And if you think I'm being blasphemous, then feel free to click away. I'm not... but working on 46 hours without sleep, this Christian grrl is not in the mood for itty bitty minds. This Sabbath blog is all about the transformative strength of human prowess, the sacrament that is bearing a child, and the real reason why 954 miles is way too far away.
In truth, I suppose that all these blogs are about transformation. “You Move Me,” (Susan Ashton) right, Abbie? There is something about CCM singers... and I'm not even a country fan, honey. Because without Christ telling us to get up and *change,* without:
“...Frozen solid with fear.
Like a rock in the ground.
But you move me.
You give me courage I didn't
Know I had.
I can't go with you
And stay where I am...”
It is *all* about the transformative everything, the event, the sour grapes, the cherry pits, and lemonade-making that threatens us when we least except it. The getting *stuck*... the getting *unstuck,* the moving on, the moving up, the life and death and growing and dying, those things we can't change that we wind up being changed by and so we do change them because we change how we see them and the world around us.
Every moment we draw breath is about being ready for transformation. You've seen the t-shirts, right? “Got Christ?” Are you ready? And you once said to me, “Of course. I've been waiting all my life.” Stop waiting. Find it. Seize it. Not the day, sweetheart, the change. Unfold it like a note from a high school friend or a birthday gift or an origami crane that wants to lay its secrets bare in the palm of your hand. Take this moment *now* because it's yours from Christ.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bgQLEfSi9ys
So I got the heads up from a buddy in Washington who used to be my sparring partner. CBS. Saturday. 10 o'clock. EliteXC MMA. That's league-style mixed martial arts, three matches (women's, middleweight, heavyweight). I don't own a tv (stop laughing, Alyson) because the only one who ever turned it on was Mom and after she went a'wandering I found it a better use of space to hang a 4' x 3' painting there and pawn the flat screen for exactly what she bought it for on sale.
So that meant there was me (danger addict) and there was a tv show that I wanted to watch... and there was the biker bar six blocks away that had a flat screen (maybe from the pawn shop?) mounted above the old school jukebox.
Fire her up, baby. Time to take the Kawi into no-grrl's land LOL ... Okay, I'm not an idiot. I walked. You don't take a half-nude sports bike to a hardbody bar. I just threw on my jacket, buckled up my boots and *pretended* I rode... I imagined a fiery red Harley, of course. The bike everyone and their brother (and their sister) assumes I ride when I say, “Yeah, I'm a biker chick.” For the record: It's a hot green Kawasaki Z1000.
To say I was the only woman in the bar that night would be too dramatic. So let's continue to make believe, Trolley, and say the place was crawling (*snort*) with chicks, all hanging on their bearded daddy figures (but goodness, Jenn, do you really love mountain men?). Yep. Let's just click our ruby engineer boots together and pretend that.
For the first time in two months I was acutely aware of the fact that I weighed the same as a Labrador Retriever. I pledge to eat more pasta as I order my Coke with Cream (eyebrows are raised... tiny smirks hide behind great big beards (*seriously,* Jenn?).
The show starts. During preamble I remember talking to you once about bikes. No, not BMX, the “crotch rockets,” as Tricia (and Google) calls them. Super sport and other tricked, cowled bikes that rock my world. It seemed strangely illicit to explain to you the difference between nude and half-nude, between dumping, laying her down, and rolling her over. It was almost a relief when the conversation shifted to hardbodied babies because then I was detached and removed and could stop imagining you on my Z1000 saying something breathy like, “That was really... *fun.*”
If you don't like watching boxing because it's bloody, aggressive and you get a testosterone high off your tv set, than MMA is not for you. If you don't like boxing because you find yourself screaming, “Oh, just *kick* him!” then you have found your sport. Smoosh boxing, karate, wrestling and jujitsu all together and you've got MMA. Smoosh combatants against the mat, against each other, or against the chainlink that wraps around the cage and you've got MMA.
Back when I first came to LA, there was a club all in blue (you know which one I mean) where I loved to dance. I was on the floor at least three times a week. It was my release from the day, from life, from reality... I thought it was enough. Then a fellow dancer (name not important, never knew it) said, “You like to fight?” And the rest was history so much sweeter than that movie with Brad What's His Name and so much more release than dancing, sex or anything else under God's blue sky. It was the second night, when I pulled my red mesh top over my head to step into the chalk circle drawn on the cold concrete floor in just my boots, jeans and sports bra that someone in the gathered fighters saw the wings tattooed across my lower back... and someone else called out, “Who wants to lay odds against Angel?” All these years later, it appears the name stuck and every time I hear it I remember that night and walking out with a broken finger, a black eye and two grand. Because back then, *everybody* bet against the grrl.
