I Am A Mother, Not a MommyBlogger: A (Delirious) Free Write on Clarity

I’m thinking about a class I just taught.

It was a reflection and my end point was that to be truly present to another human being, we have to be able to choose it despite all the things going on in our lives – suffering, pain, distraction, obligations – and choose to give ourselves to another by our presence.  That actually wasn’t what my end point was going to be, but something inside me led me to bring it up and I went with it.  I ended the class asking for them to think about someone in their lives who truly needs their presence to be fully engaged and open to …

It’s been about three hours since that class ended and I feel somewhat in a fog myself, not really sure if I know who I want to be present to because, in all honesty, the person who I most need to be present to is myself.  There isn’t a moment in the day where I am able to truly give myself undivided attention to what I think my great purpose is, what I believe is my greater calling, and create a plan to make that happen.  So much of my life as a parent, as a minster, as a human living in the moment is taking the sacrifice of not being able to plan a future.

I’ve had very little time to write lately and I find myself slipping away, emotionally, when that happens.  Like a boat with no anchor, a body with no gravity, a balloon with no string to tether me to the earth.  I am floating, gracelessly in my life.  Full of purpose but with very little action to piece my purpose into reality.

I love my life.  I love everything about my life, but lately I’ve been feeling an itch to be bold.  That phrase keeps popping in my head, “Be bold.”  I think when I love people in my life I will do whatever I need to do to circumvent disappointing them or letting them down, to the detriment of my own dreams.  Since Mike died, I’ve had this house-sized billboard across the street reminding me: LIVE YOUR DREAMS.  We don’t know when our time to transition out of this life will be and I feel I have so much life still unloved, dreams unspoken that need articulation, and stories to write on paper.  To make that happen I have to say good bye to all the things that eat up my time, even things I love.  I have let go pieces of my time with painting and photography and cropping into my schedule are new obligations: family gatherings, weddings, birthdays, graduation parties, sacramental celebrations, lunches, coffee dates, playmates, travels…the list is endless.

I’ve found that it’s not enough to let go of things, but working toward your dreams also means being bold, saying no to what does not feed the dream, and saying goodbye to distractions.  If we only say goodbye but do not fill those spaces with intention, those spaces quickly fill with eager people and appointments.  As an adult, there’s no such thing as free time.  Everything comes at a price.

I need to be clear with myself, reminding my own two hands that I am not here to be a blogger*.  I am not here to have the greatest Pinterest account.  I am not here to garner five digit twitter followers or be the greatest facebooker ever.  I am not here for that.  I am not here to be an assistant to anyone but a manager of my own destiny.  It’s taken me 33 years to know who I am and who I am not and I need to be bold and say goodbye to wasted time reading op-eds that pull me in opposite directions instead of books that enrich my knowledge.  I need to stop collecting pictures of “cute” and “pretty” things that aren’t even real.  They’re ideas, concepts.  THings that I don’t even have time for, yet I am spending a portion of my life letting OTHER people know that I “like” how something MIGHT look on me IF i decide to buy it someday.  Is it just me or does that sound crazy?

I need to hold that balance that social media is most certainly a tool for connection, but those “relationships” are to people who haven’t seen me in at least a decade, sometimes two decades.  My responsibility is not to them.  My work is not accountable to them  and while I treasure those individual people, as a whole, I refuse to spend more of my time that has nothing to do with purpose; things that will never make it to my obituary.  Things that matter only to Statcounters and faceless commenters, but not to me.  As luring, as tempting, as fluffy fun and empty headed and easy as it is to lose myself in social media, it’s time to reground myself and grow elsewhere.

My purpose is like anyone else’s – to not only find but USE my most authentic self and expand with confidence.  My keyboard has been used much but not for the right purposes.

I am a writer, not a blogger.  I am a mother, not a mommyblogger.  I am a feminist, not a media junkie.  I am a social critic, not a twitter whiner.  I am an artist, not a Pinterest collage.  I am invested, not LinkedIn.

This is who I am.  To those other things, I bid farewell.

* My definition of a blogger is a person who writes for internet publication and engages in the threads (dialogues) and comments/ feedback of their readership.

