Glosoli

I saw this video last year sometime and again during a presentation for my theology class before break. The second time brought me to tears, mostly due to one scene that won't leave.

Near the end, they are about to run and make the jump. Lined up, the boy in front with a girl at his side. He is pounding on the drum, the music rising, moving towards the climax. The rest of the group is behind them. It shows several of their faces. You can tell they are deep in their head. Thinking like crazy. Analyzing, measuring, weighing, options flying in and out. And then back to the boy, and you can see the excitement, the increased clarity and focus, the rhythm, the drum holding desire with each beat, as if providing a steadiness, a security in the face of the rest of their disorganization.

And the moment that won't leave me. The boy starts to run. No, he takes off. No wondering, weighing, measuring. And he doesn't just set the drum down, he throws it. The girl, she doesn't carefully remove her hat, instead she rips it off her head.

Why I think that image won't leave me? I know the questioning of the rest of the group, I know the looks on their faces well. The calculating, the safety measures. And when I'm caught up in my mind, like their questioning, I know that counseling is impossible, that it is way too much, that I need to get out before I get really hurt.

And then that moment. I see him throw the drum. I see her rip the hat off. And then my tears. Tears bringing hope and impossibility face to face. Reason and desire colliding. And desire blowing the hell out of reason. Logic fails.

And then human beings flying.

That is hope.

Back Home

It was hard to leave home. I was there for awhile but definitely could've spent more time with the family. Five nieces and nephews running around the house was a pleasant change from bachelor life in Seattle. A quick summation includes Play Station 3 (which my nephew Jacob said to Matthew, "why is Michael beating you at this game if you own it?"), Nintendo Wii, plenty of movies, a good college friend's wedding in Chicago, a couple nights out on the town (including new years where I vowed not to have anything to drink because of a bad cold, yet was forced into a couple games of beer pong at the end and got schooled off the table - I can't help adding the grossest story of the year so far - my partner was sick and she spit several times into a cup on the side. well, that cup somehow got into play on the next game. ouuuuccchhhh. thank God i lost and didn't learn that the hard way like a friend of mine did...). We also revitalized the game Taboo, did some skiing, had some good talks with the brothers and sister, and of course, hung out with the kids.

Rest

Maybe it is no longer just making it through the week, pining for the end. Maybe no longer ten steps ahead in conversation, looking from the outside in. Maybe no longer an escape from inevitable confrontation.

Rest. Maybe rest is no longer dissociation.

Maybe rest is being me, which I think means showing up to fight. Sticking around, not leaving, acknowledging that you affect me and that I will stay. Rest is saying that this is ok.

Rest then is seeing all of you. It is slow motion, it is sensual, it is feeling. It is your glance. It is your face, captured, illuminated, soft, strong, harsh, tangible, whole, human. In rhythm, in joy. Rest then is this delight not having to turn to shame.

Rest is sitting beside you, and becoming myself.

Look Who's #1

I just have to say that I feel blessed. Many factors contribute, one being college basketball. Not very often that your favorite team is number one in the nation. Although I have to say being a North Carolina fan your chances are higher than most ;)

And your other favorite team, Michigan State, is looking very promising at the #10 spot, their only loss a heartbreaker to the #2 team at the time, UCLA.

This is the current case, and it feels wonderful.

(I do realize that simply posting on this puts both of my teams in jeopardy of a major slump like jinx, but I can't resist).

This is Story

I met her at a show.My hands slipped through her hair.She listened to my story.Said I've heard all about you.Well it seemed she was sincere.But the conversation fled.He spoke through the prophets.Crucified for our salvation.He suffered and was buried.And on the third day he rose born again.She held my hand.Now wrinkles are for thinking.Old and weak I've become.The saint became a poet.That poet wants to fly.So show me the Kingdom.Where the angels come undone.As they marched into the rainbow river sky.Heal the wounded singer.Now he's on his way.They were dancing to the music.The shadow of the season.We tango'd through the sacrifice.Climbed the virgin hills.Walked straight up to the sunrise.Never had a reason.We released the blood upon the peasant land.She held my hand.
~Steven Delopoulos

An entire book can describe someone's life, but only a few lines of poetry are needed to describe one's experience of it. And only there do we find the real story.

