I came to Boston for a week in order to figure out if this is where I want to go to grad school. I want to get an MSW and eventually become a child therapist, and there was a program over at Boston College that caught my interest. I decided to attend their information session as well as spend some time in the area. While I love the Brookline neighborhood I'm staying in (I've subletted a room for a week), and there are parts of Boston that are beautiful, there was something I couldn't quite put my finger on that made me uneasy. Maybe uneasy isn't quite the right word. I just felt like there was something off; like there was this secret club everyone was in, but couldn't talk about or didn't even acknowledge its existence (yeah, kinda like Fight Club). At first I thought it was just an East Coast thing, but later I realized what it was. This town, and the BC campus in particular, is fuckin' white! Sure there's the occasional "minority", but there doesn't seem to be a strong representation, especially on the campus. I spoke to one of my roommates' friends about it, and he said it's all because the white kids have the super rich parents who can send them to a good school, even though the kids themselves are dumb as shit. (Ok, maybe not all of them, but for those of us with experience, we know this to be true. The rich kids get into the good schools, no matter what their SAT scores are.)
But then I noticed something else, too. It was when I was taking a bus on my way in to Cambridge. I was feeling a little anxious, as is usual whenever I'm in transit somewhere, and I noticed that my anxiety decreased when I saw two African American young men get on the bus. Usually, for a white girl like myself, even one from San Francisco, seeing those two men would have had the opposite effect. We live in a racist society, and those stereotypes and prejudices are in us all the time, as much as we might despise them. But when I saw those men, it was like my subconscious mind went, "Thank God! I've had enough of these scary white people!" These men represented something familiar.
While being in this city and seeing all the white people around here, I was constantly aware of my own desire to fit in somehow. "Do I look like I could be from here?" Do they recognize me as an outsider?" Think about it: I'm a white woman in a white crowd and I'm thinking these things to myself. Weird. But as soon as I saw someone who was not of my racial identification, I relaxed. The pressure was lifted from me. It wasn't that I thought of myself as superior to them, and therefore I could relax. It was something else, but I still couldn't figure it out.
I noticed this again as I went on the T around town. I was much more relaxed and even happier when I was in the presence of people of color. As I noticed this, I began to really think about why this was. It would be easy for me to just start applauding myself about how I've clearly "moved passed" racism. "I have learned to love people of color like they were my brothers and sisters! Amen!" Not so fast. It doesn't work that way. I'll admit that I will, in a moment of anger or frustration, internally call someone a racial epithet; or when I'm nervous because someone is acting in a way that I see as threatening or rude, I'll blame it on that person's race. Even if I stop myself right after thinking that, I still thought it. Racism lives on, no matter how much we (white people) wish to think otherwise. (Hey, just because you voted for Obama doesn't mean racism is dead.) But why did being in the presence of people of color, regardless if I wasn't interacting with them, put me at ease? The only thing I could come up with was: familiarity.
As a little bit of background, I'm from San Francisco, a city known for its diversity. I also formerly tutored inner city kids where there wasn't a white face amongst them, except for me and the other white teachers. I practice yoga at a studio where not everyone in the room is a straight white woman in her late twenties/early 30s. (We actually have a great crew of diverse queer people in attendance.) I'm used to riding on the bus and hearing at least three different languages at once (and none of them are from Europe). I'm not phased at all by any of it. I live with at least four or five people of color, and I'm close to a few of them. So I guess you could say that I'm used to being the odd one out. I've learned to accept my "minority" status in my small social circle. Except, maybe it's not that simple either. Yes, I have the appreciation for diversity, and I have the desire for the end of racial hegemony (which is an effect of systematic racism), but with this can come a kind of apathy and ignorance of race and the need to form genuine relationships with people and communities of color.
I realized that what I was encountering here in Boston was "color noise", as opposed to "white noise." I didn't feel the need to interact with these people, and I was satisfied to have them just be the background for my surroundings. What has often been noticed by those who study racism regarding white people in this country and their attitudes toward race and racism is, 1) the idea that being white is "normal", and 2) that there is no need to have significant relationships with other people of color, as long as they themselves don't harbor any personal prejudices. Both of these are outright lies. Yes, white is seen as the norm, but it doesn't mean that white isn't a race (but it is obviously a race with clear social distinction and social consequences based upon that distinction). Essentially, for most white people in this country, they have gotten used to the "white noise." For me, because of my own experiences in diverse settings, including being in a student activist group where white people were the minority, I have experienced getting used to the "color noise." I didn't notice the diversity I was experiencing until it was gone. I suppose this can be seen as a good thing. It shows that there is a possibility for, not only racial tolerance, but racial acceptance. But again, even though I have had positive experiences and relationships with people of color, I am still enclosed in my white bubble. I no longer have close relationships with my former student activists (Facebook does not count), I work as a nanny in a predominantly white neighborhood in San Francisco, I attend a predominantly white parish in a denomination known for its whiteness (Episcopalian), and while I do practice yoga at a diverse studio, I am engaging in something that has been massively appropriated by white Western culture and which continues to be marketed to the white community.
It is not enough that I am used to living with and around people and communities of color. Let it be understood that I am not trying to desparage myself in any way when I say that. Instead, I am acknowledging that more needs to be done, not only by myself, but by other people like me. Relationships need to be developed and encouraged in our communities. White people need to be aware of the problems that exist within communities of color, such as issues of environmental justice, and how our consumer practices can either help or hinder the solutions. We need to start having real conversations about race and racism, and not just in terms of black and white, either. We cannot become used to the "color noise" lest we become deaf to the real issues of justice and equality in our midst.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
This Still Gets Me
About four months ago, I bought the Van Morrison album "Astral Weeks" on vinyl. For those of you who know Van Morrison, this is considered to be one of his best albums (though it turns out, he himself never thought much of it. He just created it as a way to pay the bills). The title track is one of the most beautiful on the album, and one of my favorite songs ever. Around the same time that I bought the album, I went looking on YouTube for a possible video of the title track. The first one that came up was a live cover done by Glen Hansard. The minute this guy opened his mouth, I knew I had come upon something really special. (You may remember Hansard as one of the main characters in the movie "Once".) There was a quality in his voice that captivated me, and when he uttered the words in the chorus my heart just ached. It still does, and I'm still trying to figure out why.
Hansard doesn't use all of the lyrics that Morrison did, but it doesn't in anyway take away the power of his performance. This song is about desperation, but not in a pathetic sense. It's about a longing for things to be different, to start over. ("Could you find me?/Would you kiss-a my eyes/Lay me down in the silence easy/To be born again.") If you look at the full lyrics here, you can see that this is all about a relationship that is ending, or struggling, or has already ended. He wants to be found by his love, almost like a lost child being found by his mother. He wants the struggle to be over, for the complexity to disappear and be left with one who will always love him, will always find him, and never let him go. He's battling between still loving this person, and realizing that things aren't the way they should be and that it's probably time to go. It's a realistic message, and yet the music behind it makes it poetic and ethereal. It's both relatable and somehow seperate from our existence. I guess this is what really good music can do.