Poem, “Spiritual 9-1-1”

After a while of ignoring the voices inside your head

which threaten you

to live more daringly, seek more unknown,

push the challenge, and feel more than your skin allows

the voices get tired and eventually are silenced

and then you are left

with nothing

but wasted energy that was once spent on trying to ignore the calls of God.

What Goodness Looks Like: Remembering Michael F. Wood

What do you see when you look outside your front window or every time you open the front door?

My view is a beautiful brick home.  A meticulously kept, pretty home with life and goodness draped around it.

In that home is a family I admire.  Their teenage daughter babysat for Isaiah once and their teenage sons were the kind of young men who took a leaf blower to my lawn when I was pregnant, came over with smiles to sell fundraiser tickets for their high school, and were active in various activities with the church.

But it was the parents who I admired the most: Lisa and Mike Wood.

When we bought our first home across the street from them, they were welcoming and inviting from the moment we met them.  They invited us over for dinner, gave extra boxes of Girl Scout cookies to us, and always had a smile or piece of advice when we found ourselves outside at the same time, surveying the sky before an impending storm, or passing out candy at Halloween.  Like neighbors do, like lucky neighbors who enjoy peaceful and friendly community.

But my favorite thing about looking across the street was seeing Lisa and Mike sitting on their front step.  On summer nights, I watched them sit outside, sometimes for hours, talking and observing.  It was a moving sight, something so simple, yet an utterly profound habit to witness: sitting and talking.

Shaker Heights is an historic neighborhood.  The homes are old and not built with ideal porches or many options to sit out front.  But this never stopped me and Nick from setting out a comfy chair on our front stoop and reading, watching Isaiah play on the lawn, or sometimes just staring at the stars.  What I loved most is how Lisa and Mike Wood sat on their stoop with no chair, shoulder to shoulder.  The image of them often made me hope and pray that someday, somewhere in the future Nick and I would be just like that: watching kids on bikes and reminiscing about when our kids were that young, staring at retirement in a few years and maybe even making travel plans to enjoy the empty nest. I remember looking out my window, wondering what they were talking about.  The world?  Politics? The lemonade stand at the corner of the street?  Their children?  Our hideous landscaping they had to look at for so long?

It was this week that I learned Mike suffered a fatal heart attack and died at the age of 57.  Suddenly, the warm beautiful brick home across the street was more than just a friendly sight for my eyes, but a place of grief and loss.  For me, as a person who loves community and takes personal investment in the lives of those who I am near, his death was a shocking earthquake into my peaceful heart.  It rattled me beyond comprehension. It was just last week that Isaiah and I were building a snowman and Mike – out for a run – stopped to say a funny quip about the leaning stature of the snowman.  We shared a short laugh and I smiled even as he turned his back.

And suddenly he’s gone.

All that assuredness we derive from our neighbor’s presence was suddenly a capsized boat in the sea of life.  The night I heard of Mike’s passing, I laid in bed with my head on my pillow, turned side ways, staring at Nick.  Wondering what life had in store for us, wondering if we’d really get to old age together, wondering how long Isaiah would have both of us.  Those questions did nothing but spark every insecurity life is naturally riddled with and the only way to know what life has in store for us is to live it, live through it.  And live it well.

The verbal exchange of greeting and conversation is sometimes not the most compelling piece of community. Sometimes it’s simply the strong physical presence of those around us that make us feel safe, secure, and assured.  The Wood family was like that for me.  A picture of what goodness looks like, a place to look upon several times a day and know that even in today’s crazy world, children can be raised lovingly, marriages can stay intact, and there’s time to sit on your front stoop to reflect about all of it.

Today is the calling hours and funeral for Mike Wood and I pray for not only him and his family, but for all of us who are searching for that warm image of what love and goodness look like.  For those of us young families who constantly worry about whether or not we’ll make it through these uneven years of scheduling, compromise, and unpredictability,  I pray for those good people and families who by simply being who they are end up inspiring and comforting us who have yet to arrive there.

And while my thoughts and prayers are strong now for Mike and his family, I’m certain they’ll be even stronger when I look out my window on summer nights.

Mary Magdalen as a Sex Positive Therapist: What Catholic Women Can Learn from the Most Misunderstood Figure in the New Testament

One of the mystifying aspects of my studying the US mainstream feminist movement has been the “sex positive” feminists.  In my cursory reading of it (I nearly exclusively read authors on women of color feminism and poetry), my general understanding of it comes from the 1980s Sex Pos movement which came as a – somewhat – reactive response to the anti-pornography feminism that sprung out in the 70s, which placed pornography at the center of the women’s movement.  It claimed, among many other facets of women’s rights, that true freedom was directly related to sexual freedom and choice.

