It really is a startling epidemic. All at once. Across two States, five households, within a week of each other... laptops started to die. And PCs too. And everyone's sense of humor. No, it wasn't a virus spread by the fwds of the naked mole rat joke, it was just a bad string of Windows updates and open source downloads and older machines getting jealous of newer machines. It was chance. It was bad luck. Whatever it was, it led to this moment. Me. No computer. Hand-writing my blog for the first time in more than a year.
The first thing I realize is that it's hard to write with rings on five fingers. Second thing I notice is that the feeling of a roller ball across fine textured paper is mesmerizing. Like, putting me to sleep mesmerizing. I need to get out more.
I switch to a fountain pen.
The pen is mightier than the sword. We've all heard this saying and most of us just adore the heck out of it. We love it because it allows us to pretend that we can sit on our righteous donkeys and write (or type) our way to world peace, revenge, justice and love. We want to think that without truly putting ourselves at risk, we can change the world. This, of course, is a barrel full of pickles.
I'm a grrl of some conviction. Despite my joke above, I do get out, and often. I club-to-dance three nights a week, hit the gym to box four days, share a meal with a friend (or enemy LOL!) at least one in seven, and I have a job that puts me in the mix with 120+ cast and crew pretty much 15/7. But if I had my way, I'd sit at home with a hot cup of coffee, my favorite d6 socks, and a warm... book... on my lap. But hey. Life is what happens while you're busy making ends meet (or while you're busy deriving virtual jackalopes, but whatev). In short, I'm not a super social beast. I'm surrounded by people, co-workers, ravers, boxers, but I'm quiet, relatively reserved and more apt to gaze intently rather than blather on about public policy and world views. I hate talking on the phone and I simply do not do small talk.
I think this might come from being a Christian... who isn't a Christian.
You may already know what I mean. In America, a Christian is a church-going, cross-wearing, we've-been-on-our-own-since-Ascension, buttoned-down conservative who would be horrified if little ole brown-skinned, motorcycle driving, leather jacket wearing, chaps-clad me were dating their son (or daughter *wicked grin*). An American Christian sings hymns, sits in a pew, doesn't swear, votes unabashedly Republican, shuns queers, loves Israel, and believes that a woman's place is in the home, in the kitchen and sometimes lying quietly on her back concentrating on being a good womb.
Now, funny thing is, I am some of those things and I do some of those things (no... not that one) but mostly, I'm the kind of Christian who prays three times a day, on her knees, and hears Christ as clearly as I hear the alt rock station on my stereo. I'm the kind of Christian who can recite thousand-year-old scripture for five straight hours... and about three lines can be found in the printed Bible. I believe a dandelion can show me how to live better than a pastor at a pulpit. I believe a black-headed gull (or, at least, one out of every ten) speaks to me more than a twentysomething youth leader with a winning smile and a patient demeanor. I do not believe that any man can stand between me and Christ nor do I believe that a mortal can speak for Christ. He isn't dead so He can speak for Himself, thank you very much.
I believe that faith is the core of self-confidence and that self-assurance is the key to redemption. When we question ourselves, we should turn first to Christ because only He can speak outside of culture, transcending human preconceptions and filters built of fear.
As Elizabeth Gilbert writes, “...when the question is raised, “What kind of God do you believe in?” my answer is easy: “I believe in a magnificent God.”
I find myself thinking of a friend, far away, golden-red hair like copper under the heavy silver clouds. She is walking alone along a rural road, no sidewalks and no division between her and her Christ, because she closed that space between her and the Lord consciously, determinedly, and without ever looking back. She wrote to me:
“Today I walked to the cemetery. Where you have walked before. Where I found the quartz on the empty path and laid some on the grave of the young man who passed at seventeen. It is often intense to walk there, but today it was more so. The air was thick. The sky overhead was filling with pewter clouds, sliding over the ocean and creeping between the mountains to find this place outside of time. The only sound was crickets, their low trilling a frequency that carries like none other. Somehow, cushioned between land and cloud cover, their song felt quieter than true silence. Looking at the gravestones puts life in perspective; it becomes quantifiable. Something almost tangible that can be held and measured and felt. I walked down the path, snapped a picture with my cell, stopped and just stood.
