To build on Heather’s comments from last time, I’m thinking life force has a number of flavors–sub-categories, if one dares attach a hierarchical word to it. Like maybe one person has a strong spiritual life force, and another has a strong force of innocence or purity, and another has a remarkable well of anger or grief that is the force behind the things that they do. Maybe some have a commanding presence that begs to be heard, no matter how quietly or gently or infrequently they speak–like Galadriel in the Tolkein books. Maybe some have all of these forces at once. Or more. Maybe all of us have the potential for them but only ever realize one, or a few. Or none.

I’m interested these days in the force that’s connected with sexuality. I’m just coming out of a two-year season of pregnancy and nursing and the intensity of care required for an infant and new toddler, and a couple of months ago I finally realized, consciously, that I felt back to myself. The pre-pregnancy me, with all of her curiosity and love of learning and eagerness to create (music! painting! writing! dance!). And, as you might guess, a sexual life force.

I think sexuality is far more than “having to do with sex”. I haven’t talked or read a lot about this, so I hardly have words for what I mean (those who have, please be free to share your thoughts!). But I think those with a strong sexual force don’t always fit the stereotype of someone looking to get laid. I think they can be people that turn heads, for sure, but not necessarily because their bodies fit the images of beauty pumped out by our entertainment and clothing and cosmetics industries, or because they’re dressed scantily or have cleavage flashing fancy neon lights. I think they can be fat or too thin. I think they can be dressed as monks or nuns. I think they can be clean or truly odorous. They can be wearing clothes from distant pasts.

In other words, I think their sexual life forces can have little to do with externalities, unless by that one means only the way that what’s inside of them interplays with the bodies their life forces inhabit (or the clothing, etc). These are people you can’t help yourself but watch. They’re embodied. Radiantly. Their weight, pound for pound, weighs more than the rest of ours, if that makes sense, as though they’re more real. They laugh and smile a lot, genuinely. They miss very few jokes. If you could paint them with color alone–no lines for legs or arms or faces or waistlines–their colors would be deep, vibrant, rich, bold. Connected with the earth somehow. They’re a lot like my character’s mermaid.

Is there language I don’t know about for exactly what I’m speaking of here??

Of all of the kinds of life force, this, to me, is the one that makes life so worth living. It’s the one that makes falling in love and being in love so euphoric, and what spills into so much else about life, whether you’re in love or not. I think it might even be part of loving the earth, and the deep, tear-producing wonder that comes from watching sunsets or thunderstorms or thousands upon thousands of birds in a cloud of flight. It’s the force that makes you want to make love, or holler on a hilltop, or create some kind of masterpiece. Or burst completely wide open.

Can you tell I’m feeling it right now??

There are seasons in life, maybe lives in their entirety even, when a person cannot help but go under–under the surface above which there is all of this Life, this sexual force, to be lived and played and danced with. But oh, the glory of rising like a whale from the deep, twisting into the wind and sun and air! Taking the feel of all of it in–the scent, the sound, the sight, the sparkle–to carry one through the depths (to which surely one will again return) more gladly. That much more Alive.

One of the things I’m exploring in my novel is life force–that hard-to-define force in all of us that is sort of tied to sexuality, but not entirely. My narrator, a 14-year-old boy, has a dream about a mermaid, in which this captivatingly beautiful, sexually-charged mermaid beckons him toward something terrible and beautiful. He can’t make out what it is, but he knows there is danger there, as well as something more wonderful than he’s ever known.

I think life force is a lot like this mermaid. Not exactly, of course, but in this sense of being charged, and full with potential. People whose life forces are large and strong have been responsible for some of the most beautiful and heinous events in history, some of the most breathtaking artwork and tragic losses, the most sinister plots and unworldly acts of sacrifice and kindness. I think Obama’s life force is strong right now. I think those of the Dixie Chicks are too. Any of us could probably name actors and politicians and musicians and convicts who have followed an inner mermaid’s lead toward their darkness or their light, and indeed found something more terrifying or more beautiful than they could have ever dreamed. Than we could have ever dreamed.

There is a child at one of the parks I frequent who I’ve seen three times now. And every single time I see her, I am struck, almost literally, by the strength of her presence. She’s a sweet girl, short for her age. Maybe four years old. But I swear, her life force extends at least ten feet in every direction. You get the sense that whether she’ll be a typical leader someday or not, she will move mountains. She will stand with her feet as pillars in the ground and no one will break her. She probably won’t have to bully anyone, either, because all you have to do is look into her eyes, or watch her move, and you’ll want to be near her. You’ll want to listen to her, and you’ll find her interests more sparkly and alluring than the next person’s whose interests are virtually the same as hers. I wish you could see this child.