In more modern and nuanced definitions, I’ve read more blogs and articles that sex-positivity is more of an umbrella to hold theories, prompts, and loose philosophies around ideas of desire, consent, gender, and sexual choices.

Even with the updated work on sex positivity, I was always confused by the phrase “Sex Positive.”  It never really occurred to me to identify as a sex positive feminist because the title itself seemed to suggest that most people think of sex as negative.  I never thought of sex as “bad.”  Sure,   I grew up in a more conservative Catholic Filipino culture, but as a Filipino American, I came to understand sexuality through books, friends, and sneaking a peak during the “shut your eyes!” moments in the movies like Top Gun, Ghost, and Dirty Dancing. (RIP gorgeous phenom Patrick Swayze.)

Catholics and sexuality. Er, um. A-hem.  That’s not exactly our forte.  Despite the rigid lines around Catholic sexuality, I grew my own sense of what it is, was, and what I wanted it to look like for myself.  So, identifying as “SEX POSITIVE!” seemed odd, to say the least.  Like, why don’t I go around saying I’m a FILIPINO POSITIVE feminist?  Eh, that seems a bit awkward.  And redundant.

Lately, though, the more I read and listen to Catholic news surrounding sexuality, I can certainly see why the term SEX POSITIVE is necessary.  There is a tremendous amount of guilt, shame, and silence when it comes to sex, sexual development, and gender for Catholic women. (Understatement of the year…)

Just last night, I taught a class on Mary Magdalen, a controversial and rather mysterious figure in the New Testament.  It was astounding to see how people were impacted by her.  It appeared, though, that everyone’s impression of Mary depended on how she was presented either in Catholic schools or by parents.  Last night, one woman, full of emotion, professed her undying love for Mary Magdalen.  Another identified her as, “the whore* of the bible.”  People were all over the place and it’s no wonder.  But, the one thing that they all had in common was that their reactions were strong. No one had a lukewarm impression.

Even in history, her identity is somewhat obscure.  Her identity was conflated with so many other biblical women figures whose sins were deemed of the sexual nature.  She was an adulteress about to stoned.  She was the woman with the alabaster jar.  She was Mary of Bethany who renounced sin and turned her life to Christ.  She was the woman who cleaned Jesus feet with her tears and wiped them dry with her hair.  But, in two gospels, she is simply referred to as one Jesus cured of severe illness; one who Jesus drove seven demons out.  And “demons” at that time, were a way for folks to explain the presence of sin and suffering in the world.  It’s not how we think of it when we think “demon.”  (Read: head spinning from the Exorcist)

Mary Magdalene quite possibly was a regular, common person in the time of Christ who was healed of her illness and went forward in her life to eventually become the only witness to all of the most significant events in the last days of Jesus’ life.  She was there at the crucifixion (John places her at the foot of the cross).  She was there at the burial, and then she was the first witness.  Pretty important stuff.

Since her historical identity is so supremely tied to the renunciation of sexuality and fornication, it seems odd to use her to expound Catholic feminism, but I think she’s the perfect muse.

Some theologians speculate (given the fragmented stories from the Gospels of Thomas, Phillip, and Mary), Mary possessed inner vision.  She possessed sophia, the enlightened Wisdom, which the Apostles sought.  It was with this inner vision that she led the women followers of Christ, supported Jesus in his ministry, and, consequently, became the first person to see the most famous miracle in human history: the resurrection of the Human body.

Quite spectacular.

I surmise, two thousand and twelve years later, that it’s mainstream feminism’s lack of inner vision that inhibits it from truly leading a movement that sustains itself on principles of growth, altruism, and liberation.  Much sex positive feminism equates liberation with liberation of the body and while I agree to some extent that one must have the rights and freedoms of body to feel and express empowerment, it is not just the liberation of the body and sexual relationship that equates to liberation for all.  Perhaps sex positive feminists posit the body as the foundation for which all other human rights lie because without that basic acknowledgement, no other progress can be made.  I think the body is a critical point to begin, but it’s limiting to centralize the body and sex (as defined by heteronormative mainstream feminists) for a movement claiming liberation for all persons.  I do think, though, that the sex positive movement can teach a think or two to Catholic women and I think Mary Magdalen is the crux for that argument.  A nuanced version of Mary Magdalen – as a woman who may or may not have been a sexual prowess – can lead some Catholic women to a more sex positive state of being.