You can sit with me for two hours talking about your past, but it will be that look on your face that can only be yours that tells me your experience of it. And in that look I find the real story.

Walls

The time change offered me another hour in the morning before church this sunday to finish up my sexual development paper. I hashed out the last bit of the sticky, rather-not-be-talking-about-this kind of paper and headed to church, still very much in it. The major theme that kept coming up was relational distance - what felt like an impenetrable wall separating me from the rest of the world.

In the room, in the people, in the singer, the words of the song, all came head on with the blockage, the feeling like no one had gotten through, the feeling that no one will ever get through. All a part of being so caught in the moment that certainty was bellowing from the room, but not a certainty of being right, but of hoping so much in what will be that it felt like it was already here.

The words spoke about a veil being torn, and that it is done. The symbolism slapped me in the face, and a feeling, or a voice, speaking over and over that it does not have to be this way. There was access. Intimacy was possible. To be known was possible. The wall has been blown to pieces. There is access and there is intimacy, and things do not have to be the same, because it is done.

Nelly Sayin It Right

Ok, some deep stuff came from an odd source as far as the topic goes. Lyrics from Nelly Furtado’s song Say it Right held some weight the last time I heard them.

From my body
I could show you
A place
God knows
You should know
Space is holy
Do you really
Want to go

I don’t want to go. And know few who do. I work at a psych hospital with patients doing everything they can to escape it. The arms of the adolescents sliced up, the adults detox-ing, eyes bloodshot. Their experience has not gone well. They went for it, massive disappointment came in after. Now slicing open their arms or poisoning their body to cope with the aftermath.

Of course I’m not that far off. Right away I think of the girls that get me, that make me so vulnerable when I’m around them, causing me to long, to remember, to think about what could be, and at the same time what was there in the past. Engagements so loaded. My heart skips, like a skip deep back into desire. Though the desire doesn’t exactly feel sexy. Even writing these words, revealing some of my desire, feels foolishly vulnerable, and I want to silence it all. The heart of desire carries with it the heart of pain.

Writing, feeling just a taste of the pain, I think of the most intense desire ever lived. It fits that we call the experience of the cross the passion. Desire taken to the heart of pain, and the way of redemption, and the way of resurrection. I can’t help but see how longing calls me to die – not just to die in an abstract sense, that sounds too sexy. But to really die in relationship, to actually feel like a part of yourself is about to implode in vulnerability with another. Falling forward, letting the rush of love surely disappoint, and in the center of that disappointment, redemption.

“It is always nice to hear how God has made your life go well, but it is when you have no reason to love God that when your talk of the love of God moves me to the core.” Dan Allender from the Wounded Heart

Sense of Touch

"Mystery is very different from a problem. While a problem can be solved, a mystery is inexhaustible. A problem can be held at arm's length; a mystery encompasses us and will not let us keep a safe distance." -Gabriel Marcel

When I think I know someone, I can know how not to know them, I know how to keep a safe distance. When I allow mystery, I allow for surprise. Mystery does not create distance, but horrifying nearness. Thank God we do not fully know Him, or we would choose not to know Him, for we would make Him all the things we continually want Him to be - money, sex, knowledge, power - anything we can control. The same for you an I, for not fully knowing you allows us to know each other far more than we may want to imagine. And that is what we don't want, and that is everything that we want. As spoken in the first words from the movie Crash:

“It’s the sense of touch. In any real city you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We’re always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.”

The Brothers In Town

Matthew and David in Seattle. Two different worlds coming together made for a great weekend, which definitely climaxed at the party saturday night. To have so many people I know meet the brothers was the coolest experience I've had in a long time. We thought about going out at some point but had too good of a dance party at the house. We stepped it up several notches - there was no need to dance anywhere else.
I hope I gave them a pretty good experience of Seattle. Running around Green Lake, Zoka's and Peete's, East Lake Bar, Sushi, Pike's Market, Golden Gardens, volleyball, and some good views of the city happened. Sleep didn't happen...mostly because two of us were sleeping on the floor every night, a cheap trip for the bros but not exactly plush. But we hadn't had that kind of time together in a long time, and I'm thankful for that. It was special to have family come to where I was instead of heading back to see them, which made Seattle feel a little closer to home.

Grandma

I felt led to write and to continue to remember last weekend, to remember my grandma who passed away last weekend, to remember everything about who she was and what she represented in our family.

