being present to people. The person who sums this up for me best as of late is Father Greg Boyle, of Tattoos on the Heart fame (if you have not read or heard of this book before, go get yourself a copy, a box of tissues, and buckle in for the ride). In short, he says that if looking at Jesus as a model, we are not called to take the right position on issues or politics, because really, who is to say ultimately what is absolutely right in those regards? Instead, we should seek to constantly find the right place to stand - and that will always be with the outcast and oppressed, the lowly and those in pain and on the margins.
Well, great! That is a perfectly awesome and inspiring thing to write about and believe in, but what the hell does it actually look like?
I've learned in the last few years, to be very careful what I pray for. Very careful. If you even want to know how I affectionately refer to God as a result of all my answered prayers, you can write me a message, because it is certainly not appropriate for this forum. God has this awfully annoying habit of listening to me when I pray, and giving me what I ask for, in the most roundabout, difficult, and anxiety inducing way possible. Cosmic pain-in-the-ass, although I'm fairly certain She would say the same.
I often pray to love more like God does, and since I'm not even entirely sure I know the consequences of what I'm asking for, I have to be shown. Two examples.
A very close friend of mine has been struggling lately. The particulars aren't terribly important for the purpose of this post - just that there is a lot difficulty in seeing themself as completely worthy in God's eyes, or anyone's really, including their own. After a long discussion filling me in on their feelings and struggles, this person proceeded to apologize for taking up my time on something that really couldn't be fixed. "It isn't your problem to be upset over, you shouldn't have to feel uncomfortable."
But that's just it - I am called to feel exactly that way. Uncomfortable, standing right there, with this person who I love tremendously, in the middle of their pain and struggle. Inhabit that wound with people. When invited into a person place of deep pain and hurt (or joy for that matter, it isn't only about pain and misery), it is the best I can do to just stand there with them while they untie their knots.
You better believe it is painful to watch someone you love suffer, and you also better believe that if I could take it away, I would. But, for some twisted, bizarre, (and ultimately supremely loving?) reason, it does not seem that God would choose to do this. Greg Boyle says, "[God's] ways are not our ways...but they sure could be." And I'm learning this the long way. It is a huge hit to my ego to have to admit that the best I can do for people in pain, people who I deeply love, is to stand there with them in it, in awe of their strength and their struggle. Sure, I can work to change social structures (and I better, because that is part of my understanding of the gospel as well!), but that doesn't heal the deep wounds of people, the wounds that allow us to truly believe we are "unable to be loved, a divine mistake, wholly unworthy of respect and even attention from anyone." Standing with people in their pain, while maybe difficult for me, is my only way of saying to that person, "You are worth it. And I love you very much." It allows me to touch the reality that I am human the same way they are, and can't carry their burdens for them. Just stand there with them, and allow their struggle to meld with my own.
Nowhere have I encountered the need for this more than in my work with the youth at the Juvenile Detention Center. I honestly can say that this is the most challenging and life-giving part of the work I do here on the Rosebud. I have so much passion for these kids, and it would take a lot for me to miss one of my sessions with them. I have often said that the poor, those in pain, have a claim on me - I can't help but move towards them. In my life, I have been blessed with many people, my family, friends, teachers and campus ministers, who have constantly held up a mirror in order to show me how God sees me - accepted and loved just the way I am, beloved. I have been graced enough to have eyes to see and ears to hear this message and receive it, to embrace that reality (for now at least, and I know there will be people to help remind me when I forget). I can't help but want to share a truth like that with everyone, because I have come to see it is true for everyone. I love raw and gritty experiences and people (I can thank the Bronx for that), and these kids at the JDC certainly give plenty of those.
Every week i show up to do reflections, and almost every week when I leave, I am in tears and yelling at God, only to find myself strangely at peace and rejuvenated. Maybe they just give me the opportunity and cause to "touch the center of my own sorrow...to sit with pain, mine or yours, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it," as Oriah Mountain Dreamer says. It has humbled me immensely to know that, no matter how much I love these kids, these brave and beautiful men and women, each uniquely shaped and created by God's loving hand, I might not be able to change anything. Even if I could miraculously have every one of them understand how worthy and precious they are in God's sight and mine, I have to understand that the world they will go back into will not reinforce them. It will not have changed from the violent, abusive, and oppressive place they were born into. The people who tear them down and tell them they are not worth spit will continue to do so.
All I can do, whether for my own sake or theirs I don't know, is to keep showing up. Keep standing right in the middle of that struggle and pain, and inhabit that space with them. Let them know that I am in awe of what they carry - that they inspire me. That they are loved enough to stand with, no matter how much it hurts me to do so.
Well, great! That is a perfectly awesome and inspiring thing to write about and believe in, but what the hell does it actually look like?
I've learned in the last few years, to be very careful what I pray for. Very careful. If you even want to know how I affectionately refer to God as a result of all my answered prayers, you can write me a message, because it is certainly not appropriate for this forum. God has this awfully annoying habit of listening to me when I pray, and giving me what I ask for, in the most roundabout, difficult, and anxiety inducing way possible. Cosmic pain-in-the-ass, although I'm fairly certain She would say the same.
I often pray to love more like God does, and since I'm not even entirely sure I know the consequences of what I'm asking for, I have to be shown. Two examples.
A very close friend of mine has been struggling lately. The particulars aren't terribly important for the purpose of this post - just that there is a lot difficulty in seeing themself as completely worthy in God's eyes, or anyone's really, including their own. After a long discussion filling me in on their feelings and struggles, this person proceeded to apologize for taking up my time on something that really couldn't be fixed. "It isn't your problem to be upset over, you shouldn't have to feel uncomfortable."
But that's just it - I am called to feel exactly that way. Uncomfortable, standing right there, with this person who I love tremendously, in the middle of their pain and struggle. Inhabit that wound with people. When invited into a person place of deep pain and hurt (or joy for that matter, it isn't only about pain and misery), it is the best I can do to just stand there with them while they untie their knots.
You better believe it is painful to watch someone you love suffer, and you also better believe that if I could take it away, I would. But, for some twisted, bizarre, (and ultimately supremely loving?) reason, it does not seem that God would choose to do this. Greg Boyle says, "[God's] ways are not our ways...but they sure could be." And I'm learning this the long way. It is a huge hit to my ego to have to admit that the best I can do for people in pain, people who I deeply love, is to stand there with them in it, in awe of their strength and their struggle. Sure, I can work to change social structures (and I better, because that is part of my understanding of the gospel as well!), but that doesn't heal the deep wounds of people, the wounds that allow us to truly believe we are "unable to be loved, a divine mistake, wholly unworthy of respect and even attention from anyone." Standing with people in their pain, while maybe difficult for me, is my only way of saying to that person, "You are worth it. And I love you very much." It allows me to touch the reality that I am human the same way they are, and can't carry their burdens for them. Just stand there with them, and allow their struggle to meld with my own.
Nowhere have I encountered the need for this more than in my work with the youth at the Juvenile Detention Center. I honestly can say that this is the most challenging and life-giving part of the work I do here on the Rosebud. I have so much passion for these kids, and it would take a lot for me to miss one of my sessions with them. I have often said that the poor, those in pain, have a claim on me - I can't help but move towards them. In my life, I have been blessed with many people, my family, friends, teachers and campus ministers, who have constantly held up a mirror in order to show me how God sees me - accepted and loved just the way I am, beloved. I have been graced enough to have eyes to see and ears to hear this message and receive it, to embrace that reality (for now at least, and I know there will be people to help remind me when I forget). I can't help but want to share a truth like that with everyone, because I have come to see it is true for everyone. I love raw and gritty experiences and people (I can thank the Bronx for that), and these kids at the JDC certainly give plenty of those.
Every week i show up to do reflections, and almost every week when I leave, I am in tears and yelling at God, only to find myself strangely at peace and rejuvenated. Maybe they just give me the opportunity and cause to "touch the center of my own sorrow...to sit with pain, mine or yours, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it," as Oriah Mountain Dreamer says. It has humbled me immensely to know that, no matter how much I love these kids, these brave and beautiful men and women, each uniquely shaped and created by God's loving hand, I might not be able to change anything. Even if I could miraculously have every one of them understand how worthy and precious they are in God's sight and mine, I have to understand that the world they will go back into will not reinforce them. It will not have changed from the violent, abusive, and oppressive place they were born into. The people who tear them down and tell them they are not worth spit will continue to do so.
All I can do, whether for my own sake or theirs I don't know, is to keep showing up. Keep standing right in the middle of that struggle and pain, and inhabit that space with them. Let them know that I am in awe of what they carry - that they inspire me. That they are loved enough to stand with, no matter how much it hurts me to do so.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Community
This is my love letter to the two pains in my asses I have grown to love and appreciate over these last three months. Without you, I'd be significantly less bruised and uncomfortable - but since when is that ever what I've wanted in life? This is not meant to convey any notions of communal bliss, or to give the sense that I feel the next 9 months are going to be smooth sailing. They won't. The first 3 haven't been, why would the rest! It's good for me, though, to do some reality testing from time-to-time, to do my best to speak plain and put the situation out just as it is, without any need to justify or change it. Just take it all, and accept it. Love it. Be tremendously, unequivocally, thankful for it. For my community mates. My friends.
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"I once told you that, given the opportunity, I would probably trade you both for a really good pulled pork sandwich. You know, smothered in BBQ sauce, heaped with fried onions, and lovingly coated in melted cheese, all tucked inside a toasted sourdough roll.
Over the last few months though, I've started to reconsider. I like coming home from my early shift at the radio station to the smell of ham and eggs and potatoes. It helps me start my day off thinking, 'what can I do for others?'
I really appreciate that my cooking never gets a bad review, and even when I'm not pleased, you always just seem to be grateful. And even clean up my mess?? It's almost unthinkable to me, and it gets me wondering, 'how can I be more appreciative?'
When you ask me what's wrong, and sit and listen patiently and attentively as I ramble for a good 20 minutes trying to figure it out.
When you patiently show me how to work out and exercise, keep me accountable in my quest for impulse control, and push me harder to stretch my limits. Makes me wonder, 'how can I more humbly and patiently share my gifts and talents with others?'
When I start screaming around the house like a maniac, just cause I find it amusing. Or when I walk out into wherever you are with important information, information so important it couldn't wait till I put pants on. Or when I just grab my belly fat in the middle of the kitchen and tell it how one day I shall defeat it. The way you just let me be me, really. It makes me wonder, 'how can I better support others in their journey toward being totally themselves?'
When that acceptance helps me open up and be vulnerable. When you push me to share more and more of my heart, even though it scares the living shit out of me. When the simple and authentic relationships we are developing helps push me to remember why I need to push out of my closed off safe zone.
When we kung-fu around the house because it's awesome. Or get in a tickle fightbe cause it is hilarious and you hate it.
When your very existence is my polar opposite. When the fact that you inhabit the same space as me forces me to constantly re-evaluate how I relate to others and what my assumptions are. When your own struggle and willingness to be vulnerable makes it OK for me to be feeling those things too. It makes me wonder, 'How can I be more authentically who and what I am to allow others to do the same?'
When you listen to my life story, ups and down, big and little details - and remember them.
When you share documentaries about motorcycles with me, even though I know nothing about them. When you come yelling into my room announcing your best friends are getting married. When you take me into the center of your own joy, letting me know you trust me enough to hold it gently and lovingly, despite all of the times I've failed to do so. It makes me wonder, 'How can I have more courage to trust people with the things I love the most?'
