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.

For You

Why is it that my creative juices start flowing at the most inconvenient times? Five minutes before I have to leave for work, while I'm on the bus without a pen, while I'm trying to be focused at work, or while I'm about to fall asleep. I guess creativity works best when you're relaxed. At any rate, usually when these moments of inconvenient inspiration come to me, I let them pass me by. But last night, I didn't. I jerked myself out of bed, turned the light back on, grabbed a pen and a little notebook and started writing. I don't know if it was worth it, but I wrote some verses to a song. I don't know how to write songs, though I do consider myself to be musical to an extent. I guess it doesn't really matter in the long run. I wrote it, revised some of the lines today, and now I'm posting it here. Done and done.

Below are the lyrics. If you want to get an idea of how the music is supposed to go, just think of some song by Coldplay or Keane...it's close enough. Anyway, this is called For You.


You've fallen asleep at the wheel again.
Trying to outrun your sins
Times are tough
And the road is never long enough
For you.

Chorus
For you the walls are caving in
The room is starting to spin
Burning bridges and too many loose ends
I cannot save you
Just hold my hand

Can't decide what you want to be real
Open your heart and fear what you feel
Shut down and taste goodbye
Like one last meal
Must be hard to feel alive
When you're afraid to fly...

. . .You know I'd fly for you. . .

Chorus

For you the walls are caving in
So hard to know where to begin
Burn bridges and tie up those loose ends
Put your hands upon the wheel...
See where the road bends.

Can't Decide Where My Freedom Lies

*Originally written August 18, 2008*

Can't decide
Where my freedom lies.
I'm so used to being tangled up in ethereal memories of arguments that never occurred,
Of tearful reunions
Staged out of desperate subconscious loneliness.
I'm so used to pretending in front of a hall of mirrors,
Never remembering their images, the lines of wit they espoused in their constant echoes,
Never prepared for the moment of contact
So often feared, so often longed for.
I'm so used to the "never" being always that I forgot to want anything else.
Nothing hurts more than breaking the bonds of familiarity.
Your freedom offered me the pain of holes closing
And knowing that reprimands
Would be at hand
Should I choose to open them again.
Yet faithfulness to commands uttered in years so far detached from this present
Generates a prison of my own making,
Forcing me to choose between the bondage of keeping you locked away
Or keeping me locked out for good.
One cannot be saved when not allowed to fly out from their cage.
Oh this hell of indecision!
Where are you if not needed in my present?
Why were you needed in my past, if ever?!
I cannot see beyond horizons if you continue to block my path.
Let all memory of the future never be tainted with your presence.
Let fear of leaving you behind never cross the threshold of my conscience.
Constant battles of wills,
Mastery over passions,
Duels of wit and intellect
Have ended
And now I battle with myself...
But you remain as the vestige of my enmity.
Were you to come near,
I would be tempted to scratch, bite and rake across your skin;
A visual reminder of the pain of unrequited desire.
Yet without this fear, this anguish,
Without your memory of provocation,
I am nothing.
Emptiness is cold with no hope of warmth.
Freedom carries the burden of the unknown.
A desolate land of either hope of sustenance, or fear of flood or drought.
Nothing protects from the light once found.
Shadows provide the protection of certain darkness.
Can't decide
Where my freedom lies.

A Taste of Forgetting

*Originally written Sept. 26, 2009*

You sit there, on your bed, laptop covering the front of your thighs, the warmth soaking through the blankets, and it hits you. Smell. Taste. Taste more than anything. It fills your mouth, and its source seems to be your soft palate, way at the back, like it's dripping from your nasal passages, liquid through a sieve. It's unmistakable, this taste of a smell. You know that its origin is nowhere in your physical vicinity, but instead bloomed and diffused from the unconscious mind that isn’t really aware of anything else that’s going on. Your body is seeking to remember while you are trying to forget. And when you try to remember, in your desperate attempts to reconnect with that which is no longer there, your body conveniently forgets, or chooses ignorance. But there is no escape when your body is in charge of things. And so you sit there with this taste in your mouth, and it forces you to remember the source.

It's his place. You must have absorbed it into your skin, even though it's been three weeks since your exposure. Long incubation period, it seems. It reminds you of the couch where you both sat too close together so that the only thought, the only action that occurred to both of you was to get closer. So you did. But it wasn’t close enough, you remind yourself. It was only the surface of closeness, and you wanted to go deeper before he was ready, and he couldn’t handle the pressure. Maybe that’s why he left. You introduced the idea too soon, no matter how gently. A cage is still a cage, no matter how slowly it is dropped over the captive. But there’s more to remember because the taste hasn’t disappeared yet. Go back.

