So far from “Perfect”

Yes, I find joy dozens of times a day. In the sound of waves, the shapes of clouds, in cuddles with Watson. I am filled with gratitude. I am happier than I recall being since I was probably a very small child. I’ve cut back or cut out all that fun stuff like partying all night, drinking more than an alcoholic beverage and/or a coffee a day. I have a skincare routine. I get the sleep I need. I go to the doctors. I have discovered my faith and seen it strengthened (and tested). I have done and continue to do the gut-wrenching work of healing and emotional development.

I also made myself cry an hour ago because I saw a video of a cat using the buttons I got for Watson to say it was ready to die – listened to it’s pained meows, only to learn it did it several times more before being euthanized the next day. And it took me back to my last days with Moose. Of holding him close, looking him in the eyes and trying to pour all my love and peace into him as he slipped away, by my word. And years later, I’m still struggling with that decision.

So that for some reason seemed like the perfect time to listen to Never Is a Promise by Fiona Apple (a beautiful but moderately heartbreaking song that I forgot reminds me of an ex). In my chest, I feel an ache for all the things that made him someone I love and all the insurmountable obstacles that doomed our relationship. And that ache reminds me of the similar ache I feel when I travel. The way I am always falling in love with a place while feeling the simultaneous ache in my heart for another. I’ve scattered little pieces of me around this globe – tons of places and people I have had the opportunity to love and treasure, and those people and places have pieces too within my heart.

And then I’m in my minds eye. I see the paper thin skin of my moms hand, feel it’s velvet texture the last time I held it. The momentary surprise in her eyes as they met my tear filled eyes – because I’m not a hand-holder. I’m the one who makes her laugh when things are hard. Who tries to win a smile when disease and illness start to feel crushing. And if all else fails, who finds a way to piss her off just enough that she forgets she’s sad or scared for a few moments. But all I had were heavy goodbyes that tasted of ash and had the crushing weight of finality. And I felt, knowing that while we might speak again, I would likely never hold her hand, kiss her or hug her again – and it upended me. And I can feel it all. Right now.

I imagine this kind of thing is shared across humanity – yet it’s often spoken of as if we can only feel one thing at any given time. As if all these feelings are contrary to the others. That is not how life has felt to me – it was always this miraculously complex saturation in my own humanity, in our collective fragility and finiteness. That the paths not walked, the places left behind, the people now gone, the opportunities missed – the words left unsaid or spoken which we desperately wish we could take back. It’s all part of a mosaic of space, time and being. Of knowing that rarely in life are we truly in full mountains and valleys – no – usually we are all the things in life at once: we are the emotional rivers that carve the valleys, the rains that cleanse the lands and bring new life, we are the seasons and the days and nights – the storms and the wind and the sunshine. We are the jagged rocks and the grassy knolls, the gentle streams and the powerful currents. We are the lamb and the lion.

The Pleasure of My Own Company

It sounded impossible. Four days without any words spoken, without any people to spend time with processing, discussing, laughing and crying. No TVs. No radio or music. Just quiet. Just me alone with myself, creation and God.

Are you afraid to be alone with yourself? Without anything to distract you? I was…

When I went on my first silent, solitude retreat, I almost left within 24 hours! It felt emotionally overwhelming to exist without distraction. But then I grew to love it, to treasure those brief periods a few times a year where I would withdraw to reflection and nature to be still and listen.

I find myself reflecting about how essential this early training was for my to be able to be where I am now. Part of that journey required me to look at what all the noisy and busy parts of my life were attempting to hide and drown out. It encouraged me to do the work of figuring out how to come to terms with those things within me, to move from a place of self-hatred to… dare I say it? Love. I feel like that word gets tossed about a lot – that the true gravity of the choice to love gets missed. The weight of that commitment. It is no small feat to love well.

I’d spent a most of my life striving to be worthy of love, respect and inclusion and feeling that somehow, to accomplish such a thing was nearly impossible. I suppose I was right, in a way. That seeking was faced outward, towards a performative world that is largely transactional. But as I dove into the Word, and myself, I realized two things.

First, that my faith tells me I already have these things from God. Not because of who I am, but because of who God is. That led to a secondary epiphany: that the only guarantee I have towards being loved, respected and included is to be those things, to have it be a core part of my nature and expression to myself and others. As all early followers of Christianity knew, belief isn’t something that stays in the head – it must by it’s very nature move to the heart, to the mouth, to our hands and feet. As it did, my sense of worth stopped fluctuating with the opinions of my family, friends and coworkers. Or people who follow or like the things I post. As that became set apart, the way I relate to others changed. No longer in desperate need to get something for myself from others, I was free – free to be exactly who I am. Free to become, to change my mind, to error and fail. Now that I have abundant love, I find myself able to be a source of love without needing any sort of reciprocity. The source of my joy is not in others, or in my circumstances, but rooted in who I am and in my gratitude for being.

I know that I was created and formed by Love, made in the very image of Love. I am also a recipient of God’s cruciform, agape love. And it is a wonderful and beautiful thing to be able to reflect that same love into my communities and spheres of influence. But there is also something extraordinary and beautiful in my times of solitude, where I must simply be. I’m not quite sure how to wrap words around these senses and feelings, but I feel like I get a taste of what Christians know of the triune God who is three in One. I remember the Trinity being compared at one point to the Gift, the Giver, and the act of Giving. So though I spend more time alone now, I am simultaneously never lonely. I too can choose to be the gift, the Giver, the act of giving.