But back to Hansard's performance. He embodies the message of this song by the way he sings it, by the way he passionately strums his beat up guitar. The gentle desperation in his voice as he sings, "Would you find me?" gives way to outrage as he screams, "Don't you point that finger at me, no!" and crazily strums away between two chords as if he's trying to tear his own heart apart to show his anguish. It's perfect, and it gets me every time. I must have posted that video to my Facebook profile at least three times. I want people to get it, to understand the power and emotion behind this little-over-three-minute performance; to feel every word sung not only sink into the soul, but rake across the skin as it makes its way in. . .and to breathe easy and deep while it all happens.
I know it seems silly to be so emotionally attached to one little song, but I'm a firm believer that music is the sound the soul makes. And I'm not the only one who feels this way. According to an article from Wikipedia (yeah, I know), Lester Bangs wrote of the album: "What Astral Weeks deals in are not facts but truths. Astral Weeks, insofar as it can be pinned down, is a record about people stunned by life, completely overwhelmed, stalled in their skins, their ages and selves, paralyzed by the enormity of what in one moment of vision they can comprehend." All of this in an album. A man struggles between love and anger and desperation in one little song. And another man picks up his beat up guitar, gently tells the crowd in his lilting Irish accent, "I'm gonna play you a Van Morrison song," and succeeds in making every phrase sung come alive with the passion and complex emotion it was meant to have. Beautiful.
Hansard doesn't use all of the lyrics that Morrison did, but it doesn't in anyway take away the power of his performance. This song is about desperation, but not in a pathetic sense. It's about a longing for things to be different, to start over. ("Could you find me?/Would you kiss-a my eyes/Lay me down in the silence easy/To be born again.") If you look at the full lyrics here, you can see that this is all about a relationship that is ending, or struggling, or has already ended. He wants to be found by his love, almost like a lost child being found by his mother. He wants the struggle to be over, for the complexity to disappear and be left with one who will always love him, will always find him, and never let him go. He's battling between still loving this person, and realizing that things aren't the way they should be and that it's probably time to go. It's a realistic message, and yet the music behind it makes it poetic and ethereal. It's both relatable and somehow seperate from our existence. I guess this is what really good music can do.
But back to Hansard's performance. He embodies the message of this song by the way he sings it, by the way he passionately strums his beat up guitar. The gentle desperation in his voice as he sings, "Would you find me?" gives way to outrage as he screams, "Don't you point that finger at me, no!" and crazily strums away between two chords as if he's trying to tear his own heart apart to show his anguish. It's perfect, and it gets me every time. I must have posted that video to my Facebook profile at least three times. I want people to get it, to understand the power and emotion behind this little-over-three-minute performance; to feel every word sung not only sink into the soul, but rake across the skin as it makes its way in. . .and to breathe easy and deep while it all happens.
I know it seems silly to be so emotionally attached to one little song, but I'm a firm believer that music is the sound the soul makes. And I'm not the only one who feels this way. According to an article from Wikipedia (yeah, I know), Lester Bangs wrote of the album: "What Astral Weeks deals in are not facts but truths. Astral Weeks, insofar as it can be pinned down, is a record about people stunned by life, completely overwhelmed, stalled in their skins, their ages and selves, paralyzed by the enormity of what in one moment of vision they can comprehend." All of this in an album. A man struggles between love and anger and desperation in one little song. And another man picks up his beat up guitar, gently tells the crowd in his lilting Irish accent, "I'm gonna play you a Van Morrison song," and succeeds in making every phrase sung come alive with the passion and complex emotion it was meant to have. Beautiful.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
The Weight of Words (working title)
A little bit of background before we begin tonight...
My father was raised Jewish, but then converted to Christianity before I was born. My mom has been Christian all her life, so I was never really exposed to my Jewish heritage. Yeah, we had a menorah for Hanukkah, but we didn't read the prayers or celebrated with any other Jewish families. For a time, mostly in elementary school, I became more aware of my Jewish roots and took special pride in them. But it didn't culminate into anything serious until I was in my early teens. Before I was "saved" at the age of 14, I had an interest in becoming a full fledged Jew. The opportunity never fully presented itself though. I never even met a rabbi, and I've still never been inside an actual synagogue. So now, even though I am a confirmed and enthusiastic Episcopalian, I've taken an interest in my Jewish roots once more. I've attended two Shabbat services at Mission Minyan, a lay led group of Jewish folks who meet every Friday and Saturday in the Mission. All of it is in Hebrew (which I don't speak, let alone know how to read), but I've taken quite a liking to the services and the written Hebrew language itself. I've liked it so much in fact, that I bought a book on how to teach yourself to read Hebrew (and no, it's not Hebrew for Dummies, though I'm sure they have that book around somewhere), as well as the New Union Prayer Book. I originally bought the latter because I thought that it would include the transliteration (now that's the real Hebrew for Dummies!), but it didn't. Luckily it comes with an English translation, as well as added prayers and poems only written in English. And I guess that's why I'm here writing this now...
I came upon a few passages that resonated with me, and I just felt like sharing them. I have no plan to write any kind of analysis or reflection, but we'll see where the mood takes me. For now, I'm satisfied to let the passages speak for themselves.
From page 658:
Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God!
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.
From page 659:
Lord, where can I find You?
Your glory fills the world.
Behold, I find You
Where the ploughman breaks the hard soil,
Where the quarrier explodes stone out of the hillside,
Where the miner digs metals out of the reluctant earth,
Where men and women earn their bread by the sweat of their brow,
Among the lonely and poor, the lowly and lost.
In blazing heat and shattering storm, You are with them.
Behold, I find You
In the mind free to sail by its own star,
In words that spring from the depth of truth,
Where endeavor reaches undespairing for perfection,
Where the scientist toils to unravel the secrets of Your world,
Where the poet makes beauty out of words,
Wherever people struggle for freedom,
Wherever noble deeds are done.
Behold, I find You
In the shouts of children merry at their play,
In the mother's lullaby, as she rocks her baby in the cradle,
In the sleep falling on his infant eyelids,
And in the smile that dances on his sleeping lips.
Behold, I find You
When dawn comes up bearing golden gifts,
And in the fall of evening peace and rest from the Western sea.
In the current of life flowing day and night through all things,
Throbbing in my sinews and in the dust of the earth,
In every leaf and flower.
Behold, I find You
In the wealth of joys that quickly fade,
In the life that from eternity dances in my blood,
In birth, which renews the generations continually,
And in death knocking on the doors of life.
O my God,
Give me strength never to disown the poor,
Never before insolent might to bow the head.
Give me strength to raise my spirit high above daily trifles,
Lightly to bear my joys and sorrows,
And in love to surrender all my strength to Your will.
For great are Your gifts to me:
The sky and the light. This is my flesh.
Life and the soul--
Treasures beyond prices, treasures of life and of love.
From page 670:
I have been acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in the rain--and back in the rain.
I have out walked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say goodbye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
From page 671:
. . .how strange we grow when we're alone,
And how unlike the selves that meet and talk,
And blow the candles out and say good night,
Alone. . . .the word is life endured and known.
It is the stillness where our spirits walk
And all but inmost faith is overthrown.
