Two birds in one hand

This election cycle is driving me pretty much batty. I cannot figure out how one follows both Jesus and Trump. Having now spent a good portion of my life trying to follow Jesus, and trying to surround myself with others on the same quest, I'm completely baffled by the number of people claiming Jesus one minute and Trump the next.

It is the most decisive separation of church from the state I have seen in my lifetime, except it is not a separation. It's an attempt to hold both Heaven and earth in one hand. It's greed and fear and anger.
I hear it's possible to have and be both, but I cannot see it. I'm at a loss. I wish someone would tell me.

 I feel both grateful and chastened to have so pronounced example of what it means to lose one's life for Christ. We cannot have the economic, political, and social security that is being touted like a diet pill and honor the quest to act justly,love mercy, and walk humbly with our God.

And yet, in some crazy way, I'm also profoundly peaceful. This is the unrested, insane world that Jesus stepped into, knowing full well not everyone would take what He offered. Some wouldn't see the need, and some couldn't let go of what they had.

And the rest? They tried real hard to cobble unity from a smorgasbord of people and ideas. Here's to hoping.

Spotty Pingers

Deep discussions are critical to my well being. A relentless questioner with a need to sit with all kinds of ideas while simultaneously wanting to protect my interior self,  I am prone to pinging those around me like a bat, hoping to find My People.  In Improv, this is called giving or sending an offer. on the stage and in life, we make bids for interactions. As adults, we rarely give unstructured invitations, relying instead on structured events and activities. Those provide a backdrop for the many diverse bids we toss to those around us. We throw out words, expressions, and gestures to see who accepts and what becomes.

Every time a live one picks up on a bid, a new storyline emerges. Old ideas receive fresh air. I get all excited. Cue the Snoopy dance. We take turns tossing about questions and ideas. We hold each other's hopes and fears. We take note and celebrate the accomplishments and the growth. We witness the hard things, the disappointments, and the anger. We encourage one another. We turn on the light so we can see better. We belong to one another, and thus, we care for one another.

I know what to do with the wonderers and dreamers. Likewise, I know what to do with the doers. As long as it overlaps with my interests. And if it doesn't spoil into my need to retreat and process. So, if you want lofty conversations while hiking or traipsing across town, I'm in. Listening during home or yard chores will do nicely, and a sing along or musical jam is like a winning lottery ticket.

 Unfortunately, I don't know what to do with the ones that don't pick up my offers or the ones that send out their own wayward pings. On this list, one can find family members, friends, the weird woman at pickleball who invades my space and gives me constant instruction, and the woman who showed up late to a group activity and let me know I wasn't filling in correctly but offered me a chance to redeem myself. Yup. I stink at all that. There's a good chance I take disinterest, criticism, and false praise about the same. Poorly.

So why bother? There's a great argument to be made for choosing to be with the people that meld beautifully into our lives. They validate and encourage us. They inspire us. How much energy must I expend on people who drain or otherwise challenge my serenity. I wish I knew.

Tonight, I had the opportunity to be with the easy people, and do the fun tasks. I also had the opportunity to encounter someone who didn't easily fit in my world. They sent out all sorts of offers. Some I accepted, some I refused. They didn't respond when I pinged; their requests didn't mesh with my expectations.  Because of the goal, I chose to accept the offer, if not the delivery.
Driving home, a week's worth of wondering hit me. The space between ourselves and the Other can  hold a whole host of feelings: irritation, boredom, disdain, anger, loneliness, fear, safety, peace,  and pride. The longer we stay on one side, the harder it gets to hear and receive requests. The harder it is to see one another as friend, family, and community. The harder it is to care. The harder it is to react. The space grows to fit both our experiences and our feelings.

So as I sit here tonight, thinking about how to fight all the injustice and ugliness of the world, I'm also thinking about what it looks like to choose to close the gap between myself and Other. I'm wondering how much space is enough to guarantee my own safety and someone else's, because at the end of the day, I still believe we need one another more than we often think. Much work is needed to restore justice and beauty to an unjust and hurting world. There's a very good chance I'll need to share skills, energy, experiences, and curiosities.  I might need to rely on pesky people who get this pinging business all wrong, and I find myself hoping someone else is willing to work with my own spotty pings.

Making room for the Manger. An early Advent.

I feel like I've been fast mapping ideas a lot lately. Some of those ideas will eventually make it here. Some will never leave the pages of my journal or my oh look, there's no one around me out loud rambles. All of which makes it very hard to join the rest of the world in every day walking around things. It is very hard to go from pondering the enormity of Heaven and how G-d breathes life into this world and give a whole lot of thought as to whether there is mayonnaise in the fridge and whether the dog been out recently.