There was the bed with the squeaking wooden frame that actually groaned more than squeaked when you got out of it. The duvet that you tried to sleep under that night, but couldn’t because the heat was so bad, and so for half the night you slept uncovered, bare breasted, only in your underwear, wondering how the hell people learned to sleep together, while you were practically pushed up against the wall on your side and he took up most of the space, along with the Chihuahua at both your feet. If you turned toward him, you could feel his breath on you, getting worse as time passed because of the build up of odor causing bacteria in his mouth. No good morning kiss without a sufficient rinse, that’s for sure. You liked watching him sleep though, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. You wondered if you could get used to this, and you started to realize your growing affection for this person who almost otherwise, in most senses of the word, was a stranger. But something felt right about it. Yes, you could do this. You saw yourself waking up on Saturday mornings, cuddling next to him while he was still half asleep and would be for some time, your hand grazing over his chest, like a mother unconsciously stroking the back of her baby. When he was more awake, lazy pillow talk would follow, soft laughter, gentle gazes and shy smiles, followed by giggles, playful kisses and smacks on the ass. A perfect vision, and it made it that much harder to sleep.

In the morning, or more like close to noon, he made you breakfast which you couldn’t finish. Not because of the quantity, but because you were nauseated from lack of sleep. You managed to nibble enough off your plate so that he wouldn’t feel insulted or think that you weren’t grateful. Maybe he wouldn’t have thought those things, but you weren’t sure. You hadn’t known him that long anyway. You even kissed his cheek gently and said, “Thanks for the breakfast sweetie,” as you walked back to the room to rest some more, hoping that sleep would over take you now. It didn’t. You left about an hour later, coming to the couch where he was lounging, reading Pygmy by Chuck Palahanuik, sat down next to him and pressed your lips to his. That was the last time, but you didn’t know it then. The last time you smelled that room, that whole place, tasted it on his mouth, in his skin. And now, three weeks later, it's back, without warning and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Sit with it. Breathe. Smell. Taste. Be with it even though it hurts like bricks being dropped inside, one by one, and knowing that the hardest part will be trying to get up to make the weight bearing easier. The familiarity hurts more than anything, because now you have to make it unfamiliar. Your body is working on forgetting. It’s remembering so that it can forget.

It's going away now. Slowly. But no, come back! What was that again? I want to remember now. Before I didn’t because I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t prepared. I can sit with it now, it's ok. I can take it. It's gone. Back to reality and the knowledge that this is the only way you’ll ever experience that place again, if you want to. You know you don’t. You’re not the type to settle for mediocre attention, brief text messages and sporadic phone calls. Long written messages complaining about the lack of respect you’ve shown for his tight schedule, yet giving you hope that there’s chance for more contact. But only when he decides it’s time. You’ll have to wait. No thanks. It was nice while it lasted.

Oh wait, there it is! It’s come back again, on its own. Like a shy puppy that won’t go near anyone trying to grab it, but will come wandering up to the first unsuspecting person (or animal) it sees. Is that what he’s like? Maybe you should have given him more space, more time… But how much more time does someone need? Almost a week since you called, and still nothing. You’re done, you’ve told yourself this. Ah, but taste it… No, you don’t want to. It tastes like stale hope, a masochistic remembering. You don’t want this. It’ll go away eventually. It will. You can handle this. Just sit. Breathe. You know why this is happening, don’t you? Remember, so that you can forget. Breathe it in. There.

Looking for a Yoga Mat

*Originally written Sept. 24, 2009*

**Some adult content**

She walks down the street, passing people shuffling by, taking in everything, but memorizing nothing. Faces, shop fronts, cars and motorcycles parked next to the curb or passing by; it’s all a mindless blur. There is a smell in the air, like clean, fresh soap. Not the strong kind you can buy at the dollar store, but a more subtle scent like when one walks into a bathroom where someone else has showered maybe ten minutes before, where the mist from the steam is still lightly hanging between the walls, carrying the smell of fragrant soap. Like that. She can smell the light from the sun, not quite hot, but warm because it had been foggy in this area about an hour before (San Francisco weather---get used to it). No fog is visible, but she can smell the integration of just-passed-just-melted fog with the sunlight. It is this sunlight and the faint but recognizable smell of fresh soap that makes her think of him.