For some weird reason, this last passage reminds me of a scene from Angels in America. The scene is both in the film and in the play (I read the latter, and saw the former), and it consists of Harper talking to the female Mormon mannequin at the Mormon visitor's center. (I know this sounds really ridiculous, but just bear with me.) Harper has just separated from her husband who has come out of the closet, and she is grieving over the loss. She begins to talk to the mannequin who is at first inanimate and then springs to life. (Whether this is another one of Harper's hallucinations or if it's actually happening is anyone's guess. The movie/play is known for having strange things happen throughout that are surreal and questionable as to their actually happening.) Their conversation continues, and then Harper asks, "In your experience of the world, how do people change?" The woman answers.
"Well, it has something to do with God so it isn't very nice. God splits the skin with a jagged thumbnail from throat to belly and then plunges a huge filthy hand in. He grabs hold of your bloody tubes and they slip to evade his grasp, but he squeezes hard, he insists. He pulls and pulls till all your innards are yanked out. And the pain! We can't even talk about that. And then he stuffs them back: dirty, tangled and torn. It's up to you to do the stitching."
"And then get up," Harper finishes. "And walk around."
"Just mangled guts pretending," the woman replies.
This scene (which, by the way, can be found here) may not be exactly what the previous passage said, but somehow it's related. The "Alone" passage is about growth and the painful process of it. In Harper's case, it's about change and the pain of it. Pretty much one and same, actually, now that I think about it. "Alone. . . .the word is life endured and known." Life tears us apart and then asks us to keep on walking despite our "bloody tubes" being "dirty, tangled and torn" and falling out of us every which way. We are constantly becoming undone and stitching ourselves back up, even though we know we'll get ripped apart all over again. Sure, we all have our coping mechanisms and even ways to prevent our undoing again. But all that saves us from is becoming more human, more whole. Ironic, right? Yeah.
My father was raised Jewish, but then converted to Christianity before I was born. My mom has been Christian all her life, so I was never really exposed to my Jewish heritage. Yeah, we had a menorah for Hanukkah, but we didn't read the prayers or celebrated with any other Jewish families. For a time, mostly in elementary school, I became more aware of my Jewish roots and took special pride in them. But it didn't culminate into anything serious until I was in my early teens. Before I was "saved" at the age of 14, I had an interest in becoming a full fledged Jew. The opportunity never fully presented itself though. I never even met a rabbi, and I've still never been inside an actual synagogue. So now, even though I am a confirmed and enthusiastic Episcopalian, I've taken an interest in my Jewish roots once more. I've attended two Shabbat services at Mission Minyan, a lay led group of Jewish folks who meet every Friday and Saturday in the Mission. All of it is in Hebrew (which I don't speak, let alone know how to read), but I've taken quite a liking to the services and the written Hebrew language itself. I've liked it so much in fact, that I bought a book on how to teach yourself to read Hebrew (and no, it's not Hebrew for Dummies, though I'm sure they have that book around somewhere), as well as the New Union Prayer Book. I originally bought the latter because I thought that it would include the transliteration (now that's the real Hebrew for Dummies!), but it didn't. Luckily it comes with an English translation, as well as added prayers and poems only written in English. And I guess that's why I'm here writing this now...
I came upon a few passages that resonated with me, and I just felt like sharing them. I have no plan to write any kind of analysis or reflection, but we'll see where the mood takes me. For now, I'm satisfied to let the passages speak for themselves.
From page 658:
Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God!
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.
From page 659:
Lord, where can I find You?
Your glory fills the world.
Behold, I find You
Where the ploughman breaks the hard soil,
Where the quarrier explodes stone out of the hillside,
Where the miner digs metals out of the reluctant earth,
Where men and women earn their bread by the sweat of their brow,
Among the lonely and poor, the lowly and lost.
In blazing heat and shattering storm, You are with them.
Behold, I find You
In the mind free to sail by its own star,
In words that spring from the depth of truth,
Where endeavor reaches undespairing for perfection,
Where the scientist toils to unravel the secrets of Your world,
Where the poet makes beauty out of words,
Wherever people struggle for freedom,
Wherever noble deeds are done.
Behold, I find You
In the shouts of children merry at their play,
In the mother's lullaby, as she rocks her baby in the cradle,
In the sleep falling on his infant eyelids,
And in the smile that dances on his sleeping lips.
Behold, I find You
When dawn comes up bearing golden gifts,
And in the fall of evening peace and rest from the Western sea.
In the current of life flowing day and night through all things,
Throbbing in my sinews and in the dust of the earth,
In every leaf and flower.
Behold, I find You
In the wealth of joys that quickly fade,
In the life that from eternity dances in my blood,
In birth, which renews the generations continually,
And in death knocking on the doors of life.
O my God,
Give me strength never to disown the poor,
Never before insolent might to bow the head.
Give me strength to raise my spirit high above daily trifles,
Lightly to bear my joys and sorrows,
And in love to surrender all my strength to Your will.
For great are Your gifts to me:
The sky and the light. This is my flesh.
Life and the soul--
Treasures beyond prices, treasures of life and of love.
From page 670:
I have been acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in the rain--and back in the rain.
I have out walked the furthest city light.
I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.
I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,
But not to call me back or say goodbye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
From page 671:
. . .how strange we grow when we're alone,
And how unlike the selves that meet and talk,
And blow the candles out and say good night,
Alone. . . .the word is life endured and known.
It is the stillness where our spirits walk
And all but inmost faith is overthrown.
For some weird reason, this last passage reminds me of a scene from Angels in America. The scene is both in the film and in the play (I read the latter, and saw the former), and it consists of Harper talking to the female Mormon mannequin at the Mormon visitor's center. (I know this sounds really ridiculous, but just bear with me.) Harper has just separated from her husband who has come out of the closet, and she is grieving over the loss. She begins to talk to the mannequin who is at first inanimate and then springs to life. (Whether this is another one of Harper's hallucinations or if it's actually happening is anyone's guess. The movie/play is known for having strange things happen throughout that are surreal and questionable as to their actually happening.) Their conversation continues, and then Harper asks, "In your experience of the world, how do people change?" The woman answers.
"Well, it has something to do with God so it isn't very nice. God splits the skin with a jagged thumbnail from throat to belly and then plunges a huge filthy hand in. He grabs hold of your bloody tubes and they slip to evade his grasp, but he squeezes hard, he insists. He pulls and pulls till all your innards are yanked out. And the pain! We can't even talk about that. And then he stuffs them back: dirty, tangled and torn. It's up to you to do the stitching."
"And then get up," Harper finishes. "And walk around."
"Just mangled guts pretending," the woman replies.
This scene (which, by the way, can be found here) may not be exactly what the previous passage said, but somehow it's related. The "Alone" passage is about growth and the painful process of it. In Harper's case, it's about change and the pain of it. Pretty much one and same, actually, now that I think about it. "Alone. . . .the word is life endured and known." Life tears us apart and then asks us to keep on walking despite our "bloody tubes" being "dirty, tangled and torn" and falling out of us every which way. We are constantly becoming undone and stitching ourselves back up, even though we know we'll get ripped apart all over again. Sure, we all have our coping mechanisms and even ways to prevent our undoing again. But all that saves us from is becoming more human, more whole. Ironic, right? Yeah.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Just Felt Like Writing
I don't know why I just felt like writing something. It's a Wednesday night, I didn't go to yoga, and I'm listening to Ray Lamontagne's "Lesson Learned." So I guess something's stirring inside that needs to be thrown down here. I think it's been brewing for a while, just never knew how to put it into words. Maybe I still don't. But trying never hurt anyone. . .
