He was asking me to make a decision, to exercise my free will. “Do you trust me?” He waited for my answer.
We stood together at the entrance of a Pit and Pendulum caliber mental ward. I could see through the little windows on the double doors: disheveled people banging their heads against the wall, pulling their hair, you get the picture: bedlam. At the end of a long hallway there was the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen, and the most unusual because there was a stunning sunset right next to it. (Alpha and Omega?)
I thought before I spoke: “Yes. I am choosing to trust You. I’m terrified, but I will do it if I have to.”
He was asking me if I were willing to give up everything (and if you know me, you know my biggest fear is losing my mind---I’ve fought so hard to gain even a modicum of clarity---huge sacrifice to give up my tiny claim.) But I was willing. I can be scared, but decide to make a move anyway.
I wanted the Alpha and Omega. It was worth it to me to enter the asylum in order to get to the end of the hallway where the sunrise/sunset grew more dazzling by the minute.
The dream ended as I pushed the door open. He was right beside me.
When I woke up I ‘heard’ the words to a new song.
(If you would like to hear the song I have posted it to my youtube account: asingingtree.youtube.com)
Do you trust me?
My Lord said,
“Do you trust me, do you trust me?
My Lord said, “Do you trust me, will you follow me?
If the mountains should crumble into the sea;
If the rocks should melt like wax;
Are you willing to give up everything?
Do you trust me to guide you through the chaos?”
My God, I surrender to You
heart, soul, body and mind;
In the shadow of Your wings I take refuge
till this storm of destruction passes by.
My Lord said, “I know you are weary,
I know you can barely go on;
I know that these sorrows are crushing you;
Come now, take strength from my Song.”
My God, I surrender to You
heart, soul, body and mind;
In the shadow of Your wings I take refuge
till this storm of destruction passes by.
My Lord said, “I know you are weary,
I know you can barely go on;
I know that these sorrows are crushing you;
Come now, take strength from my Song.”
My God, I surrender to You
heart, soul, body and mind;
In the shadow of Your wings I take refuge
till this storm of destruction passes by.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Interpretation of the Cabaret Dream
Peacock Eyelashes: Reference to the Anguished Peacock (see previous blog)
Vanessa: will remain anonymous---she knows who she is
The hour missed: Vanessa’s Childhood
The green silk dress: real dress worn at a real wedding; see video of the wedding of family member 1989
Vanessa’s age in the dream was 8, but in reality she would have been 5 years old.
The Cabaret itself carries a hint of a sad burlesque and in the language of my dream it represents the stripping away of all the layers of hurt, the regret, and grieving over devastated relationships in order to heal.
No shoes: or deciding to go barefooted: tenderfoot. The beginning of a risky process: Deciding to be honest and open with Vanessa even though I don’t feel completely prepared or self-assured. I feel like a novice, inexperienced and ill equipped for the task ahead of me, but driven by love and fueled by hope.
Cabaret Theme: The musical, which was based on a play, which was based on a novel about Nazi Germany: I believe this represents the fact that in reality we were all prisoners of our circumstances and had to endure many horrors; part of the horror was seeing our loved ones suffer at the hands of an abusive tyrant. The tyrant was Fate, specifically the fate of being sucked into a stream of events I had so hoped to avoid.
The Audience: A place to sit and listen and watch; a place to be quiet in order to see the whole show before applauding, or weeping while I applaud.
Vanessa: will remain anonymous---she knows who she is
The hour missed: Vanessa’s Childhood
The green silk dress: real dress worn at a real wedding; see video of the wedding of family member 1989
Vanessa’s age in the dream was 8, but in reality she would have been 5 years old.
The Cabaret itself carries a hint of a sad burlesque and in the language of my dream it represents the stripping away of all the layers of hurt, the regret, and grieving over devastated relationships in order to heal.
No shoes: or deciding to go barefooted: tenderfoot. The beginning of a risky process: Deciding to be honest and open with Vanessa even though I don’t feel completely prepared or self-assured. I feel like a novice, inexperienced and ill equipped for the task ahead of me, but driven by love and fueled by hope.