Him. With him she is not in love. But there is a draw for her. It isn’t helping that she’s only a few blocks away from his house, unintentionally. She is here because she needs a yoga mat for her class. There are mats at the yoga studio, but her hands always slip from excessive sweating, of which she has no control over. So she had hoped to find one suitable for her needs down here, but so far, no such luck. He had gone with her to yoga a few weeks ago, she remembered. Last week, in a message concerning other things about their confusing, brief, quasi-relationship, he suggested that he come with her again. She didn’t see how that was going to be possible if he kept hiding behind his busy schedule, adamantly insisting that he had not enough time to keep in touch with her on a regular basis. Bastard. This smell wasn’t helping, either.

The soap smell makes her think of how her nose was pressed into the base of his neck when they made out on his love-seat for a couch. She had asked him what kind of cologne he used, but he replied that it was only his soap and shave products. Burt’s Bees brand. A perfect procurement of product for him, a non-militant vegan. The smell makes her mouth water, because the sense of smell is so closely related to the sense of taste. People born without olfactory receptors, or people who have lost the ability to smell, have often commented on the different experience of sex. You can still taste things without being able to smell, but what you taste is limited to the following five categories: spicy, sweet, salty, sour, and bitter. They are tastes, but not flavors. She had been able to taste him, smell him, touch him and feel him with all different parts of her body: her obvious hand, subtly with her lips and cheeks, her nose either subtly smelling the area between his nose and mouth as they kissed, or grazing it against his neck in a sweet nuzzle; her arms wrapped around his thicker body below his arms, her legs too. Her mouth salivates in some uncontrollable Pavlovian response, as well as the space between her legs.

Is that appropriate to say? Not on the point of introducing sexual anatomy into the text, but in describing what is occurring to said anatomy. Salivating is not possible without saliva glands, which are only present inside the mouth. Salivating refers to the ability to create saliva, the mouth’s lubrication to aid in digestion and in the pleasure of eating. The vagina holds glands which secrete fluid to aid in supposed reproduction (as the hetero-centric biology books would have you believe) and in sexual pleasure. In all literal sense of the word, it does not “salivate”, but performs its own version of it; though ironically, in the case of cunnilingus, the “salivation” of vaginal juices can make a sexual partner’s mouth salivate in anticipation and preparation for what it will be eating. Suffice to say, the use of the word “salivate” in relation to vaginal lubrication may not be entirely appropriate, but the author begs pardon of the audience, and asks that she may be allowed discretion in use of her literary license.

Her mouth, along with the previously discussed anatomy, eventually stops its excessive secretion. It’s like a wave of pain or hunger, a momentary craving that soon passes with the introduction of…something else. Now it is real hunger that has turned her mind. But in this neighborhood, there’s only taquerias on every corner, and she’s in no mood for Mexican or Central American food. Before her budget was crunched so tight, she used to think that she wouldn’t be able to bear the ten minute ride home without stopping to buy something to eat. Now she knows better.

A few blocks up is the train station, and she opts to slowly descend on the escalator instead of mustering up minimal energy to walk down the steps. She condescends to step down for the last few which quickly disappear underground after she disembarks, taking with it any momentary trace of her. The automatic turnstile accepts her monthly pass and spits it out for retrieval, allowing her to move to the lower level platform. She rushes down the steps to the just-arrived train, rushing through its opened doors, relieved to have such luck, as well as the multiple options for seating. Early weekday afternoons often afford this luxury. The trip passes almost mindlessly, only having to count one stop before her own. Subconsciously, she counts down before they emerge from the underground tunnel for a space of twenty seconds, and she uses the chance to take in the appearance of the sky. Here, it is clouded over with perpetual gray, unchanged since the morning. This is how days pass by so quickly: a lack of change in light or weather can make you believe that you’re not getting a late start on your day even when you’re getting dressed at noon.

The train moves back into another tunnel, a short interval before her stop. A man with a green backpack, white shirt, tight blue jeans, white cowboy hat, and carrying a leather jacket stands up as well on the other side of the aisle. They both make their way to the door before the train stops. She stands on the left, he on the right. In the windows, she notices him looking to his left, looking at her. (Perhaps, or maybe he’s just reading one of the signs on the train car’s interior, just past her left shoulder, advertising for this or that product or service, or even thanking the train’s riders for deciding on public transit that day instead of choosing to drive during rush hour. Anything to encourage the masses.) But she ultimately perceives him to be looking at her, though she is unsure why. There is really nothing special about what she looks like today. Her hair is down, somewhat tucked behind her ears, but its thickness defeats this style by still falling over and around her shoulders. It falls over the shoulders of her green army jacket, newly acquired from a thrift store over the weekend for a modest price. She loves wearing it, especially in this weather. Underneath, nothing but blue jeans and black high tops with orange and red flames not entirely visible under the jeans’ cuffs. But he’s looking down at her, at her face, her profile. It creeps her out. She turns away slightly, pretending to stare at the public transit map. Please God, not now, she thinks to herself. Her energy is still directed elsewhere. She feels the man move his attention in another direction, thankfully, yet all the same wondering if he really was checking her out, or just noticing as she had been doing during her outing.