I can't seem to understand this whole missing someone thing. The best way to get over someone is to be distracted, meet new people, develop new connections, pick up a new hobby, get involved with life. I've been trying and been somewhat successful. But then that empty feeling seems to come along anyway, almost like hunger before each meal. Except with this, I'm really not sure how to feed it.
I have met new people. Some good, and some not so good. When it comes to the not so good, it doesn't help the missing part. It just seems to make it worse, like vinegar on a wound. But even when I've met someone who has all the qualities that I want, it turns out they're just the qualities that were in the first person to begin with. It's like falling in love with the original painting, but finding out that only a print of it can be owned, never the original. (As a somewhat related tangent, tonight I fell in love with a picture by Salvador Dali called "Figure at Window". It's perfect in every way. Simple, fresh, deep, beautiful. It's not like his other paintings, and that's one of the reasons I love it so much. It's not something you would expect from Dali. But I can't find a single website that sells a print of it in the size I need. I could buy a larger size and have it cropped, but then the border would be all wrong and it would look all tacky and blah blah blah. See what I mean? Not the same as when you find that perfect fit.)
No one is pefect, I know this. Even finding someone who is "perfect" for you is really a lie. We're going to have those uneven edges in ourselves that have to be worked with if you want the relationship to work. Compromise is a must, and it's a balance to know how much to give and how much to ask to take away. It's never easy, but there are those it's easier to do it with. That's what makes it perfect. It isn't the person in and of themselves necessarily, it's how you and that person work together to try to make it all fit.
And yet, when you find that person where everything just clicks, where you feel like there's still more to know about them, but that you "get" them and they "get" you regardless of the specifics, known or unknown, how can you help but feel that there was something perfect about this person? They're not without imperfection, but the imperfections make them who they are and that's what's perfect. You feel like you don't have to be anything but yourself when you're around them. And it's scary. It's scary to know that there could possibly be someone who is really like that. They may not be the only one, but shit! If they are at least one of the ones, then what's to lose? Everything. You lose the fantasy of what life would be like being with them, and you have to actually be with them. You lose that sense of security that seems inherent in the search itself. The search: it's like seeking the Grail. You spend so much time looking for it, there may be a sense of loss once you find it. So you tell yourself this couldn't possibly be it, and so you can go out looking again. And there's loss in that, too. How can you go back if you've already told yourself that wasn't it?
Let it be known, I was the one who left, but not to be the seeker. It was because I realized I was no longer sought after. I had no desire to lie to myself and think that the one I sought had found me when it was obvious they hadn't. . .or at least that they had forgotten. I left with every intention of eventually moving on and seeking that imperfect perfection again, this time in someone else. But now I know the truth of it, and I am caught between two lies. Which one is worse?
I don't know how long I'll have this post up. It might even be deleted by the morning. It's not like anyone really reads this thing anyway. I might as well be talking to walls. But when you have roommates in a house where sound travels easily, it seems that writing it all down is the better way to go.
I can't seem to understand this whole missing someone thing. The best way to get over someone is to be distracted, meet new people, develop new connections, pick up a new hobby, get involved with life. I've been trying and been somewhat successful. But then that empty feeling seems to come along anyway, almost like hunger before each meal. Except with this, I'm really not sure how to feed it.
I have met new people. Some good, and some not so good. When it comes to the not so good, it doesn't help the missing part. It just seems to make it worse, like vinegar on a wound. But even when I've met someone who has all the qualities that I want, it turns out they're just the qualities that were in the first person to begin with. It's like falling in love with the original painting, but finding out that only a print of it can be owned, never the original. (As a somewhat related tangent, tonight I fell in love with a picture by Salvador Dali called "Figure at Window". It's perfect in every way. Simple, fresh, deep, beautiful. It's not like his other paintings, and that's one of the reasons I love it so much. It's not something you would expect from Dali. But I can't find a single website that sells a print of it in the size I need. I could buy a larger size and have it cropped, but then the border would be all wrong and it would look all tacky and blah blah blah. See what I mean? Not the same as when you find that perfect fit.)
No one is pefect, I know this. Even finding someone who is "perfect" for you is really a lie. We're going to have those uneven edges in ourselves that have to be worked with if you want the relationship to work. Compromise is a must, and it's a balance to know how much to give and how much to ask to take away. It's never easy, but there are those it's easier to do it with. That's what makes it perfect. It isn't the person in and of themselves necessarily, it's how you and that person work together to try to make it all fit.
And yet, when you find that person where everything just clicks, where you feel like there's still more to know about them, but that you "get" them and they "get" you regardless of the specifics, known or unknown, how can you help but feel that there was something perfect about this person? They're not without imperfection, but the imperfections make them who they are and that's what's perfect. You feel like you don't have to be anything but yourself when you're around them. And it's scary. It's scary to know that there could possibly be someone who is really like that. They may not be the only one, but shit! If they are at least one of the ones, then what's to lose? Everything. You lose the fantasy of what life would be like being with them, and you have to actually be with them. You lose that sense of security that seems inherent in the search itself. The search: it's like seeking the Grail. You spend so much time looking for it, there may be a sense of loss once you find it. So you tell yourself this couldn't possibly be it, and so you can go out looking again. And there's loss in that, too. How can you go back if you've already told yourself that wasn't it?
Let it be known, I was the one who left, but not to be the seeker. It was because I realized I was no longer sought after. I had no desire to lie to myself and think that the one I sought had found me when it was obvious they hadn't. . .or at least that they had forgotten. I left with every intention of eventually moving on and seeking that imperfect perfection again, this time in someone else. But now I know the truth of it, and I am caught between two lies. Which one is worse?
I don't know how long I'll have this post up. It might even be deleted by the morning. It's not like anyone really reads this thing anyway. I might as well be talking to walls. But when you have roommates in a house where sound travels easily, it seems that writing it all down is the better way to go.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Kunstler and the state of activism and revolution in the U.S.
I recently received a phone call from a former roommate of mine. When he used to live at the house, he and I would engage in discussions, usually having some opposing views. He would assert his views as "the truth" in some form, which I would brush off as being symptomatic of his 19 year old arrogance. (Hey, we all go through it.) So when he called to tell me that he was starting a "psychological revolution", I braced myself for an interesting conversation.
The concept of his revolution was this: What does everyone want? They want attention. So give it to them. Listen to everyone, no matter what. Sounds simple enough, right? Even compassionate. But while I agreed that we should make more of an effort to listen to people, especially the voices of those which the dominant society attempts to suppress, I also recognized that listening to everyone wasn't always possible, nor always helpful to our own selves. If we listened to everyone, where would our own voice be? And what about listening to those who released within us psychological triggers? Would that be helpful to us personally, to sacrifice our own psychological well being for the purpose of the greater "psychological revolution"?