When you help me realize I'm not super-human. I'm just Michael. And that's good enough. Limits and all.
When you say things that make me wonder if you are not actually a 100,000 year old magic-wizard-sage come back to help me on my life journey.
When you take my advice, whether it be to get a mohawk or an earring, or to play the guitar differently. It makes me wonder, 'How can I more humble in order to learn from others?'
When self-consciousness and uncertainty that have long lay dormant come to the surface, because the truth is, I really do want to learn how to love and support you the very best I can, even if I don't always express it so well.
I think what I'm trying to say is I actually kinda like you guys. I get tired constantly having to re-examine myself, and make adjustments to be a better person. I mean, gee, how knew it would be so much damn work! But it seems worth it. And I'm happy. And you make that possible in a very real way.
I guess this is all to say, after careful reconsideration, I probably wouldn't trade you for a pulled pork sandwich.
But if they through a free beer and a pickle with it.... well...."
Love, your friend, Michael
Monday, November 18, 2013
Place
"The inner impulse toward conversion, a change of heart, may be muted in a city, where outward change is fast, noisy, ever-present. But in the small town, in the quiet arena, a refusal to grow (which is one way Gregory of Nyssa defined sin) makes any constructive change impossible." -Kathleen Norris, Dakota
Moving out to St. Francis, SD after spending the last four years in the Bronx has certainly required an openness to conversion. I have been trying to establish the best way to write about this place and the effect it is already having on me, but it always seems to escape words. Descriptions fall flat. It is a place that defies definition. I have tried on numerous occasions to capture the beauty of a sunset, or a snow covered field in a picture to send to family or friends; to try and convey the vast expanse of sky and horizon that stretches in every direction. but with responses like "beautiful" or amazing!" I can't help but recognize I am not doing this place justice. It does not want to be captured in my little picture. It wants to take hold in my heart, have me paint a picture in my soul of the vastness of the world in front of me, that way I can fall silent before the realization of my smallness.
In a recent message from a friend, I was finally inspired by her words to tackle the task of pointing a finger at the proverbial moon, for I have found describing the landscape and it's effect on me much the way I have often found the task of describing God - never quite satisfied, and the description never as good as the actual experience of it. She said: "
"...there's something uniquely beautiful and perhaps spiritual about those skies that last forever in all directions. It's definitely an isolating feeling at times, but in hindsight maybe it's a metaphor of humility - of realizing we're a part of something so much greater than ourselves. or maybe i'm doing the crazy talk."
Crazy talk indeed. Who, in our modern day and age, wants to have to admit that there are things in this world that humble us by the very fact they exist? Things that speak to us on such a deep level about who we really are, about the spiritual reality of our life. Who wants to go to a place that shows so clearly how much is out of our control, how powerful the universe is and how tiny we really are? Who wants to go to a place so big and vast that we can't help but feel isolated and alone? The thing about the Plains is that they are beautiful - breathtakingly so. But with that beauty, for me, there is coupled an extreme discomfort. It is a dangerous place. It is a barren place, one that almost dares you to try and survive in its midst.
I just recently finished ready Dakota, by Kathleen Norris, a book in which she takes the time to give attention and expression to the "spiritual geography" of the Dakota's. Throughout the book, perhaps because of her own engagement with Benedictine monastic communities, Norris draws the parallel of the Great Plains to the deserts occupied by the early Christian Desert Fathers and Mothers, a place of solitude, a place where one went to encounter God and one' self with no frills, no distractions. I like this comparison just fine, for it suits my rather bizarre and extreme nature to go out and find the most inhospitable, barren places imaginable and try to see God, to see life where I could never imagine it to exist.
Moving from one of the biggest cities in the world (which my NY pride certainly would have me place as the Center of the Universe) out to God's Country, as the Plains are sometimes known, has forced a 180 degree turn for my soul. In times of stress and inner tension and chaos (for college was somewhat of a tumultuous time, spiritually and otherwise - queue dramtic/angsty music), I often would set out into Manhattan alone at late hours for walks through the city. I would go for hours at a time, walking hundreds of blocks with no end destination, no real purpose other than to try and find some quiet in my soul. I found myself surrounded by chaos and activity, even at 3am, and somehow, this would allow me to find internal quiet. Compared to the hustle and bustle of the city, I almost seemed calm (HAH!). In moments of free time, I often directed my attention outwards - other people, endless events and opportunities, the never-ending circus that is the Big Apple. There was always so much to see and experience that there couldn't be such thing as boredom.
It wasn't a cure for restlessness though. And that is a feeling I couldn't shake, or even feel that I ever really engaged with. I always felt just out of reach to myself, which, probably unsurprisingly, is a disturbing thing for a person to experience (but perhaps not as uncommon as one would like). I did a lot of work on emotional and mental health in college, something I had never really even fully recognized could pose difficulties for me. I realize now, all of that was only to further prepare me for this experience out here at the edge of the world.
There is no external distraction in this place. When I stop to sit on top of a hill after a long hike, all is still. There is the occasional lowing of a cow, maybe a bird that will fly off somewhere in the distance. The wind is constant, ranging from gentle breezes to knock-you-off-your feet intensity. The clouds move with some real speed, and in a sky so big, it is easy to track their journey. But those aren't distractions. Those are simple beauties, those are life in motion - I am the only distraction. I am the most chaotic and complex thing for miles and miles. I don't mean complex as a compliment, as in built from many parts with a dazzling intricacy and care (although sometimes I see that is the case as well). I mean it as in I am filled with tension and inner disturbances, I am never still, I am unable to achieve and enjoy true inner quiet. I am complicated in a way that disrupts a continuation of the harmony I perceive to be all around me.
"or maybe i'm doing the crazy talk."
Crazy talk indeed. I often wonder which screws are loose that caused me to do something as stupid as move out to a place that constantly holds a mirror in front of my face. I have moved to one of the most isolated and barren places in the country, which is bad enough, but also have been blessed to be placed in a small community of only 3 members - 3 of the most different people I have ever seen inhabit the same space. Talk about a constant mirror. Is there no reprieve, is there no rest?? (All of this only leads me to believe God has an outrageous sense of humor. I am still learning to appreciate it though.)
Something called me out here, though. Something deep in my soul said YES, probably accompanied with some expletives. That's where we need to go. It's time we finally meet, it said to me, for you've been gone for too long.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Stories
In an traditionally oral based culture, stories, and more importantly, the telling of stories, plays a significant role in promoting the greater health of the community. Stories serve as entertainment, as teachers, as warnings - they answer the deepest questions we have about ourselves, about who we are and where we come from, where we are going.
I grew up with stories. My dad is and was an avid story teller, and I can still remember some of things he would allow to spin from his incredible imagination. I think I picked up my own love of telling stories from him (it runs in Irish roots after all). I grew up reading, and the stories in books kept me coming back and back and back. Books were my mom's contribution to my education in the power of a good tale. It was here that I first began to discover that stories have life - they have their own will, their own desire to be told and told, for that is where they can bear much fruit. It is in the sharing of a story that it becomes more alive.
This particular story that follows is one that I was not initially sure I could share. I was not confident in my ability to humbly present such a powerful occurrence, to hold such a precious gem with the appropriate amount of love and respect. But after encouragement from good friends, I began to see that this story demanded to be told, and that it was too big to be held in on account of my own self doubts and fears. "Move out of the way and let me be heard."
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I grew up with stories. My dad is and was an avid story teller, and I can still remember some of things he would allow to spin from his incredible imagination. I think I picked up my own love of telling stories from him (it runs in Irish roots after all). I grew up reading, and the stories in books kept me coming back and back and back. Books were my mom's contribution to my education in the power of a good tale. It was here that I first began to discover that stories have life - they have their own will, their own desire to be told and told, for that is where they can bear much fruit. It is in the sharing of a story that it becomes more alive.
This particular story that follows is one that I was not initially sure I could share. I was not confident in my ability to humbly present such a powerful occurrence, to hold such a precious gem with the appropriate amount of love and respect. But after encouragement from good friends, I began to see that this story demanded to be told, and that it was too big to be held in on account of my own self doubts and fears. "Move out of the way and let me be heard."
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I only met the guy once before, out in the orchard behind my house. It used to be full of fruit and great deciduous trees, but now it is pretty barren and more often than not, filled with empty, crushed 40's, signs of the many drifters who float through the area. As I was walking home from work through the orchard, a group of people were sitting out back, and they called me over. I have always had trouble stopping when people ask me to, and in New York, while on a schedule, it could sometimes be a strain on my abilities to complete tasks. Here, however, as a JV, I have come to see that as very much a part of my job - part of being human, of making people know they are valued and loved, whether they believe it or not.
I went over to say hello and I could tell they were all drunk - only 1 o'clock in the afternoon. They asked for some money, but I don't give it out anymore - it just isn't the most valuable resource I have to offer. I offer to bring out some lunch and smokes for them, and they say OK. I go back and prepare the meal, some hot dogs, a coupe of backs of popcorn, quesadillas, and graham crackers. I grab some of the little cigars we have around, and head back out.
I see them laughing, and as I pass around the food, one of the women says "Shitttt, we didn't think you were comin back! No one ever does."
While I'm talking and eating with them, one definitely stands out - I'll call him Kenny - Kenny Little Cloud Sr.. He is a giant man, with broad shoulders and a gut to follow, long sandy hair tied back in a pony-tail to the middle of his back. He only has one good eye, so he tells me, a little slurred, to call him "One-Eyed Kenny" - whatever works. I find out he comes from a long family of medicine men, of holy people to the Lakota, someone who perhaps was a spiritual leader once, or at least has it in his roots. He kept trying to explain aspects of his people's culture and philosophy to me, but would often get lost in his own thoughts, unable to keep it all straight. I stuck around for 40 minutes before I had to head back to work, and I didn't see any of them again after that. Angels maybe? A one time, humbling appearance of God, like the burning bush, calling me to something better, to remind me what's important?
Last week, I got a text saying that the son of the man I met - for I had told friends who I met here about the encounter - had passed away. That term doesn't do it justice really, he was hit by a semi-truck coming out of a bar on Highway 83. There is a wake and funeral almost every single weekend here on the Rez, the one's in St. Francis often taking place right across the street from where I live. I stop in sometimes. Show respect and show people that I care about them - that I will go to where they are, where they live and love and cry and laugh - not just wait at the Mission for them to come in. It is awkward to show up to a wake or funeral when you don't know the person - or when you're the only white guy in the entire room, and everyone stares at you wondering who the hell you are, and more curiously, why I am there. It is a great exercise in humility, and it starts the hard work of building bridges to a community very skeptical of white culture and of Church people, and quite understandable so.
When I heard about Kenny Jr, I knew I had to go to over. I was hesitant this time, I was feeling more nervous than I usually do. I finally made it over on a Monday, sucking up my own fear and deciding it was more important to show someone love than to not. So I went over. I ran into Roger, another person from the community I met out in the Orchard one day, and we shot the shit for a minute. It was good, he calmed me down just by the very fact that he would talk to me. I went into Digman hall, set up for a wake with a casket in the front. I see Kenny sitting right at the front, as close to casket as possible - the proper place for a father about to bury his oldest son I guess.