Matthew came up with the idea of writing down memories of Grandma for my mom, and I was writing at the airport on the way to Louisville. I just started writing 'I remember' at the start of each sentence, and with each sentence came more and more stories and scenes, and all of a sudden my heart was swelling and the tears came. My mind entered back to the house, the kitchen and the living room, and the yard, and the trees and the street. I was struck how much I remembered that house, the trips in the summer, the place where I grew to know all my cousins, the place where family grew in each of us to hold so much importance.

And then, the same family all met again at Grandma's funeral. And I continue to think about that service, and looking across the pews and seeing every one of us in tears. And there is something about that moment that feels holy, and it feels like the greatest honor we could give her. And at the time it was all we wanted to do. I could see how much we all wanted to grieve, how much we wanted that space to be able to do so, to allow our hearts to take over, and allow us to honor everything she was. There is nothing worse than the pretense of being ok when all you want to to is grieve, and I am thankful that we could grieve, and hope we can for a long time and to have that be ok.

I am reminded of the importance of remembering, how in remembering my heart grows soft, how longing for what was inevitably causes me to then long more and more for what will come.

We Painted!

Finally! Knocked it out in about 4 hours. The color turned out so well (called Ryegrass). And the room looks sweet. We made some changes to it, and cleaned all the areas under the couches and such that have not been moved and cleaned for quite awhile, so we all feel like brand new. Good to have a little something different before the upcoming year begins next week.

Narcissistic Illusion

Some reflections on narcissism...

An emaciated soul
Is one that has run for so long on narcissistic illusions
That it can do nothing but vomit up any piece of reality and wholeness
One that resigns and sacrifices any fragile self left for the comfort of illusion
One that sacrifices any life left in place of the controllable, mundane, and ordinary

There is no sorrow, for illusions cannot be grieved
In place is the high tower of narcissism
Where no other soul can get near
Looking down everything is small, the size of this life, the size of this self

Its perfection ends up simply being the case because of its utter minute being
It knows not life, but instead what it means to be so safe as to be nothing
In attempting to hold onto something it has essentially become nothing

And the sheer madness of it all, what is so infuriating
Is its perfection in illusion that provides the appearance of such grandiosity, such supposed wholeness, which could not be farther from the truth
The madness is the irony - a perfection so attained that it has finally attained nothingness


I wrote out those words, and what hit me was the continual reference to perfection, and the paradox that comes out of having something so together that you essentially have nothing. There is something about anomaly and imperfection creating more life and not less. Yet how often in relationships I want to be something else, something not human, hold onto narcissism, and consequently end up living a small, pretentious, and mundane existence. The more I desire to not be human, the closer I get to be nothing at all.

Reminded on Living

I came across this writing the other night, a section of a book on Jim Elliott, a missionary who died and left us with a number of beautifully written journals. The one that always stuck out to me the most I read again last night. I am always moved by his passion. As the veil is lifted here at school and I see so many things that have been hidden, in a strange way I find myself wanting to be my own God. A miserable way to live. Especially when I am reminded of the passion of a heart that is caught up in delight with the real thing. Here's a bit of his passion. What a glorious way to live.

"Because, O God, from Thee comes all, because from Thine own mouth has entered us the power to breathe, from Thee the sea of air in which we swim and the unknown nothingness that stays it over us with unseen bands; because Thou gavest us from the heart of love so tender, mind so wise and hand so strong, Salvation; because Thou art Beginning, God, I worship Thee.









Because Thou art the end of every way, the goal of man; because to Thee shall come of every people respect and praise; their emissaries find Thy throne their destiny; because Ethiopia shall stretch out her hands to Thee, babes sing Thy praise; because Thine altar gives to sparrows shelter, sinners peace, and devils fury; because 'to Thee shall all flesh come,' because Thou art Omega, praise."

Dust

Coming into the local coffee shop, opening up my laptop, usually the first thing I notice is it's covered with dust. It doesn't seem dirty in my place. Something about the lighting, the atmosphere of a new place, provides the right illumination for me to see how dirty it really is.

Experiencing this the other day, right away I related it to my interaction with people. I can be going through the entire day, week, month, doing my best to not be seen. Then, at the right time, that person chooses to bring the right amount of light to step into my world, inevitably naming the things I don't want to name myself.