So what do you make of this?–of life force? Do you have other words for it? What factors make some people’s so strong? Are we born with it? I want to understand this better.

What a week. Last Tuesday, when I wrote that first post about dark wonder, I felt remarkably energized. I felt a “standing-up” inside of me–a thrill at the thought of thinking creatively with others about how to stay more awake in this world. And doing it.

Then something happened on Thursday.

I think it was a combination of things, pushed further off the edge by that second threat to AJS, but by the time I sat down to work on my book, I felt like my bones had turned to jello. I put my head down and instantly got this picture in my mind of a beautiful tree in the middle of a vast field. It was full of fruit, and a low wooden fence ran along one side of it, off into the distance both ways. It was wonderful. I wanted to sit there gazing at all that quiet glory.

Then a dragon came in, stage left, and torched the whole thing. Torched all the fruit, and then turned its back to the tree, waiting for anyone to try to do anything about it.

Needless to say I was a bit shaken. I sat straight up and shook my head.

I don’t know how best to interpret that scene, but I do know that’s exactly how I was feeling–like the powers of yuck in our world had come to remind me that any fruit I have to bear just can’t be given away. Sorry honey. That’s just the way it’s gonna be.

I don’t consider myself a quitter, and I have my own “sorry honey” to say to all that yuck–like yeah, you can knock the wind out of me, but my Lights? You can’t knock those out ever. Tenacious is what those things are, as is my spirit.

I will admit, though, that this has been a week, for me, of remarkably little wind.

While I continue to recover, maybe I’ll consider these days a mirror of what Christians around the globe are doing: waiting in darkness to see a Great Light. Honoring this human experience of yearning, of wanting hope to get kindled again. Of watching to see with our own eyes that we aren’t, in fact, in utter darkness, and those powers of yuck won’t have the last say.

I’ve been thinking about how to answer Lori’s question from the comments last time. Just now before sitting down to type a response, I got an email from N, forwarding the update I added to the last post. If you haven’t read the update, it says the president of the board of AJS got a text message today saying, “You are next.”

I’m caught right now in a very dissonant chord. Finding it hard to write. I feel helpless and angry. And incredulous. Who kills people? What events brought them to this? Were they not loved very well? Is it kill or be killed for them? Are resources so scarce as to push entire regions of our globe into survival-of-the-ones-with-the-biggest-guns? It appears to be so.

I’m sitting in the library right now of one of our world’s most wealthy institutions of higher education. The temperature is just right. Sun shines through the window next to me. My stomach is full. The biggest threat I can imagine to my life is an earthquake.

God, what a world.

I want to push this chord I’m sitting in clear off the table, onto the floor, back into a dark corner where I don’t even pass it by. I want to pull the blubber close around my neck, around my head, where the brows are so furrowed, and my shoulders, with their knots. I want to go home tonight and eat a warm meal and play with my baby, and then make Christmas cards with the new stamp I bought at the stationary store, with the red pen I got for the addresses, and the Mary and Jesus postage.

I want to forget.

While I’m sitting in all this dissonance, I think I’ll have to postpone answering your question, Lori. Apparently awakening, like getting up in the morning, can lead to wonderful possibilities, but can also include those moments when the very last thing you want to do is open your eyes.

(This is continuing the conversation started here and here.)

When I was a child I don’t think I ever heard about clairvoyance or other kinds of outside-of-what’s-normal-for-most-of-us psychic phenomenon. Probably the first time I heard of such things was from television, where the pseudo-documentary shows always had deep, male voices narrating, like the one that does the trailers for movies: very dramatic, intended to spook you out, or get you thinking this is the most amazing, unbelievable thing you’re ever gonna hear. I always loved seeing those shows, and loved believing with only about a tenth of myself that the stuff they were showing was real. Most of what I saw seemed staged, or at the very least over-inflated, and the reports explainable by other means than actual psychic phenomenon. I wished I could talk with someone real, who really had such experiences and wasn’t always voiced over with that dramatic morning-voice guy. Would they be able to just talk…normally with me?

Spring of 2004 I started working on the novel that I’m working on now. I knew I wanted to tell a story about human motivation, and some of the common things I think all of us carry around inside. The seed for my story was a boy who has a gift for seeing in picture form, as well as actual scenes, what’s really going on inside of people. Like in his mind’s eye. He is the catalyst for most of the story’s conflict, because what he sees so often contradicts what people actually say their motivations are.