My notebook comes out more often in polite company, and I find myself sharing more of my thoughts. They are spilling over. My Rip Van Winkle awakening is complete, and I am in spring cleaning mode. I'm sifting through everything and shedding a thousand skins, even as the world is hemorrhaging. Perhaps because the world is hemorrhaging. I am escaping into that which I know. Grain  by grain.

Across the board, I am examining, discarding and fleshing out my ideas and purpose. I am for the first time in some time, sinking into the knowledge that I'm out of sync, and relishing it. Even as I find myself disengaged with some people and in some arenas, I have been cheered by the discovery of more members of my tribe.

In church, I feel smaller and more settled with that. Questions that once seems so  pressing now seem both less and more settled. Even as mad men run trucks into people, driven people drive the restless into political and personal frenzy, and we all point fingers at one another and bemoan the uncertainty,  I feel more certainty.

 It is awfully dim sometimes. We do batter and bruise one another. Those who profess neither G-d in heaven nor G-d in Jesus are certain we can fix it if we find enlightenment. Those who claim G-d often wait for redemption. Sometimes we get panicky and try to out do G-d as we try to hear and be everything to everyone.

It could easily be said I spend too much time thinking about what makes Jesus divine. seeing how little I have to show for my musings, I will concede. I am inefficient. 
I cannot help but think that Jesus's ability to see both heaven and earth and choose earth anyway tells a story. His ability to sit with those with whom he had little in common, and see them as whole tells a story. His willingness to be messy tells a story. It all tells a story of Heaven creeping into the cracks of humanity to save our cracked souls. To bring water and manna.

Truthfully, it's not one I can tell or live well. Because I'm not Jesus. I'm not even John the Baptist. Or Mary, Martha, or Mary Magdalene. I'm kind of a nobody. Just like pretty much everyone else I know. None of us hangs the stars. Most don't even know their human names. Not even the big deal stars. So we're probably not going to figure out how to stop the shootings today. We won't cleanse our nation of its racial or misogynistic sins. We won't even figure out who is the most capable, truth telling candidate in time for the next election. We're stumbling in the dark

But good news. One is coming who is and was and will be the one that can settle us and pull us center. And like every other time I've entertained a houseguest, I can get ready. I can clean the closets, take out the trash, and pull out the chairs and clean linens. I can make room.

On this July day, I cry Advent; I whisper Emmanuel. I prepare as much as I can, knowing I don't have the answers because I am not the One, but wanting to leave room for the one who is more than I will ever be.

I in Christ. Christ in Me. And with all who would also make room for the manger.

SAM Camp

A couple of years ago, I saw an ad for music camp. Now at the time I was just ramping up on the whole pay for kids' summer camps, so the idea of adult summer camp was truly a pie in the sky idea. It was the most self indulgent fantasy a homeschool, stay at home, and very practical mom could have. Except that I live in the half fantasy, what if, pie in the sky world. I couldn't let go of this idea. Dulcimers, banjos, and guitars oh my! And as luck would have it, I had recently acquired a mountain dulcimer. Of course I should go to camp.

I did not go to camp. I went ziplining instead. I didn't go the next year either. Even though I carted the dulcimer up from FL to NC. I kept talking myself out of it.

This year, in March, I said I just might go, but when June came, I sold the dulcimer. After all, I'd had it three years or so, and had done very little playing. The purchaser seemed nice enough; I was remorseful, but not devastated at the rehoming endeavor. Naturally, that meant no camp. Again.

Or not. Because four days ago, I stood in the lobby to register myself for camp. Beginning Fiddle, Folk Singing, and flat footed dancing. Please note, I have 0 experience with a violin, unless I count that one time I held a violin at Bluegrass night on the Marietta Square before we moved. I sing in the car a lot, but am very careful to only sing near safe people, because it hurts my feelings when people are too helpful or tell me to hush. Finally, my two formal experiences with dancing are the ballet class I begged to quit when I was 8 and more recently, a casual line dancing class with summer friends. I do love that line dancing class, so flat footed dancing it was.

It turns out that Music Camp is about so much more than music. Thus far this week, I have heard a couple of hundred years worth of regional folk lore. The other day, I listened to a 79 yr old man describe the lawlessness of the region in his grandfather's time. About the relations. The music. A child learning the ways of the time. The way he spoke of a music jam crossed from music into social commentary. I don't even know if he knew the gold he presented. Old time music isn't about the music per say, it's about the listening. With little formal music instruction in the region, many musicians play by ear: without a conductor and without a script. I love to watch them lean into one another to hear and watch where another is headed and adjust accordingly. I cannot help but think this is what we must do outside of a jam circle. We must hear and watch. The musicians take turns. They make room for one another.

