Resurrection

Lots o' poems lately.

Resurrection
(For Wendell Berry)

She tried to be grateful for every moment.
It rarely worked. It should be enough
to smile after her second cup of coffee.
Why should she be expected to greet every day
with a maniacal grin?
And joy at work?
Half the time everyone, herself included,
seemed stupid, self-absorbed, and sad.
She found no comfort in the sunshine
or rainy days for that matter.
Given the choice between
a walk next to the Mississippi at dusk
and a nap, she would nap.
Relationships were affairs conducted after too many martinis,
discarded quickly the next day.
Resurrection was fine for poets, mystics, or aesthetics,
but she was pragmatic to a fault.
Sometimes, though, she would catch sight
of a fox in the garden,
or hear a poem on the drive to work.
Without realizing, she held her breath
offering a moment of inexpressible gratitude.

Popsicle

And I, all I really want is you,
you to stick around.
-Gavin DeGraw "Follow Through"

I've never been one of those people who wears my emotions proudly. It's not that I'm a robot, or that I think emotions make me weak. I just don't happen to think that they're really anyone else's business. I don't "wear my heart on my sleeve." Good Grief, I think the only two times I've ever cried in front of another person were when my Grandfather died and when I didn't get honors for my thesis. (I know. . .two almost related instances. I can't explain it.)

I once had a friend tell me that I wasn't the kind of girl you would take home to meet your mother I was "the kind of girl you would f*ck before taking your girlfriend home to meet your mother."

We don't talk anymore.

But before that conversation was over, I found out that the reason he didn't deem me worthy of meeting his mother was because I'm apparently quite cold. An ice princess, one might say. But apparently with enough sex appeal to be worth casual public-bathroom sex.

To this day I'm still not sure if he meant this as a compliment.

It's strange how some comments can stick with you for forever. That one has never quite gone away and has always given me pause to consider how I handle my own/other people's emotions, particularly the negative ones. I've never been good at comforting another person while they're crying--I usually run out of the room to make tea and either A) Let them cry it out or B) Leave it to other, more capable people. I'm sure that if I felt the need to talk to a therapist, they would tell me that I need to let it all out all of the time. But, to tell you the truth, I've never had much respect for people who can't exercise restraint. That's what poetry and music is for, right? An appropriate medium in which to express all those restrained (repressed?) emotions.

But then why does society (vast generalization) put such a premium on being emotional? Any time a girl keeps things to herself she's cold, or standoffish, or selfish, or a variety of other things. If she's emotional she's more human? What the hell is that?

Ugh.

Oh. The catalyst for this particular bit of drivel? Kevin's staying in China a second year. I'm not dealing with it well.

Think about you all the time.
It's strange and hard to deal.
The wind's feeling real these days.
Yeah, baby, it hurts me some.
Never thought I'd feel so blue.
Ryan Adams "Dear Chicago"

I've fallen out of love with you

My life's gotten simple since.
And it fluctuates so much.
Happy and sad and back again.
I'm not crying out to much.
-Ryan Adams "Dear Chicago"

I have a strange habit of becoming mildly obsessed with certain things. Occasionally there's a poem or a song that gets under my skin and usually ends up on repeat or reread approx. a thousand times until something else comes along.

Ryan Adams has been a recent obsession, and the song "Dear Chicago" in particular. I'm not sure what it is about the song, but it kills me. I can tell it's one of the songs that if I'm ever lucky enough to hear it live, I'll probably start bawling my eyes out. (Much like Damien Rice's "Delicate" reduced me to a puddle when I heard it.)

As a poet, one of the biggest things that attracts me to certain singers is their lyrics. That's part of the reason I love this song so much. The lyrics are so loaded full of incredibleness that I feel like I can't contain myself while I'm listening to it. I love the conflict in the lines and the idea of not being able to pick an emotion or reaction. The lyrics just feel so full of legitimate loss and ache that it makes my heart hurt and want to explode at the same time.

All right, I'll lay off of the babbling about Dear Chicago. Do yourself a favor and go listen to it. Think of me when you do.

I think the thing you said is true.
I'm going to die alone and sad.
-Ryan Adams "Dear Chicago"

The Cabin

A little bit o' something I've been working on lately.

The Cabin

For fifteen yeas they sat
on the porch for two weeks every July.
They watched the children swim, catch frogs, or skip stones.
Occasionally, they would pull on their swimsuits,
and throw a child off the end of the pier.
Sometimes, they would start the old orange boat
and try to teach someone to water-ski.

After year sixteen, only two kids returned.
Now they didn't need supervision while they were swimming,
and often left after a brief weekend visit.
Two years later, it was just the youngest.
Quiet now, that the others were gone.

Later, when the kids were only home for Christmas,
they started coming in autumn.
He said the fishing was better.
She said it was nice to see the fall colors.
They would still sit on the porch,
no longer donning their suits.
Marveling at the grey lake and vivid trees.

Sometimes, though, a boat would float past,
with a little one in a life preserver,
or they’d hear a shout from up the lake,
and the scene would change before their eyes.
A vivid blue lake, noise on their own shore,
and three little ones standing on the edge of the shore
Each daring the others to jump in first.

I got hit by a bus today.


Literally.

I'm ok. The car's been better. The bus drove off.