I hover around the back for a little before I finally go up to Kenny. He has his head down, looking at his hands folded into his lap. I offer my hand and clear my throat, unsure really of what to say. "I'm sorry for your loss Kenny." He looks up and his face scrunches for a minute - "Hey... I know you from somewhere." I explain to him that we met one day out behind the house, had lunch together. "What the hell was I doin all the way over there!?" I explain that he wasn't in a fully coherent state of mind at the time and he chuckles. "That makes more sense." I crouch next to him and let him tell me stories of his son - or maybe it's that he let me hear them, for as a stranger, it is a privilege to hear the things closest to people's hearts.
He tells me dirty jokes. Here I am, looking at the casket, and he is telling me how when you get older, your pee stream really loses it's oompf, and how sometimes when you fart, you get a little more than you asked for. He's totally mad, but in the kind of way where his eye twinkles and you can't help but want to be a little mad too. "Those are the kinds of things my son like to hear," he says, "It always made him laugh." I get up and let him know I have to go back to work. "Funeral is at 2," he said, "stop by if you can." I tell him I certainly will. "Thanks for being here, I really appreciate it." I give an awkward smile and I leave. I am starting to wonder what my life is. What life I am living where I meet random people who tell me stories about their now dead sons, where a strange and foreign person is welcomed to share in the most intimate moments of people's lives.
I go back for the funeral. How could I not? I stumble into a packed hall this time, feeling all the eyes on me as I come through the door, just wanting to find a seat and get out of everyone's line of vision. I find myself next to Everett, a friend I had made in my first week hear but haven't seen since. He was extremely encouraging of my wanting to learn and participate in his culture and spirituality. I slide in next to him and we play catch-up, filling each other in on 2 months of lost time. He tells me he is back in town for a little while, and I am glad for the opportunity to hang with such an open and humble teacher, even if he is 5 years my junior.
The funeral starts. People give speeches, sing songs. Singing is everywhere. The drum is the heartbeat of Mother Earth, and they make sure to remind us of it at every event. We all beat in time, together. The singing is loud, and emotional. Kenny Sr. gets up. He stands out in front of the casket and begins to speak. A little bit unclearly, it is hard to find the progression of his thoughts. He catches this himself and takes a pause. "I am a singer," he says. "That's how I was taught to express my emotion. So that's what I'll do."
He begins singing my favorite Lakota traditional song that I have heard yet. It's called "Common Man." It is about being a person, just a normal person trying to live a good life and walk in a good way. Nothing fancy, no titles, no honors, just any body trying to make sense of life. I will never again be able to hear or sing this song without thinking of this moment. Watching a father sing for his son, sing for his sons life and his own, admitting his smallness and still living in spite of it. The drunk guy behind my house becomes a grieving father, a husband, a son himself - a singer. He becomes me. Beyond all of our differences, we share the same humanity, the same longing, the same hunger. I become him. One in the same, united in our common human condition. Both just trying to figure out this life thing the best we can, and in the process, living out that beautiful prayer, mitakuye oyasin, we are all relatives.
We all line up to shake the hands of the family members, as is tradition here. People are sobbing, and as I shake their hands I am amazed that people can do this. Stand there in all their pain and hurt, completely vulnerable, and offer their hand to be held by a stranger. When I get to Kenny, he does a double take... seeing the white hand on the red, there must have been a moment of confusion I am holding his hand in both of mine, and as he brings other hand to clasp mine, he again says "Thank you. Thank you for being here." I can't help but hear it as an affirmation of my whole journey, not just this moment.
As they load the body up on the horses to process around the area before the burial, I slip out, needing to cook dinner for that night. I am at home just trying to process. Just trying to understand what I had seen and experienced, what it meant.
An hour or so later, my roommate knocked in my door, saying there was a friend at the door for me. I head to the front door and find Everett waiting there. He holds out his handdrum to me, complete with stick and sweetgrass braid. "I heard you singing at the funeral and I know you want to learn. Take this, you should have it. I want you to." I mumble out a wopila (thank you) and we clasp hands, knowing there was more to come from our friendship.
I went into my room and just cried. How much can a heart take? How much raw emotion and experience can a heart handle? It has to be what it is like to see God face to face. So much you just want to burst, and so amazing you don't care if you do.
I went over to say hello and I could tell they were all drunk - only 1 o'clock in the afternoon. They asked for some money, but I don't give it out anymore - it just isn't the most valuable resource I have to offer. I offer to bring out some lunch and smokes for them, and they say OK. I go back and prepare the meal, some hot dogs, a coupe of backs of popcorn, quesadillas, and graham crackers. I grab some of the little cigars we have around, and head back out.
I see them laughing, and as I pass around the food, one of the women says "Shitttt, we didn't think you were comin back! No one ever does."
While I'm talking and eating with them, one definitely stands out - I'll call him Kenny - Kenny Little Cloud Sr.. He is a giant man, with broad shoulders and a gut to follow, long sandy hair tied back in a pony-tail to the middle of his back. He only has one good eye, so he tells me, a little slurred, to call him "One-Eyed Kenny" - whatever works. I find out he comes from a long family of medicine men, of holy people to the Lakota, someone who perhaps was a spiritual leader once, or at least has it in his roots. He kept trying to explain aspects of his people's culture and philosophy to me, but would often get lost in his own thoughts, unable to keep it all straight. I stuck around for 40 minutes before I had to head back to work, and I didn't see any of them again after that. Angels maybe? A one time, humbling appearance of God, like the burning bush, calling me to something better, to remind me what's important?
Last week, I got a text saying that the son of the man I met - for I had told friends who I met here about the encounter - had passed away. That term doesn't do it justice really, he was hit by a semi-truck coming out of a bar on Highway 83. There is a wake and funeral almost every single weekend here on the Rez, the one's in St. Francis often taking place right across the street from where I live. I stop in sometimes. Show respect and show people that I care about them - that I will go to where they are, where they live and love and cry and laugh - not just wait at the Mission for them to come in. It is awkward to show up to a wake or funeral when you don't know the person - or when you're the only white guy in the entire room, and everyone stares at you wondering who the hell you are, and more curiously, why I am there. It is a great exercise in humility, and it starts the hard work of building bridges to a community very skeptical of white culture and of Church people, and quite understandable so.
When I heard about Kenny Jr, I knew I had to go to over. I was hesitant this time, I was feeling more nervous than I usually do. I finally made it over on a Monday, sucking up my own fear and deciding it was more important to show someone love than to not. So I went over. I ran into Roger, another person from the community I met out in the Orchard one day, and we shot the shit for a minute. It was good, he calmed me down just by the very fact that he would talk to me. I went into Digman hall, set up for a wake with a casket in the front. I see Kenny sitting right at the front, as close to casket as possible - the proper place for a father about to bury his oldest son I guess.
I hover around the back for a little before I finally go up to Kenny. He has his head down, looking at his hands folded into his lap. I offer my hand and clear my throat, unsure really of what to say. "I'm sorry for your loss Kenny." He looks up and his face scrunches for a minute - "Hey... I know you from somewhere." I explain to him that we met one day out behind the house, had lunch together. "What the hell was I doin all the way over there!?" I explain that he wasn't in a fully coherent state of mind at the time and he chuckles. "That makes more sense." I crouch next to him and let him tell me stories of his son - or maybe it's that he let me hear them, for as a stranger, it is a privilege to hear the things closest to people's hearts.
He tells me dirty jokes. Here I am, looking at the casket, and he is telling me how when you get older, your pee stream really loses it's oompf, and how sometimes when you fart, you get a little more than you asked for. He's totally mad, but in the kind of way where his eye twinkles and you can't help but want to be a little mad too. "Those are the kinds of things my son like to hear," he says, "It always made him laugh." I get up and let him know I have to go back to work. "Funeral is at 2," he said, "stop by if you can." I tell him I certainly will. "Thanks for being here, I really appreciate it." I give an awkward smile and I leave. I am starting to wonder what my life is. What life I am living where I meet random people who tell me stories about their now dead sons, where a strange and foreign person is welcomed to share in the most intimate moments of people's lives.
I go back for the funeral. How could I not? I stumble into a packed hall this time, feeling all the eyes on me as I come through the door, just wanting to find a seat and get out of everyone's line of vision. I find myself next to Everett, a friend I had made in my first week hear but haven't seen since. He was extremely encouraging of my wanting to learn and participate in his culture and spirituality. I slide in next to him and we play catch-up, filling each other in on 2 months of lost time. He tells me he is back in town for a little while, and I am glad for the opportunity to hang with such an open and humble teacher, even if he is 5 years my junior.
The funeral starts. People give speeches, sing songs. Singing is everywhere. The drum is the heartbeat of Mother Earth, and they make sure to remind us of it at every event. We all beat in time, together. The singing is loud, and emotional. Kenny Sr. gets up. He stands out in front of the casket and begins to speak. A little bit unclearly, it is hard to find the progression of his thoughts. He catches this himself and takes a pause. "I am a singer," he says. "That's how I was taught to express my emotion. So that's what I'll do."
He begins singing my favorite Lakota traditional song that I have heard yet. It's called "Common Man." It is about being a person, just a normal person trying to live a good life and walk in a good way. Nothing fancy, no titles, no honors, just any body trying to make sense of life. I will never again be able to hear or sing this song without thinking of this moment. Watching a father sing for his son, sing for his sons life and his own, admitting his smallness and still living in spite of it. The drunk guy behind my house becomes a grieving father, a husband, a son himself - a singer. He becomes me. Beyond all of our differences, we share the same humanity, the same longing, the same hunger. I become him. One in the same, united in our common human condition. Both just trying to figure out this life thing the best we can, and in the process, living out that beautiful prayer, mitakuye oyasin, we are all relatives.
We all line up to shake the hands of the family members, as is tradition here. People are sobbing, and as I shake their hands I am amazed that people can do this. Stand there in all their pain and hurt, completely vulnerable, and offer their hand to be held by a stranger. When I get to Kenny, he does a double take... seeing the white hand on the red, there must have been a moment of confusion I am holding his hand in both of mine, and as he brings other hand to clasp mine, he again says "Thank you. Thank you for being here." I can't help but hear it as an affirmation of my whole journey, not just this moment.
As they load the body up on the horses to process around the area before the burial, I slip out, needing to cook dinner for that night. I am at home just trying to process. Just trying to understand what I had seen and experienced, what it meant.
An hour or so later, my roommate knocked in my door, saying there was a friend at the door for me. I head to the front door and find Everett waiting there. He holds out his handdrum to me, complete with stick and sweetgrass braid. "I heard you singing at the funeral and I know you want to learn. Take this, you should have it. I want you to." I mumble out a wopila (thank you) and we clasp hands, knowing there was more to come from our friendship.
I went into my room and just cried. How much can a heart take? How much raw emotion and experience can a heart handle? It has to be what it is like to see God face to face. So much you just want to burst, and so amazing you don't care if you do.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Reach Out and Touch Them
The parable in this past Sunday's mass was that of Zaccheus, the tax-collector who must climb a tree in order to see Jesus as he enters the city. Zaccheus, as a tax-collector for the Romans, was pretty much hated by everyone in town, and had successfully earned the high honor of the title "sinner." It seems like that is what a lot of people did (and still do?) back then: identify someone as a sinner and then stay the hell away.