Anyway, I was in the beginning stages of dreaming up this character and forming a story around him, and decided to have him write me letters, telling me about himself. I didn’t use the word “clairvoyant” when thinking or writing about him because I had no category for his gift. It was just a gift that I gave him, and one for which I had to work out the “rules” (like how exactly does it work? when does he see these visions? can he see inside of everyone?).

So there I was, spending lots of time getting into the mind of this kid.

One day as I was working, I began to get an uneasy feeling. It wasn’t indigestion, and it wasn’t that I was realizing I had done something wrong, or forgotten to do something I was supposed to do. It was a different flavor of uneasiness than any of these things.

I kept working, trying to ignore it, trying to swat it away, and even got up from my desk and cleaned the whole house, trying to ward the thing off. But it persisted. I couldn’t get away from the sense that it had to do with someone else, someone that wasn’t me, and that whoever it was was feeling the very feelings I was, only way, way worse. The thought seemed strange, and wasn’t one I tried to produce or puzzle out–it was just a kind of clearness that was with me, like when you’re having a dream and just know something to be true.

Finally by early evening I felt so bad that I simply had to stop and listen. If this was about someone I knew, then I figured I might as well try and figure out who; if they were feeling these feelings worse than I was, surely they were suffering.

So I sat down on the floor and tried to listen.

Instantly a dream that I had had the night before and forgotten about came to my mind. In it I had watched a friend of mine at his place of work leave with two others to deal with a fire that had started in another part of the building. My friend had told those of us in the first location to stay put, that he and these other two would deal with this and be back soon. And everyone but me did just that.

I did not want to stay put, though, and so followed after them to see what was actually going on. Would they be able to put out the fire?

Then I woke up.

So as I sat and listened, this dream popped into my mind, and another knowing feeling came, where I knew it was this friend who was suffering so badly. I also knew his suffering didn’t concern me, and wasn’t something I was in a position to do much about. So I sent out all the strength and help I could wish and pray for, and tried to continue about my day.

That night I still felt awful. I went to bed, but had only fitful, frustrated sleep. I kept getting this image in my mind of a letter, though I couldn’t ever see what it said. All through the night I saw that thing, over and over, often in dreams, sometimes in half-sleep. It was charged, somehow, and deeply connected, though I did not know how, to whatever my friend was wrestling through.

I still felt bad the next morning, but within a couple of hours of rising, something dramatically changed. I had been feeling like something was making it difficult to breathe, a pressure on my chest and a kind of metaphorical smoke, but almost instantly that feeling was replaced by the freshest, most peaceful breeze. I can’t say literally, since I was in my house with all the windows closed, but more…internally. I actually got an image in my mind of a beautiful blue sky with bright white clouds and clean air. And again, that knowing feeling, this time that my friend was fine. I knew that whatever thing he had been struggling with was through.

The experience puzzled and perplexed me. It had come unbidden, and left within the day. And it brought to mind similar experiences I had had at other times, too, but without accompanying dreams. Occasionally I would get an image in my mind of a certain location–a parking lot, a street, a home–and the distinct feeling that something bad was about to happen there. I’d usually pray, feeling helpless to know what was actually about to happen or how to prevent it. The images were fleeting, but super charged–a whole different quality from the kind of images any of us gets in a day as memories are sparked, or daydreams wander through. I never thought to call this clairvoyance.
Given I was just in the thick of developing a character with a similar sort of gift, I started feeling strange inside. Wobbly. Shaky. Like life was getting too weird all of a sudden, and I didn’t know what to do with it. Like I was taking on this gift that my character had…which I had thought I had only made up.

I wrote to my friend.

“You may think I’m crazy,” I said, in effect, “but…did anything difficult happen to you on such and such a day? Here’s what I was feeling then, and the things I dreamt about before and after.”

He wrote back with only confirmations. He couldn’t betray any confidences, but said that the day I had felt so bad, he had become nearly debiliated by the afternoon from a conflict that was in the works. He and two others were involved in it, and he wrote, “I felt as if the air was being squeezed from me, the forces of Death looming large.”

The next morning, though, he got a letter from one of the people involved that cleared the whole thing up. The person had had a change of heart, and a truly awful situation got completely turned around. By means of this letter.

That week I had two other dreams/feelings of the same quality, but without any clarity as to who they were about, such that by the time I visited my therapist the next week (on a normal weekly visit), I was all worked up.