Throughout our brief discussion, I realized that something was not right with this person I was speaking to. I had an inkling at the beginning, but as it began to unfold, I saw more and more that this person was pretty much off his rocker. He attested that what he was doing at that moment, i.e. listening to me, was revolutionary. I told him that while it could be a revolutionary act, depending upon the context, it was not in an of itself a revolution, nor would such a large scale revolution occur. When I asked him why he was doing this, trying to start a revolution, he replied, "Because I'm a megalomaniac." (I actually had to look the definition up because I had forgotten what it was. Courtesy of The American Heritage Dictionary, here is the definition of megalomania: "A mental disorder characterized by delusions of wealth, power, or omnipotence.") I don't know for sure if he is a megalomaniac (though he defined his state of being as "someone who stirs up the pot, starting revolutions and inciting anarchy."), but he certainly seemed manic. It was clear to me that the conversation was not going anywhere constructive, and I ended it by telling him that he needed professional help. I was completely serious. "Ok. Later, Beth." And that was it.
So what does this preamble have to do with someone named Kunstler? Well, nothing directly. I'll tie everything together at the end, I promise. But for now, I'll move on and tell you who William "Bill" Kunstler was. (And if you already know, you can skip this section if you wish.)
Kunstler was an American lawyer during the 1960s through the early 90s, who famously began championing civil rights along with Dr. King Jr. Not only that, but he defended nine people who stole and burned draft files in protest of the Vietnam War. Furthermore, he defended eight people who were on trial for inciting a riot during the 1968 protest of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, which included Bobby Seal (one of the members of the Black Panther Party). He stood with the American Indian Movement (AIM) when they occupied Wounded Knee. He also negotiated with the prisoners at Attica prison in New York after the prisoners took over, not in order to be freed, but that their physical conditions may be improved upon. (That situation, unfortunately, ended in tragedy. Over 30, mostly black, prisoners were killed, along with nine prison guards, by the police who came in shooting, no questions asked.) Later in his career, he took even more controversial cases, such as defending an Arab man who shot and killed a leader of a radical Jewish movement which preached hatred against Arabs. He defended people who were defined as terrorists and criminals (such as John Gotti).
Regardless of whether you agree with his actions, whether altogether or in part, there is no denying that this man was amazing. He was a powerhouse, a legend. He stood up against an unjust social and political system and cried out, "Power to the people!" He took the stance that violence committed by the oppressed cannot fully be called violence because the true violence was perpetuated by those who were the oppressors. He asserted that all white people, including himself, were racist by virtue of being born into a system of privilege. This man was, in his own way, a revolutionary. He worked within the legal system in order to expose its injustices. Many may have set out to do the same in their own careers, and have failed. Kunstler succeeded.
Unfortunately, he died at the age of 76. But this entry is not an obituary for a revolutionary. Rather, this man's professional, and in a way personal, life is the inspiration for this entry. I only just learned of Kunstler tonight from watching a documentary that was put together by his daughters called "William Kunstler: Disturbing the Universe." It was in viewing this documentary that I began to reflect on the state of revolution and activism in our present day.
Before I go into that, I would like to briefly return to a scene in the film. It's footage of Kunstler giving a commencement speech shortly before his death. In it, he speaks of Michaelangelo's statue of David. I never knew this until now, but that statue is actually about the choice to act. The pose that David is shown to be in is right before he decides to slay Goliath. He has a stone in his right hand, a sling over his shoulder, and he's contemplating what to do. Kunstler used this image as his inspiration, and in his commencement speech sought to inspire those who were graduating. He said that all would encounter moments in their life where they would be called to act. Those moments would most likely not be in the public view, but rather internally, which made it all the more easy to not act. "But," he said, "When the time comes, I hope that you will decide to act, if your time has not come already."
It gave me pause and made me think about when my moment might be, or whether it had already come. Maybe there's more than just one moment for each of us. Some moments are seminal, catapaulting us into a new way of being. Sometimes it is only a moment, or a brief period of time that can shift us minimally until the next time we are called. At any rate, I also started to think about the state of activism now.
The 60s and 70s are long past, and activism has changed significantly in some ways, especially here in the U.S. People still gather in the streets, but this is seen as "symbolic" (and if it's seen as anything else, it's usually as a riot...the recent Oscar Grant protests come to mind). And now, mainstream activism, while still held as "collective", is anything but. It's individuals donating money to their favorite causes, signing petitions online or on the street, sending one word texts to organizations in support of some cause. Direct action has lost its power.
I honestly thought we were getting it back during the Obama campaign. I had hope that we were seeing a revolutionary campaign, that our nation was finally starting to heal from the tyranny and injustice of the Bush adminstration. I really thought that we were going to see a lot of changes happening. Even when Obama promised that it was going to be slow, I wasn't expecting what we have come to see. Yes, some change has occured, but I realize now that we are settling for crumbs when we hoped for a feast. We have started to back down under the pressure of the conservative right wing nuts who want to co-opt the anniversary of The March on Washington. The BP oil spill has destroyed a vital part of an ecosystem (and is STILL destroying it), and no one is out in the streets to protest off shore oil drilling, or to protest judges who have had investments in BP and are letting the big guys at the top off the hook. I know I myself have had to look away and mentally block out what is going on in the Gulf. (And whether you agree with it or not, I have to admire those folks who gathered on the shore to pray. It may not have "worked" but at least it was an effort in the right direction, in the sense that they were putting their energy out into a desperate situation, whereas the rest of us want to turn a blind eye. They at least looked the monster in the face.)
So, now it's time to (attempt) to tie it all together. My former roommate is still clearly off his rocker, and I do sincerely hope that he gets help. But I understand his motives in a way. He wants to DO something. He's tired of the way things are, he sees people are in need of being listened to, and he wants others to start listening. We are a nation that has turned deaf, or at least has selective hearing. We have been this way for quite a long time, but during the time of the 60s and 70s, even though it was a time of intense struggle, there were people who listened. And it did change things to an extent. Where I feel we are now as a whole is in a state of apathy and hopelessness. We're tired and our movements have been co-opted by the powerful. Power no longer rests with the people but with the consumer who can buy that shirt from the GAP so that the money goes to support AIDS relief...or who can buy that plastic bottle made from plants so they can feel good about themselves for helping to "save" the planet...or who can buy fair trade coffee from Starbucks in order to "support" worker's rights.
This is the political and social state of things. In spite of this, I am not calling for a revolution. Honestly, I think with any revolution that occurs, the end result will be far different than what people originally envision. Honestly, I don't exactly know what I want to happen. I guess I want our actions of fighting for what's right to actually MEAN something. That they won't be merely symbolic but show our real power as a collective. I guess I want what my former (now slightly megalomaniac) roommate says every person on the planet wants: I want the voices of the oppressed to be listened to. More than that, I want things to change as a result of listening.
But who's going to make that happen?