Jesus never seems much for those kind of social set-ups, so what does he do? Call him down from the tree and invite himself to dinner of course! Both of the homilies I heard on this reading spoke of the necessity on the part of Christians to reach out and touch those whom others have deemed unworthy, who have been rejected and made to be outcasts on the edge of society. Reading the Gospels, that is certainly one of the things that strike me most about Jesus - he touches everyone. Not just a spiritual "touching of the heart" type deal, although that is obviously present as well, but a physical encounter. According to the traditions of his time, solely based on the amount of lepers, possessed people, and sinners that Jesus physically came into contact with, he would have had to ritually cleanse himself every second for the rest of his life in order to even have the hope of becoming pure again. but he doesn't seem to care much about that.
I had this parable on my mind throughout the mass, and when we got to the Our Father, I realized something. As I looked around the Church (because I get distracted in this types of situations pretty easily), I saw close to 100 people, a majority with their hands raised, palm up, but with only a handful holding hands while they prayed. Now, I know there are definitely people who just don't believe they should be holding hands during the prayer, and I completely respect that. But for the people who do, I noticed something important - everyone stands there with their palms up, open and ready to receive someone else's hands - for ultimately, that is what we all want innit? To be touched, to be loved, to be embraced and accepted exactly as we are, just because we are.
Why, then, would we not do that for others? Why not take that maxim of the golden rule seriously and reach out and touch others in the same way we would like to be touched? This reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Hafiz, which goes:
I reflected upon this poem with the youth who I work with at the Juvenile Detention Center here, and they went right to the heart of it. It's hard to admit to others that we even want or need to be loved, especially when we have been hurt before - who wants to be vulnerable anyway? It's hard to reach out and be loving when what we have known and seen from others is not that, when what we see modeled around us is isolation and a detached attitude, sometimes even violence. We all have knots and wounds that keep us from being able to love and be loved, and in a recent article I read by Bishop Cupich, he says that the task of a Christian in the modern age is to help people to untie their knots. To reach out, just as Jesus did, and touch others, be with them in their pain, tell them you can love them for who they are and that you do.
Two weeks back, I was presented an image that has and will stick with me as I attempt to work on being love for others. KINI, the radio station I am the morning DJ for, hosted a Halloween dance for the entire reservation community. The place was jam packed with kids, dressed up as princesses and zombies, ninja turtles and witches, and all other kinds of fun creatures. (I went as a failed prophet from the time of Jesus - I would've made it big if it wasn't for that guy, maybe even had my own book - at least it won me the costume contest). I have started getting used to all of the funny looks I get around here - I am a big white guy with a massive beard and dreadlocks, so I don't exactly fit in at all. I walk all over town, show up at local basketball games, attend funerals and wakes, and people notice when there is one person in the room who doesn't look like anyone else (not to mention their kids are running up to this strange and crazy person looking person for hugs). I was out there killin it on the D-flo (dance floor for all of you lay people) when I felt a tap on my shoulder. A mother was standing in front of me holding her little girls hand, and my first thought was "Oh shit, I probably accidentally kicked this girl in the face while dancing like an idiot."
Instead, the mom leaned in, timid and shy-like, and said "My daughter would really like to dance with you, would that be OK?" I crouched down and looked at this little angel, all smiles and a face full of love, took her hand, and twirled and danced with the most graceful 4 year old I have ever me.
Maybe this is what Jesus meant when he said that the children are blessed, that we should be like children. Perhaps we should be able to just be there with people, showing them how loved they are, how perfect they are, without even having to say anything. Maybe we should just be able to ask for what we need, to admit we want love, that we are incomplete. maybe we should have the innocence and courage to approach those who are different from us and reach out and touch them.
Jesus never seems much for those kind of social set-ups, so what does he do? Call him down from the tree and invite himself to dinner of course! Both of the homilies I heard on this reading spoke of the necessity on the part of Christians to reach out and touch those whom others have deemed unworthy, who have been rejected and made to be outcasts on the edge of society. Reading the Gospels, that is certainly one of the things that strike me most about Jesus - he touches everyone. Not just a spiritual "touching of the heart" type deal, although that is obviously present as well, but a physical encounter. According to the traditions of his time, solely based on the amount of lepers, possessed people, and sinners that Jesus physically came into contact with, he would have had to ritually cleanse himself every second for the rest of his life in order to even have the hope of becoming pure again. but he doesn't seem to care much about that.
I had this parable on my mind throughout the mass, and when we got to the Our Father, I realized something. As I looked around the Church (because I get distracted in this types of situations pretty easily), I saw close to 100 people, a majority with their hands raised, palm up, but with only a handful holding hands while they prayed. Now, I know there are definitely people who just don't believe they should be holding hands during the prayer, and I completely respect that. But for the people who do, I noticed something important - everyone stands there with their palms up, open and ready to receive someone else's hands - for ultimately, that is what we all want innit? To be touched, to be loved, to be embraced and accepted exactly as we are, just because we are.
Why, then, would we not do that for others? Why not take that maxim of the golden rule seriously and reach out and touch others in the same way we would like to be touched? This reminds me of one of my favorite poems by Hafiz, which goes:
With That Moon Language
Admit something: Everyone you see, you say to them, "Love me."
Of course you do not do this out loud, otherwise someone would call the cops.
Still though, think about this, this great pull in us to connect. Why not become the one who lives with a full moon in each eye that is always saying, with that sweet moon language, What every other eye in this world is dying to hear?
-Hafiz
I reflected upon this poem with the youth who I work with at the Juvenile Detention Center here, and they went right to the heart of it. It's hard to admit to others that we even want or need to be loved, especially when we have been hurt before - who wants to be vulnerable anyway? It's hard to reach out and be loving when what we have known and seen from others is not that, when what we see modeled around us is isolation and a detached attitude, sometimes even violence. We all have knots and wounds that keep us from being able to love and be loved, and in a recent article I read by Bishop Cupich, he says that the task of a Christian in the modern age is to help people to untie their knots. To reach out, just as Jesus did, and touch others, be with them in their pain, tell them you can love them for who they are and that you do.
Two weeks back, I was presented an image that has and will stick with me as I attempt to work on being love for others. KINI, the radio station I am the morning DJ for, hosted a Halloween dance for the entire reservation community. The place was jam packed with kids, dressed up as princesses and zombies, ninja turtles and witches, and all other kinds of fun creatures. (I went as a failed prophet from the time of Jesus - I would've made it big if it wasn't for that guy, maybe even had my own book - at least it won me the costume contest). I have started getting used to all of the funny looks I get around here - I am a big white guy with a massive beard and dreadlocks, so I don't exactly fit in at all. I walk all over town, show up at local basketball games, attend funerals and wakes, and people notice when there is one person in the room who doesn't look like anyone else (not to mention their kids are running up to this strange and crazy person looking person for hugs). I was out there killin it on the D-flo (dance floor for all of you lay people) when I felt a tap on my shoulder. A mother was standing in front of me holding her little girls hand, and my first thought was "Oh shit, I probably accidentally kicked this girl in the face while dancing like an idiot."
Instead, the mom leaned in, timid and shy-like, and said "My daughter would really like to dance with you, would that be OK?" I crouched down and looked at this little angel, all smiles and a face full of love, took her hand, and twirled and danced with the most graceful 4 year old I have ever me.
Maybe this is what Jesus meant when he said that the children are blessed, that we should be like children. Perhaps we should be able to just be there with people, showing them how loved they are, how perfect they are, without even having to say anything. Maybe we should just be able to ask for what we need, to admit we want love, that we are incomplete. maybe we should have the innocence and courage to approach those who are different from us and reach out and touch them.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Tiospaye
"Relation." If there was one word, one idea that I could use to describe what principles guide the traditional Lakota worldview, it would be "relation."
Each morning, after working the radio station and praying with the 3rd graders of Sapa Un Academy and my housemates, I return home in order to practice and study the Lakota language. Anyone who can remember my days of Latin at Fordham can let out a hearty chuckle, because they will remember that my language study single-handedly destroyed hopes of the Dean's list for the first 2 years of my college career.
I am happy to say, however, that I have found real joy and passion in my study of the Lakota language. Part of this has to do with the fact that, as I study the language, I am unable to avoid (as if I would want to anyway), the philosophical worldview that drives the language itself. It has been a challenge, not only because it is a new discipline and thing to learn, but because it requires me to completely open my mind and heart to a new way of thinking.
I'm not just talking about ordering subjects before verbs, or expressing different gender endings. As it was explained to me by new Lakota friends and by the author of the book I use - there is a difference between speaking English in Lakota, and speaking Lakota. In other words, to truly speak Lakota, you need to understand the worldview it developed out of, the cultural assumptions, the spiritual tenets - otherwise, you are just using Lakota words to express a Western worldview, with all of it's assumptions and baggage. This was why, when the United States government sought to acculturate and rub out the Lakota ways of life, targeting and forbidding the use of the Lakota language was something they focused on, often through viscous beatings.
In my study thus far, I have come to understand that the idea of "relation" is absolutely key to grasping the Lakota worldview. Everything is expressed in term of relation - greetings are not simply a "good morning" (which has been translate as 'hihanni waste', meaning 'something good has happened this morning'), but rather an addressing of a person in the proper relative term. This was one of the very first lessons I have learned, as understanding and respecting relations to others is important.
Something that struck me as so strikingly different from my own American culture was the types of terms used to greet one another. Typically, when addressing someone, even a stranger, they are given one of the following terms: tanhanshi, hankashi, sic'esi, cepansi (all of which have diacritics I have not been able to locate on the computer yet). Each of these terms has been translated as "cousin," and is used depending on whether the speaker is male or female and whether the person being spoken to is male or female.
"Cousin," however, does not really do these terms justice. In my experience, while my own cousins are very close to me, they are clearly a part of another family unit, not a part of my immediate "nuclear family." In Lakota, however, this is not the case. For me as a male, to call someone tanhanshi or hankashi is almost the equivalent of calling them a brother or sister. It is to recognize someone as family and give them that status and the respect that necessarily comes with it. It requires that we treat them in a certain way, that we welcome them in and take care of them to the best of our ability. In this way, no one in the Lakota culture was to be understood as outside of the group. Connected with this is the Lakota system of tiospaye, which at a simple and basic level means the the care and responsibility we as Americans believe should be present in the nuclear family must extend also to what we would considered extended family. In much the same way, the Lakota prayer-phrase, "mitakuye oyasin," which can be roughly translated to mean "all of my relations," expresses strongly the sense that we are related to all people, which in the Lakota tradition, includes the earth, the four-leggeds and winged creatures, the spirits, the plants and starts - everything that is has emanated from Creator and therefore is our relative and demands the respect and honor that comes with being family.
All of this is to say that I have been thinking. Uh oh is right. I have been thinking about this notion of family, especially in regards to my Catholics roots and Jesus. I have been reading a lot of spiritual-social justice oriented books and they have been inspiring and challenging. Inspiring me to say that hope for something different is possible, and challenging me to declare definitively whether I care about that something different enough to make my own life the model. To let these seeds planted in my heart by God grow and grow until they have exploded out and helped to plant these seeds in the hearts of others. No matter how hard, how dangerous, how difficult it may be.
See, cause the God I believe expects nothing less from me. The God I know IS demanding, IS terrifying - not because God is a bad or negative thing, but because the love that I have experienced from this God, the faith and trust placed in my by this God, has stirred up visions of something better - for all of us. My God is too big to limit it to only certain people. This God commands me to get on the rooftops and shout to all the people that they are beautiful and loved. They were made for that very purpose, and so was I - to reflect the tremendousness of the God from which we come.