But as a never tried the fiddle before participant, let me tell you, that is hard. Some of my classmates don't seem to have any problems with this, but I'm struggling. I'm trying to hear and see, and I feel like I'm a little kid trying to keep up with the big kids. You are My Sunshine never sounded so complex, but I'm trying.

In addition to the structured classes, there are master concerts. These 1 hr sessions are led by noted local artists and/or scholars. The facilitators share their passion for their craft, and the audience meets it with an open heart. It is intense in that room; I am sure I am not the only one that experiences eye leakage. The reverence is humbling; we sit or stand with anticipation for knowing and understanding. We cross a bridge together.

This week, I'm singing, dancing, creating, and failing. I'm showing up and exposing parts of my heart that rarely see the light of day. I don't know where in life the other participants are, but I know I'm wrestling with both my fear and longing. I'm showing up. I'm screeching on that fiddle, and occasionally crying because it's hard and humbling, and that's what I do. I fall, I rise, I dust myself off and try again. I sing a little louder every day. I dance as if I knew what I was doing or didn't care if anyone saw me mess up. Neither of which is true.

SAM Camp as they call it (Sounds of the Appalachian Music Camp), is about more than music. It's led by a patchwork angel and other assorted cast and crew. There's a wide age and skill range in participants. It's messy. It's hard. It's amazing, and I'm already planning for next year.

Now what?

One of my great challenges as an essayist and perennial speculator has always been choosing a topic that is both specific and broad. My journal is largely filled with very specific ideas and experiences, but those do not always translate directly into common experiences. My great joy remains finding the common ground. This week, I feel as though while common ground is present, few people want to linger there. Much mental space has been devoted to following current events through news outlets and social media. Few conversations are held face to face. I suspect we need the mask, the comfort of distance and filter.

In a timeless tale, political news is grim. This candidate is a criminal. That one blunders. This one is a career liar. That one a bully. This one ineffective. That one slanders. This one a savior. Oh, but wait, you must be mistaken or worse, for mine leads the way. My candidate is flawed, but certainly yours is worse: markedly and willfully worse. They, and we, play to our fears.  Are we not all placing bets without full disclosure? Will we not all feel slightly betrayed as the curtain unravels, and only a flawed and slightly stooped individual remains? It is not unlike being at a certain theme park and needing the costumed character to be the fulfillment of our expectation. There are roles to be played.

An then, there was a fresh round of racial violence. A pattern seems to have developed on social media.  First, a few news and twitter engaged POC and a few whites will decry, rage, and mourn the events. It spills lightly onto Facebook. There will be disbelief and fear. Their grief and anger will spark both curiosity and sympathy among their more liberal friends. Facebook will not be able to withstand the onslaught of news and pithy memes with actors, animals, and housewives, and will give way to graphic videos and statistical charts.   My more satirical and quick witted friends will come up with 10 words that say it all, and thus there will be nothing to add.  Because I'm not a great satirist or particularly efficient, I will both exceed 10 words and fail to make a meme.  Meanwhile, more conservative friends and family will have become slightly enraged at the instability of it all. The ceaseless whining. The ingratitude. The incessant need to delve through grief and fear, pushing for justice. What about pulling one's self up by the bootstraps.

A new bombing. But this one has not been marked by many calls to prayer and action. There has been little distinction between perpetrators and victims. Oh, we are a little sad, but not outraged. I myself have given no public displays, preferring to turn off the news and go hiking. To enjoy the evening haze instead of putting on sack cloth. Mea Culpa. I wash my hands in the river, take a picture of small legs, and hope I raise adults of good character.

It's mind numbing. It feels as though the world is one big competition of misery. Either we win at the sad game, or we completely disengage. We play the six degrees of sadness and rage, hoping our distal relationship trumps another's. When we cannot play and win, we sigh and move away with relief. It's not our job to care. Perhaps though, the not caring is catching up with us. There is a place between keening and wailing and turning away. A place that allows the light to come.

We do not seem to have the words to say: I'm listening. I'm watching. I'm taking measure.
Nor do we seem to have the words to say I will do nothing, because I can't. I'm tired. Can we be tired together? Or the words to say, I cannot now, but maybe later. And mean it. Or this is not enough, but its where I'm at.

I don't know how to get there this week, but again and again in this week's lectionary I see the unknowing, the rising, and the restoration. Not because of any one great thing, but through many small acts of showing up and continuing on.  Singularly, none of us is enough is enough to stop the bleeding. Together, we just might. A bandage here, a hand there;  a soft heart, an open ear. Holding hearts with humor, empathy, service, and holy silence.
Tonight, we sleep. Tomorrow we rise.