The concept of his revolution was this: What does everyone want? They want attention. So give it to them. Listen to everyone, no matter what. Sounds simple enough, right? Even compassionate. But while I agreed that we should make more of an effort to listen to people, especially the voices of those which the dominant society attempts to suppress, I also recognized that listening to everyone wasn't always possible, nor always helpful to our own selves. If we listened to everyone, where would our own voice be? And what about listening to those who released within us psychological triggers? Would that be helpful to us personally, to sacrifice our own psychological well being for the purpose of the greater "psychological revolution"?
Throughout our brief discussion, I realized that something was not right with this person I was speaking to. I had an inkling at the beginning, but as it began to unfold, I saw more and more that this person was pretty much off his rocker. He attested that what he was doing at that moment, i.e. listening to me, was revolutionary. I told him that while it could be a revolutionary act, depending upon the context, it was not in an of itself a revolution, nor would such a large scale revolution occur. When I asked him why he was doing this, trying to start a revolution, he replied, "Because I'm a megalomaniac." (I actually had to look the definition up because I had forgotten what it was. Courtesy of The American Heritage Dictionary, here is the definition of megalomania: "A mental disorder characterized by delusions of wealth, power, or omnipotence.") I don't know for sure if he is a megalomaniac (though he defined his state of being as "someone who stirs up the pot, starting revolutions and inciting anarchy."), but he certainly seemed manic. It was clear to me that the conversation was not going anywhere constructive, and I ended it by telling him that he needed professional help. I was completely serious. "Ok. Later, Beth." And that was it.
So what does this preamble have to do with someone named Kunstler? Well, nothing directly. I'll tie everything together at the end, I promise. But for now, I'll move on and tell you who William "Bill" Kunstler was. (And if you already know, you can skip this section if you wish.)
Kunstler was an American lawyer during the 1960s through the early 90s, who famously began championing civil rights along with Dr. King Jr. Not only that, but he defended nine people who stole and burned draft files in protest of the Vietnam War. Furthermore, he defended eight people who were on trial for inciting a riot during the 1968 protest of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, which included Bobby Seal (one of the members of the Black Panther Party). He stood with the American Indian Movement (AIM) when they occupied Wounded Knee. He also negotiated with the prisoners at Attica prison in New York after the prisoners took over, not in order to be freed, but that their physical conditions may be improved upon. (That situation, unfortunately, ended in tragedy. Over 30, mostly black, prisoners were killed, along with nine prison guards, by the police who came in shooting, no questions asked.) Later in his career, he took even more controversial cases, such as defending an Arab man who shot and killed a leader of a radical Jewish movement which preached hatred against Arabs. He defended people who were defined as terrorists and criminals (such as John Gotti).
Regardless of whether you agree with his actions, whether altogether or in part, there is no denying that this man was amazing. He was a powerhouse, a legend. He stood up against an unjust social and political system and cried out, "Power to the people!" He took the stance that violence committed by the oppressed cannot fully be called violence because the true violence was perpetuated by those who were the oppressors. He asserted that all white people, including himself, were racist by virtue of being born into a system of privilege. This man was, in his own way, a revolutionary. He worked within the legal system in order to expose its injustices. Many may have set out to do the same in their own careers, and have failed. Kunstler succeeded.
Unfortunately, he died at the age of 76. But this entry is not an obituary for a revolutionary. Rather, this man's professional, and in a way personal, life is the inspiration for this entry. I only just learned of Kunstler tonight from watching a documentary that was put together by his daughters called "William Kunstler: Disturbing the Universe." It was in viewing this documentary that I began to reflect on the state of revolution and activism in our present day.
Before I go into that, I would like to briefly return to a scene in the film. It's footage of Kunstler giving a commencement speech shortly before his death. In it, he speaks of Michaelangelo's statue of David. I never knew this until now, but that statue is actually about the choice to act. The pose that David is shown to be in is right before he decides to slay Goliath. He has a stone in his right hand, a sling over his shoulder, and he's contemplating what to do. Kunstler used this image as his inspiration, and in his commencement speech sought to inspire those who were graduating. He said that all would encounter moments in their life where they would be called to act. Those moments would most likely not be in the public view, but rather internally, which made it all the more easy to not act. "But," he said, "When the time comes, I hope that you will decide to act, if your time has not come already."
It gave me pause and made me think about when my moment might be, or whether it had already come. Maybe there's more than just one moment for each of us. Some moments are seminal, catapaulting us into a new way of being. Sometimes it is only a moment, or a brief period of time that can shift us minimally until the next time we are called. At any rate, I also started to think about the state of activism now.
The 60s and 70s are long past, and activism has changed significantly in some ways, especially here in the U.S. People still gather in the streets, but this is seen as "symbolic" (and if it's seen as anything else, it's usually as a riot...the recent Oscar Grant protests come to mind). And now, mainstream activism, while still held as "collective", is anything but. It's individuals donating money to their favorite causes, signing petitions online or on the street, sending one word texts to organizations in support of some cause. Direct action has lost its power.
I honestly thought we were getting it back during the Obama campaign. I had hope that we were seeing a revolutionary campaign, that our nation was finally starting to heal from the tyranny and injustice of the Bush adminstration. I really thought that we were going to see a lot of changes happening. Even when Obama promised that it was going to be slow, I wasn't expecting what we have come to see. Yes, some change has occured, but I realize now that we are settling for crumbs when we hoped for a feast. We have started to back down under the pressure of the conservative right wing nuts who want to co-opt the anniversary of The March on Washington. The BP oil spill has destroyed a vital part of an ecosystem (and is STILL destroying it), and no one is out in the streets to protest off shore oil drilling, or to protest judges who have had investments in BP and are letting the big guys at the top off the hook. I know I myself have had to look away and mentally block out what is going on in the Gulf. (And whether you agree with it or not, I have to admire those folks who gathered on the shore to pray. It may not have "worked" but at least it was an effort in the right direction, in the sense that they were putting their energy out into a desperate situation, whereas the rest of us want to turn a blind eye. They at least looked the monster in the face.)
So, now it's time to (attempt) to tie it all together. My former roommate is still clearly off his rocker, and I do sincerely hope that he gets help. But I understand his motives in a way. He wants to DO something. He's tired of the way things are, he sees people are in need of being listened to, and he wants others to start listening. We are a nation that has turned deaf, or at least has selective hearing. We have been this way for quite a long time, but during the time of the 60s and 70s, even though it was a time of intense struggle, there were people who listened. And it did change things to an extent. Where I feel we are now as a whole is in a state of apathy and hopelessness. We're tired and our movements have been co-opted by the powerful. Power no longer rests with the people but with the consumer who can buy that shirt from the GAP so that the money goes to support AIDS relief...or who can buy that plastic bottle made from plants so they can feel good about themselves for helping to "save" the planet...or who can buy fair trade coffee from Starbucks in order to "support" worker's rights.
This is the political and social state of things. In spite of this, I am not calling for a revolution. Honestly, I think with any revolution that occurs, the end result will be far different than what people originally envision. Honestly, I don't exactly know what I want to happen. I guess I want our actions of fighting for what's right to actually MEAN something. That they won't be merely symbolic but show our real power as a collective. I guess I want what my former (now slightly megalomaniac) roommate says every person on the planet wants: I want the voices of the oppressed to be listened to. More than that, I want things to change as a result of listening.
