Cornerstones: Where the Wild Things Are

I come from a long line of collectors. My mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, even my uncles. We collect, gather, hold on to. Buttons, porcelain slippers, books, garden sprinklers, Wee Forest Folk, McDonald's toys, cameras, pint glasses. I don't think it's simply for the accumulation of things in themselves, though perhaps on some level it is. Rather, at least for me, the things I own, the things around me, hold my story. They remind me of family members I love, friends with whom I've celebrated big events, people who have, for whatever reason, drifted. Looking around my apartment, seeing my story unfold in trinkets and furniture, is quite comforting.

When people first come to my apartment, they are often drawn to two things: the photographs and the books. I do not have an exhaustive library. I don't even have a very discerning library. I simply have books. Some of them are rare or special, but not most.

I do not know when or why I was first drawn to Maurice Sendak, in particular to Where the Wild Things Are. I'm not sure if, as a young child, I ever went through a phase of being afraid of the wild things. I have a rather romanticized notion of this book: that it's what caused my love of reading and story. That might be true, but it might not.

My copy has furled edges. The spine is somewhat torn. The pages are not crisp or spotless. This book has lived a long life.

I cannot pass this book in a store without stopping to read it. Once or twice, I've gotten to the end and burst into tears. This is a story of love, a story of imagination and adventure that ends with a coming home to being cared for no matter what.

Several years ago the movie version of Where the Wild Things Are came out. I enjoyed the movie, but it also confused me, as did much of the criticism that came out about the book itself at that time. Many critics see this book as a story about a boy with anger issues who lashes out at his mom and becomes himself a wild thing full of rage. I guess, but maybe he's just a boy who's upset that his mom got mad at him, creates a world where he's in charge, realizes that he kind of likes being taken care of, and returns to find that, indeed, his mother loves him unconditionally.

And that's what I love about this book. It's about home, knowing where love is, recognizing the gift of going away and coming back.

Nowadays I'm a bit more careful with my books. I don't break spines or dog-ear pages. I write in them, but only with pencil. Covers stay tidy and pages aren't smudged with food (though drops of tea might make it onto some pages here and there). And yet, ragged though it may be, this is, without a doubt, one of my most prized books.

RB 4.1: First Things

First of all, love the Lord God with your whole heart, your whole soul and all your strength.

I looked at this verse last week, and my immediate thought was "Ugh. Really? I have to write about that?" Yes, writing about chapter 4 of Benedict's Rule is a self-imposed assignment. And yes, I know that this chapter begins with a litany of biblical quotations. But part of me kind of wished that I could start with something else. Something, I don't know—exciting.

Isn't love of God a given? Don't we hear this preamble to the Golden Rule quite often? Isn't this ingrained in us?

But tonight I wonder if maybe the answer to each of these questions is no. Loving God isn't a given. We don't hear this command enough; nor do we hear the one to love our neighbor enough. And perhaps this love isn't ingrained in us precisely because we don't work at it.

A few years ago when I was discerning religious life, I knew that parts of it would be easy. The whole thing wouldn't be a cakewalk, but prayer, loving God, being contemplative—those bits were going to have a framework in which to grow, be challenged, and thrive. That's not to say there wouldn't be dry spells or problems. But on the whole, I knew I'd be surrounded by women who love God and who would be with me along that journey.

Since I decided not to join religious life, that framework of a relationship with God has, of course, shifted. My prayers are said on the car ride to work, or when I'm surprised by the beauty of a sunset, or when I give thanks for this life—this life I'm living right now that I had no idea could contain so much goodness.

God is not front and center; rather, she is the foundation. But saying that feels like the easy way out. I don't know how well I love God with my whole heart, my whole soul, and all my strength. I am reminded of the words of Toni Morrison in Paradise: "Love is divine only and difficult always. . . . It is a learned application without reason or motive except that it is God. . . . You can only earn—by practice and careful contemplation—the right to express it and you have to learn how to accept it. Which is to say you have to earn God. You have to practice God. You have to think God—carefully."

I can sense the hackles of some of my theologically trained friends rising at the idea of earning God. That's some dangerous territory there.