See, me and Jesus have never been best friends - he has never been much more than something like a unicorn to me, something so mythologized and devalued that I couldn't even understand what it meant to speak his. But the Jesus I am discovering, here on the Rosebud, in the second poorest county in the United States - he gives me vision. He says another world is possible, and this is what you might want to try in bringing it about. Order your life according to what the least of those among us need - stand in solidarity with the poorest of the poor, those shunned and rejected by society, banished to the fringes of "civilization." By voluntarily placing myself there, maybe more people will begin to ask if that is a true way to peace. He challenges me to see everyone as family, just like the Lakota people here - the body of Christ, perhaps, is what i see lived out in the idea of tiospaye - that each of of us are integral parts of that body, and that each of use a truly "brothers and sisters" as Paul says, demanding the dignity and respect of that title. To look at everyone and everything with the great love that God looks at me.
JVC has been a dangerous place for me, because it is allowing me to think. It is allowing me to expand my heart and my mind, and it is causing me to imagine and dream bigger and bigger with this God I am encountering.
And it is a awe-ful and terrifying thing.
Monday, October 7, 2013
Feel It
The adjustment to having Sunday be a work day has easily been the least smooth transition of my experience here in South Dakota. I am a big lazy Sunday person, and take seriously my time to sleep in , relax around the house in sweats, and have time to prepare myself for the upcoming week. Here, however, there is no such opportunity to do so. I am up at 8, which isn't that early given I am up at 5 every other day of the week, but this is principle here. My community and I drive the 20 minutes to Rosebud in order to work the 9:00 mass there at St. Bridget's parish (Jessica and I playing music, Mike coordinating the entire mass and all of volunteers). We come right back to St. Francis, wolf down a quick breakfast, usually go over the music we messed up last mass and try our best to prepare mentally for the chaos of the next mass. St. Charles parish mass starts at 11:30, has many more people in attendance, and thus requires significantly more preparation and stress. Immediately after the mass, we are in the car and heading up to the radio station to run a 2 hour spiritual talk show. All in all, not a particularly relaxing or rejuvenating day.
The last thing I do on Sunday (before our weekly community meeting takes place after dinner), is to volunteer at the Juvenile Detention Center. It is only an hour a week commitment. I show up with one of the Jesuits and we do an hour of spiritual reflection, teaching, etc. We meet with the residents there, who often range in age from 14-17, both male and female, and are in for various offenses - drinking and drugging (especially coupled with driving), violence against family members or schoolmates, theft, and other similar actions. Most of the boys are the ages of my younger brothers, and when I look hard enough, I can see some of them reflected in these kids - not because my little brothers are delinquents, but because really, they are all just kids trying to figure out what their life is about. Though this is my least frequent experience, it is the one that has by far impacted me the most in my time here.
I have cried on my drive home every time, without fail. It is the craziest thing. There isn't anything particularly disturbing that I see in my time there, nothing we talk about that really rattles my cage - but I am almost guaranteed to find myself in angry tears on the drive home, pulling over to the side of the road and yelling curse words through sobs.
What I realized last time was that I just need a good sometimes. That most of the week, I am happy. I deal lovingly with many of the hardships and difficulties that I am surrounded with on a daily basis. I feel very heavily - seeing others in pain results in sharp pain in my own heart. It is hard for me to see others suffering, and it affects me deeply. People who suffer have a claim on my heart, whether I want them to or not.
I guess subconsciously, my drive home from the JDC has become my time to really feel all of that pain and hardship, the sadness that inevitably comes with encountering those realities. And it really is addressed to ALL of the things that weigh on me. I cry for the longing and sadness I feel for missing friends back home, for missing my family and wishing I could be with them and experience the lives they are living. I cry for the people I talk to during the week, ruined by alcoholism or drugs. For the people who can't see their own self-worth and have a difficult time letting themselves be loved. For the kids I teach, whose parents are in jail or have left them - for the fact that the majority know more people killed in drunk driving accidents than college graduates. For all of the stories of racism and government incompetency/neglect that shapes the ability of an entire people to prosper. For those who went through the boarding school experience, for the pain caused by a faith I find so much life in, and for entire generations of people who were forced to reject where they came from and who they were. For my own pain at lost relationships, my own fears of being able to continue to exist lovingly in a world filled with suffering, my own longing for direction and clear purpose.
On the drive home I take a route that give a really clear and beautiful view of the horizon. And I think that helps me to feel the sadness too, because it highlights how small I really am. How big the pain of the world is, how out of my range to heal everything, even to heal all of myself. Maybe that's why there are so many of us, to help each other out with that massive project.
There is a lot to be sad over. And I think my rides home have really helped me to understand a few lines taken from one of favorite poems - it is called "The Invitation" by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, and those few lines read as such:
I have found that the best way I can pray in these situations is just to sit with it. It does the pain and sadness discredit to try and push it away. To ignore or it suppress it would be to say that the things I feel for are not important enough to give myself fully to. The best pray I have to offer in those situations is my pain and tears - and I think I have come to understand that those are more than enough, and speak more than my words ever could. It helps me to recognize the beauty that is inherently present in all of that as well.
Sometimes, I just need to feel it. To share that sadness. And after that, I can look at the world with fresh eyes again and an open heart, ready to receive whatever I can.
The last thing I do on Sunday (before our weekly community meeting takes place after dinner), is to volunteer at the Juvenile Detention Center. It is only an hour a week commitment. I show up with one of the Jesuits and we do an hour of spiritual reflection, teaching, etc. We meet with the residents there, who often range in age from 14-17, both male and female, and are in for various offenses - drinking and drugging (especially coupled with driving), violence against family members or schoolmates, theft, and other similar actions. Most of the boys are the ages of my younger brothers, and when I look hard enough, I can see some of them reflected in these kids - not because my little brothers are delinquents, but because really, they are all just kids trying to figure out what their life is about. Though this is my least frequent experience, it is the one that has by far impacted me the most in my time here.
I have cried on my drive home every time, without fail. It is the craziest thing. There isn't anything particularly disturbing that I see in my time there, nothing we talk about that really rattles my cage - but I am almost guaranteed to find myself in angry tears on the drive home, pulling over to the side of the road and yelling curse words through sobs.
What I realized last time was that I just need a good sometimes. That most of the week, I am happy. I deal lovingly with many of the hardships and difficulties that I am surrounded with on a daily basis. I feel very heavily - seeing others in pain results in sharp pain in my own heart. It is hard for me to see others suffering, and it affects me deeply. People who suffer have a claim on my heart, whether I want them to or not.
I guess subconsciously, my drive home from the JDC has become my time to really feel all of that pain and hardship, the sadness that inevitably comes with encountering those realities. And it really is addressed to ALL of the things that weigh on me. I cry for the longing and sadness I feel for missing friends back home, for missing my family and wishing I could be with them and experience the lives they are living. I cry for the people I talk to during the week, ruined by alcoholism or drugs. For the people who can't see their own self-worth and have a difficult time letting themselves be loved. For the kids I teach, whose parents are in jail or have left them - for the fact that the majority know more people killed in drunk driving accidents than college graduates. For all of the stories of racism and government incompetency/neglect that shapes the ability of an entire people to prosper. For those who went through the boarding school experience, for the pain caused by a faith I find so much life in, and for entire generations of people who were forced to reject where they came from and who they were. For my own pain at lost relationships, my own fears of being able to continue to exist lovingly in a world filled with suffering, my own longing for direction and clear purpose.
On the drive home I take a route that give a really clear and beautiful view of the horizon. And I think that helps me to feel the sadness too, because it highlights how small I really am. How big the pain of the world is, how out of my range to heal everything, even to heal all of myself. Maybe that's why there are so many of us, to help each other out with that massive project.
There is a lot to be sad over. And I think my rides home have really helped me to understand a few lines taken from one of favorite poems - it is called "The Invitation" by Oriah Mountain Dreamer, and those few lines read as such:
It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.
I have found that the best way I can pray in these situations is just to sit with it. It does the pain and sadness discredit to try and push it away. To ignore or it suppress it would be to say that the things I feel for are not important enough to give myself fully to. The best pray I have to offer in those situations is my pain and tears - and I think I have come to understand that those are more than enough, and speak more than my words ever could. It helps me to recognize the beauty that is inherently present in all of that as well.
Sometimes, I just need to feel it. To share that sadness. And after that, I can look at the world with fresh eyes again and an open heart, ready to receive whatever I can.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Children
There is something about children that just blows me away. Each week that I show up to teach, they manage to make me smile and laugh, to learn to let go of my expectations (mostly so that I don't lose my mind and start going crazy).
I work with close to one-hundred kids a week, ranging in ages from K-8, in the communities of He-Dog and Spring Creek. Both of these areas are very traditional (meaning there is still a strong presence of the Lakota culture and tradition). I am tasked with teaching them the Catholic faith (which I generally try my very best to do, with more or less success depending on the week). I make it a priority to show up each week and do my best to be absolutely present, to make them laugh and smile, to let them know that for the half hour or so we meet, my attention is totally focused on them. I class today, when I asked how many attended mass (not regularly, just ever in their life), only two raised their hands. Later in the class when I started asking other question - such as who knows someone with a drinking problem, who knows someone who has died or been injured in a car crash, who knows people who have lost hope and say things will not get better - every head snapped to attention, everyone was interested and engaged, and nearly every child raised their hand. The things some of these kids have seen and experienced by the age of 8 or 9 is more than I have in my nearly 22 years of life, more than many of my friends or community members. They are like little adults in children's bodies, with the playful childlike spirit, and the old, tired, and wizened attitude of an elder who has seen and experienced much in their life.
They bring out the weirdest things in me - during any class, you are likely to find me standing in the middle of a room (25 kindergarten and first graders in tow) snapping my fingers and dancing around the room like the Pied Piper, singing "This Little Light of Mine." Let it be know - I can't stand churchey kind of music, Christian praise music kind of my head hurt, and children's songs generally do not make my starred playlist on Spotify.
None of that crap really matters when class starts. I'll do whatever they need me to in order to keep them occupied and engaged, and feeling loved. Sit on the dirty floor so that everyone can see each other and be connected? Sure. Sing silly songs and look like a complete fool? Done. Show up to their first basketball game after their school day, on my off time, so they know that I deeply care about what they care about? Absolutely.
Over dinner tonight, I was trying to describe to my housemates what it was about these kids that so captures my spirit. What is it really about the shy and quiet girls, so adorable and young, who always raise their hand to speak, but will only do so after I have crossed the classroom and knelt down so they could speak their answer softly into my ear? What is it about the little kindergarten boys who can't sit still for one second, who constantly move around the classroom and talk and make silly comments (reminding me of myself at that age), that gives my spirit a lift, even when it can be frustrating?
There is just something about them. While at the basketball game today, I was watching the girls play the losing end of a close game. They played very well, were exciting and fun to watch (they are so pint sized, the rim looks as if it stands 40 feet above them, so every made basket seems almost like divine intervention). The thing that struck me most, though, was when one of my students, right in the middle of an inbound, stepped off the court to say hi to her baby bother or cousin, give him a kiss and make him smile - only then could she go back to the game.