Details to follow

Dry

But questions cannot go unanswered unless they first be asked. And there is a far worse anxiety, a far worse insecurity, which comes from being afraid to ask the right questions--because they might turn out to have no answer. One of the moral disease we communicate to one another in society comes from huddling together in the pale light of an insufficient answer to a question we are afraid to ask.
From: No Man is an Island

* * *

I wonder if when Merton wrote the above passage he thought about atheists/agnostics turning the last line against him. I wonder if he ever considered that "the God hypothesis" may be "the pale light of an insufficient answer." What if the thought of no God is the question we're all afraid to ask?,

Lately I've been participating in a blog comprised of scientists and a few theologians. The purpose of the blog is (broadly) to talk about the relationship between religion, science, and the modern world (I think). I've been hesitant to post, and have kept my own thoughts rather private. I know that my beliefs aren't rational. That doesn't stop me from having them.

I've been pretty intimidated by the intellectual level of the posts. Nothing like fear of your own inadequacy to keep you from explaining what you think.

My own conversion is difficult to talk about. It's so hard to try to convey a feeling to people who deal primarily with empirical data. That doesn't make my feelings any less real, I suppose, but I'm not sure if trying to share them in this medium is going to work. I'm in the middle of a minor spiritual crisis myself (previous post) and part of me feels like my time might be more productively spent trying to find my own path again before I try to discuss that path with others. It seems arrogant to post on things pertaining to faith when I'm struggling with bits of it myself.

First of all, although all men have a common destiny, each individual also has to work out his own personal salvation in fear and trembling. We can help one another find the meaning of life, no doubt. But in the last analysis the individual person is responsible for living his own life and for "finding himself." If he persists in shifting this responsibility to somebody else, he fails to find out the meaning of his own existence. You cannot tell me who I am, and I cannot tell you who you are. If you do not know your own identity , who is going to identify you?

From: No Man is an Island

Troughs

He will set them off with communication of His presence which, though faint, seem great to them, with emotional sweetness, and easy conquest over temptation. But He never allows this state of affairs to last for long. Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs--to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish. It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him most.

From The Screwtape Letters.

* * *

Talk about troughs, I'm in a doozy of one lately. I was chatting with a friend tonight, trying to lay my finger on what about my faith life isn't working lately. It's not a problem of disbelief, or of dogma. For once I'm actually ok with the Magisterium and what's going on in Vatican City. I don't hate Paul's letters, I'm not wrestling with triangle diagrams or big T Truths and little t truths. So what the heck is the problem?

Something a friend from the theo department said came flooding back.

I feel like I'm so trained to get God with my head that I've forgotten how to get God with my heart. I feel like someone's ripped it straight out of my chest.

Bam! Suddenly everything makes sense--somewhere along the way, I've lost my love for the Catholic mass. I don't know where it went, but it's not around anymore. I'm waiting and waiting to feel something while I'm in church, but it's not happening (aside from the stupid, stupid vocational thing). I still believe in the Transubstantiation, the necessity of receiving the Eucharist as well as the necessity of hearing the word, I want desperately to be part of a community of believers, but something hasn't been right when I've been attending mass. Now it's all coming together. When I go, I feel like my heart's been ripped straight out of my chest.

The worst part about this? I don't know how to fix it and I don't know anyone else who's in the same predicament, so I don't even know where to start. Would it be better to stop going for awhile and go back when I miss it? Is it better to keep going weekly and wait for my heart to come back to me?

Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never in more danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys.

-The Screwtape Letters

Why'd you sing hallelujah
if it means nothing to you?
Why'd you sing with me at all?
-Damien Rice "Delicate"

It's 5:30 on the feast of All Saints and instead of walking into church and finding myself surrounded by organ music and the rising scent of incense, I'm getting out of my car and heading into the house.

I'm a terrible person.

Or so it seems these days.

I don't know if I left CSB with an over-developed sense of Catholic guilt, or if I really have something to feel guilty about, but I have been screwing my relationships over madstyle lately. I've never been very good at any sort of relationship--I'm a crazy introvert most of the time and have been known to freak out and disappear for long stretches of time when I feel overwhelmed. Today has been one of those days. It's also one of the days when I need to go to church the most, but I'm lazy and tired and have had a bad day at work, so I'm skipping. I'm going to regret this later.

And I do. I regret a lot lately. Not the least of which is the fact that I didn't finish my oblation before I left CSB. I'm "out in the world" (to use a monastic term) and trying to figure out what I'd actually give up to go join the order, and I don't have the roots that I need in the community. It may be a blessing in disguise, but I can't figure out what I'm missing if I A) don't have it to begin with and B) don't have anything to contrast it to.

The impact that interpersonal relationships have is so unbelievable. I mean, potentially one really great relationship could turn me away from the life that I both dread and long for. At the same time, the idea of a celibate life in a monastery seems terrifying and something I'm not cut out for. But, again, the right interpersonal relationship could change that.

Logically I know that this is something I should be spending more time praying about. That's part of the problem. I can't seem to walk in to a church lately without hearing am extremely distinct call. I'm sick of it. I want to spend my time in my 20s being in my 20s. I want one last bit of irresponsibility before I settle in to whatever vocation I'm supposed to have.

The worst part about the whole thing? Try telling other 23 year olds that you're contemplating a life devoted to God & celibacy and learning and trying in some small way to bring about the kingdom on Earth. Sometimes I wonder if I'm nuts just for considering it.

Ahhh well. I'm feeling cranky and pubescent today, and I don't know why.

I'm going to go listen to some sad bastard music and feel cranky & pubescent on my own. I'll be better next post.