But what about this idea of practicing God? What might that look like? Is that what Jesus meant when he commanded us to love God with every fiber of our being? Are my hurried, mumbled prayers of request or thanks or praise enough practice? If I were to truly practice God, would I not be struck dumb damn near every moment of the day?

But maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe the call is to love God with all you've got in whatever moment you find yourself. Sometimes when I think about God I get lost in how big she is, how all-encompassing she is. But my whole heart and soul and strength aren't that big. They're quite small, sometimes petty, often wimpy. And that, for me, is where the practice comes in: to love God completely in the midst of my inadequacy.

on finding words

Well, here we are again. This writing life is a funny thing, I'm learning.

I never used to question that words would come. They always did. But in recent years, I've realized that it isn't a given. Sometimes the words evaporate. Sometimes they need to be latent. Sometimes they just don't show up. Sometimes they need to be private.

Last summer I attended a writing workshop at the Collegeville Institute. It was a week-long gift of diving deeply into words—mine and those of others. My piece was criticized and praised. I was given advice and compliments. The calling to write was affirmed.

And then the words disappeared. I didn't want to write. I realized that over the past few years, I've developed an internal critic who has some rather harsh and unhelpful things to say about my writing. Criticism is one thing if it moves you to see things from another perspective, if it sheds light on a blind spot. But this writing critic is different. It is unkind and counterproductive. It paralyzed me.

I have not suffered much from low self-esteem. I recognize that there are things I do well and things I don't do well. This is not something I beat myself up over. So to know that I am a halfway decent writer but to have this little voice telling me that my words are insignificant—well, it has taken some time to work around that.

In October I started getting up early several times a week to write. I needed the clarity of writing for no one but myself. I needed, though I didn't realize it at the time, to work around that critic, to put it in its place. I needed to see if I could put words to paper again in a way that was intentional and illuminating. I needed to remember my voice.

For several weeks I have pondered ways to go public again. There are two series I am going to work on in this space; both have been percolating for at least a year, and it's time to see what may come of them.

The first idea is something I intended to do when I started this blog: to reflect on each verse of chapter 4 of St. Benedict's Rule. This chapter is a touchstone for me; it is most definitely a guide for how to live well, how to be in relationship with others well.

The second idea is a bit less directed in some ways. When I was planning to join the monastery a few years ago, one of the most difficult concepts I wrestled with was the idea of giving up my things: my books, my bed, my cat (not a thing, but still). Selfish, perhaps. But I realized that the things with which I have surrounded myself are not merely things. I do have some clutter, some stuff that could probably go, but for the most part, the things in my home tell a story. They are important to me because of the people and events they symbolize. Letting go of the things wouldn't mean I didn't love the people or events, but it would have meant letting go of the tangibility of my story.

So this second series will be on what I have gathered: the stories that are contained in the items around me.

For the first time in my writing life I feel a bit of trepidation about putting words "out there." That trepidation alone tells me that this is a necessary thing to do. It wouldn't be worthwhile, perhaps, if I weren't just a little afraid.

Let's see what happens.

on happiness

I am happy.

Let me repeat that: I am happy.

Those aren't necessarily words I say very often. Usually, I'm "splendid" or "fine" or "tired" or "fantastic." But "happy"? I haven't been happy in ages.

These days, I'm happy. I'm also a bit run down, overwhelmed, surprised, and, occasionally, anxious. But underneath all of that, when I stop and ponder the days I'm living, there's a deep current of happiness running through it.

Why? I figured you'd want to know.

I am happy because about six weeks ago I started dating a guy who delights me; he makes me laugh and makes me think. I like him a lot. I've not dated much, so at first I was a bit skittery about this whole thing. And then I went on a date with P. and I realized it's not so scary. More important, he's not so scary. He's actually pretty darn great.

I am happy because work is challenging. It's stressful, and I certainly feel a bit out of my depth, but I also feel trusted (God knows why!) by my boss, curious about learning new processes, honored to be working with my authors, delighted to be training a new copy editor, humbled to work where I do.

I am happy because in early July I spent a week at a writing workshop at the Collegeville Institute. There were twelve of us who participated in the workshop with Lauren Winner, our facilitator. For a while I have struggled with writing. I have wondered if I have anything of value to say, anything meaningful to offer. That week gave me back my voice, rekindled my writing enthusiasm, and inspired me to figure out where my words belong.