On the 4th

Yet another Fourth of July, and I'm sitting in Crossnore, NC.

Earlier there was a parade. Usually, I get here in time to see it. This year, we had a young houseguest who wasn't quite moving with my rhythm; I had to shuffle a bit. I lost my footing. It's something to see though. It's truly a community effort. Community groups and emergency vehicles make up the bulk of the small parade. There are a couple of vintage trucks. There's something about bearing witness to the trucks from a volunteer fire department. I would guess I'm not the only one humbled to think of the lives that use their freedom choose to show up, serve, and protect. I'm not the only one to give thanks.

Evening is coming. People are scattered though out the streets, grass, and building that make up the town's center. Families look out for their own, sometimes, someone gently holds an elder's elbow. Often, more from love than necessity. Friends catch up. New friends are tentatively welcomed. Chatter fills the air. Smoke from the grill fills the air. Somewhere, there is popcorn. Children run across the grass and wade in the stream. This is the sound of Sacrifice. Of Love. Of History. Of Communion. I am standing on sacred ground.

I didn't grow up in a place like this. I grew up in a city. One that ranks at the top of the places you wouldn't want to live list. This place? I came by accident. By way of another. A gift for which I'll always be grateful.

I've moved a fair amount in my life. I moved during childhood because we didn't have enough money. As an adult, I've moved because I had no money, wanted more money, and finally, just for the adventure. In fact, many blog posts are devoted to hashing out a move. As a result, I don't always know how to answer when people ask where I'm from. I'm from nowhere and everywhere. My first impulse is to sit or stand on the outskirts of any community and watch. I love to belong, but I don't like to intrude. Perhaps that's so for most of us. But this place and the surrounding community? This has called to me from the first. It is my heart home. The neighborhood in which we live when we are here looks suspiciously like the town where I was born, but not raised. And so, in some way, I feel as though I do belong. Because I see and know the preciousness that's before me, I'm willing to safeguard and teach my children to tread lightly upon the beauty and the ways. We will be gracious guests. Tonight, as I listen to the laughter and the music, as I watch the stories unfold, I think this is as close to heaven on earth as we get. I am on Holy Ground, and for a brief bit, I take off my shoes to feel the grass. I crave communion.

People from big places sometimes dismiss people from little places. Too slow. Too Stupid. Gullible. Backwards. Small minds holding back progress. Perpetuating injustice.

But right now, from where I sit, I see two boys roaming in the creek. I see three boys sitting on the grass with their grandpa and a puppy. His Veteran hat hides his eyes but not his smile.
I see a young mother nurturing a child when it seems the mother is still a child; she's doing it beautifully. She is acting the world into wellbeing and creating safe space for this active preschooler. Her community surrounds her. Teens of assorted shading and hairstyles infiltrate the crowds, carrying coffee cups from a nearby shop. The coffee shop is run by a nearby children's home. This village, this town is acting the world into well being.

Every once in awhile, the PA interrupts my thoughts. Now, a gentleman tells the crowd tonight his mother, Miss Lucille, celebrates her 88th birthday. The core group sings; I cannot help myself. I sing  too.

There is nothing like catching a glimpse of Holiness. Nothing. I've seen and heard the whisper of Heaven in the strangest of places: grocery stores, parking lots, playgrounds, big cities, small towns, and sometimes even church. And here now: in Crossnore. Sacred ground. Communion. Sanctuary. Eye leakage becomes a single sob; I am surprised.

These people, people of my heart, are teaching me what community can be. I am eating crumbs from their table once again, and I'm grateful. Tonight, I can only think that like Moses, I have been to the mountain and seen something precious and awe inspiring. I am transformed, and though I will return to my every day, ordinary walking around life tomorrow, tonight I have seen the hands, feet, and heart of G-d.

Pop quiz

The other day I came home and the power guy was blocking the street. I looked over and there was a pint sized meter reader doing his thing. He looked to be somewhere in the 9-12 yrs old range. It was a Sunday, and clearly a tag along who wanted or needed to hang with dad for whatever reason. after remarking that it was absolutely the cutest take your kid to work day sighting ever (and being met with  the dissenting residential 11 yr old), my crew ambled in the house.

Through the open windows, I hear my neighbor exit her house to grill Mr. Mountain Electric about the status of her power and the safety of his offspring. I heard a pause (probably necessary so he could find just the right tone, although I could be projecting), and he replied that the outage would be addressed before he left and that no one was looking out for his son's safety more than he was, and furthermore, the young man was known to be a very fine helper.