I was in college when I first read Camille Paglia. Her ideas were transformative for me in that my beliefs in some things were changed and in others were moved further forward. Whatever her take on sexuality or women's responsibility, I will never forget her simple statement: We don't want our men effeminate and flaccid. We want our men, *men*... fully aggressive, fully engaged, erect and alive. Anything else is neutered. Anything else is not a man.
The MMA announcer drones during the second match: “Look how they touch each other's gloves like that again and again. Even in the heat of the match like this, they are showing their sportsmanship, their warriors companionship.” The next morning my old sparring partner deadpans to me in email: “Spare me. They touch gloves to spot check their opponent, to place where he in space so he can kill him.” And I laugh so hard that the cat runs out of the room.
I have never met a male boxer, pro martial artist, or a soldier who didn't exude a certain masculinity. A fully-realized male *adulthood.* Which isn't to say that all these men were burly, brawny, bawdy men. Far from. But they were self-possessed. They carried a certainty that I have never seen in other men. It was as though these men had not just lived their lives but embraced, however briefly, a primal danger, a side of themselves that God gave men and men alone. The alpha warrior. Protect. Serve. Survive. They have a *calm* that I don't see elsewhere.
The same is true for women. There is a fully-realized adulthood that seems to settle around women who have borne children. Yes, my friends who have *raised* children but not carried them also have a sense about them, a certain wisdom and way of being different in the world, but there is something deep and still about the women I have known and seen change over the course of those nine months and into their first year:
“And I was
forever changed
from woman
to mother.”
These women have tapped into that same thing as male fighters. That primal base of excellence that God granted to women and women alone.
Mother. Fighter. These demand unyielding conviction. This is the unwillingness to walk away from any situation and simply “let it be.” This is proving that nothing is impossible and nothing is outside our influence. This is the creation of life... this is the creation of power... which, of course, is the same thing. This is when mettle is tested. This is when life falls into perspective. This is when the sacrament is received.
Now I understand that what I'm saying here could be construed as disgustingly anti-feminist and down-right primeval. But take a step back and just consider before you bombard me with PC-laden emails of picket sign slogans. I am not saying that men who don't fight are less than, just different. I am not saying that women who don't bear children are less than, just different. And I am certainly not saying that all fighters and all mothers have captured this calm. I am simply saying: God gave us a genetic blueprint. Our bodies carry it. When we embrace it, when we live it, we experience a growth, a change, a transformation. We receive a sacrament that we can absolutely live without... but that by partaking of we reach a new place.
It also deserves to be shared that I am not a mother and I am a fighter. My desire to be a mother is a palpable thing inside me and has been since I was a little grrl, but it isn't something that will ever be a reality. Maybe I find myself positioned in the world as a fighter because I don't have a cycle. I never have. Sorry for the over-share, there, buddies, but I say that like someone else might say they get headaches or are prone to hives when they read about campaign reform. I nannied for three years and I surround myself with my friends' little ones... but it isn't the same. Nor is fighting the same for me as I feel it might be for a man. But this are the closest I can come to these transformative moments and I embrace what I can reach with great joy. I embrace these truths in my life:
My physical strength and skill, my ability to control my body, my bike, my mood, is a thing of pride for me.
My willingness to take the next step into a dark place, to listen to the faint whispers of Christ, to loudly say, “No. You are wrong.” when faced with man making pretzels of the holy word, my utter belief that I am never alone (and that I am always with you), is the core of who I am.
I may never be as fully realized as my beloved friends Jess and Jenn, who I watched transform before my eyes over those nine months, but I strive daily to be the fully realized *me* that Christ intended.
And that includes having a great upper cut.
EJ
A personal P.S.: When you told me you had watched the bouts – a casual aside – I have to admit I was shocked. I know you as fine and articulate, beautiful and introspective... most certainly not impressed with a solid left hook, fluid form or blood sport. Most absolutely not aroused by the base prowess of the fight. ... I really should have known better. All the best signs were there. Your digital grin when a mutual friend informed you of the brawl on set (on camera!)... or your delighted “mean streak” when the security monitor displayed a certain “Pipi” slam a double against the side of a Tahoe because she jabbed my chest with one pointy finger. Fight club? “Hmm. You're quite a grrl, Angel.” Looking for a new sport? “Gee, street fighting looks fun.” Now, when I replay that last featured match in my mind, the brutal left jab, right hook that sprayed Jimmy's ear all over his face, the mat, and Kimbo Slice, I can see you grimace even as you mutter, “What a combo!” Suddenly... I have a burning desire to be with you next Saturday night ;) God bless CBS.