You know there's a "But . . . " coming, don't you?

Over the past month, I've realized that I don't trust happiness. I expect the joy to come to a crashing halt, to be stopped in its tracks, to evaporate. Pick your dreadful and cliche metaphor. By letting myself be happy, I'm fighting against a lifetime (perhaps generations) of expecting the worst. We are Murphys, and there is a law for us, you know?

In my senior year AP English class in high school, we analyzed Thomas Lux's poem, "Refrigerator, 1957." It is, to this day, one of my favorite poems. I vividly recall arguing in the middle of class with the teacher, a dear friend of mine, about the last lines of the poem:
. . . because you do not eat
that which rips your heart with joy.

At eighteen, I couldn't fathom why you wouldn't rush toward joy, take it in, soak it up, live it. Why not crack open that jar of cherries and eat them with reckless abandon? We should go after joy; we should be happy.

Now, eleven years later, I approach the poem and those lines with a little more understanding. Perhaps Ms. B. was right: attaining joy—even when we know the joy we want to attain—isn't always possible or easy. I realize now that maybe she was trying to tell me that happiness involves trust, happiness means recognizing that there is unhappiness. Happiness might even mean living unhappiness for a while.

These days, that's the balance I'm walking. I am happy, and I am, deep down, terrified that something will upset that joy. But at the moment, I'm learning how to set aside the fear because he just kissed me, and I accomplished a lot at the office today, and tonight I have put words on a page.

Indeed, happy.

on two-by-fours

It's Pentecost! My most favorite of favoritest feasts.

My Pentecost began gently: tea, reading a new book (The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obreht), feeding cats I'm taking care of for the weekend, heading to church. It was the start of the Perfect Pentecost.

Until, in the midst of this gentle morning, as I contemplated the Spirit's work in my life and in the world, a reminder of a failed friendship fluttered into my mind. I got mad. I had a great argument with this person in my head as I drove about from cat-sitting to church. I got righteous and angry and hard-hearted. I thought about how I deserve to be treated so much better than this, how never seeing this person again would be Fine. By. Me.

And then I thought about another friend of mine who I hoped I'd never have to deal with again. For a long time we were not on speaking terms. It caused a major rift in our circle of friends and was incredibly painful—for us and for those around us. I thought of this person and realized that writing off my other friend who has hurt me is not, perhaps, the best way to go about things.

And yet, the frustration persisted. It's Pentecost, dammit! I should be happy and Spirit-filled and inspired. I shouldn't have to think of complicated things like forgiveness and healing. Today is not the day for that!

So I trudged off to church, a little less pious than I anticipated being, showing up as the monks were processing in to the abbey, and I settled in to the liturgy, hoping that maybe it would bring me back to the true meaning of Pentecost: Wisdom! Spirit! Fire! Warmth!

It wasn't until the gospel reading that I realized there was a two-by-four headed straight for my forehead, wielded, of course, by God herself. This one had the word "FORGIVENESS" carved on it. The readings for today emphasize the varied gifts of the Spirit, the many ways the Spirit moves in our lives. Here I was pondering how wonderful it would be to hear the great cacophony giving witness to God when John's gospel reminded me that forgiveness is, indeed, the work of the Spirit, the work of this day: "[Jesus] breathed on them and said to them, 'Receive the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them.'"

Aw, hell.

What do we do with a Spirit who is that persistent, that demanding, that frustrating? My first inclination today was to ignore that Spirit, to shut her down and pretend she wasn't talking to me. Maybe I could get away with thinking of those great gifts of the Spirit, the ones I've been given, and what I'll do with them. Yeah, that's not too demanding.

But the niggling idea of forgiveness was lodged in my brain for good. And has been all day. I don't feel ready to forgive, but I do know that if this person by whom I feel wronged were to show up, my anger would need to be set aside, my forgiveness extended, my heart opened.

Some days I'm not quite sure what to do with a Spirit who calls us to this kind of radical love, which, at times, is quite painful. But, because I've experienced profound forgiving and forgiveness already, I recognize that, through the Spirit, there is grace in healing what seems impossible to heal.

on april

During my first semester of graduate school, my best friend's father died. She and I had known each other since we were freshmen in high school. Her dad took me to a father-daughter dance or two, told corny jokes, encouraged me to watch Patton once, and was a lovable, kind father.