After making her way off the train and up to the street, she whips out her phone to call the transit hotline to see when her bus would be arriving. Unknown waiting times are one of her pet peeves. Before she can even input the information, however, she spots the bus on its way up the foggy street, bouncing its way over, almost like an overly excited dog spotting a crowd of people to meet. She muses how this was one of the good days for her on public transit, at least for the trip back. She thinks that she still has to find a way to figure out how to time her future trips so that she won’t have to wait in such long intervals as she has in the past. Then again, some things you can’t always plan, like finding a good yoga mat that won’t mind how much your hands sweat, you’ll still be able to hold that downward facing dog pose. Or having the phone ring when you want it to. Or meeting the right person at the right time, instead of the right person at the wrong time, or the wrong person at the right time (whatever that means).

During the waiting time between getting on the bus and getting off at her stop a few minutes later, she reminds herself of what to write for her new status update on the ridiculously addictive, needless time consuming social networking site--Mission to procure yoga mat: fail.

Grief

It's in the realizing that
After the bad day
Of missing the bus
The incessantly screaming child
A headache that hasn't fully gone away
A sink full of dishes not mine
A late dinner
And the heater turned up too high...
I can't call you.

It's in the knowing that
When I've just seen something
You would have laughed at
I can't pass it along to you
So it can be our inside joke.

It's when I suddenly remember
That I made every physical piece
Of you
Disappear
So that I could forget.

It's when I want to get my feet wet
And wear my sandals in the rain.

It's when I'm sitting still
And realizing that you're still here
Somehow.

It's when I remember that you're not.
It's when I remember you never will be.

That's when the tears come.
When the lump forms
Like mud in my throat.
Breath becomes labored,
Trying to outrun what has already
Caught up with me.

It's no tempest of tears,
But a soft drizzle
Or a careless drop here
And there,
Almost like forgotten pennies
Coming out of your pants' pockets
In the drier.

It's a slow, soft ache
That follows reality's knife cut
Of realization,
And it rests like a stone on my chest,
Rising and falling with each breath,
Sinking slowly into the gulf
Of short term memory.

Tides come in and go out,
Grief rushes and crashes
In waves that slowly let out. . .
Only to come in once more.

Remembering Sight

Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.
(Where charity and love are, God is there.)

Downtown San Francisco is full of interesting characters, as in any urban area, and I'm used to seeing the poor and homeless walking around, sometimes asking for handouts. When I have the cash or change to spare, I'm usually happy to give it away to someone, especially if they're playing music or are selling The Street Sheet, a newspaper dedicated to issues around homelessness. It's not always easy for me to give money to someone who is only holding out their hand. I've grown accustomed to telling myself that they either want money for booze or drugs, and walk on by like I don't notice them. "Next time," I tell myself. And then I forget when the next time comes. Luckily, I didn't forget today. I almost did, but I think I'm lucky that I remembered.

I was standing at the bus stop outside of Powell Street Station, waiting for the bus to take me to Grace Cathedral in Nob Hill (a notoriously wealthy area in the City). A skinny man in a purple Adidas shirt and dirty blue jeans came up to me and begged me for seventy cents. I apologized and told him I had nothing to give. He incessantly begged me for even one whole dollar or possibly a fiver. I told him I had no cash. When he turned away to walk down the street, I saw the look of pure heartbreak on his face. "God, I am in fucking hell!" he cried out. My heart broke for him as I saw him attempt to ask another for their help. "God," I asked silently, "What can I give him?"

"Much," I heard from that voice, so still and quiet, and yet so strong it is undeniable. And then I remembered. I had gone out to lunch with a friend the day before and had taken out plenty of money from the bank for the occasion. I had a ten dollar bill still left in my wallet. I didn't hesitate.

"Sir!" I called out. "Sir?" I walked toward him, his face still full of despair as he had been turned away yet again. "I'm sorry, but I forgot I had this," handing him the folded up bill.

"Oh, thank you," he gasped, on the verge of tears. He turned it over and realized how much it was. "Oh God, thank you," his voice breaking and the tears beginning to fall from his tired blue eyes. These were not just tears of utter gratefulness, and I wouldn't be telling this story if that's what it was. Instead, these were tears of pain. "I just feel so awful," he said.