“What do I do with these things?” I asked frantically. I was feeling like I was back in time, playing some of the guessing games with God that had so characterized my young adult days of Christian evangelicalism. My beliefs at that time had made every day feel like a test of my faithfulness and attentiveness, where I was supposed to do and say specific things in specific instances, but never given clear instructions as to what these things were. It was up to me to figure them out, and I never felt like I knew if I got them right. It was crazy-making, I tell you. No way to Live.

“I don’t think you have to do anything,” my therapist said. “If these things come to you, just acknowledge them, and move on.” She knew me and wisdom well enough for this to resonate right away as what I needed to hear.

As time went on, my experiences like this lessened. I was fascinated by them, though, and could not help wondering about them. Why did they come when they did? Does everyone have these experiences? My dabblings in physics and Eastern thought made me search for some kind of theory on this stuff, some way to make sense of it. The explanations I would have made earlier in my life–having to do with God, and God’s urgings and conveyings of information–didn’t seem to describe what I was experiencing, or jive with my emerging concept of God. Jean Bolen’s The Tao of Psychology and Belleruth Naparstek’s Your Sixth Sense, were helpful reads at this time–the latter a very practical, down-to-earth discussion of the ways some people have actually nurtured this kind of gift. Naparstek thinks everyone is capable of having it, though some are much more naturally wired for it. I considered trying to nurture it more in myself, but never felt right about doing so. The possibility felt charged with danger for me.

That winter I stumbled into a comment left on someone’s blog that referenced this kind of thing–a kind of clairvoyant “knowing”. I emailed the commenter, asking him more about his comment. We proceeded to have a fascinating conversation, in which he described his own clairvoyant gift, as well as the gifts of some of his family members. His father and his daughter communicate regularly, he said, telepathically. His daughter can move physical objects with her mind. For years he was involved in the darker side of these things (I’m not sure what he meant by this exactly), but as an adult became a Christian and chose to use them only when he feels led by God to do so, and within his Christian framework for understanding things. He was a warm and generous fellow, from what I could tell, and it felt wonderful, on one level, to finally talk with someone so normally about these things.

But then my own “knowings” started to return. And unlike that first experience, they weren’t accompanied by clarity as to who they were about. They’d come most often as I was trying to go to sleep at night, like when my conscious mind relaxed. And again they began raising my anxiety about what to do about them, and also that crazy sort of feeling you get when it feels as though things you take for granted–gravity, for instance, or physical distance between people–are presenting themselves more as illusion than fact. I wonder how many people we consider insane in our country are actually in touch with everything this way–in touch in a way that makes it impossible for them to function normally. We need our illusions, I think.

One night as I lay there trying to sleep, I felt as though my brain tapped into a firehose of knowings. I wasn’t trying to know anything, but there I was, getting some of the most awful images. All of them were intensely charged. I felt like they were from people in the near vicinity–maybe the apartment complex next door. I got up and shook my head and shut my mind’s door. And decided this had to stop.

Reflection and another conversation with my therapist convinced me I didn’t want to pursue this at all at this point (i.e. try to develop this gift more, or continue conversing with the guy online). I was pregnant at the time, and, for the life that was growing in me, needed to be as grounded and centered as possible. I didn’t want to pry into anyone’s business, and didn’t want to play guessing games about uninvited information. And, tangentially, of course, didn’t want to feel or become insane. So I ended my conversation with that fellow online and kept my inner door shut. And have ever since.

Occasionally I’ll get a dream that feels more charged than usual, but generally I’ve been “knowing”-free for a couple of years now. And it’s felt great.

My take-home from all of this, including the research that I’ve done, has been a deep conviction that the psychic stuff people report isn’t all hogwash (including telekinesis, ESP, precognition, etc.). Though some of it surely is, it isn’t all made up. I’m convinced we are all interconnected in some mysterious way, and that time and space are both shorthands for something that’s bigger than both, that contains them both. I’m convinced that love makes time and space between people disappear sometimes–even into the past and the future–and opens up channels of communication that otherwise exist, but don’t get tapped into. And I’m convinced that at least in this season of my life, I don’t need to try to know, firsthand, how true all of these things are.

How does all of this jive with any of your thoughts or experiences? I’d really love to hear.

A couple of years back my father-in-law forwarded me an article about neutrinos. Knowing I was into physics, he thought I might be interested. Was I ever! I’ve just tried to find the article and can’t, and so have spent the last half hour surfing websites, trying to get my bearings again. What I have concluded is that a) I need to get a masters in physics to understand most of what I’ve just read and b) OMG! This is crazy shit! (In the most respectful, awestruck use of the term, of course.)