So when he was diagnosed with cancer and died two months later, I found myself hastily leaving Minnesota for Kansas City. I contacted my professors and work and told them I'd be away for a few days. I asked for prayers for my friend and her family.

When I returned to classes, one of my professors handed me a piece of paper with a quote from Dietrich Bonhoeffer on it:
Nothing can make up for the absence of someone we love.
And it would be wrong to try to find a substitute.
We must simply hold out and see it through.
That sounds very hard at first but at the same time it is a great consolation.
For the gap—as long as it remains unfilled—preserves the bond between us.
It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap.
God does not fill it.
But on the contrary keeps it empty and so helps us to keep alive our former communion with each other even at the cost of pain.

These words of Bonhoeffer, given to me by Fr. Kevin Seasoltz, have resounded in me this month, which began with the death of a good friend of mine. Of my mother's friends, Barb was the one I was closest to. She took me to dinner somewhat regularly, talked to me about boys (nothing like having a lesbian talk to you about boys), asked me about religious life, taught me how to stand up straight (literally; she was a ruthless chiropractor), and made me laugh. She shared with me her wisdom and her humor.

Barb was diagnosed with cancer in September 2011. Her initial prognosis was two weeks to two months. She lived for nineteen—and, for a good portion of that time, she was as okay as one can be when riddled with cancer. She traveled to Florida, was loved and cared for by her partner, took walks almost every day.

When I went home for Easter this year, I knew it would probably be my last opportunity to see Barb. She was rapidly declining, and this time the prognosis would be right. I have been given the gift of knowing quite a few people who have died. Three years ago, after my uncle died, I didn't see this as a gift; I saw it as a curse and a burden. An unfair lot that I was given to bear. I didn't like it. In many ways, I still don't.

On Good Friday, my mother and I were able to spend time with Barb. I expected to have about five minutes with her, to say hello, to tell her I loved her, to be ushered out the door so she could be left in peace. We had ninety minutes to spend with Barb, to hold her hands, to watch her as she slept.

There are many beautiful things about monastic life. One of them is the tradition of sitting with a dying brother or sister. Community members take turns keeping vigil with the dying member so he or she is not alone, so the journey from this life to the next is not a lonely one.

As my mother and I knelt by Barb's bedside, I was reminded of these monastic vigils. I thought too of the veneration of the cross that was taking place in churches all over the world that day. People kneeling and kissing the cross, laying their burdens on it and blessing that which is difficult and ugly. We do this because we know that we cannot have the resurrection without the cross. What would the rising mean without the dying? What would our living mean if it weren't for our dying?

Barb died three days after we saw her. In some ways, I still find it hard to believe that she's no longer here, that we won't get to go to dinner again, that I will never see her saber a bottle of champagne again, that I cannot hear her laugh or receive a text message or see her on Facebook. As I have pondered these misses, I've thought about the gap that Bonhoeffer acknowledges—and I recognize that these gaps from people I have loved and lost really are a blessing.

Which brings me full circle. Fr. Kevin, the one who gave me the quotation, died this past Saturday. He too had cancer. He too was an overwhelming presence, a powerful mind. As I've read some of the memories and tributes to him on PrayTell, I've thought back to my experiences of him as a professor. The overwhelming feeling I have is gratitude for this man who gave me a piece of paper with a few words on it that helped me to get through a patch of grief.

In many ways this month is perfectly bookended—a woman whose love and kindness to me was so big that it has influenced who I have become and a man whose act of kindness was so small that he probably wouldn't have remembered it if I'd mentioned it. I carry with me these gaps, some big and some small, that remind me that loving big and loving small are both profound.

On the Pope

Have you caught it? Pope fever? It’s been a month since Pope Benedict XVI announced his resignation, eleven days since he left St. Peter’s. Stories have swirled about what this resignation means, what Benedict’s legacy is and will be, what future popes will do when they feel unable to carry out the duties of the papal office, who the papabili are, the pros and cons of each “candidate,” top agenda items for the next pope. Facts and fabrications, likelihoods and slim chances. We have the opportunity to lose ourselves in the razzmatazz of it all.