So many Catholics get bogged down with wondering who and what Mary was that they forget she became one of the most prominent, if not the most prominent, follower of Jesus Christ.  And her ability to be visionary, her ability to act with radical love in a time of great chaos and persecution is the most incredible feminist lesson I can take from her life.  If Mary Magdalen as the visionary leader of great Wisdom were to lead Catholic women in sex positive living, I believe she would begin with helping women trace the roots of female shame.

It was Pope St. Gregory the Great who officially announced Mary Magdalen as umbrella for sexually related female sins and labeled her as a prostitute.  She became the poster child of regained spiritual and bodily virginity.  In a time where celibacy and abstaining were pressed upon Catholics, creating a female figure who professed a sex-free life was beneficial.  Mary Magdalen was the bearer of the scarlet letter long before Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote about hypocrisy and societal humiliation.  The problem for Catholic women is that while Hester Prynne was fictitious, Mary Magdalen – and her pseudo identity as a purified Eve – was real.  Very real.  And Catholic girls were taught to hate the “whore of the bible.”  Thus, for many Catholic girls, guilt was born just as they hit puberty and boobs and hair started to grow.  The relationship between sexual acts and Mary Magdalen is still very real.  Her name has been proliferated through everything from non profits helping “save” girls from prostitution and brothel houses.

The good news is that the church officially stated that Mary Magdalen was indeed ONE person in the great year of 1969.  Yes.  You read that correctly.  That tiny detail – Mary Magdalen was only one person and probably not a prostitute – was clarified just forty three years ago.  While the Catholic Church can take a over a century to clear up a case of sexual mis-teaching, Catholics don’t have that kind of luxury to spend their lives in judgement and unnecessary guilt, trapped in false images and notions of sexuality promiscuity.

So what are we to learn from Mary Magdalen about being a sex positive Catholic feminist?

It would behoove us to start with courage.  It would behoove us to stop seeing gender as a binary dividing line of battle.  If she had the means, I would hypothesize that Mary wouldn’t have wanted to be separated into women and men traveling groups in the Jesus movement.  I think she would have liked to see community coming together, not traveling with lines of power and separatism.  I think she would want us to recognize our brothers and sisters who do not identify as brothers and sisters, those who identify as gender non conforming, or as trans, asexual, or simply unknown.  Not everything is about boxes of identity, as her own complex history shows us. I believe we could also couple our courage with honesty.  Honesty about who we are, who we want to be with, and when we’ve had enough.  I believe that Catholics have spent so much of their lives hoping they’re on the “right” side of faith, they fail to truly know what they themselves want out of life, out of relationship, out of sex, and of God.

Desire is so heavily sided to mean “sex” that we forget that simple pleasures – sensuality – is a brightly starred cousin of sexuality.  We forget that pleasure can be expressed in countless ways of touch, speaking, and exploration.  When did it become a sin to be overwhelmed with desire for another person?  What we DO with that desire is another conversation, but the allowance of desire in our lives deepens not taints our humanity.

Mostly,  though, I believe Mary Magdalen would be worried less about what the mostly white men with robes on think about contraception, and more about what we truly believe in our hearts about our bodies, our sexual expressions, our ability to accept and be desired and desirable.  I believe that Mary would have us reflect more about sexuality as spirituality, a gift that we alone can cultivate and question in the holiest ground we know: our conscience.  And when we choose to share it, we do so with those who walk respectfully, maturely, and passionately on our ground.

*I take personal issue with the word “whore” and use it only in quotes to accurately reflect the rhetoric used.  “Whore” is often used to shame women and female identified sexuality.  There is no equivalent for non-female, non-woman identified persons (e.g. “male-whore”) and “whore’ is typically used in pop culture to pejoratively refer to women who have a lot of sex. It also feeds the killer double standard facing most US female and girl/woman identified teens who are given options to either abstain (pro-abstinence) or dare to express themselves sexually and risk being labeled as such.