But who's going to make that happen?
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Consolation, Desolation, Remembering and Dismemberment
*Originally posted as a blog entry on MySpace on 9/11/2008; edited on 7/10/10*
You're in luck because this entry was inspired by notes that I wrote on a brown paper bag from Walgreens while on the BART train going home. Oh joy. Actually, this entry was inspired by real events, plus the not-so-surreal events in a novel called "Kleinzeit" by the ever-brilliant Russell Hoban, and the viewing of various clips from the now cancelled show "Joan of Arcadia" while on YouTube. These inspirations led to mental musings, which led to the notes being written on said brown paper bag from Walgreens while on the BART train going home.
I suppose we shall start with the subject of Consolation, since that is the first word in the title of this entry. For this, we shall go to a scene from a "Joan of Arcadia" episode. Joan's mother, Helen, is explaining to her husband what a priest told her about the concept of consolation. It's described as a period of grace: when everything is flowing, when we are in touch with the universe/God, and what it/He/She wants from us, when we know exactly who we are and how we fit in to it all. I have had these moments. Several times, in fact. I know it sounds wonderful, and it can be. But those supposedly wonderful moments, they're also scary. I say this because in the moment they are happening, I feel like I am losing my sanity. I am in touch with, in communication with, the Universe, or the Creator of the universe, or the Universe as Creator...whatever you want to call it, I have been in touch with it and feel like I have lost touch with what we know as Sanity. But when it happens, somewhere deep down, I know that it's all right, because it's never led me wrong. I feel comforted, taken care of, listened to, when in this period...all of this is mixed in with feelings of fear and even annoyance, because the Universe/God just won't shut up. There can be peace of spirit, but never peace of mind. It's hard to describe if you've never been in it.
I'm going to skip over Desolation for the time being, and move on to Remembering since it is related to Consolation. Remembering in this sense comes from Hoban's work, Kleinzeit. The story itself doesn't matter...it would be too hard to describe at any rate. What does matter is what the title character comes to realize: that one must RE-member oneself. We are all what I like to term "organized messes"--bits and pieces of things thrown together and torn apart again and again. We so rarely are able to feel "whole", if ever. Our "members", bits and pieces of our psychic bodies, are torn apart and thrown overboard and everywhere else. We must RE-member ourselves: put ourselves back together again, even if momentarily, before we are ripped apart once more.
The following may not be the best example to illustrate what I have said thus far, but it will at least give you some insight into the inspiration for this entry. This is from Kleinzeit:
"What're you waiting for, said Hospital. You've remembered yourself, haven't you.
I supposed I have done, said Kleinzeit. But it came and went so fast.
How long do you expect a moment to last, said Hospital.
But to have only one moment! said Kleinzeit.
Rubbish, said Hospital, and rang up Memory. [Hospital asks Memory for Hall of Records, and then asks Hall of Records for Kleinzeit's "moments".]
Moment, said Hall of Records: Spring, age something. Evening, the sky still light, the street lamps coming on. Harmony took place.
I remember, said Kleinzeit.
Moment, said Hall of Records: Summer, age something. Before a thunderstorm. Black sky. A piece of paper whirling in the air high over the street. Harmony took place....
Moment, said Hall of Records: Autumn, age something. Rain. The sound of the gas fire, Sister naked. Atlantis. Harmony took place...
Moment, said Hall of Records: Winter, age something. In hospital. Feeling of circle inside self, sweet rhythm. Harmony took place.
Kleinzeit waited.
Will there be anything else? said Hall of Records.
Place of dismemberment? said Kleinzeit.
Everywhere, all the time, said Hall of Records."
What Hoban is describing here in Kleinzeit are those moments of consolation. They are only moments...short periods of grace, but they occur nonetheless. As I stated before, I have experienced this, usually in longer periods and in different ways. Still, the experiences listed above are familiar in a sense. I have experienced these moments, too, and they are only moments that, once they are recognized for what they are, have passed and gone. "Too much like the lightening 'ere one can say, 'It lightens!'"
And now, we go to desolation, the place where I currently reside.
Going back to Joan, desolation is described by Helen as a place of fear, confusion, and things not working right without any explanation. A moment, a period of grace, and then...silence. Clarity, then confusion. Strength, togetherness, courage; then fear, seperateness and weakness. As for me and my relationship with this divine universal creation/creator, this is where I am.
A year ago, I knew exactly where I was that I wanted to go. I had plans for seminary and the priesthood in the Episcopal church. Nothing was clear cut, but I knew that's what I wanted to do. I was set in my path and went about to tackle the formalities of going on that path. But something stopped me. Doubt began to settle in, and God went silent. Actually, God began to slowly disappear. S/he would appear out of the corner of my eye, but would never come into full view. I could hear barely audible whispers, but no real words of clarity. And then, one day, it stopped all together. I'd hear the voice, but never really sure where it was coming from or if I should trust it. Seminary has been put off indefinitely, and since that time when I made the decision, all conversation with God has ceased. I am angry because where I thought I was being led turned out to be different than what I expected. I feel alone because now I am not being told where to go. The guidance that I was receiving before is no longer here and I feel as if I am moving about haphazardly, like fumbling in the dark for a light switch.
I have been contemplating this state of being that I have found myself in. I am well aware that it is something that is experienced often. As Hall of Records said to Kleinzeit's request for moments of dismemberment: "Everywhere, all the time." St. John of the Cross referred to it as "the dark night of the soul," and it was "discovered" more than ten years after her death that Mother Teresa went through an extremely long period of desolation. No one is immune, it seems. And so I have contemplated as to why this happens. You must forgive me if this explanation seems trite and puts down humanity, for that is not my intention by any means.
While I am not an essentialist, and I hesitate to use this word, I believe that we are in more periods of dismemberment and desolation because of our finite "nature." God is infinite, and we are not. True, we are made of matter, and matter is neither created nor destroyed, and so matter is infinite in nature. But our own understanding is not infinite. Our consciousness is not infinite. There are realms that our minds cannot reach, no matter how much we try. (I will not assert any reason for our finite "nature." The whole theory---if it can be called that---of original sin and our fall from grace is a load of rubbish/hogwash, and is in no way an intelligible explanation. I actually don't feel that our finite nature needs an explanation. It's a mere fact, and I am comfortable in letting it be so. ) And so, the fact that some of us are capable of communicating and feeling in touch with an infinite being, even if it only in brief periods of time, is really quite remarkable.
There cannot be any known purpose for desolation. We can try as we might to understand it, put forth the question, "Why me?" In the end, I believe all we'll come up with is, "Why not?" and find that in order to know consolation and remembering, we must experience desolation and dismembering. It is all very circular, I know. But despite the explanation of purpose, I think it is more important to remember (as it were) to accept these periods of desolation. To be in it, without trying to get out of it. The more we try to escape from our uncomfortable experiences, the more we come to deny them. We don't want them to happen, so we try to stop them from happening even as they unfold. We are afraid that if we accept them that this means we are accepting our fault, our guilt, for having been there. But this is not so. Knowing, and accepting, where we are is our consolation. We must know that what we experience in these times is occurring "everywhere, all the time" and to savor the other moments, the moments when we remember ourselves, when we are feeling consoled, for however long they happen to last.
