I feel the need to write some sort of holiday post
here -- or at least something that gives lip service to the holidays, or the
new year, or to the past year and new beginnings. I feel like I'm supposed to feel alive with
the leftover warmth of holiday glow or, at least, some sort of 2015-nostalgia or
2016-hope, or some sort of something that
says "December has come and gone.
January 1 has skidded into lives with a screeching crescendo, and onward
we go into the new year with resolutions to be better, healthier, more socially
conscious, skinnier people who drink more water, yell less, spend less money,
are better partners, make more Pinterest crafts, eat less fast food, and spend
more time on the treadmill."
But holy mother of god, I don't want to write about
that. I don't want to write about the
holidays, I don't want to write about the upcoming year, I don't want to write
about resolutions, or non-resolutions, or why I do-or-do-not make resolutions,
and my plans to drink more or less water.
I'll do that, of course. I always do.
But maybe I'll do it in a week, or two, or in the middle of
February. Sometimes February is the best
time to set New Year's resolutions. The
good thing about resolutions, I've discovered, is that your New Year can start
any damn time you want it to, social convention and pressures be damned.
****
So here's what I'm going to write about instead:
I have had several conversations lately about
spirituality. Most of these
conversations were thought provoking, interesting, light, fun...but one -- the
one that was most important -- this one was hard, and it was hurtful. I am not placing blame or pointing fingers,
but the past few weeks have been hard.
Particularly this past week, I have struggled to breathe above this
incessant, nagging weight in my heart, and throat, and stomach. And this conversation -- this conversation
that felt it could have touched on who I am -- it was made out to be
wrong. And I'll tell you here that it's
okay, except for the fact that it's not in ways that are too big to put into
words.
So then, today, I saw this picture by Brian Andreas,
and I thought: This.
If you're reading this, I probably don't need to
convince you that I love the world. Or
that I love people. Or that I am,
actually, a loving and compassionate and whole-hearted being-of-love, as much
as a I can be.
But I need to believe it. I need to believe that I love the world. I need to believe that I love this life, and
that I love people, and that I love in a way that matters. Because it does matter, doesn't it? I am loving, and it matters. It does.
*****
I was listening to On Being the other day -- it was an old podcast I had not had time
to listen to from several months ago.
This interview, titled, "The Calling of Delight: Gangs, Service,
and Kinship" was by Father Greg Boyle-- a Jesuit working with
gang-affiliated youth in Los Angeles -- interviewed by Krista Tippett.
Father Boyle states that we are all called to be
people through which "kindness and tenderness and focused attempt of love
return people to themselves and, in the process, you're returned to yourself." He provides the example of the following
conversation he had with a young man - one of his "homies" that works
for him that he describes as "exasperating" and "difficult": "I said, "You know, Louie, uh,
I'm proud to know you and my life is richer because you came into it. When you
were born, you know, the world became a better place and I'm proud to call you
my son, even though," — and I don't know why I decided to add this part —
"at times you can really be a huge pain in the ass [laughter]." And
he looks up at me and he smiles and he says, "The feeling's mutual
[laughter]." And, you know, suddenly kinship so quickly. You know, you're
not sort of this delivery system, but maybe I return him to himself. But there
is no doubt that he's returned me to myself." (http://www.onbeing.org/program/father-greg-boyle-on-the-calling-of-delight/transcript/5059)
*****
I had a young man come into my office last month who
was having a particularly difficult day.
He did not want to see me...or anybody.
He did not want to talk. Or play
games. Or be alone. He wasn't quite sure what he wanted,
actually, so he yelled at me, and at his mother, and he threw things, and
flipped over the table, and crawled under the chair and let me sit in the room
with him for the remainder of the hour.
I responded to emails, worked out some kinks in my calendar, and
periodically said, "I like the way you're taking deep breaths" or
"thanks for keeping your body safe" or "let me know if you feel
like getting a juice box for calming down," to which he replied something
like "shutthefuckup" or "why are you still talking to me?"
At the end of the hour, I let him know it was time
to go, and that I was going to schedule his next appointment with his
mother. As his mother and I began hashing out two
possible dates, there was a hissing noise from under the chair.
"Yeah, buddy?" his mom said.
"Mom," he whispered. "Make sure to pick the soonest one. I want to come back and see her at the
soonest time possible."
"Hey buddy?" I said.
"Yeah?" he asked, poking his head out from
under the chair.
"Thanks for that. I want you to come back at the soonest time,
too." He looked surprised. So did his mother. And my heart -- it felt this rightness that my heart feels when it
can speak genuinely and truthfully, even and especially in those moments when
you would not expect those words to be said.
They come from some place deep in my heart, and the air in the room
changes when they are uttered. My client
extended his metaphorical hand, and I took it.
Not because it was my job. Not because
it was the right thing to do. But
because he dared to put his hand and his heart out there again, and in doing
so, he returned me to myself.
"You
who love the world so much? That's what
you are here to do."
*****
Several weeks ago, I was at the grocery store. There was a young woman -- perhaps 14 or 15
years old -- with a developmental disability with her mother in the produce
section. This young woman was clearly
antsy and done with shopping, and her mother was clearly not yet finished.
"Don't touch," her mother said, over and
over again, as the young woman ran her hands over each pile of vegetables. The young woman whined, and pulled on her
mother, and rammed the cart into the case.
She picked up the cucumber and put it up to her ear, pretending to talk
on the phone, jabbering into the end of the vegetable, suddenly engaged.
Her mother, seizing the opportunity, reviewed her
list and was frantically picking up as much as she could while her daughter
entertained herself.
I was a few steps down at the peppers, surveying the
scene. As the cucumber conversation
began to end and the young woman reached over to pull on her mother once more
while continuing to loudly state "'LO??
'LO?? 'LO??" into the
cucumber, I went for it.
Picking up a pepper, I caught her eye and put it up
to my ear, "hello?" I asked.
She laughed, surprised. Her
mother looked over at me, and then pretended she didn't notice.
"'LO???" she said again.
"Who's there?" I said. "Is this Cucumber talking?"
She laughed, like it was the funniest thing she had
ever heard. People around us were
staring at me -- the crazy lady, talking into the pepper.
"'LO??" she said.
"Oh hello, Cucumber, it's Pepper! It's so good to hear from you! How is your shopping going today?" She laughed and laughed and jumped up and
down, flapping her hands excitedly.
The man behind me picking out his potatoes
snort-laughed.
Her mother, finished with her shopping, called her
daughter to her. She put the cucumber in
the bin. "See ya," I said to
her, placing my pepper in my cart.
And that's it -- she walked away in one direction,
and I in the other. But in that moment
in the produce section, the whole world felt right again. She had, through her laughter, her
engagement, through our simple conversation -- she had returned me to myself.
"You
who love the world so much? That's what
you are here to do."
I am loving. And it matters.