Cabaret Theme: The musical, which was based on a play, which was based on a novel about Nazi Germany: I believe this represents the fact that in reality we were all prisoners of our circumstances and had to endure many horrors; part of the horror was seeing our loved ones suffer at the hands of an abusive tyrant. The tyrant was Fate, specifically the fate of being sucked into a stream of events I had so hoped to avoid.
The Audience: A place to sit and listen and watch; a place to be quiet in order to see the whole show before applauding, or weeping while I applaud.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Life is a Cabaret
The names have been changed to protect the innocent
I keep hearing the song, (in my head) Life is a Cabaret. I've been humming it and singing it as I do chores.
The song is shadowy, like a smoky nightclub, but there are bright spots in the smoke; the bright colors are attributed to the show on stage.
The song and the images it brings with it beg me to pay attention. So I am.
I find out that the song is the theme song for a musical of the same name. The musical was based on the play: I Am a Camera, by John Van Druten, which was inspired by the book The Berlin Stories It is about how people found (sad) refuge in nightclubs in Nazi Germany.
The songs lends itself to a dream I had a couple of nights ago which was “filmed” in full, rich colors: the deep purple and blue of peacock feathers.
In the dream I was rushing to get to Vanessa’s high school performance. It was a very important event and I was stressed because I couldn’t get there on time. I had already missed the first hour of the show and I was worried that I’d miss it all.
Finally I gave up getting dressed up in fancy clothes. I settled for putting on my eyelashes. I had a tube of mascara that when applied made my lashes look like peacock feathers. They were lavish and rich and amazingly light for such extravagant lashes. I had my work clothes on but couldn’t find my shoes; I went without shoes, muttering under my breath, “Enough is enough. I have waited too long already! I am going as I am.”
Most of the dream was about my frantic attempt to get to the show and being blocked by one problem after another.
It ended as I was walking up to the auditorium of the high school. My heart was aching because I was so late. (In the dream I could know my own thoughts as well as Vanessa’s like in a movie.) I could see Vanessa on stage, eyes searching for, and not finding me.
There were people in front of me and I was trying to hurry them along so that I could get inside. They wouldn’t move. I was muttering, “Hurry. Hurry. Please get out of the way!”
Vanessa was wearing a silk dress, pale green. It was the same dress she’d worn to a wedding when she was eight. It accentuated her already striking green eyes. But in the dream her eyes were not happy the way they were when she wore that dress and danced with her dad at the wedding reception. In the dream her eyes are sad---they look the way they did in a picture taken when she was in high school: so full of sadness that it hurts to see them. She is smiling in the picture but her eyes are like tilted pools, so full of tears they almost spill over; so full of determination to survive that they shimmer bravely in spite of horrible pain.
These eyes have seen disappointment too many times. But it is the hope in them that breaks my heart because it is so precious and fragile. When I remember that look I pray that she will never be disappointed again, but worry that disappointing her is as inevitable as rain.
The song, “Life is a Cabaret” is about very desperate and broken people finding a place of refuge in an impossible situation.
It is a song about hope that lives on, fragile, wavering, but precariously alive. It is about finding a place to go, or having a mindset that allows you to block out all the danger, ugliness and uncertainty that lie just beyond the walls of the cabaret; It is about being able to smile at the camera, or the audience even though you are falling to pieces on the inside.
Now I am awake.
I pray that it is not too late, that I will get to her in time, that I won’t disappoint her again.
"Vanessa," I say to her in my mind, "I am right out here! I’m almost to the auditorium!" What I mean to say is that I am doing my best to be there for you. I want to hear everything you have to say. I am so sorry it has taken me so long to get here. I am not as prepared as I wish; I wish I was more confident and collected, but I can't wait any longer; I have to try to get to you, to hear you without interrupting or running away or blaming anyone but myself for your pain.
I pray: "Please, God, let me be there in time!" And "Please God, don't let me cause her any more pain."