You're in luck because this entry was inspired by notes that I wrote on a brown paper bag from Walgreens while on the BART train going home. Oh joy. Actually, this entry was inspired by real events, plus the not-so-surreal events in a novel called "Kleinzeit" by the ever-brilliant Russell Hoban, and the viewing of various clips from the now cancelled show "Joan of Arcadia" while on YouTube. These inspirations led to mental musings, which led to the notes being written on said brown paper bag from Walgreens while on the BART train going home.
I suppose we shall start with the subject of Consolation, since that is the first word in the title of this entry. For this, we shall go to a scene from a "Joan of Arcadia" episode. Joan's mother, Helen, is explaining to her husband what a priest told her about the concept of consolation. It's described as a period of grace: when everything is flowing, when we are in touch with the universe/God, and what it/He/She wants from us, when we know exactly who we are and how we fit in to it all. I have had these moments. Several times, in fact. I know it sounds wonderful, and it can be. But those supposedly wonderful moments, they're also scary. I say this because in the moment they are happening, I feel like I am losing my sanity. I am in touch with, in communication with, the Universe, or the Creator of the universe, or the Universe as Creator...whatever you want to call it, I have been in touch with it and feel like I have lost touch with what we know as Sanity. But when it happens, somewhere deep down, I know that it's all right, because it's never led me wrong. I feel comforted, taken care of, listened to, when in this period...all of this is mixed in with feelings of fear and even annoyance, because the Universe/God just won't shut up. There can be peace of spirit, but never peace of mind. It's hard to describe if you've never been in it.
I'm going to skip over Desolation for the time being, and move on to Remembering since it is related to Consolation. Remembering in this sense comes from Hoban's work, Kleinzeit. The story itself doesn't matter...it would be too hard to describe at any rate. What does matter is what the title character comes to realize: that one must RE-member oneself. We are all what I like to term "organized messes"--bits and pieces of things thrown together and torn apart again and again. We so rarely are able to feel "whole", if ever. Our "members", bits and pieces of our psychic bodies, are torn apart and thrown overboard and everywhere else. We must RE-member ourselves: put ourselves back together again, even if momentarily, before we are ripped apart once more.
The following may not be the best example to illustrate what I have said thus far, but it will at least give you some insight into the inspiration for this entry. This is from Kleinzeit:
"What're you waiting for, said Hospital. You've remembered yourself, haven't you.
I supposed I have done, said Kleinzeit. But it came and went so fast.
How long do you expect a moment to last, said Hospital.
But to have only one moment! said Kleinzeit.
Rubbish, said Hospital, and rang up Memory. [Hospital asks Memory for Hall of Records, and then asks Hall of Records for Kleinzeit's "moments".]
Moment, said Hall of Records: Spring, age something. Evening, the sky still light, the street lamps coming on. Harmony took place.
I remember, said Kleinzeit.
Moment, said Hall of Records: Summer, age something. Before a thunderstorm. Black sky. A piece of paper whirling in the air high over the street. Harmony took place....
Moment, said Hall of Records: Autumn, age something. Rain. The sound of the gas fire, Sister naked. Atlantis. Harmony took place...
Moment, said Hall of Records: Winter, age something. In hospital. Feeling of circle inside self, sweet rhythm. Harmony took place.
Kleinzeit waited.
Will there be anything else? said Hall of Records.
Place of dismemberment? said Kleinzeit.
Everywhere, all the time, said Hall of Records."
What Hoban is describing here in Kleinzeit are those moments of consolation. They are only moments...short periods of grace, but they occur nonetheless. As I stated before, I have experienced this, usually in longer periods and in different ways. Still, the experiences listed above are familiar in a sense. I have experienced these moments, too, and they are only moments that, once they are recognized for what they are, have passed and gone. "Too much like the lightening 'ere one can say, 'It lightens!'"
And now, we go to desolation, the place where I currently reside.
Going back to Joan, desolation is described by Helen as a place of fear, confusion, and things not working right without any explanation. A moment, a period of grace, and then...silence. Clarity, then confusion. Strength, togetherness, courage; then fear, seperateness and weakness. As for me and my relationship with this divine universal creation/creator, this is where I am.
A year ago, I knew exactly where I was that I wanted to go. I had plans for seminary and the priesthood in the Episcopal church. Nothing was clear cut, but I knew that's what I wanted to do. I was set in my path and went about to tackle the formalities of going on that path. But something stopped me. Doubt began to settle in, and God went silent. Actually, God began to slowly disappear. S/he would appear out of the corner of my eye, but would never come into full view. I could hear barely audible whispers, but no real words of clarity. And then, one day, it stopped all together. I'd hear the voice, but never really sure where it was coming from or if I should trust it. Seminary has been put off indefinitely, and since that time when I made the decision, all conversation with God has ceased. I am angry because where I thought I was being led turned out to be different than what I expected. I feel alone because now I am not being told where to go. The guidance that I was receiving before is no longer here and I feel as if I am moving about haphazardly, like fumbling in the dark for a light switch.
I have been contemplating this state of being that I have found myself in. I am well aware that it is something that is experienced often. As Hall of Records said to Kleinzeit's request for moments of dismemberment: "Everywhere, all the time." St. John of the Cross referred to it as "the dark night of the soul," and it was "discovered" more than ten years after her death that Mother Teresa went through an extremely long period of desolation. No one is immune, it seems. And so I have contemplated as to why this happens. You must forgive me if this explanation seems trite and puts down humanity, for that is not my intention by any means.
While I am not an essentialist, and I hesitate to use this word, I believe that we are in more periods of dismemberment and desolation because of our finite "nature." God is infinite, and we are not. True, we are made of matter, and matter is neither created nor destroyed, and so matter is infinite in nature. But our own understanding is not infinite. Our consciousness is not infinite. There are realms that our minds cannot reach, no matter how much we try. (I will not assert any reason for our finite "nature." The whole theory---if it can be called that---of original sin and our fall from grace is a load of rubbish/hogwash, and is in no way an intelligible explanation. I actually don't feel that our finite nature needs an explanation. It's a mere fact, and I am comfortable in letting it be so. ) And so, the fact that some of us are capable of communicating and feeling in touch with an infinite being, even if it only in brief periods of time, is really quite remarkable.
There cannot be any known purpose for desolation. We can try as we might to understand it, put forth the question, "Why me?" In the end, I believe all we'll come up with is, "Why not?" and find that in order to know consolation and remembering, we must experience desolation and dismembering. It is all very circular, I know. But despite the explanation of purpose, I think it is more important to remember (as it were) to accept these periods of desolation. To be in it, without trying to get out of it. The more we try to escape from our uncomfortable experiences, the more we come to deny them. We don't want them to happen, so we try to stop them from happening even as they unfold. We are afraid that if we accept them that this means we are accepting our fault, our guilt, for having been there. But this is not so. Knowing, and accepting, where we are is our consolation. We must know that what we experience in these times is occurring "everywhere, all the time" and to savor the other moments, the moments when we remember ourselves, when we are feeling consoled, for however long they happen to last.
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