“I had been praying, silently, from my heart, since I left home. But suddenly the urge to speak, to pray aloud, took me and I didn't deny this emotion, command, directive. Perhaps what I said might be considered expected, being where I am in my life, my gender, my age... but to me, to Christ, it was everything I had. Everything I am. Everything in my heart:
“I prayed, 'Christ, I haven't done so well with my life so far. I've screwed up pretty bad in the past. I want to live better. To follow your path. My path. The path that you've set out for me. I want life vibrant, vivid, real. I want to *feel.* I want to bring people to you. I want them to see you, to see your world, this world you have given us, as I see it. My life is yours, Lord. I want my hands to be your hands. I give my life completely to you, to do your work. Whatever it takes. Whatever that means. No matter how difficult, how easy, how intense, how complacent... it is yours, as I am yours.' And then I took a deep breath and I began walking. Continuing the conversation until I passed through the gates of home... and knew I had done just that. Come *home.*”
Because religious *conversion* or rebirth is far less likely and perhaps less true and lasting than religious *conversation*... to that moment when we truly begin to converse with our Lord. This doesn't take a pastor. It doesn't take a book. It takes you and your Christ. Crossing into that space, internal, where trust becomes faith and the path is laced with golden threads before you.
Now, lest you think this is yet another blog focused on the importance (vital!) of the impassioned path, let me assure you that this is not where I am going. Today I'm waxing poetic (or not so much, depending on your tolerance of metaphor and turns of phrase) on the importance of *letting go.* And by this I mean both “Let go. Let God.” and “Baby... just *let go*...”
I do believe that Christ sometimes wants us to stand and watch life. To be still and complacent, to shut the heck up and learn from the pain, joy, music, passion, rain storm around us. I think listening... waiting... especially before you speak, is valuable. Despite what Hollywood movies want us to believe, I have never known anyone to lose something or someone utterly and completely simply because they took things slowly and thoughtfully.
However...
Though Christ was certainly a thoughtful and gentle man, it can also be said He was opinionated and decisive. Impassioned and driven. Relentless. Courageous. Strong. A man of words *and* actions. To live as Christ lived, we must know when to take a stand. And then... we must take it.
This includes standing up for one's own body.
I'm not going to veer into politics and rights. I have no interest in these things and I would most certainly alienate 100% of my readers since I believe, for instance, that life begins at conception even as I feel a responsibility to empower women to take control of their lives and educate themselves about their own bodies (which, btw, never includes taking the life of a baby). I *am* going to veer into the importance of dance, boxing, and the fine art of desire.
God *could* have made us in so many different ways. But He chose this form. From the tiniest particle within us to the color of our eyes. On a cellular and spiritual level, we're so full of mysteries. On the surface, physically, so sweet and simple to understand. Our bodies are temples? Yes, I can see that. Our bodies are instruments? Yes, I see that more. We are both instruments we are intended to play and instruments of our Lord. Instruments that make music and that make change. We are both part of the symphony and the tool that builds the concert hall.
God did not place us on this Earth to stand still. If He had, we wouldn't have been born with legs and minds and curiosity. Likewise, we are not meant to ignore the mortal form – divine clay – that Christ built for us with His own hands. Is this temporary, purgatory? A shell we should rejoice will some day be cast off?
Turn on the stereo. Be alone. Find music that moves you. And move. I don't care if you're stretched out on the couch, eyes closed, head back, chin bobbing to Bach or Bennett... it doesn't matter if the windows are shaking with hard rock or even if there is nothing but silence (a music of its own). Find that thing that inspires your body to move. Is it music? Is it laughter? Is it rain at midnight or dawn? To me, dance (which is any inspired movement) is celebration. It is allowing something – in my case, music – to guide my body to move. To me, Christ is music. He guides me. He says to me, “Move.” and I do. Always.
Then, when it is time to *act*... the music is gone. That is when I turn to hiking or rock climbing or boxing. That is a different command, a different place to take my body, to celebrate the sheer strength, the prowess that Christ weaves into our bones and muscles. If dancing is freeing, then fighting, climbing, swimming, running is about focus. Intense and powerful. Claiming... unlocking... the primal force that Christ gives all of us because we need to be able to survive in a world that is deeply flawed by its very nature.
Free the body. Focus the body. The soul stays healthy. The soul learns desire. Incorporates desire into our life where it becomes that pure, burning matter that drives us forward to do His work. By desire I mean both the passion we feel when we love another, and the desire our bodies build for us when we explore our senses. We can read our lover's words or look into their eyes... we can touch fine petals, trace creases in bark, taste dew drops or heated summer air on our tongues. All of these things are desire. Desire is a physical, emotional, psychological response to external stimulus when it crosses the barrier between “ourselves” and “other.” There is a reason why lovers whisper to each other, “I want you like the air I breathe, like sunlight and rain on green growing things. You are a requirement, nourishment to my heart, my body, and my soul.” Desire fuels us.
Free the body. Focus the body. Fuel the body. Suddenly, you find yourself walking on your path. The vehicle for change, the vessel is prepared. The journey begins, like a conversation... a continuing conversation. Deny any one step and the body is imbalanced. Unsure. The path becomes indistinct and we turn to nonessential elements. We forget: Christ did not build us this way so that His work be ignored. Divine clay, living clay, home of the immortal soul.
Heartbeat beneath our fingertips, we must never forget.
EJ