The person I experience this exposure with the most; my counselor (he does his job well, not always a fun thing...) The image I have is back in elementary school where we'd make the little volcanos erupt. The drop of baking soda into the mixture ignites the reaction. And I feel like I can't step into that office and sit on that couch without there being some inevitable reaction.

It is really more what he doesn't do than what he does. Usually I am doing everything I can to keep from being the one that casts that light, never wanting to create that awkward confrontation. He is there, speaking into what he sees and feels, not hiding, not blaming, just there. So often I feel like I have to be doing so much, but I see more how it's what I let myself not do that is needed - if I want to expose or be exposed - if I want to cast that light. A big if. It cuts, but the cut somehow brings life. And that is a blessed wounding. Blessed are the wounds of a friend.

Updates, Comments

The first thing to mention is a phenomenal Patty Griffin show. I think she mesmerized everyone with her stage presence and her strikingly powerful voice.

Well one of the highlights for me was nearly running into Dave Matthews on the way to the bathroom (small bladder finally paying off). He gave me a smile and I probably reciprocated with a confused, stupor-ish look. He ambled away with a very pronounced limp, and that was that.

As for other notes, I watched Peaceful Warrior this weekend, a movie that held some eerily similar views that the program here at MHGS has. Nick Nolte played this guy named Socrates, who consistently strummed off one liners of considerable depth and meaning. I think my favorite was the idea that a true warrior is one who knows how to sit in 100% vulnerability. Paradox, things never staying the same, and fully experiencing the here and now were a few more of the themes.

I also watched Freedom Writers. It was well done with a great, true story that seemed fitting for me in taking the Multicultural class I'm in. I've been reading this book on the history of multicultural america, and it is rediculous. It is so hard to read, because it is the truth about our country. Whites who conquered and viciously abused anyone who got in their way, naming their actions as the 'destiny of God.' Starting with Native Americans, then African Americans, Chinese, Japanese, Irish...the book is very weighty, and even saying that seems so trivial. So many stories that are worthy to be grieved over for centuries. How to even approach this?

I guess my two cents about what's going on in class that I don't like is when we (me and my caucasion classmates) try to defend our own racism today, when we want to give ourselves a voice instead of sitting in the discomfort of being wrong. Even when people say they are angry at the racism today, that just kind of erks me because in a sense then, we are attempting to say the right thing, and be the right ones in class, who aren't racist, who just need someone to hear us and know why we act this way or that. I think bottom line, we just need to sit in being wrong for a little bit at least, and know what it feels like to be the wrong ones for once - what any other race has to experience every day.

Carolina

"I had a dream last night, stood beneath an orange sky, with my brother and my sister standing by..."




The whole fam got together at our rustic cottage in the smoky mountains of north carolina. I think it was the most active week I've had in quite awhile, a good break from sitting on my butt in class, reading, or writing. They stocked the river soon after we got there, Matthew and I pulled out 7 trout each in a couple hours the first time down there. We were pretty good at forming somewhat of a schedule, a good set of rituals, each involving either playing or eating. Often started the morning out at the coffee shop, then got ready to head down to the river for fishing or tubing or volleyball. After dinner was back into town for ice cream, then came back to the cottage for a fire, listening to ray lamontagne, passin' back a couple beers. That's a pretty dang good routine if you ask me.

This was the first time being with the fam since the counseling program really shook things up in me. Interesting how seeing things in a way made me feel more distant, more removed, things not as I so often perceived them to be. What appeared in the past to be connection was really distance. However, ironically, this entering into reality, this seeing the distance, actually makes way for more connection. Seems like sometimes you have to get farther away to get closer.

Just one paradox after the other if you ask me...

Vashon

I'm about done with my time on Vashon Island, after two months spending time with a kid with bipolar disorder. It has been fun, and hard, and then not so hard....at least a lot easier than most of the autistic and behaviorally challenged kids I've spent time with this year. That is in large part due to the context I get to spend time with him on an island, on a large piece of land that surrounds his house, including a bunch of chickens, goats, cows, and turkeys (I forgot how much I like animals). After tutoring (which is the hard part emotionally during the day), the second half of the day involves planting on their small farm, water balloon fights, airsoft guns, forts, and painting among others. I also really enjoy riding the ferry over there every day. I will really miss this place. And most importantly, I'll really miss this kid (have to be ambiguous for the case) who I've just really started to get to know. Both in our connection when we laugh and play and in the recognition of his despair and hopelessness; the tough times when I get a glimpse into the war going on inside. Again, that's probably all I can say legally, but I am thankful for the time and sad it will end.