Here is my laywoman definition of a neutrino: a very, very small particle. So small that any mass at all could not be detected for decades worth of testing. So small, and so amazingly constructed, that it can move through matter practically unhindered. Wikipedia says it would take a light-year of lead to block half of the neutrinos produced by the sun.

The article I first read about them talked about them moving so fast, and so unobstructed, that an explosion in space, some light years away (if I remember correctly) sent neutrinos to a detection tank, on the other side of the earth from where the explosion actually occured, instantaneously. They went through the earth, is what I’m saying. Instantly. From very, very far away.

This may not knock your socks off, but the first time I heard it, my feet were dern naked. Instantly.

Why, you ask?

Well, here’s the thing. If there are particles this small and this free of limitations…and this difficult to detect with all our most fancy neoneopostpostmodern trillions-of-dollars-worth scientific techniques–particles we’re only beginning to understand, and that challenge us to speculate on other sorts of undetectable “things”–then it seems plausible to me that some of the psi phenomenon that people observe and experience (clairvoyance, esp, psychokinesis, etc.), and that scientists have so far been unable to conclusively prove, are actually the result of matter like this. Little tiny particles traveling between people. What if we are all emitting particles, all the time, and it is these that are resposible for people knowing, for example, from a distance that a loved one has died or been injured, like right when it happened? What if the phenomenon of discoveries happening nearly simultaneously across the globe–like in science or math, for example–could be explained, in part, by actual particles traveling instantly outward from their sources (i.e. the people making them), enlightening others in the field in a subconscious way?

What if all the phenomenon that people have for centuries attributed to a spiritual realm, are really all part of the material universe? What if physical and spiritual are really the same exact thing??

I’m going to write more on this topic next time, but let this intro suffice: I totally get off on this sort of thing.

Wow.

I’ve just begun Paulo Coelho’s latest novel, The Devil and Miss Prym, and was surprised to be confronted in its preface with a belief I thoroughly own. The surprise wasn’t in the belief itself, since on tons of levels I resonate with Coelho’s thought, but rather in realizing it totally contradicts, at least on first blush, another of my convictions. So I want to explore this contradiction and see if it really exists.

Here’s the quote:

Each of the three books [in Coelho’s trilogy And on the Seventh Day] is concerned with a week in the life of ordinary people, all of who find themselves suddenly confronted by love, death and power. I have always believed that in the lives of individuals, just as in society at large, the profoundest changes take place within a very reduced time frame. When we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change; at such a moment, there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not yet ready.

The challenge will not wait. Life does not look back. A week is more than enough time for us to decide whether or not to accept our destiny.

My view of destiny is broad, and is more about a pulse inside of us than any pre-ordained script, so maybe don’t get caught up on that part. The idea I’m most intrigued by is this one that “the profoundest changes take place within a very reduced time frame,” and “a week is more than enough time” for such changes to take place.

I think Coelho’s right. Totally. For all the apparent slowness of progress–inside ourselves, in the world around us–big things often happen in an instant. Big ideas get born, equations get solved, accidents kill, decisions get made, yeildedness happens to an inner voice, or to some person that we love, but haven’t been able to reconcile with. These things happen quickly, don’t they?

Or do they?

One of my biggest frustrations with certain brands of Christianity is the way conversion is understood in them. In such places, conversion is seen as the moment when a person magically transforms from something they’ve always been into something totally new. Bam! No process, no recovery, no counseling or hard work. A single prayer and the person is, or should be, if they were sincere, a happy, joyful God-child. Forever.

I have many problems with this, but for now I’ll focus on one: that person who prayed that special prayer? They won’t be happy all the time. They won’t always have joy. And odds are the same patterns that got them yearning for salvation in the first place are still, moments and even weeks or years after conversion, just that. Patterns. Anyone who has broken a pattern knows, with a few remarkable exceptions, that patterns take lots and lots of practice to break.

The transformations I’ve experienced thus far have taken terribly much time to happen, or at least I experience their unfolding that way, and the happiness and joy that I experience now, in far greater abundance than ever I experienced in any orthodox fold, have been won by terribly much work. Hundreds of hours of journaling and pondering and reading and talking and sleeping and waiting and sighing and crying and laughing and going to therapy. I’m an evangelical believer in healing and transformation and redemption and change. But I’m an angry mama bear at the suggestion that such things should happen quickly, or easily, or in response to some pre-scripted prayer.

But–and this is where the yieldedness I mentioned earlier comes in–I do believe in tipping points. I believe processes, for all their infinite unfolding, contain moments like Coelho talks about, choices that confront us, and on which mountains of things, whole worlds of things, depend.