I keep hearing the song, (in my head) Life is a Cabaret. I've been humming it and singing it as I do chores.
The song is shadowy, like a smoky nightclub, but there are bright spots in the smoke; the bright colors are attributed to the show on stage.
The song and the images it brings with it beg me to pay attention. So I am.
I find out that the song is the theme song for a musical of the same name. The musical was based on the play: I Am a Camera, by John Van Druten, which was inspired by the book The Berlin Stories It is about how people found (sad) refuge in nightclubs in Nazi Germany.
The songs lends itself to a dream I had a couple of nights ago which was “filmed” in full, rich colors: the deep purple and blue of peacock feathers.
In the dream I was rushing to get to Vanessa’s high school performance. It was a very important event and I was stressed because I couldn’t get there on time. I had already missed the first hour of the show and I was worried that I’d miss it all.
Finally I gave up getting dressed up in fancy clothes. I settled for putting on my eyelashes. I had a tube of mascara that when applied made my lashes look like peacock feathers. They were lavish and rich and amazingly light for such extravagant lashes. I had my work clothes on but couldn’t find my shoes; I went without shoes, muttering under my breath, “Enough is enough. I have waited too long already! I am going as I am.”
Most of the dream was about my frantic attempt to get to the show and being blocked by one problem after another.
It ended as I was walking up to the auditorium of the high school. My heart was aching because I was so late. (In the dream I could know my own thoughts as well as Vanessa’s like in a movie.) I could see Vanessa on stage, eyes searching for, and not finding me.
There were people in front of me and I was trying to hurry them along so that I could get inside. They wouldn’t move. I was muttering, “Hurry. Hurry. Please get out of the way!”
Vanessa was wearing a silk dress, pale green. It was the same dress she’d worn to a wedding when she was eight. It accentuated her already striking green eyes. But in the dream her eyes were not happy the way they were when she wore that dress and danced with her dad at the wedding reception. In the dream her eyes are sad---they look the way they did in a picture taken when she was in high school: so full of sadness that it hurts to see them. She is smiling in the picture but her eyes are like tilted pools, so full of tears they almost spill over; so full of determination to survive that they shimmer bravely in spite of horrible pain.
These eyes have seen disappointment too many times. But it is the hope in them that breaks my heart because it is so precious and fragile. When I remember that look I pray that she will never be disappointed again, but worry that disappointing her is as inevitable as rain.
The song, “Life is a Cabaret” is about very desperate and broken people finding a place of refuge in an impossible situation.
It is a song about hope that lives on, fragile, wavering, but precariously alive. It is about finding a place to go, or having a mindset that allows you to block out all the danger, ugliness and uncertainty that lie just beyond the walls of the cabaret; It is about being able to smile at the camera, or the audience even though you are falling to pieces on the inside.
Now I am awake.
I pray that it is not too late, that I will get to her in time, that I won’t disappoint her again.
"Vanessa," I say to her in my mind, "I am right out here! I’m almost to the auditorium!" What I mean to say is that I am doing my best to be there for you. I want to hear everything you have to say. I am so sorry it has taken me so long to get here. I am not as prepared as I wish; I wish I was more confident and collected, but I can't wait any longer; I have to try to get to you, to hear you without interrupting or running away or blaming anyone but myself for your pain.
I pray: "Please, God, let me be there in time!" And "Please God, don't let me cause her any more pain."
Saturday, April 24, 2010
1 1/2 buttered toast (sugar free bread, real butter)
Saturday, April 24, 2010
1 1/2 buttered toast (sugar free bread, real butter)
This is what I was thinking about as I finished my toast:
Does the normal development of a human being mirror our relationship with God?
Or is it a mirror image and therefore opposite: do we mature spiritually by becoming more and more dependent on God as opposed to depending on our own will power?
Why are we given the spiritual gift of self-control if we are only really happy when we surrender completely to God? (What does this have to do with toast? Bear with me, please.)
When a baby is newborn it is completely dependant on its mother and if it is developing normally the child grows more dependant on him or herself. But when it comes to spiritual matters, the opposite seems to be true. I know that no matter what I think I want, what I really, really want is to know God’s will and to be able to do whatever He wants.