I placed my hand on his shoulder and asked what was wrong. It took him a while to reply. I waited. And then his story poured out. His name was Jordan. He had been a heroin addict for four years, but had been sober for another four, didn't even drink alcohol anymore. He did go to a methadone clinic, but he hadn't been for a few days. One of his friends had died a week ago. He was 29 and had been on the street off and on since he was 19. Originally from Lubbock, TX, he had gone to college there for a couple of years, and had even gone to SF City College for a year. Still, he was in trouble, never having enough. He had family back in Texas that he was still in touch with, but I didn't ask him why he didn't go back. We all have our reasons. In the last year, he had four back surgeries. He even lifted up his shirt to show me the scars. I saw a small black mark that looked like the burnt end of a cigarette butt, along with other scars and what looked like more bumps (from what, I don't know). I listened while he talked.

"Thank you so much for just talking to me," he said. "You have no idea. People just walk on by like they're numb or something. Or they look at you, but they look away with a disgusted look, like 'Oh, you're dirty! Get away from me!' You know, I'm not perfect, but I'm a human being." I wanted to tell him that people sometimes just can't handle the pain of others, but it seemed like a pathetic excuse. We don't always know what we can handle until we open ourselves up to it. "You really made my day," he went on. "It's just so hard when people treat you like shit and you don't even feel like you're worth anything." I looked at him: his face, though he was white, had seen much sun, he had a scruffy dirty-blond colored beard and hair to match; his hands with dirt under his fingernails, were tough and grubby, but were warm and yielding when I touched them. I looked into his eyes, and it was all I could do. . .I embraced him. I think I may have needed the hug as much as he did. Who wouldn't after listening to all that? How could you not want to connect in such a way to someone who just opened themselves up like that?

"God bless you," he said, the tears welling up again. I told him I would pray for him. "You really made my day," he said again.

"You're welcome," I said, really not sure what else to say. He held my hand and kissed it, like an old fashioned gentleman. Then he began to walk away.

"If you have any other thought today," he called back to me, "think about the fact that you made someone like me feel loved." And then Jordan walked down the street, into the heat of the day, to go do whatever it was that he had to to survive.

I'm telling this story not as a way to extol my own virtuous sense of charity. Far from it. As I said before, I had gotten used to forgetting what it was to love and care for "the least of these." I'm poor, but in comparison, I live a life of wealth and privilege. I don't have to beg for my bread, I don't have to huddle in some doorway or sleep on someone's couch. And yet, with all this privilege, I'm doomed to suffer from blindness. This story of meeting Jordan is about how I started to get my sight back. In short, Jordan saved me, possibly more than I could ever save him.

The bus came two minutes after Jordon left. I got on and headed to the cathedral on the top of the hill. The purpose of my excursion to this monument dedicated to Christ (and the Church), was for a confirmation of the youth of our parish, and other parishes within the diocese. (By the way, if you don't get all the church jargon, it's okay. It's really not that important. We're Episcopalians. . .we like to make a ceremony for pretty much everything.) Well, it just so happens that today at the confirmation service, the Gospel reading was the Beatitudes from the book of Matthew.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

This lesson is revolutionary. Not only does it turn hierarchy on its head, but it even changes the image of God. Before it was "do this, don't do that, and God won't kill or punish you," which kind of made God look like an asshole to be honest. Here, we see a God of justice and peace, but also of reconciliation and undeniable love.

In the sermon, the confirmands were given their marching orders from the Bishop. He said that it is when the confirmation ceremony is over that the real service begins. (He was, of course, playing on the word "service" which can refer to either a church service, or the service that we are called to do by being in the world.) As he spoke, I began to get a sense of something else I had forgotten: that my faith is not safe. I don't mean that my belief is in danger of being dashed or ripped to shreds. On the contrary. I remembered that when I engage myself deeper in my faith, the more unsafe I am. The more risk there is for me in losing my own life (not necessarily in the physical sense). The barriers that society not only encourages me to have, but even sometimes demands and expects, begin to break down and I become "undone" in the process. My faith, my God, is not safe. My faith, my God, comforts me. . .but asks that I not become comfortable. ("Comfort the disturbed, and disturb the comfortable.")

Go back and read the lesson again. These words include both the powerful and the powerless. The privileged and the under classes. So the kingdom of God is for everyone! Put another way, it's available for everyone. It isn't always taken, even when it's offered. And that is understandable. The kingdom of God is not safe. Think about it. Attempting to abolish the status quo and turn a hierarchical social structure on its head? Where's the safety in that? There isn't any. None.

But we are assured that God is there, through it all. And even now. Through our blindness and in our seeing. Through our forgetting and in our remembering. Through our greed and in our abundant charity. Through our fear and in our love. Bidden or unbidden. We only have to remember to pay attention.