6th Annual State of the Self Address

Six years ago, I began a tradition to write an essay on my birthday about the past year.  I deliver the “State of the Self” the evening of my birthday.  Sometimes in front of a party crowd of thirty, sometimes just to Nick.  This year, just to my lovely hubby, and two good friends over a bottle of wine and some good cheese.

2012 State of the Self

Happy Ecdysis.

Ecdysis is about letting go.  The scientists explain that it’s a biological term to describe the molting process of certain species.  Biologists use ecdysis to describe the snake shedding its skin, its outer lay, before it reveals brighter a new outer layer.

Happy Ecdysis to me.

Birthdays are personal invitations to examine our personal ecdysis, our ability to let go of the previous year of life.  All of who I was, all that I struggled with, did, accomplished is released today.  And I begin another year.  Those things aren’t gone, per se, but they are offered to the winds of change.  What purpose does the dead skin of the snake serve to the snake?  None, except giving evidence of growth and that one is still alive.

Research has found that the arthropod (the invertebrate animal that goes through the shedding process) goes through a period of inactivity before ecdysis. Before the molting process begins, there is preparation, a resting period.  This time of inactivity preps the anthropod so the soon-to-be-shed layer loosens from the body as glands release fluid to assist the separation from under the cuticle.

During its ecdysis, the snake will seek out uneven terrain to help its process of shedding.  Just as I am.  I am moving forward, relentless in my search for more.  I am still yearning, still slathering forward, purposefully seeking out trees of struggle to help me scratch off old habits.  I stutter my body along cement surfaces of challenge.  32 was one long skin shed and I began to feel like I couldn’t find any more new surfaces to help me shed my exoskeleton and in the desperate search for new crawling paths, I feared that the old skin that needed replacement – uncertainty, anxiety, complacency, doubt, sadness – would regrow and re-strengthen itself.  Resurrect with emotional fervor. I feared nothing more than that.  I wanted new, brighter skin.  So much so, at times, I felt I took my own paring knife to personally skin myself so to let the new layer of strength, resolve, maternal understanding, spiritual fluidity, and confidence breathe.

I went through that long skin shed with the painful unconscious knowledge that, as Richard Rohr would say, everything belongs.  Even the suffering.  The nights of laying in bed wondering if the anthology will ever come to a binding sense of reason.  The faith crisis of having one foot out the catholic door before realizing the other is inexplicably nailed to the cross.  The crying spells over isolation, mental loneliness, being misread, labeled, racialized, downsized, minimized, sexualized, falsely idolized.   It all belongs.

It all belongs.

There’s a beautiful liberation waiting for those who want to choose not to die.  I think people assume that as long as our lungs, brains, and mouths are physically working, then we must be alive.  But I haven’t found that to be the case.   Our bodies can work perfectly while we are still sleeping and dreaming.  But I don’t think that’s the same thing as living.

Waking up to our own ecdysis is a bone-chilling alternative to unconscious dreaming.  We must choose to wake ourselves and similar to our dreams where we recognize our desire to wake up, we must do something active to break ourselves out of sleep.  In my dreams, after I realize I’m dreaming and need to wake up, I slap myself.  Hard.  And it’s always in muted slow motion so I can’t feel the pain.  I try again.  It’s even more arduous than the first time and then I try to scream.  It’s muffled and I tell myself Wake Up, Wake Up, Wake Up. It doesn’t help.

In my dream, I always panic, afraid that I’ll never be able to wake up and I look for higher ground and I always find myself at a cliff.  Without an inch of grace, without anything but the sweat of panic and desperation to feel alive, I’ll throw myself off a cliff and tumble while screaming to myself, Now it’s time to wake up. Now is the time to wake up.

Sometimes hitting the bottom wakes me up.  Sometimes not.  I don’t always remember what finally broke the dream spell, but I always wake up the same: my heart pounding and body pulsing with hot blood.  The relief feels like lava, slowly engulfing my muscles.  It is only when I know for certain that I am awake, I begin to relaxed.