I couldn't stand it. I put my shoes back on and traipsed outside. "Excuse me, Sir."

"Yes."

"I don't know what has you out on a Sunday, and I want to thank you for coming out. It's a holiday weekend and a Sunday. You and your helper have obviously gone beyond normal business hours and expected levels of service. Thank you."

He stared at me a minute, and gave me a quick nod. "Half the power's out in this unit. We're doing our best. And you're welcome."

I went back into the house, and promptly bored my family with another anecdote of ways in which my new neighbor just couldn't seem to help herself. "This is exactly how people get their food spit on in restaurants. Can't she see that?"

Fast forward. I'm sitting in a garage full of tables and people. It's a community picnic, and while I recognize a few people, we're coasting by on anonymity.

A family floats past. A man stops and looks right at me. "Hey there. Don't I know you? I think we've met. Yesterday"

Not one to turn a prospective friend away, partially because I'm busy alienating my neighbors and wayward siblings, I smile big and say, "That may be! Hello?"

And then, the kicker, " Do you live in Land Harbor?"

"I do, sort of. Sometimes. When I'm lucky." I'm stammering, trying to remember this friendly man.

I was out there yesterday, fixing the power for your neighbor. Thanks for your words."

"Oh!" I melted. "That was so. Thank you again. Do you live here? Are you enjoying the day?"

"He said, " I do, and I am. It's a fine place. You're in a good spot right here. Glad to have you."

We nodded again, and he slid past to join his family. I exhaled. There'd been a test. I'd had a hard week with a lot of hard feelings, and missed words. But that time? I got it right.  And because I was flush with success and extravagant decency, I told our houseguest they could absolutely go buy another hot dog if they were still hungry.

Excuse me. You're stepping on my cape.

I was raised at the crossroads of I'm Gonna Give You Something to Cry About and You Better Get Over Whatever You Think is the Matter. In case you're wondering, it's pretty close to Did Anyone Ask You to Fix It and Don't Just Stand There; Fix It. That was all a bit confusing. I wore my heart on my sleeve, and yes, the other kids tried to eat me alive. I was the child who cried when the kid beside me got into trouble. These days, I'm more sympathetic than not to the grown ups that had to deal with that hot mess of emotion. It's true, I had no idea why my mom kicked me out of the car for crying the day she was yelling at my cousin. Now I know her world was spinning so far beyond her control she just couldn't do one more thing. I was the thing. So Too Sensitive and Overthinker went on the list of things to fix.

Fast forward a dozen years, and I was in a massive self help reading binge, probably because I am a sucker for armchair fix its, and I was, by this point, a big fix it project. Elaine Aron's The Highly Sensitive Person turned out to be a magic key of enlightenment masquerading as a book.

Too Sensitive? Forget that. Highly Sensitive? Absolutely. Tactilely Sensitive? Air makes me itch. Bothered by other people's discomfort? See above story about The Long Walk Home.
Thanks be to G-d, it turns out there were *other people* just like me having to walk around in ordinary skin doing the best we could to get by in a world with no time or patience for a person who wept for The Mighty Ducks. I was part of the Tribe of Bleeding Hearts. Heaven help us.

As I learned to make room for all the feels, to notice, but not squash, to feel, but not erase, I grew strong. Strong enough to have children and protect their right to exist, think, and feel according to their call. Strong enough to hear the stories near and total strangers would tell me. Strong enough to note my failings and express compassion for myself.
strong enough to occasionally speak and act against injustice.
Some days, I'm even strong enough to note the feelings of those who drive me mad and act with compassion. Sometimes not though.

So no, I'm not too sensitive. I'm not even highly sensitive. Sometimes, truth be told, I'm absolutely oblivious. I'm flooded with feels, and it clouds reality. I have to withdraw to see clearly.
I am an Empath. I am creating and maintaining safe space for authenticity in a fake world. My crankiness or tears often mean I'm filtering and/or recalibrating experiences rapidly. I may be coaching myself through transitions. My inner 5 year old occasionally requires it.

I like to think I've got a cape, an iridescent one if you please. I'm sorry you can't see it. It's glorious. It is my buffer against doubt, fear, judgment, loud and repetitive noises, and conflict. It allows my extraverted self to travel among chaos and settle. It allows me to create and guard safe space for the tired and conflicted. On my best days, I am a Peaceful Warrior; on my worst days, I'm 5 and I'm melting.
Recalibration would be a lot faster if I could just stop everything and say, "Excuse me. I'm working hard, and you're stepping on my cape."