So here’s my conclusion: I believe in conversion (religious and not), and that a choice in a moment, experienced as a turning from old to new, can make all the difference in the world. I believe a week is more than enough time for us to decide whether or not to accept our destinies, and also that our destinies are far more tenacious than to let us go if our choice, in such a week or moment (or weak moment), is against them.

Heather asked about my mention of fear in the last post, about how the undoing of it is one of the things I’m giving my life to. So I’ll try and explain more of what I mean by that.

I think fear is at the heart of our world’s problems. How’s that for a bold statement?? I think it’s at the heart of our individual problems, and at the heart of our collective problems, and the reason why it’s such an uphill thing, at least much of the time, to work well (or at all) together toward good.

Pushed far enough, maybe the core of our fear is fear of death, but I don’t think that’s what most of us are conscious of. I think most of us are conscious of fears like that of loneliness, joblessness, lack of clear or appealing identity, debt, getting dumped, getting raped, getting robbed, being ugly, being fat or thin in all the wrong places, losing health, losing respect, losing popularity, losing our minds.

I think there’s another whole layer of fear, though, that we’re not so conscious of, and that may be far more toxic than the rest. I think it has to do with who we are in a very deep and vulnerable place, and the kinds of questions we ask from there. Are we loveable?, is a big one. Are we okay? Is the world an inherently hostile place? Will the people I love abandon me? Will they get taken away? Will I have to suffer more than I can bear? Does God exist? Is God as critical as it seems sometimes? Are you going to hurt me? You? How ’bout you? Are you going to make me feel small? Will you take advantage of my weakness if I show it…or can’t hide it like I’d wish?

At heart, and of course to varying levels, I think we’re all afraid, and that every one of the “stupid” things we do collectively or individually can be traced to this. I think they can be traced to trying to protect ourselves, or keep from gaining or losing the things we’re afraid we’ll gain or lose. Traced to making sure that whatever hurt us before won’t ever hurt us again.

Surely many of our fears are well-founded. They make sense, and they’re there for good reason. But I think far more often than not, they’re bigger than they need to be, and when acted upon, only perpetuate the need that we and those around us have to be afraid. If I get defensive, for example, because I’m afraid you’ll trump my view, then my defensiveness will cause your voice to raise, and your defensiveness along with it. The two (three?) will escalate until we’re saying and doing things we never thought we would, given how we felt only five minutes ago. We will be fanning the flames of distrust for future interactions. We will be fanning flames of shame for having overreacted, if indeed we see that’s what we’ve done. We will be shrinking the bold, expansive, playful, curious, eager, trusting parts of ourselves that can’t come out when fear is at the helm, and nurturing an inner tightness, a vigilence, self-consciousness, clenched fists. We won’t be able to think about the common good, but be consumed with shoring up what we personally (as individuals, groups, nations) haven’t yet lost. At the farthest, most gruesome extreme, we will start wars.

I think versions of this process happen constantly, at every level, around us. It’s a web of fear and subsequent violence…and subsequent woundings, and the needs that follow our wounds to be afraid and protect ourselves…that we all get born into.

So. I want to be about the undoing of fear. I want to be about the shrinking of it, where it’s grown too big. I think the opposite of fear is trust, so I want to be on expeditions everywhere to unveil reasons for fear to actually turn into trust: trust that life can be good, that we’re okay–all the way to our core, that healing can happen, that no critical God exists apart from the ones we’ve grown inside ourselves, that our vulnerable selves can actually find safe places to be seen, and loved, and nurtured on toward Life, in the very best sense of that word.

I’m a writer, so written words are what I use most toward this end. But I think the shrinking of fear and the growth of trust can happen by many other means. I’m experiencing it through Qigong. I’ve felt it in Tai Chi, and the belly dance classes I’ve taken. In therapy. In laughter at no one’s expense. In sex and hugs and friends’ and mentors’ presence. Through music and visual arts. Through the work of raising my son. I see it happening as people love their pets, and as the motley crew of us gathers daily at the neighborhood park to talk and watch our kids play.

As far as I can tell, fear feeds on judgment and criticism and threats and looks of disapproval, so none of these, despite our best efforts at using them on ourselves or others well (said partly in jest, but partly with all seriousness), can lead to the alchemy I’m talking about, I don’t think. Trust is allergic to them. I think trust is allergic to many of the concepts of God that we work hard to feel loved by.

So this–this work of undoing fear and cultivating trust–is what I’m giving my life to. It’s the wind that fills up my sails and urges me on to write.