For example (I think as I shake the toast crumbs off my shirt):
I think I want to lose weight in order to be healthy. I start to pray for that. But as soon as the prayer is formed, a cry, like a foghorn in treacherous waters goes out "Seek first the kingdom of God!"
Born an American girl I have always equated good health and a good life--in fact, all goodness with being skinny. In my household the word “skinny” was synonymous with clean, worthy while "fat" was equivalent to evil: dirty, lazy, stupid and bad. (Easy to see the why I have struggled with an eating disorder, right?)
I’ve always believed that the eating disorder was a lack of self control. But I am beginning to see that it is more a matter of anger and an act of defiance than it is about self control. Or maybe it is equally about anger/defiance/self-control, or lack thereof. I don't know.
The first rumblings of the disorder came in defiance some forgotten thing that infuriated me on the way to school in second grade. I remember riding to school, sitting on the edge of the seat and clamping my gut so tight, like a little hidden fist, tightening as I swore “I will never, ever be like my mother!”
I don’t know what she did to make me so mad or to swear to never be like her. But now, when I think about dieting or controlling my weight, that same little, internal fist tightens. And ‘it’ is much stronger than my best intentions.
For years I was anorexic and/or bulimic. I felt in control when I was strong enough to stick to my food plan (which was at its most extreme: one small apple and ¼ cup of wheat germ. Period. (For THE WHOLE DAY.) But in the late 1990’s I got sick and tired of starving myself. In a fully conscious act of defiance I declared war on dieting. That single act of defiance, however, did not initiate healthy eating habits. I was still obsessed with foods and treated food like an idol. Food was the answer to all my issues (I thought) and if I could just eat the right kind, then the right amount would be easy to maintain because the ‘right food’ would satisfy all my needs (like God ;) the right food would produce homeostasis.
Right Food was a two-faced idol. One side showed the beautiful array of all natural food, the other side showed a person happily engaged in active recreation. An image of a very clean blond woman in dazzling white tennis gear flashes before my eyes; it was probably a TV commercial or cereal ad that burned its way into my impressionable mind.
Do you recognize this Idol? Who in our society does not believe (like a good indoctrinated person should) that “Diet and Exercise” are the keys to good or bad health?
The mantra is repeated in every doctor’s office: Diet and Exercise, Diet and Exercise, all hail the Right Diet and Exercise! Every grocery store checkout line is bombarded with advertisements for diets and exercise plans. And the First Lady has declared it her campaign to put an end to childhood obesity, which has intensified the mantra so dear to our hearts: Diet and Exercise.
If eating the ‘right’ foods is key to our happiness, why it is that in-between commercials for the right diet and exercise programs are advertisements for chocolate, which, by the way, has even more power than the Right Diet and Exercise to satisfy our every desire (and I do mean every desire.) Diet and exercise, we are told will make us healthy and happy; but we all secretly crave, and deserve forbidden foods too, like that chocolate I was talking about.
So what, exactly, is the scoop?
As I sipped my morning coffee I started listing the food I’d consumed today. I did this so that I could enter it into a computerized calorie counter. “This time,” I said, “this time I will stick to a food plan and lose weight. I will be like the saints, who ate very little. If I don’t get my eating under control it is my own fault that I have health problems. I just need to find and stick to the right diet and exercise program. Right?”
But the internal foghorn sounded:
No. Janice. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you.”
So I said, "No. I will choose to avoid this pitfall. Dieting may not be a pitfall for some, but it is for me. No. This time I will choose to ‘eat’ my spiritual food first: the word of God in the Divine Office. I will choose to give my will over to God and I choose to trust that if I do this, and if I listen to Him and not to the TV or magazine adds, I will have everything that brings me peace, whether peace means I’ll be ‘skinny’, or not. God will take away the anger that fuels this eating disorder and He will replace it with knowledge and understanding. If self-control is a natural gift of the spirit, then the Spirit will teach me how to develop it. I will begin by exercising my will power by changing the mantra: Diet and Exercise! To 'Not my will, but Thine be done…'
I will resist the urge to add, "but please God, can I please be skinny?”
