More love for Wendell . . . .

This poem reminds me of chaplaincy . . .the lilies being those sacred moments between people; sought out, and yet stumbled upon . . .oftentimes given. Their beauty lingers.

The Lilies

Hunting them, a man must sweat, bear

the whine of a mosquito in his ear,

grow thirsty, tired, despair perhaps

of ever finding them, walk a long way.

He must give himself over to chance,

for they live beyond prediction.

He must give himself over to patience,

for they live beyond will. He must be led

along the hill as by a prayer.

If he finds them anywhere, he will find

a few, paired on their stalks,

at ease in the air as souls in bliss.

I found them here at first without hunting,

by grace, as all beauties are first found.

I have hunted and not found them here.

Found, unfound, they breathe their light

into the mind, year after year.

-Wendell Berry

Chicago

My fellow comrades off of Navy pier: (L to R) Nina, Ellen and Lindsay.

Ellen, Linds, me, Nina, and Johnny

Some of the skyline . . .the weather could not have been more perfect.

In front of the Field Museum.

Inside the museum. :)

Driving Ticking Time-Bombs

Ruby, my beloved blazer, blew one of her head gaskets yesterday evening. Right now her guts are spilled all over the garage (in an organized fashion, of course) and my main duties involve cleaning the threads on screws with the grinder and holding a light at different times. I also get and return tools to their correct toolboxes . . .very much like a surgical nurse. It's all very fascinating, though it's much easier for me to conceptualize various theological positions and models of psychotherapy than it is for me to understand the relationship of the "valve springs" to the pistons, to the crank shaft(s?) and so on. But at least I'm getting better at recognizing the actual parts.

Life is an adventure, yes?

Something Lighter

Greetings from a sunny and blustery Scony. I'm currently in the basement of a hospital, blogging away between calls. (The silence from my pager goes appreciated!) After knocking off these two 12 hour shifts this weekend, I have two weekends in a row COMPLETELY TO MYSELF. Bliss! So this means that I will be calling Al, Rigden, Jamie, and some of my other long-lost friends in attempts to reunite and have some semblance of a social life. (Already begun by a movie and dinner with Nicki and Linds last night--can I mention how great it is to be getting paid again?!)

Below is a poem by Mary Oliver that I was introduced to this week, and it has quickly become a favorite.

IN BLACKWATER WOODS

Look, the trees
are turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment,

the long tapers
of cattails
are bursting and floating away over
the blue shoulders
of the ponds
and every pond,
no matter what its
name is, is

nameless now.
Every year
everything
I have ever learned

in my lifetime
leads back to this: the fires
and the black river of loss
whose other side

is salvation,
whose meaning
none of us will ever know.
To live in this world

you must be able to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

May the autumn season move you in all of those necessary ways . . . . .

From the Archives

I was meandering through some of my old journal entries and came across one that seems relevant for today. After having heard from another friend encountering the betrayal of a cheating spouse and now divorce, my heart hurts for those who have entered into relationships with complete seriousness and commitment to the other, to only find that it has been tossed aside in the most heart-wrenching of ways in the name of "Hollywood Love." Love, the feeling, is only around for so long, and as soon as that dissipates, "I just don't love you anymore." It's amazing how prevalent this is . . .love being about feelings and not about a choice backed with commitment . . .it blows my mind, really. And then to somehow use the love-as-feelings as a justifiable argument for infidelity--WOW. The biggest cop-out and insult . . .no maturity and responsibility taken for one's actions. And what an insult to authentic love--the self-sacrificing, kind, patient and seeking-the-good-of-the-other love. The kind of love I see between two people in their 80s as one looks on the other in the hospital bed . . . .

I'm embarrassed for my generation.

(And if you're not completely turned off by my rant, read on.)

June 3, 2004—Traders, 7:07pm

Suddenly I’m weary. Leary of words I’m going to put down on this paper. My melancholy raises its head and asks for companionship; it settles into the familiar shape it inhabits regularly like a dog that circles and reclines for a snooze. I feel it moving about now, circling through conversations I’ve had today and memories those conversations have evoked. Faces appear and fade. “I love you(s)” connected with eyes-so-serious surface . . .recede. I stand alone looking at and into them, screaming my silent why(s).

Melancholy looks up and wags its tail, the familiar thump of it telling me that I’ll be alright. I’ll get through this not as a hardened person, but as a better lover. Yes—I want to love deeply. Love like the recipient of Anne Sexton’s poem Courage: “and those you love will live in a fever of love”—a benediction in its fullest sense.

How is it that Hurt is the great Refiner? How is it that suffering and pain (if not won over to bitterness) produce a seasoned, more authentic love? I say goodbye, it’s over, I have to leave you while not understanding why (but somehow understanding), and hope presents itself in the midst of “What the hell happened here?” Dostoevsky’s Idiot comes to mind, loving always, so consistently. Nastasya Filippovna couldn’t accept the purity of his love. She mocked him while hating herself for her refusal of him. His fever of compassion was simply too much for her and the hatred of her life she projected onto those around her, becoming the Russian tragedy.

I say she is the human tragedy.

She is my and your tragedy.

Another gem in my Prayer Book search.

I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.

-Dawna Markova

A Quote

Came across this quote today, and loved it . . . .

Give me everything mangled and bruised,

and I will make a light of it to make you weep,

and we will have rain and we will have begun again.

-Deena Metzger