I got tagged by Christy for this meme: Five Things Feminism has Done for Me. Let’s see…

1. I grew up believing that when I grew up, I could do whatever I wanted to do. Vocationally, I mean. :) I didn’t think that because I was a girl, I was automatically excluded from anything. I had no idea that the Christian denomination I was a part of would not ordain women or allow them to be lead pastors of churches. I assumed that women were just not choosing to do these things, like being president, and that if I wanted to do them, they were open to me. I’m guessing this latter assumption had a lot to do with my parents’ views on men’s and women’s roles, and a little to do with my churches not being particularly vocal about the limitations that women had in them. Or maybe I was oblivious to the vocalizations there were? In any case, feminism helped make vocation an open field in my childhood mind.

2. Leading up to and throughout the ten years of our marriage, N and I have worked hard to be conscious of power imbalances between us, and to do whatever we can to lessen them. This has been the hardest long-term project that either of us has ever worked at. The hardest, but the most rewarding.

3. I’m a writer, giving a significant number of prime time hours (after 8am and before 6pm) to writing each week. This while also being parent to a one-year-old. And having no money for childcare. N is in school, so we’re in a unique situation in that he has a schedule that can flex for shared kid-duty. But I think feminism has made this set-up conceivable at all by helping both of us see my writing, which at this point has no dollar signs attached to it, as a real vocation, and my pursuit of it as equally important as N’s pursuit of his. (The fact that there will be dollar signs attached to his in a few years, and that his is what will enable us to pay our bills (and loans!) and eat food that we actually buy at stores makes us give a lot more hours of work-beyond-home time to him each week. But that’s a pragmatic more than philosophic choice.) The task of coordinating work-at-home time and work-away-from-home time for both of us, and being as present to Elijah and each other as we want to be, is probably the second hardest long-term project that either of us has worked at. And of course, also totally worth it.

4. Increasingly I’m able to feel–and this beyond just knowing intellectually–that the entertainment and make-up and clothing and hair-product and skin-product and teeth-product industries are bankrupt in the ways they define feminine beauty and sexuality and life force as narrowly as being 18-25 years old with smooth skin and straight, white teeth and thick, highlighted hair and large, firm breasts and designer clothing and gym memberships and curves here and not there and fingernails that look like they’ve never seen dishwater. I feel the narrowness of these definitions, the way these industries have not stripped women down in their adds to expose our true beauty, but rather stripped beauty itself down to expose the ugliness at the heart of machines that would want all of us–as many as is inhumanly possible–not liking ourselves, wanting bodies that aren’t real, funneling huge portions of our incomes into becoming ever less so.

I feel the evil of this. And I feel the beauty and life force and sexual attractiveness of people–men and women–in things far deeper and broader than any ad will ever convey.

5. Number five is a catch-all drawer: I’m happy most of the time. I don’t feel like the world is only depressing and that an oppressive God exists. I haven’t had an ulcer for a very long time. I feel gentle toward my body. I like wearing feminine clothing and don’t have dreams anymore where I’m trying to pass as a man. I take intuition seriously. I take art seriously. I don’t feel obligated to fit my spirituality or metaphors for God into patriarchical frameworks. I’m a mom, and this by choice.

None of these would be true or possible apart from the feminist thinkers and writers and artists and theologians and mentors and friends who have helped me in my work of healing and self creation/re-creation in recent years.

Okay…I tag Jen, Adam, and Trish. And Adam’s wife, Sarah. :)  Okay, and Trish’s husband Richard, too.  Jen?  Heck…and Jen’s husband Dave!

Thank you everyone for such a great discussion!  I hope those whose perspectives differ from the ones offered so far feel free to join in.

Here is some of what I’ve heard us saying:

• Devoutness comes in many forms–both religious and not, evangelical and not.  And we’re all devoted to something…many things.
• This begins a list of ways that people are alike:
  • Early formation probably has a lot to do with our epistemology–the stories we internalize about how to know what’s true.  Some epistemologies have more wiggle room than others, and therefore lend themselves more naturally to a variety of ways of finding truth.
  • Regardless of our epistemology, respect and tolerance are challenges for all of us, inside and outside of religion.
  • Seeking security/self-protection is a natural instinct, and making sense of the world/self/God is part of how we protect ourselves.  Establishing a shared reality around this sense furthers our protection; camaraderie makes us feel (and actually be more) secure, and feel more like the sense that we’ve made is right.
  • When the sense we’ve made gets challenged, we instinctually move to protect ourselves more, by protecting what’s being challenged.  This is normal.  There’s nothing wrong with this.
  • Unlike many other types of animals, we can more easily (I say more easily because I think this doesn’t come easily for everyone) self-reflect and recognize we’re feeling challenged, feeling self-protective, and make decisions about how we want to respond to such feelings.  We can consider the ramifications of our responses for our relationships.
• Religious devotion (and possibly any devotion at all) that includes vulnerability and insecurity may be and open up the possibility for non-violence in ways that other types of devotion cannot.
• Religious devotion (and any kind of devotion at all) that requires assent to a set of assertions–assent, specifically, that claims security and invulnerability–may be and open up the possibility for violence in ways the alternatives do not.