I’ve been wanting to write about the resignation myself, but I’m having a hard time doing so. Catholic though I am, I am not well versed in papal language. I don’t know the cardinals, the group of men from whom the next pope will be chosen. There are some people who can tell you exactly who they are, what they’re known for, what their faults are, how they might be as pope. I, however, am woefully ignorant about such things.

What I do know is that I find myself with rather mixed feelings about the papacy these days.

When John Paul II died, I was excited for something new, something fresh. A conclave! A new pope! My roommate and I left the television on day and night after John Paul II died. I distinctly recall being in our dorm room between classes, alone, when Benedict walked out onto the balcony as our newly elected pope. I cried. I was disappointed and angry, and I cried. I grabbed my backpack, stalked out of the room, and made my way to class amid students who were jumping with joy that God’s Rottweiler had been elected. I thought it was the end of the church as I knew it.

So imagine my surprise when the church didn’t end. A couple of years later, I found myself reading Cardinal Ratzinger’s Eschatology for my comprehensive exams here at Saint John’s. I enjoyed that book immensely. The writing was beautiful. Ratzinger’s theology on life after death, grieving, the end—all of it moved me more than I could have imagined. And so, I thought, maybe he’s not that bad.

Benedict XVI had his faults. He made some questionable decisions about the liturgy. His support of the investigation into American women’s religious communities was hurtful (to put it mildly). His handling of the sexual abuse crisis was disgraceful. He was not a pope who fixed. If anything, it could be argued that he was a pope who divided. 

And so, again, imagine my surprise when, as I watched this pope take leave of the Vatican, I cried. But this time they were not tears of anger or disappointment. They weren’t even tears of sadness, I don’t think. Truly, I’m not sure what they were about. We Catholics are an odd bunch. I’ve never been much of a papal fan, but for some reason as I watched Benedict process to the car waiting for him I was moved to respect this man, to recognize the bigness of the decision he had made.

One of my difficulties in writing about Pope Benedict’s resignation is that I fear I’m going to wade into some murky doctrinal waters with what I’m about to say. But as I’ve read articles and listened to conversations about this historical thing, I keep coming back to Jesus’ humanity. 

In his Rule, St. Benedict says that the abbot “is believed to hold the place of Christ in the monastery.” He is the shepherd of the members in their spiritual and material lives. The abbot guides, teaches, leads, disciplines, and loves the members of the community. Our popes would do well to read chapter 2 of Benedict’s Rule when they are elected, and perhaps every day until they die (or retire). The pope represents Christ; he isn’t Christ, of course, but he shows us what it means to follow in Christ’s footsteps. 

It tends to be a lot easier to speak of Christ’s divinity than of his humanity. We think the divinity is tidier, prettier, snazzier. I am a lover of John’s gospel, and John the Evangelist is known for having a very high Christology. Jesus knew everything. Nothing surprised him. His friend was dying and his immediate response was to use this death for the glory of God, not to rush to his side to offer comfort. It makes for a nice story, what with the raising of Lazarus from the dead and all, but we know that this friend’s sisters were not very pleased. Who among us in the throes of grief are much concerned with the glory of God? Jesus, apparently.

But we can’t have a high Christology all the time. Jesus wasn’t performing miracles all the time. He was a baby who needed to be fed from Mary’s breast, just was we were fed by our mothers when we were born. Jesus played and laughed and learned. He raised Lazarus from the dead, yes, but he also wept before he did so. He hung on a cross to die. He was humbled. 

What does that mean for us? What does that look like for us?

As I’ve contemplated Pope Benedict’s decision to resign, I’ve thought that maybe he’s showing, in some small way, what it means to accept limitations as a human being. He held the place of Christ as pope. Maybe as pope emeritus he’s showing us something of what it means to hold the place of Jesus, which, if we’re honest, is what we’re all called to do. 

I’m not ready to put Benedict XVI in the sainthood category just yet, and I’d be surprised if that were to happen anytime soon. This resignation has thrown everyone for a loop. Can we saint a guy who quit? And yet, since we surely won’t saint him for his handling of sexual abuse scandals, or treatment of women, or justice for gays and lesbians, maybe we can respect him for forcing us to confront our own limitations, our own humanity and, therefore, our own divinity in Christ.