1 1/2 buttered toast (sugar free bread, real butter)
This is what I was thinking about as I finished my toast:
Does the normal development of a human being mirror our relationship with God?
Or is it a mirror image and therefore opposite: do we mature spiritually by becoming more and more dependent on God as opposed to depending on our own will power?
Why are we given the spiritual gift of self-control if we are only really happy when we surrender completely to God? (What does this have to do with toast? Bear with me, please.)
When a baby is newborn it is completely dependant on its mother and if it is developing normally the child grows more dependant on him or herself. But when it comes to spiritual matters, the opposite seems to be true. I know that no matter what I think I want, what I really, really want is to know God’s will and to be able to do whatever He wants.
For example (I think as I shake the toast crumbs off my shirt):
I think I want to lose weight in order to be healthy. I start to pray for that. But as soon as the prayer is formed, a cry, like a foghorn in treacherous waters goes out "Seek first the kingdom of God!"
Born an American girl I have always equated good health and a good life--in fact, all goodness with being skinny. In my household the word “skinny” was synonymous with clean, worthy while "fat" was equivalent to evil: dirty, lazy, stupid and bad. (Easy to see the why I have struggled with an eating disorder, right?)
I’ve always believed that the eating disorder was a lack of self control. But I am beginning to see that it is more a matter of anger and an act of defiance than it is about self control. Or maybe it is equally about anger/defiance/self-control, or lack thereof. I don't know.
The first rumblings of the disorder came in defiance some forgotten thing that infuriated me on the way to school in second grade. I remember riding to school, sitting on the edge of the seat and clamping my gut so tight, like a little hidden fist, tightening as I swore “I will never, ever be like my mother!”
I don’t know what she did to make me so mad or to swear to never be like her. But now, when I think about dieting or controlling my weight, that same little, internal fist tightens. And ‘it’ is much stronger than my best intentions.
For years I was anorexic and/or bulimic. I felt in control when I was strong enough to stick to my food plan (which was at its most extreme: one small apple and ¼ cup of wheat germ. Period. (For THE WHOLE DAY.) But in the late 1990’s I got sick and tired of starving myself. In a fully conscious act of defiance I declared war on dieting. That single act of defiance, however, did not initiate healthy eating habits. I was still obsessed with foods and treated food like an idol. Food was the answer to all my issues (I thought) and if I could just eat the right kind, then the right amount would be easy to maintain because the ‘right food’ would satisfy all my needs (like God ;) the right food would produce homeostasis.
Right Food was a two-faced idol. One side showed the beautiful array of all natural food, the other side showed a person happily engaged in active recreation. An image of a very clean blond woman in dazzling white tennis gear flashes before my eyes; it was probably a TV commercial or cereal ad that burned its way into my impressionable mind.
Do you recognize this Idol? Who in our society does not believe (like a good indoctrinated person should) that “Diet and Exercise” are the keys to good or bad health?
The mantra is repeated in every doctor’s office: Diet and Exercise, Diet and Exercise, all hail the Right Diet and Exercise! Every grocery store checkout line is bombarded with advertisements for diets and exercise plans. And the First Lady has declared it her campaign to put an end to childhood obesity, which has intensified the mantra so dear to our hearts: Diet and Exercise.
If eating the ‘right’ foods is key to our happiness, why it is that in-between commercials for the right diet and exercise programs are advertisements for chocolate, which, by the way, has even more power than the Right Diet and Exercise to satisfy our every desire (and I do mean every desire.) Diet and exercise, we are told will make us healthy and happy; but we all secretly crave, and deserve forbidden foods too, like that chocolate I was talking about.
So what, exactly, is the scoop?
As I sipped my morning coffee I started listing the food I’d consumed today. I did this so that I could enter it into a computerized calorie counter. “This time,” I said, “this time I will stick to a food plan and lose weight. I will be like the saints, who ate very little. If I don’t get my eating under control it is my own fault that I have health problems. I just need to find and stick to the right diet and exercise program. Right?”