32 was like a series of deep sleep and re-awakenings.  And each time I woke myself up, I searched for even higher ground to climb.  More authentic struggles, deeper, complex lines of life seemingly which have no easy answers seem to beckon.  I love that about my life.  I love that higher ground calls me and that I finally know that I exist for the climb.  What I love even more is that I am loved by those who know that I must climb alone.  The journey of writing, the lens of cameras, the stroke of paintbrushes, the lyric of a poem, the channel of spirit, the voice of G*d – all of these things I love best, I best feel alone.  While I am a firm believer in accountability and necessary of and to community,  I no longer feel ashamed to ask for that time to Be alone.  I no longer feel pressure to pretend I am someone I am not, no matter how small the situation.  I am emboldened by the love of Nick, Isaiah, and my family, community, and ancestors who love who I am, who I truly am.  A woman.  Driven.  Determined.  My life is my story of lost and found, and each “found” is a vindication of my right to exist, my right to call out my own name in the desert.

Just this morning of my birthday, when I decided to write my State of the Self about the theme of ecdysis, I received a message on my blog from a new reader who loved the concept.  He wrote:

Your web site is wonderful. I would like to create my own ecdysis. I do not want to step on your toes. My themes are darker and may be more inflammatory.
I am a spirtualist, but am dying slowly from leukemia. I would like to create an open forum for people to write their own obituary. Not the phony ones published by family after they are gone. Since you are the only ecdysis, please permit me to use the word. Thank you.

I thought a long time about that last sentence, “Since you are the only ecdysis…”

Of course I knew what he meant literally, but on a spiritual level, it was one of the most disturbing ideas: what if no one embraced their own ecdysis.  What if people did everything in the power to keep their lives as even and smooth as possible?  What if no one sought out scaly tree bark, or grass divots to assist their shedding process?

The new epidermis is soft, still tender after the old exoskeleton has fallen off, but it eventually hardens in time so it withstands the reality of the anthropod’s world.  So it is with our deepest, most authentic evolving selves.  Without fear or hesitation, I am beyond living for change.  I crave it.  I crave the intellectual incineration that preceeds rebirth.   It is the only way forward for me.  My survival is directly related to my ability to find safehouses of regeneration.  A place for me to safely sleep and then come back to the world in whatever state I am: wild, calm, thoughtful, or lost.  I must Be in a place, I must Be in a community that not only allows but expects transfiguration.  Because each morning I find a new Self.  And the evidence is next to my pillow.  There is a flaky residue that resembles something like fear, uncertainty, and self-consciousness.  The new skin is more sustainable, mesmerizing, and mystical than the last.

I wish nothing but the same awakening for each person I encounter.

Lent is About Trying…and Trying Again

It’s well past 9pm and I’m on the internet.

I have not been able to keep off the internet as I resolved this Lent.

In both success and failure there is always a lesson.

These are my lessons thus far from going 0-2 in my Lenten vows:

1) How we unwind at night is not to be messed with.

How was I supposed to know I got so much relaxation from playing Words with Friends?  After a long day’s work and chasing Isaiah around, and cooking, and cleaning, and driving, and thinking, and counseling, and brainstorming, and exercising, and rescheduling, and and and…

the last thing I feel like doing is depriving myself from something that helps me wind down.

2) Lent isn’t always about changing, but deepening.

The point of our Lenten vows are not to just simply “sacrifice” so we feel closer to God, it’s about transformation and conversion.  My favorite Lenten hymn has a line, “return to me with all your heart…”  Is the internet really going to make a dent in that?  How can I deepen my relationship with God?  One way I deepen is through thinking, and, right now, the internet is an easy tool to find articles, provide answers, and read inspiring perspectives from scholars, theologians, and deep thinkers within minutes of research.  I don’t WANT to give that up.

3) I’m too damn tired at 9pm to push myself.

Wednesdays are known as Pushday.  It’s the day I have a million things to do before I go to bed and each Wednesday night, I am so tired, I can barely take my boots off.  I collapse on the couch, steal a handful of cheerios or whatever Isaiah has manage to sneak out for a night snack before I pass out with my work clothes still on.  I don’t feel like fighting.

And if Lent is about deepening, is it something that should be further exhausting me?  Yes it should require effort, but it should also be something meaningful and transformative.

I may take the weekend to rethink all of this.

Growing closer to God isn’t as easy as people think.  It’s like how do you show great appreciation for the air you breathe?  It feels almost impossible to create metaphor, symbol, or action that adequately describes our relationship to it.

Where does one begin?

I’ve got 38 more days to crack this.