I Love Summer

Looks like I've found my home for the summer: the beach at Golden Gardens. After our hip-hop class we got something to eat and headed over to the soft sand and surreal views. I don't think I could ask for much more than sand volleyball on the water with sun setting on the mountains as a backdrop. I guess waves and warmer water would be even more of a bonus, but this more than works for me, and spending my whole weekend there was a telling of the many times to come this summer.
(Though I have to say that I have not tried Alki beach, located on the other side of the Puget Sound, which instead of the mountains, has the Seattle skyline as the backdrop.)

Portland Revisited

Another weekend in Portland. Eden played a show at the Hawthorne Theatre, a great place close to Mandi and Kathy's where we stayed.

On the way down we ended up talking a lot about the Object Relations book we're reading (grad student nerds), but it really led to some amazing conversation, which will probably make it to another blog...invaluable to be discussing this stuff as we're going through it. I am grateful to have friends to really be able to do that, who are as excited to talk about this stuff as I am, who don't just want to coast through this program. Could not be any more different than undergrad for me.

We grilled some burgers and had some drinks before Eden played (btw it's spring and I need a grill) and then after the concert we came back and grilled some more.

For sure the biggest laugh came on the way back, where we ended up at a fairly confusing stoplight/train track. Long story short, we ended up somewhere in the middle of where we were supposed to stop and the train tracks. Red lights blinking, I looked up to see the train gates directly above, descending quickly. We all froze as they landed on top of the car. Lynn backed up as the antenna held one of the gates, eventually letting go, flinging the gate back and forth. The train passed and we went on our way. A little scary how close we got to the train, but also probably the most I've laughed in a long time.

In a Nutshell part 2

Thought I'd give a short summary of what the past trimester has been for me. Instead of the string of statements I set out last time, I wanted to share what has been the highlight for me, my practicum II class (for those of you that don't know it's where we counsel each other). Right from the beginning there was something special about the group of 10 people.

So amazing to really feel like you were cared for, like people really wanted to see you, and that set up the possibility for each of us to risk enough to actually allow something greater than ourselves to happen. It was a taste of true community, and whenever that happens you are always left thinking how sweet that is and how little it happens in everyday life. Even thinking about it now, remembering, it feels to die for. Evokes so much longing.

It was culminated in our last meeting, where we each brought in something reflecting our experience with each other. I decided to write something of a poem. When it was my turn, I looked down at the poem, and I was struck by the depth of the words in front of me. They were so weighty. So packed with experience and meaning. I tried to speak them but could not. Instead came the tears. Eventually I got going, and slowly made it through, pausing often with each swell of emotion. I felt so vulnerable, so exposed. Though that did not feel like shame; instead I felt so much strength in speaking and naming the beauty held in each sentence, in each story, in each person. I was claiming the beauty I saw. Speaking into life and not allowing shame to come in and snatch that life away from me. To be given the space to speak and name the beauty of what we had was, as I said above, to die for.

I thought I'd share a bit of the poem, though only the beginning and the end due to confidentiality of posting online - the middle section highlights each of the individual experiences of the group. In place of the middle section I thought I'd put a picture that seemed to symbolize to me the beauty that comes out of wide open spaces. When we allow the space for each other to truly show up, when we don't let shame come in and take away our glory, something beautiful happens. I call the picture 'unashamed sky.'


"Those who function out of fear, seek security. Those who function out of trust and risk, seek freedom." - William Hurt
We came seeking freedom, and grew to know the great cost that freedom calls forth. Risk, trust, tender tears, harsh tears, fierceness, feistiness, much space, little space, familiar safe camps, unfamiliar darkness, eyes closed, hands held out, risk, and more risk....

...We speak on behalf of freedom. Freedom to risk that we may utter the words of our true selves. For to speak the true words of our heart is to speak the words of God. We have seen glimpses of each of our hearts, we have seen the true words, and they hold the treasures of the Kingdom.