I think this highlights it for me. There is just such an innocence, such a purity of heart that children can embody I'm not talking about sin or any of that kind of purity. I am talking about the kind of relationship with oneself that I am striving for. One of acceptance, one that lacks negative inhibitions and self-conscious restraint. Every week I watch these little people pour out the utterly unique spirit that they have - they are completely themselves - and by the way they act, they know it, as if in their living they are asking the question: "And why shouldn't be utterly myself, utterly the person Creator made me to be?"
It is truly awe-inspiring. It humbles me to be entrusted with these little nuggets, little precious beings, more valuable than anything in the world. There is nothing so beautiful and glorious as a human being fully themselves, fully accepting of who they are, where they come from, what they are about - and each week, my kids show me exactly what that looks like.
I work with close to one-hundred kids a week, ranging in ages from K-8, in the communities of He-Dog and Spring Creek. Both of these areas are very traditional (meaning there is still a strong presence of the Lakota culture and tradition). I am tasked with teaching them the Catholic faith (which I generally try my very best to do, with more or less success depending on the week). I make it a priority to show up each week and do my best to be absolutely present, to make them laugh and smile, to let them know that for the half hour or so we meet, my attention is totally focused on them. I class today, when I asked how many attended mass (not regularly, just ever in their life), only two raised their hands. Later in the class when I started asking other question - such as who knows someone with a drinking problem, who knows someone who has died or been injured in a car crash, who knows people who have lost hope and say things will not get better - every head snapped to attention, everyone was interested and engaged, and nearly every child raised their hand. The things some of these kids have seen and experienced by the age of 8 or 9 is more than I have in my nearly 22 years of life, more than many of my friends or community members. They are like little adults in children's bodies, with the playful childlike spirit, and the old, tired, and wizened attitude of an elder who has seen and experienced much in their life.
They bring out the weirdest things in me - during any class, you are likely to find me standing in the middle of a room (25 kindergarten and first graders in tow) snapping my fingers and dancing around the room like the Pied Piper, singing "This Little Light of Mine." Let it be know - I can't stand churchey kind of music, Christian praise music kind of my head hurt, and children's songs generally do not make my starred playlist on Spotify.
None of that crap really matters when class starts. I'll do whatever they need me to in order to keep them occupied and engaged, and feeling loved. Sit on the dirty floor so that everyone can see each other and be connected? Sure. Sing silly songs and look like a complete fool? Done. Show up to their first basketball game after their school day, on my off time, so they know that I deeply care about what they care about? Absolutely.
Over dinner tonight, I was trying to describe to my housemates what it was about these kids that so captures my spirit. What is it really about the shy and quiet girls, so adorable and young, who always raise their hand to speak, but will only do so after I have crossed the classroom and knelt down so they could speak their answer softly into my ear? What is it about the little kindergarten boys who can't sit still for one second, who constantly move around the classroom and talk and make silly comments (reminding me of myself at that age), that gives my spirit a lift, even when it can be frustrating?
There is just something about them. While at the basketball game today, I was watching the girls play the losing end of a close game. They played very well, were exciting and fun to watch (they are so pint sized, the rim looks as if it stands 40 feet above them, so every made basket seems almost like divine intervention). The thing that struck me most, though, was when one of my students, right in the middle of an inbound, stepped off the court to say hi to her baby bother or cousin, give him a kiss and make him smile - only then could she go back to the game.
I think this highlights it for me. There is just such an innocence, such a purity of heart that children can embody I'm not talking about sin or any of that kind of purity. I am talking about the kind of relationship with oneself that I am striving for. One of acceptance, one that lacks negative inhibitions and self-conscious restraint. Every week I watch these little people pour out the utterly unique spirit that they have - they are completely themselves - and by the way they act, they know it, as if in their living they are asking the question: "And why shouldn't be utterly myself, utterly the person Creator made me to be?"
It is truly awe-inspiring. It humbles me to be entrusted with these little nuggets, little precious beings, more valuable than anything in the world. There is nothing so beautiful and glorious as a human being fully themselves, fully accepting of who they are, where they come from, what they are about - and each week, my kids show me exactly what that looks like.
Monday, September 23, 2013
Wrestle
One of my favorite Bible passages is Genesis 32: 22-32. I am not a a big Bible quoter as anyone who knows me well can tell, but this passage has held some sort of mythic significance for me over the last few years of my life. This is the one where Jacob, on his way back from Canaan, encounters an angel of God, or in some readings God godself. Like a good maniac, Jacob decides that he needs to wrestle this celestial creature in order to obtain a blessing, and in the process is renamed "Israel," meaning "one who struggles with God."
Why do I like this? Because most days I would like God to appear in front of me, in some sort of awesomely amazing and beautiful physical form, so that I might punch him right in the mouth. it's not an angry sort of thing, I don't hate God, but I sure would like to go a few rounds, get some good punches in, wrestle a bit, leave my mark. Hell, we could even grab a beer after the whole thing is over and done with, maybe have a good laugh about it.
Am I crazy? Absolutely! But that has more to do with a number of other factors besides this odd desire. In fact, the only reason I have such a bizarre desire is that it would be a clear, physical manifestation of my relationship not only with God, but with myself, with all of you, with my fears. Everything is like a giant struggle that I just want to wrestle with. (Melodramatic? Quite possibly, but it does make for a better read, no?)
This isn't to say that all of life is awful and needing confrontation. But take today for example. Behind the house where I live, there is an orchard. It doesn't have any fences surrounding it. Kids walk through on their way to school, wild dogs play and poop all over it, and homeless drunks congregate in small circles for afternoon tea parties (kind of).
I have a thing with homeless people. I find it impossible to walk past someone who calls out to me. It's a problem, really. Living in the Bronx, I could barely get to the store and back in under an hour because I would stop and talk to anyone who asked for money or just said hello. I don't always give money, and since moving to South Dakota, adopting a limited budget, and hearing from countless people not to hand out money, I don't really give out change anymore. I do, however, lend as much time as people ask for, and try to give of myself as much as possible to the people I encounter. In the book from which I am learning the Lakota language, I read this morning that the only real thing we are able to give to other people is ourselves and time.
So as I walked through the orchard today, a group of people sitting in a circle drinking called me over. They asked for money, and I said I had none to give, but offered to give them some lunch and smokes that I had laying around. I left, went back to the house, and started putting together some little sandwiches, bag of popcorn, and some Teddy Grahams. I went back and passed out the goods, deciding to sit and listen, try and talk to them if I could (maybe even convince them to stop leaving so much trash around the backyard - long shot, but what the hell).
Was some of it incoherent? Yeah. Was it childish, naive, maybe even a little stupid to think that I was really making a difference? Probably. Do I feel taken advantage of sometimes, taken for granted? Yeah.
But I don't know what else to do. As I sit there and listen to them talk about all the people who just walk by and ignore them, they say thank you for stopping. They say thank you for coming back, "cause we sure as shit didn't think you were going to." They try and explain to me bits and pieces of their culture, their language. They invite me to ceremonies they hold, tell me I'm welcome. I can start to see some of the initial skepticism melt away. They explain how the drinking is a relief from all the stresses they hold in life. Do I think that is an acceptable way of dealing with problems? No, I certainly do not. But that won't stop me from hearing it out, let them speak their piece.
Where does the wrestling come in? The whole damn day. How much am I supposed to give today? How the hell am I supposed to keep this up? How much can I really give before it's too much? And honestly, most days, rather than an answer to any of these questions, I'd just like to punch God right in the mouth and let it go so I can get back to loving the best I know how. I know God's big enough to take it, I guess the same way God knows I'm big enough to handle the challenges laid out before me.
Why do I like this? Because most days I would like God to appear in front of me, in some sort of awesomely amazing and beautiful physical form, so that I might punch him right in the mouth. it's not an angry sort of thing, I don't hate God, but I sure would like to go a few rounds, get some good punches in, wrestle a bit, leave my mark. Hell, we could even grab a beer after the whole thing is over and done with, maybe have a good laugh about it.
Am I crazy? Absolutely! But that has more to do with a number of other factors besides this odd desire. In fact, the only reason I have such a bizarre desire is that it would be a clear, physical manifestation of my relationship not only with God, but with myself, with all of you, with my fears. Everything is like a giant struggle that I just want to wrestle with. (Melodramatic? Quite possibly, but it does make for a better read, no?)
This isn't to say that all of life is awful and needing confrontation. But take today for example. Behind the house where I live, there is an orchard. It doesn't have any fences surrounding it. Kids walk through on their way to school, wild dogs play and poop all over it, and homeless drunks congregate in small circles for afternoon tea parties (kind of).
I have a thing with homeless people. I find it impossible to walk past someone who calls out to me. It's a problem, really. Living in the Bronx, I could barely get to the store and back in under an hour because I would stop and talk to anyone who asked for money or just said hello. I don't always give money, and since moving to South Dakota, adopting a limited budget, and hearing from countless people not to hand out money, I don't really give out change anymore. I do, however, lend as much time as people ask for, and try to give of myself as much as possible to the people I encounter. In the book from which I am learning the Lakota language, I read this morning that the only real thing we are able to give to other people is ourselves and time.
So as I walked through the orchard today, a group of people sitting in a circle drinking called me over. They asked for money, and I said I had none to give, but offered to give them some lunch and smokes that I had laying around. I left, went back to the house, and started putting together some little sandwiches, bag of popcorn, and some Teddy Grahams. I went back and passed out the goods, deciding to sit and listen, try and talk to them if I could (maybe even convince them to stop leaving so much trash around the backyard - long shot, but what the hell).
Was some of it incoherent? Yeah. Was it childish, naive, maybe even a little stupid to think that I was really making a difference? Probably. Do I feel taken advantage of sometimes, taken for granted? Yeah.
But I don't know what else to do. As I sit there and listen to them talk about all the people who just walk by and ignore them, they say thank you for stopping. They say thank you for coming back, "cause we sure as shit didn't think you were going to." They try and explain to me bits and pieces of their culture, their language. They invite me to ceremonies they hold, tell me I'm welcome. I can start to see some of the initial skepticism melt away. They explain how the drinking is a relief from all the stresses they hold in life. Do I think that is an acceptable way of dealing with problems? No, I certainly do not. But that won't stop me from hearing it out, let them speak their piece.
Where does the wrestling come in? The whole damn day. How much am I supposed to give today? How the hell am I supposed to keep this up? How much can I really give before it's too much? And honestly, most days, rather than an answer to any of these questions, I'd just like to punch God right in the mouth and let it go so I can get back to loving the best I know how. I know God's big enough to take it, I guess the same way God knows I'm big enough to handle the challenges laid out before me.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
Three's Company
This last week has given me a lot to sit with over the course of my JVC experience. Things about myself have come to light that, while I knew them to be true, I probably did not fully understand how intensely the manifested in my daily life and interactions. Most of this weeks reflections have had to do with me-in-relation, also known as, community.
Let me fill you in here.
I am living in a community of 3. Normally, JVC does not allow for communities to be any less than 4 people, but we live in St. Francis, South Dakota, where your standard rules do not really apply - ever. All three of us (Mike and Jessica are my housemates names, for the record), work for the same organization, the St. Francis Mission. Again. In most JVC communities, each person has their own unique work placement that they go off to during the day, and then return to their house/apartment to live out community life. In my community, we wake up to each other, we eat breakfast with each other, we say goodbye, only to meet at the door and walk to work together, spend the whole day together, eat lunch together, eat dinner together, hang out in our house together (get the rhythm here?). The majority of communities in the Midwest provence (my home provence), are located in big cities - Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, Nashville, Atlanta, Minneapolis/St. Paul, Kansas City, St. Louis - in other words, fairly large metropolitan areas, many of which have public transportation (in other words, some sort of possibility for autonomy).