Lent: A Time for Filling Our Lives, Not Emptying Them Out

Fat Tuesday.  Mardi Gras.  Or, for Catholics, “Eat Whatever You Want Because I’m Giving It Up Starting Tomorrow.”

Fewer days of the year are as confusing as Fat Tuesday.  For us Catholics, after we stuff our mouth with Twix bars and swear off sweets for 40 days, it’s a a time of reflection and preparation.  Personally, I came to the same struggle ever year: what to “give up” for Lent so my Easter holiday is more meaningful.

I struggle with this every year.  Supposedly, the sacrifice of giving up something is supposed to help us grow in spiritual union with God.  If framed correctly, we are able to strip down what is excessive in our lives and come to find what is most precious and everlasting: our relationship with God.

I’ve tried year after year to find meaning with giving something up.  And I do it faithfully each year.  But it never means as much to me as other things.  This year, teaching classes on catholicism has given me a gift of renewed faith and a sense of growth that I rarely have experienced in offering up a sacrifice.  Maybe it’s my mentality.  Someone said to me last week, “Think of it less as giving something up and more as making space for what you truly want.”

Making space for what you truly want.

I recently created my own room and I’ve been thinking of what I want to create and build in that room.  I never considered my faith.

So, I made a decision.  I’m not giving up the internet entirely, because that’s not something sustainable that I would be able to sustain after Lent.  But, unless work-related, I am no longer going to use the internet after 9pm.  I can write on my computer, but I will not use the internet in any fashion.  While that may not sound like such a big deal, evening time is typically when I can do what I most want.  Isaiah has laid down for the night, Nick buries himself in his homework, and I am left with a good 2 hours or so to do as I wish.  It’s been so easy to plop into my chair and read updates on Facebook, browse blogs, laugh on Twitter, and google random questions that I’ve jotted down in my notebooks.  I’m taking the internet out of that free time.  I’m hoping that by stripping out the internet in that small period of time, I’ll be able to fill it with things that do more than just pass time.  The hours can be spent reading, curled up in a chair with tea.  Calling people back.  Painting.  Writing poetry.  Going to bed early.  Getting a head start on the next day and cooking for tomorrow.

This spiritual practice is about making time for things that I truly love, instead of doing what is most convenient.  This practice, I hope, will bleed into other areas of my life where I choose the higher road, the path less traveled.  A path, I hope, that leads to a deeper understanding of my relationship with God.

Building A Room of One’s Own

I didn’t have my own Room growing up.  At any given time, all the way up until my sibs left for college, I shared a room.  That wasn’t a curse, even if at the time I would have argued so.  I shared a room once with my brother Fran.  Bunk beds with rocket mattresses.  I had bottom bunk and wondered what would happen if life was all a dream.  But my big brother was there, three feet above me, and when I shared this with him he said, “Don’t worry.  I think about that, too.”  Comfort.

I shared space with my sister.  We’d talk, laugh, and listen to music for hours on end.  One night, after she saw a scary movie, asked me in the dark if she could sleep next to me.  Awestruck that she asked for my company, I said,”Sure” and happily moved over in my twin bed.  She and I slept back to back that night.  And I remember smiling, loving the feeling of being needed.

But I always wanted my own space.  A bed to lay in the quiet.  Walls that had my favorite things hung, or nothing at all because I chose it to be so.

It was years ago that Nick brought up the idea of making one Room my writing space.  I snorted, doubting we’d ever have the space or time to do it.  Years later we found ourselves in an old home, with more space than we knew what to do with, and a Christmas gift that toppled me off my feet.

It’s been months in the making, it needed new paint, a window had to be replaced, and a lot of moving, purging, and organizing.  But, it’s finally in a place that I feel ready to share with the world.

Now, let me first say that I’m not posting these photos because I believe them to be the most creative or colorful trinkets or decorations.  I post it because years ago, I would have loved to see a space created solely for the purpose of being.  Not the kitchen for cooking and gathering.  Not the living for entertaining and talking and television.  Not the bedrooms for sleeping.  A room meant to be purposeful; a place to bring ideas to fruition and dreams to be laid in.  Virginia Woolf called it a Room of one’s own.  I simply call it my Room.  Room.

Room.

Space.