In light of all of this, I’ve been thinking more about that list that began the last post.  I’m wondering whether all of it needs to be changed.  I have this image in my mind of what it means to differ from another person about some fundamental thing–whether God exists, for example, or what God is actually like, or what in our heart of hearts, we’re like.  It’s the image of a chasm, opened wide between you two.  I suppose the wideness of the chasm depends on how different your views actually are from each another’s.  But still, I think the chasm’s there.

And I think it’s possible to live one’s entire life feeling, and therefore believing, that that chasm defines, entirely, relationship with that other person (or group.  I think we often see people as members of groups, rather than as individuals–Jews/non-Jews, Christians/non-Christians, theists/athiests, gays/straights, men/women).  Sometimes that chasm is so deep, and so wide, that it’s nearly impossible to ever, even with the best of luck, see anything beyond it.

But this is the other thing I’m becoming convinced of:  these chasms aren’t all there is.  In any dyad, and a dyad can be two people, or two groups, or one person and a group, whatever–in any dyad I think there are multiple chasms, as well as multiple stretches where the ground between the two parts comes completely together.  And I think that even in the case of chasms, there are often also bridges, where abysses can actually be crossed, albeit sometimes only skillfully, and sometimes at great peril…or great cost.

But the terrain is varied, is what I’m saying.  Between all of us.  Try living with someone–even someone you’re madly in love with–for any length of time, and any dream of only solid, crackless ground will dissipate into all the little and big things that drive you nuts about them (God bless their soul), or, and this may be more pertinent to this conversation, all the ways you realize you don’t see things as similarly as you thought.  You’ll realize that for the sake of love, and of peace, and of sane cohabitation, both of you must work to find ways around those chasms.  Or through them.  Both of you must believe that they aren’t the only thing there is.

I think this is true of relationships across any religious or devotional divide.

So.  In the case of that list from last time, maybe people from different sides of religious divides can actually talk honestly about religion–even openly about thinking the other person is wrong–and remain genuinely respectful of one another if, and this is an enormous if, I think–they can also include in their active awareness the knowledge that the terrain between them is varied, and includes long stretches of connection.  Long stretches of ground that’s in common, and passed easily between.  Sometimes it’s probably even necessary–not optional, but necessary–for the two to explore together where those places of connection are.  Not doing so can mean the chasm (or chasms) defining the whole relationship, and consequently coloring completely both party’s feelings about one another.  Feelings for people across chasms, at least as far as I can see, aren’t generally pretty.

This "if" is a big one, though, and one that’s hard to find in many circles.

So the question then begs asking:  is it really worth finding places of connection and common ground when a) the chasms between two people or two groups are immense, and/or b) one half of the dyad in question isn’t interested in searching for them?

I think in many cases it’s not.

I think there are cases where all this kind of searching does is leave one or both parties constantly scraped and bruised, constantly hopeless and frustrated, constantly yearning for some kind of home, some kind of place to relax and be at ease.  I think there are times in certain lives when peace is what’s needed most–needed to heal, needed to discover oneself actually normal, rather than whatever alternate labels keep getting lobbed across those voids.

Maybe there are times for unpeace, too, though.  Times for unrest.  Times when getting bruised constantly is a kind of gift a person gives to those who come after.  Examples paint history, where people of color and homosexuals and women and youth and elderly–where people of all kinds have participated in the very groups that would exclude them and call them evil or less than or stupid.  Those who have stayed active in such groups, doggedly proclaiming, even if by their silent presence alone, that chasms aren’t all there is:  I could weep in gratitude.  Thank you.  What a silly, tinny phrase to give to such world-changing work.

I’m thinking that that work isn’t everyone’s though, and that each of us must decide which relationships, or potential relationships, we need to walk away from, and which ones we must navigate the chasms of.  Because chasms, it seems to me, mark them all.

What do you think, though?  Am I wrong in some of this?  And in which cases are the BIGGIES, the canyons that can make the Grand one look small, worth working around for the sake of relationship?