St. Francis. Oh St. Francis. With a minimum of 40 minutes between anything that even has a grocery store, travel is somewhat difficult. Rapid City, the nearest thing that can be considered a "city" (though by NYC standards, I'm being generous here), is a 3 and a half hour drive. All three of us share a car, so whenever we do something, it is almost always as a group. Weekend time? There is no exploring the city, visiting museums, enjoying the adventure of venturing in city canyons, alone, with wide eyes and open hearts, whisked away by the L or other modern conveniences. In other words, the farthest I can go on my own is as far as I can go on my bike, and generally, the most I see are cows and horses, occasionally a wild pack of feral dogs that will try and rip my legs off.
What does this all boil down to? Close. Proximity. It means that I spend nearly every single waking minute with these two people who I have just hardly met.
Well. I do not do small. If you've seen me eat, I don't do small portions. I don't do small inside voices. I don't do small personality. It just isn't me. I am a large person, with large feet, large hair, and large dreams. And as far as I can remember, small groups of people who I spend every moment of time with has never been a part of my life either. Quite the contrary. It was something I avoided as much as possible. I was always afraid of cliques. I hate being boxed in and contained. In high school, I played on the soccer team, I played in the jazz and concert bands, I wrote for the school newspaper, I acted in the plays and musicals, did service work, went on retreats - this isn't a list of achievement as much as it is an indication of how diverse the circles I ran in were. Different people, different experiences, different places - new, exciting, different. That is how I operate, same deal in college. Walking across campus with a friend, they asked if there was anyone in the whole damn college who I didn't know. I budgeted an extra 15 minutes on the way to class in order to stop and say hi to people. This is not an appeal to some imagined popularity, but just pointing to the fact that I have always have had a large heart, one that wants to fit as many people as possible.
So what has it been like for me to live with Mike and Jessica? To spend every damn minute with the same people over and over again.
Frustrating. I wonder how I'm going to survive in such a claustrophobic environment. The sheer repetitiveness of it is enough to drive me up the wall (for the record, I would like to note that I have showed tremendous restraint throughout this piece in using expletives as adjectives, though that may better reflect my mindframe). Challenging. It is really pushing my boundaries as far as what is comfortable for me as a person in relation with others.
Life-giving. I guess that's really the only word for it. It's life giving. To be honest, just today at lunch I told both of my housemates that I would normally not seek out their personality types to be good friends, to be my release as far as having a close relation goes. But over these last three weeks, I have really felt supported by these people. They have put up with all my crap, all my crankiness, moodiness, weirdness, quirkiness, brashness - everything. They ask me if I'm all right when it's obvious I'm not, because they genuinely want to know and hear why I'm struggling. They ask me if I'm all right even when I'm fine, because they care about how I'm doing. They listen to me when I rant about spirituality and cosmic injustice. They help with my laundry, help clean up, help me wake up on time.
They piss me off, just because we are so different. But that's the beauty, right there. Playing music with Jessica is tough. We come from completely different musical backgrounds and mindsets. But that's the beauty. It's the challenge of allowing two completely unique and beautiful entities to come together in harmony and make something work. Still separate, still unique, but now in relation, necessarily molded and shaped to work with one another. It has been so life giving. Talking faith with Mike can be extremely challenging, because we come from totally different experiences, with a different set of assumptions and beliefs. But, ironically enough, we have become one another's "spiritual directors," taking more from each other in our late night conversations than I have from many of my actual spiritual guides. We come from completely different spiritual backgrounds, and to try and find ways for all of us to be authentic, respectful, and open to growing, has been and will be a challenge, but a challenge I welcome with a smile. When there is real laughter in this community, it is real. With such different humor and personalities, genuine laughter and enjoyment is genuine. It's real. And I appreciate it so much more because I know how many differences and boundaries that laughter, that understanding, that willingness had to overcome to be incarnate.
It's a challenge, issued by the universe, to a small minded, ignorant, and hard hearted individual (me!). "Can you love these ones enough to let them be themselves, in all their differences and quirks, frustrating habits and beautiful talents. And can you let them love you with all of yours?" Who am I to reject what has been made and shaped by the Universe, by Love?
I love this place. I love these people. Hopefully enough to let them stand in all their unique, dysfunctional, awesome glory, while I just look on in wonder and admiration. It doesn't mean it isn't hard. Love doesn't make things any easier, just worth it. And so far, I am happy to say that this experience has been well worth it.
Let me fill you in here.
I am living in a community of 3. Normally, JVC does not allow for communities to be any less than 4 people, but we live in St. Francis, South Dakota, where your standard rules do not really apply - ever. All three of us (Mike and Jessica are my housemates names, for the record), work for the same organization, the St. Francis Mission. Again. In most JVC communities, each person has their own unique work placement that they go off to during the day, and then return to their house/apartment to live out community life. In my community, we wake up to each other, we eat breakfast with each other, we say goodbye, only to meet at the door and walk to work together, spend the whole day together, eat lunch together, eat dinner together, hang out in our house together (get the rhythm here?). The majority of communities in the Midwest provence (my home provence), are located in big cities - Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, Nashville, Atlanta, Minneapolis/St. Paul, Kansas City, St. Louis - in other words, fairly large metropolitan areas, many of which have public transportation (in other words, some sort of possibility for autonomy).
St. Francis. Oh St. Francis. With a minimum of 40 minutes between anything that even has a grocery store, travel is somewhat difficult. Rapid City, the nearest thing that can be considered a "city" (though by NYC standards, I'm being generous here), is a 3 and a half hour drive. All three of us share a car, so whenever we do something, it is almost always as a group. Weekend time? There is no exploring the city, visiting museums, enjoying the adventure of venturing in city canyons, alone, with wide eyes and open hearts, whisked away by the L or other modern conveniences. In other words, the farthest I can go on my own is as far as I can go on my bike, and generally, the most I see are cows and horses, occasionally a wild pack of feral dogs that will try and rip my legs off.
What does this all boil down to? Close. Proximity. It means that I spend nearly every single waking minute with these two people who I have just hardly met.
Well. I do not do small. If you've seen me eat, I don't do small portions. I don't do small inside voices. I don't do small personality. It just isn't me. I am a large person, with large feet, large hair, and large dreams. And as far as I can remember, small groups of people who I spend every moment of time with has never been a part of my life either. Quite the contrary. It was something I avoided as much as possible. I was always afraid of cliques. I hate being boxed in and contained. In high school, I played on the soccer team, I played in the jazz and concert bands, I wrote for the school newspaper, I acted in the plays and musicals, did service work, went on retreats - this isn't a list of achievement as much as it is an indication of how diverse the circles I ran in were. Different people, different experiences, different places - new, exciting, different. That is how I operate, same deal in college. Walking across campus with a friend, they asked if there was anyone in the whole damn college who I didn't know. I budgeted an extra 15 minutes on the way to class in order to stop and say hi to people. This is not an appeal to some imagined popularity, but just pointing to the fact that I have always have had a large heart, one that wants to fit as many people as possible.
So what has it been like for me to live with Mike and Jessica? To spend every damn minute with the same people over and over again.
Frustrating. I wonder how I'm going to survive in such a claustrophobic environment. The sheer repetitiveness of it is enough to drive me up the wall (for the record, I would like to note that I have showed tremendous restraint throughout this piece in using expletives as adjectives, though that may better reflect my mindframe). Challenging. It is really pushing my boundaries as far as what is comfortable for me as a person in relation with others.
Life-giving. I guess that's really the only word for it. It's life giving. To be honest, just today at lunch I told both of my housemates that I would normally not seek out their personality types to be good friends, to be my release as far as having a close relation goes. But over these last three weeks, I have really felt supported by these people. They have put up with all my crap, all my crankiness, moodiness, weirdness, quirkiness, brashness - everything. They ask me if I'm all right when it's obvious I'm not, because they genuinely want to know and hear why I'm struggling. They ask me if I'm all right even when I'm fine, because they care about how I'm doing. They listen to me when I rant about spirituality and cosmic injustice. They help with my laundry, help clean up, help me wake up on time.
They piss me off, just because we are so different. But that's the beauty, right there. Playing music with Jessica is tough. We come from completely different musical backgrounds and mindsets. But that's the beauty. It's the challenge of allowing two completely unique and beautiful entities to come together in harmony and make something work. Still separate, still unique, but now in relation, necessarily molded and shaped to work with one another. It has been so life giving. Talking faith with Mike can be extremely challenging, because we come from totally different experiences, with a different set of assumptions and beliefs. But, ironically enough, we have become one another's "spiritual directors," taking more from each other in our late night conversations than I have from many of my actual spiritual guides. We come from completely different spiritual backgrounds, and to try and find ways for all of us to be authentic, respectful, and open to growing, has been and will be a challenge, but a challenge I welcome with a smile. When there is real laughter in this community, it is real. With such different humor and personalities, genuine laughter and enjoyment is genuine. It's real. And I appreciate it so much more because I know how many differences and boundaries that laughter, that understanding, that willingness had to overcome to be incarnate.
It's a challenge, issued by the universe, to a small minded, ignorant, and hard hearted individual (me!). "Can you love these ones enough to let them be themselves, in all their differences and quirks, frustrating habits and beautiful talents. And can you let them love you with all of yours?" Who am I to reject what has been made and shaped by the Universe, by Love?
I love this place. I love these people. Hopefully enough to let them stand in all their unique, dysfunctional, awesome glory, while I just look on in wonder and admiration. It doesn't mean it isn't hard. Love doesn't make things any easier, just worth it. And so far, I am happy to say that this experience has been well worth it.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Right Here
Have you ever been in the middle of something and realized that it was exactly where you wanted to be? It could be anything - the middle of watching a sunset; the last mile of a good run; cooking a great meal; watching your bizarre family argue and make fun of each other - anything. It doesn't matter what it is that you're doing, and in all honesty, it isn't really that important. It's the realization, probably on a subconscious level, that you are exactly where you are, in that specific moment, and that is the exactly the place you need to be. It has less to do with what's going on around you, or even what you're doing, and more with the awareness flooding in that says, "yeah, this is me, this where I am, this is right."
I have had this feeling a few times since my arrival in South Dakota. One I described in a recent post. The other two are described below:
1) There is something truly magical about attending a powwow. I sat in the bleachers surrounding the powwow grounds, belly full on a chili-dog and some popcorn, fresh from an afternoon of feeding hungry fair-goers, meeting tons of new and interesting people, talking spirituality with a cool guy I had met the day before. I settled in to my set, and simultaneously, settled in to myself. I started to pay attention to what was going on around me. I looked out and watched the dancers - colors whirling everywhere, bells jingling, feathers shaking. Faces, fierce as if they were still performing battle dances, totally absorbed in the dance, in each step, each movement. Bodies completely in tune to the beat of the drums. They dance as if the world depended on it - like if they stopped, the world would stope turning, the universe stop functioning, and looking at them, I just might believe it.