In this crowded 7 billion and counting world of noise and multitasking, this space is for me to think, read, write, Be.  A place for my things to be laid out so I know what I have and use it.  An organized corner of the universe that waits for me.  Women are told the opposite.  Never create a scene.  Don’t take up too much space.  Apologize for the rain.  Create for others, but not yourself.  Care for others, and leave yourself to last.  Buy things, new things, impressive things.

Most of my things aren’t new.  They’re used, and beautiful.  Clean and still useable.  I like piecing them together until it feels right to me.  The environment around me has to make sense in order for me to concentrate.  Most places don’t make sense to me at all.  This is the one place where I find sense.

Children are allowed playrooms.  Stereotypically, men need their “space” – TV, golfing, card playing, working out – and all I ever wanted was a Room.  With light, windows that throw themselves open and colors that fiddle the strings in my heart.

And I don’t want to explain it to anyone.  I don’t want any questions about what things mean and why.  Contrary to this public sharing, and my descriptions, I don’t want to have to defend my space in any way because the last thing my Room is going to do is attack anything.  My mind will do that via writing, but my Room?  Not my Room.

I don’t want to explain why I deliberately leave pictures of family out of my space.  I don’t want to know what would be a better color scheme or what I should slather with new fabric.  There’s no desire for me to hear what would make it more this or less that.  That’s called decorating.  This is creating.  There’s a difference between finishing touches so a room “feels” nice versus building a space that serves artistic purpose.  Each our rooms will look different, this is what mine looks like.

It’d designed with no one else’s soul in mind but my own.  I have no quotes stenciled on the wall.  I have no fancy lamps or glassy chandeliers.  My curtains are wispy pieces of silver silk that do little to keep the Cleveland winter out of my space, but they let in a lot of light and are easy to pull and push open.  Yes, I have a movie poster of Rocky Balboa with the tagline, “His whole life was a million to one shot.”  Very few people would know that the Rocky series is my favorite movie series in all the world and even I would stammer to explain why.  The politics, the class issues, the below average intelligence, the love, Adrian, redemption, life development, selfish Pauly, coming of age son, money, training scenes, THE SOUNDTRACK.  All of these combine for me to love the Rocky series immeasurably.  So much so that while I can quote Audre Lorde, Gloria Anzaldua, and bell hooks in my sleep, the only frame is of Sylvester Stallone running for his life with a sweatband on his head, converse on his feet and a poor man’s sweatsuit on.  It makes no sense.  But it’s me.  Life would be rather dull if we could explain ourselves away in sentences anyway.

Creating space also means time and commitment.  For some, for me, it also meant having a life partner who prioritizes developing my dreams and gifts.  Nick respects my writing.  He may have to work to understand it and it’s not what he would choose to read if we didn’t know one another, but by the very fact that we vowed to love each other our whole lives, he helped build the Room with me.  He put my clothes are hangers and did my laundry.  He moved the heavy things out and shouldered the heavy shelves when the closet needed painting.  He called the contractors for the new window and played with Isaiah while I carefully placed everything in boxes and meticulously labeled them for later use.

Sometimes love calls for us to recognize what would make the other person happy without that person even knowing themselves what they would want.  Upon giving me my Christmas gift, Nick said, “It wasn’t about money or something flashy.  I just kept asking myself what would make you excited, so excited that you had no choice but to go to the next level.  And that’s what I thought of.”  That meant secret visits to the Apple store with Isaiah poking at everything.  That meant trying desperately to hide it from me the days preceding Christmas.  That also meant enduring a lot of nights where I wasn’t so excited.

Nick’s endured a lot of my struggle.  As a partner of a writer, I know that he is often consumed with my being consumed by the world.  He is the land where I take my excess in hopes of easing my own burdens.  He’s well that must stay empty because I’m always full.  And he’s the no-choice optimist because being a writer can be so damn depressing, one has to keep sanity somehow.

This was Nick’s way of giving me wings. The only wings he knew how to build, and he tailored them to fit my back.

Dreams are escapes, but with love dreams become reality.

After saving, installing a new window, a fresh coat of paint, and a lot of purging, the Room is ready.
(L to R) "Birth" a painting a did a few years ago. Rocky, my all time favorite. Tagline: His whole life was a million to one shot. French cork board: a few select things that make me happy.
Well that pretty much says it all right there.
Another view from the walk in closet area.