But the internal foghorn sounded:
No. Janice. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God, and all these things shall be added unto you.”
So I said, "No. I will choose to avoid this pitfall. Dieting may not be a pitfall for some, but it is for me. No. This time I will choose to ‘eat’ my spiritual food first: the word of God in the Divine Office. I will choose to give my will over to God and I choose to trust that if I do this, and if I listen to Him and not to the TV or magazine adds, I will have everything that brings me peace, whether peace means I’ll be ‘skinny’, or not. God will take away the anger that fuels this eating disorder and He will replace it with knowledge and understanding. If self-control is a natural gift of the spirit, then the Spirit will teach me how to develop it. I will begin by exercising my will power by changing the mantra: Diet and Exercise! To 'Not my will, but Thine be done…'
I will resist the urge to add, "but please God, can I please be skinny?”
Monday, April 19, 2010
Let's Face it
Is it just me, or is it a little awkward when you meet a facebook friend face to face after ‘talking’ to them mostly on facebook? The person I ran into today is a delightful person, someone I know fairly well; not too long ago I saw her at least once a week. I absolutely love and admire her. Since The Lupus, however, most of my dealings are with doctors, nurses and lab technicians. Friends, through no fault of their own, had begun to fade into a misty, not-where-I-am land. (I live in the land of the disappeared.)
Well, not long ago I started a facebook account as a lark--just to show my college aged children that I could do it. I didn’t use it or check it very often until my friend Wendy came over for lunch one day. I don’t remember what she said, but since that day I have been ‘on facebook’ at least once a day (usually more often than that.) I am having a blast with it! Not only is it is a way to stay in touch with friends but it’s a creative outlet for the writer imprisoned inside my cell-f. (I had not let her out for quite some time. She is still a little stunned; the light hurts her eyes, but she’s happy.)
When I (read: collective ‘I': cell-f, and the person to person me) ran into my friend at the library, for a split second I felt confused. I wondered just how to be.
You see, the facebook me can delete what I say if it comes out the wrong way. (Oh, sure, sometimes I get trigger happy and press enter and wish I could take it back. But even if I do commit a facebook faux pas I can always go back an entry later and tidy things up. But real-time face to face is different. I was exposed and vulnerable; I remembered what it is like to be human: invigorating, risky.
Now I am home again, and after having time to think about the encounter I realize that that split second in which I felt a little awkward was a break in the facebook-real-time continuum; a Heisenberg moment of uncertainty, an opportunity to choose: particle or wave? cell-f or self?; am I a continuously scintillating human being, or am I a semi-polished facebook persona? Or both?
Well, not long ago I started a facebook account as a lark--just to show my college aged children that I could do it. I didn’t use it or check it very often until my friend Wendy came over for lunch one day. I don’t remember what she said, but since that day I have been ‘on facebook’ at least once a day (usually more often than that.) I am having a blast with it! Not only is it is a way to stay in touch with friends but it’s a creative outlet for the writer imprisoned inside my cell-f. (I had not let her out for quite some time. She is still a little stunned; the light hurts her eyes, but she’s happy.)
When I (read: collective ‘I': cell-f, and the person to person me) ran into my friend at the library, for a split second I felt confused. I wondered just how to be.
You see, the facebook me can delete what I say if it comes out the wrong way. (Oh, sure, sometimes I get trigger happy and press enter and wish I could take it back. But even if I do commit a facebook faux pas I can always go back an entry later and tidy things up. But real-time face to face is different. I was exposed and vulnerable; I remembered what it is like to be human: invigorating, risky.
Now I am home again, and after having time to think about the encounter I realize that that split second in which I felt a little awkward was a break in the facebook-real-time continuum; a Heisenberg moment of uncertainty, an opportunity to choose: particle or wave? cell-f or self?; am I a continuously scintillating human being, or am I a semi-polished facebook persona? Or both?
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