The drums. Pounding. Getting deep into my soul and reminding me where I came from so long ago. The heartbeat of the universe, replicated here by mere mortals. It's a heartbeat we all share and live in tune with - one to which we all dance our cosmic dance, playing our part and making it beautiful. The singing is more like screaming - primal and raw, like it was trying to speak the very language of the world, of the sun and stars, the fire and wind. "We come from you," it says, "we are you."
As I look out on the endless horizon of the Plains, at a sunset blood red pouring over the hills on one side, the enveloping darkness on the other, I sit in the middle of it all, grateful to be exactly where I am.
2) As I stumble out of bed, I wonder why the hell I am up so early in the first place. I hit the bathroom and make my way to the kitchen, ready to break my fast in style. When my roommates are up and ready, I pull on my jeans, step into my boots, tie on a bandana, and grab the car keys.
We drive south down BIA 1, and to the left of me, I can see the sun rising over the Plains. The softest of glows is creeping over the hills as the sun slowly makes it's way up int the dome of the sky. As we head West and leave sunrise behind us, the van begins to roll into early morning fog, drifting over the highway between the fields. Not a soul is awake, not even the birds.
When we hit Spring Creek, it's like we've entered some mysterious land, full of hidden secrets and beautiful uncertainty. The hills rise up suddenly, the mist drifts between the trees that line these hills, a striking difference from the sheer vastness of open plains. It is like old and sacred woods, a sanctuary for ancient and powerful beings - magic almost. As we cross the bridge over the Little White River, we have to stop. The sun, now a fiery orb, situated perfectly above the river, nestled between two wooded hills - it should be on a picture, on a postcard, except for that it could never capture the feeling of being right there, a part of it.
As we drove on and picked enormous amounts of wild chokecherries and plums in the morning glow and cool dewy air, I got it again. That feeling that I was just where I was, exactly situated and aware of my place, physical and spiritual, in the universe.
I don't know exactly what these things mean. I don't exactly know if my words hold any significance for anyone but myself. But I know that that feeling of being situated and located exactly where I am, and feeling blessed for it, is one that I will continue to chase and look for throughout the entirety of my life.
It's just too beautiful and too right to easily forget.
I have had this feeling a few times since my arrival in South Dakota. One I described in a recent post. The other two are described below:
1) There is something truly magical about attending a powwow. I sat in the bleachers surrounding the powwow grounds, belly full on a chili-dog and some popcorn, fresh from an afternoon of feeding hungry fair-goers, meeting tons of new and interesting people, talking spirituality with a cool guy I had met the day before. I settled in to my set, and simultaneously, settled in to myself. I started to pay attention to what was going on around me. I looked out and watched the dancers - colors whirling everywhere, bells jingling, feathers shaking. Faces, fierce as if they were still performing battle dances, totally absorbed in the dance, in each step, each movement. Bodies completely in tune to the beat of the drums. They dance as if the world depended on it - like if they stopped, the world would stope turning, the universe stop functioning, and looking at them, I just might believe it.
The drums. Pounding. Getting deep into my soul and reminding me where I came from so long ago. The heartbeat of the universe, replicated here by mere mortals. It's a heartbeat we all share and live in tune with - one to which we all dance our cosmic dance, playing our part and making it beautiful. The singing is more like screaming - primal and raw, like it was trying to speak the very language of the world, of the sun and stars, the fire and wind. "We come from you," it says, "we are you."
As I look out on the endless horizon of the Plains, at a sunset blood red pouring over the hills on one side, the enveloping darkness on the other, I sit in the middle of it all, grateful to be exactly where I am.
2) As I stumble out of bed, I wonder why the hell I am up so early in the first place. I hit the bathroom and make my way to the kitchen, ready to break my fast in style. When my roommates are up and ready, I pull on my jeans, step into my boots, tie on a bandana, and grab the car keys.
We drive south down BIA 1, and to the left of me, I can see the sun rising over the Plains. The softest of glows is creeping over the hills as the sun slowly makes it's way up int the dome of the sky. As we head West and leave sunrise behind us, the van begins to roll into early morning fog, drifting over the highway between the fields. Not a soul is awake, not even the birds.
When we hit Spring Creek, it's like we've entered some mysterious land, full of hidden secrets and beautiful uncertainty. The hills rise up suddenly, the mist drifts between the trees that line these hills, a striking difference from the sheer vastness of open plains. It is like old and sacred woods, a sanctuary for ancient and powerful beings - magic almost. As we cross the bridge over the Little White River, we have to stop. The sun, now a fiery orb, situated perfectly above the river, nestled between two wooded hills - it should be on a picture, on a postcard, except for that it could never capture the feeling of being right there, a part of it.
As we drove on and picked enormous amounts of wild chokecherries and plums in the morning glow and cool dewy air, I got it again. That feeling that I was just where I was, exactly situated and aware of my place, physical and spiritual, in the universe.
I don't know exactly what these things mean. I don't exactly know if my words hold any significance for anyone but myself. But I know that that feeling of being situated and located exactly where I am, and feeling blessed for it, is one that I will continue to chase and look for throughout the entirety of my life.
It's just too beautiful and too right to easily forget.
Friday, August 23, 2013
Laughter, It's Good Medicine
Yesterday, my housemates and I completed our Family Recovery Program with the rest of our staff at St. Francis Mission, complete with a certificate and everything. The program was designed to help us understand how in cases of alcoholism and addiction, recovery is not something only the individual suffering from these things must go through, but that the entire family must participate in. Often, family members are involved in the addiction just as much as the addict, whether it is through the restructuring of their lives to accommodate the alcoholic or addict, the resentment or damage that they have been cause in the process, or even taking up an enabling role. Overall, the program sought to show that recovery is a family process, one that the whole group of people should be committing to.
This training was a crucial part of my Orientation to the Rosebud. Alcoholism and addiction are a reality here on the Rez. It is not an easy fix, which is why this program is important. This people, and Native people across the United States (including native Alaskans), have suffered tremendously in our efforts to build America to the place it is today. The land that we currently call our own was forcibly taken from people who had been here long before us. Brutal policies were enacted in order to fulfill colonialist policies towards Native people, and the government repeatedly broke treaties, taking more and more land. Brutal, genocidal initiatives such as "Kill the Indian, Save the Man," were commonplace at the time. The boarding school experience forced upon Natives ripped young children from their families and culture and systematically sought to eliminate the language, spirituality, and family structure of this people. (A more in depth look at this can be read in the book Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, by Dee Brown, and in the documentary The Canary Effect, which can be viewed in full here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lD7x6jryoSA)
In other words, this is a people who have suffered unthinkable physical, emotional, spiritual, and cultural destruction throughout the last century, if not longer. This has led to vicious cycles of social ills on reservations, including alcohol abuse and addiction, abuse, neglect, violence, and early death. Young people are brought up in this environment, and it is easy to see why they might believe this is just the way life is, that there is no hope of anything better.
It is in light of this reality that I have come to be blown away by how much all of the people I have met here laugh. Constantly. Teasing one another, laughing about just about anything. During our training, people would tell stories of how they were beat as children, how they began drinking, drunk car accidents they had witnessed or participated in, deaths they had seen along the way - but throughout all of this, there was laughter, and joy. People even were able to laugh at some of the horrific things they had been through, that they shared in common with others in our group.
I asked one of the men about this, because it strikes me as being so different from my own American culture. We don't laugh about those kind of serious things in a healthy way. maybe we brush them off, or laugh it off in a way meant to minimize these serious things (at least in my experience). But when I asked about it, I was told that it's just who they are. As long as anyone can remember, Native people have been a people of laughter, of joy. "It isn't laughing in a way to minimize the problems or ignore them," I was told, "but it is how we deal with things. Our souls need laughter, especially given our environment. It's good medicine, Laughter."
How true is this? I can remember during my JVC Orientation, I had been tired after a long week. Constant presentations and reflecting takes a lot out of me. We had been discussing social justice issues all day, not the lightest of topics, and my brain and heart were on overload. I was carrying the weight of missing home, of doubting myself, of the realities and issues I was about to encounter - I was overwhelmed and weighed down. That night, however, we did contra-dancing, something I haven't done since third grade.
And it was perfect. I was sweating all over the place, out of breath, and laughing harder than I have in months. It was a release, joyful and free, uninhibited and unchecked - pure. I don't often know how to really lighten up and just enjoy myself, but it is so necessary for me to thrive as a person. In order to reflect well, to serve well, to engage with important and challenging issues, I need to be able to find release and real joy.
It is kind of ironic that the people who live in the middle of these insane conditions, who have suffered untold amounts at the hands of our government, are the ones who are teaching me how to really enjoy life.
This training was a crucial part of my Orientation to the Rosebud. Alcoholism and addiction are a reality here on the Rez. It is not an easy fix, which is why this program is important. This people, and Native people across the United States (including native Alaskans), have suffered tremendously in our efforts to build America to the place it is today. The land that we currently call our own was forcibly taken from people who had been here long before us. Brutal policies were enacted in order to fulfill colonialist policies towards Native people, and the government repeatedly broke treaties, taking more and more land. Brutal, genocidal initiatives such as "Kill the Indian, Save the Man," were commonplace at the time. The boarding school experience forced upon Natives ripped young children from their families and culture and systematically sought to eliminate the language, spirituality, and family structure of this people. (A more in depth look at this can be read in the book Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, by Dee Brown, and in the documentary The Canary Effect, which can be viewed in full here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lD7x6jryoSA)
In other words, this is a people who have suffered unthinkable physical, emotional, spiritual, and cultural destruction throughout the last century, if not longer. This has led to vicious cycles of social ills on reservations, including alcohol abuse and addiction, abuse, neglect, violence, and early death. Young people are brought up in this environment, and it is easy to see why they might believe this is just the way life is, that there is no hope of anything better.
It is in light of this reality that I have come to be blown away by how much all of the people I have met here laugh. Constantly. Teasing one another, laughing about just about anything. During our training, people would tell stories of how they were beat as children, how they began drinking, drunk car accidents they had witnessed or participated in, deaths they had seen along the way - but throughout all of this, there was laughter, and joy. People even were able to laugh at some of the horrific things they had been through, that they shared in common with others in our group.
I asked one of the men about this, because it strikes me as being so different from my own American culture. We don't laugh about those kind of serious things in a healthy way. maybe we brush them off, or laugh it off in a way meant to minimize these serious things (at least in my experience). But when I asked about it, I was told that it's just who they are. As long as anyone can remember, Native people have been a people of laughter, of joy. "It isn't laughing in a way to minimize the problems or ignore them," I was told, "but it is how we deal with things. Our souls need laughter, especially given our environment. It's good medicine, Laughter."
How true is this? I can remember during my JVC Orientation, I had been tired after a long week. Constant presentations and reflecting takes a lot out of me. We had been discussing social justice issues all day, not the lightest of topics, and my brain and heart were on overload. I was carrying the weight of missing home, of doubting myself, of the realities and issues I was about to encounter - I was overwhelmed and weighed down. That night, however, we did contra-dancing, something I haven't done since third grade.
And it was perfect. I was sweating all over the place, out of breath, and laughing harder than I have in months. It was a release, joyful and free, uninhibited and unchecked - pure. I don't often know how to really lighten up and just enjoy myself, but it is so necessary for me to thrive as a person. In order to reflect well, to serve well, to engage with important and challenging issues, I need to be able to find release and real joy.
It is kind of ironic that the people who live in the middle of these insane conditions, who have suffered untold amounts at the hands of our government, are the ones who are teaching me how to really enjoy life.
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