With Different Eyes

After spending five quiet days on the Cape with no schedule, no agenda, no To Do List and being responsible for no one other than myself, coming back home to my two kids, my mom, my sister and my seriously neurotic old terrier was … well… a bit of an adjustment. I can’t say I dreaded coming home but I wasn’t sure I was completely ready either. I drove home on Monday, stopping only long enough to grab a quick lunch before picking up both kids from their respective schools and the dog from the kennel. Homework needed to be done, including a project for Andrew’s Confirmation which was a day late and needed to dropped off at the parish center Monday evening. With everyone having been sick, the refrigerator was empty so I ended up taking the boys out to dinner. Tuesday morning, it was back to work and I settled back into what passes for a normal life around here.

As Friday rolled around, I was glad I had decided to keep my usual day off. My day off included my usual everyday stuff. I got up at 5 to take the dog out and found she’d had a bad night, so I mopped the entire kitchen floor with bleach water, took the poor old dog out, carried her down the porch steps and then back up, fed her, went back to bed for about an hour, got up and got Andrew to school, fixed and ate my breakfast and sipped my tea while posting to several social media pages that I manage besides my own, woke Eugene up and drove him to school, all by 8:30. Then there was a double load of ‘dog laundry’ – the old quilts and towels that I use to line her crate – that needed to go to the laundromat, which was crowded for a weekday. And yet, I still managed to be done and at the beach by 10.

As I looked back over the five days I had spent on the Cape and then the five days that I had been home, I realized just how much I do, and for the most part do cheerfully, on any given day. Even my so-called ‘lazy’ days are full of the hundred little things that simply must get done. I realized how precious little credit I give myself for doing what I do. I have a very nasty habit of seeing the long list of things I don’t get done, especially on the days when the RA has flared and I simply can’t keep up my usual pace. I let my frustrations blind me.

When I was on retreat a number of years ago, I went to confession and the priest actually stopped me mid-confession, held up one finger and said, “Can I… just… add… one more to that…?”

I was so taken aback I wasn’t about to bicker with him. His addition? That I’m far too hard on myself. It was something I’ve been told repeatedly over the last decade but I never quite let it sink in. My pastor even went so far as to remind me that I am, in fact, simply human and asked me would I pretty please just ease up on myself maybe a fraction of an inch.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t see what they saw. All I could see was what I didn’t do or what I hadn’t done right. That long list I keep in the back of my head of Bad Mom moments, short tempered rants, or important tasks that I blew off. I couldn’t see the exhaustion, raw physical, emotional and spiritual exhaustion that led to those moments.

This week has been different. I feel almost as if I’ve been watching someone else, as if somehow I’ve stepped out of my own skin. Somehow I’m seeing myself with different eyes, eyes that are far more kind than I have ever been.

There are things that haven’t gotten done this week. There are moments that didn’t go at all well this week. I quit keeping track. And you know what happened? Not a damn thing. The world kept right on spinning and life went on.

Out to Sea

I’ve spent the last few days alone at a lovely resort on Cape Cod. The townhouse where I’m staying was booked back in November as a birthday gift from my sister and her husband. Being a divorced mom, managing a chronic illness, working part-time and picking up freelance projects as I can get them doesn’t leave a lot in my budget. Five days anywhere is an incredible luxury for me but to stay here with a view of the water, a wall of glass doors with the sun streaming in every morning… It doesn’t get any better than that. Or does it?

Life has been crazy lately. Working in insurance as the healthcare deadline approaches has meant more and more stress and demands on me at work. Both kids, my mom and I all battled a brutal cold that meant several doctor’s visits and still isn’t completely gone. Snow days and sick days made my tight budget even tighter. And for some unknown reason my younger son got himself on an ‘almost late for school’ kick, because mornings aren’t stressful enough already?!

But it’s Lent so instead of blithely giving up my morning prayer time at the beach and hoping to ‘catch up’ the next day, I started going up to bed earlier. To be clear: early is 8:00. There are toddlers with later bedtimes than me. Be that as it may, I abandoned the nightly Homework Wars and managed to find time in the evenings to spend with God. Sounds great except by early evening, if I sit still for ten minutes, I’m asleep. But He already knows that and the effort to find the time is enough.

Five days alone to be quiet and still has been such a blessing. The Cape is fairly empty in March. I’ve been wandering up and down miles of ocean beaches and had them all to myself. The first full day I was here, I trekked up to Race Point Beach, as far north as I could go. There were a few cars in the lot but I never saw a soul. I walked for a couple miles and then did the one thing I just had to do. I went in the water. Yes. The North Atlantic. Yes in March. And I don’t mean I dipped my toes. I took off the boots and the wool socks, rolled my jeans to my knees, waded through the shallows and into the breakers. I just couldn’t NOT go in. It was too beautiful. To admire that water from a safe distance and not experience it would be a sin. And God, with His wonderful sense of humor, shifted the clouds just so and the sunlight broke through in the most beautiful rays and I took my eyes off the waves. I grew up in Jersey. I know better than that. But I looked away and the next wave that came in soaked me to mid-thigh and almost knocked me down. I managed to catch my balance and dragged my soggy self back to dry land just in time to save my boots which almost floated away. And suddenly I was very glad that beach was empty. I stood there with cold ocean water pouring out of my jeans, threw my head back and laughed harder than I have in a long time. I found a log about hundred yards away and sat down to dry out a little before walking the miles back to my car. The clouds started to break up and the sun made things a bit warmer. Every time I looked down at my soggy jeans I started giggling all over again.

Yesterday, I took the drive up to Head of the Meadows Beach in North Truro. It was a beautiful clear sunny day and I was somewhat shocked to find mine was the only car in the lot. The 35 mph winds kept everyone else away. Being a March baby, I love the wind, especially when I’m by the water. I headed up over the dunes in search of the shipwreck that can be seen at low tide. I found it almost immediately and being a history geek, I was thrilled. Even more so because the beach was swept clean by the wind. There were no footprints anywhere. Even my own disappeared within minutes. It was perfect and untouched. I didn’t walk very far. I found a spot in the sand and sat down enjoy the view. And yes, I went in the water, but only in the shallows this time. I walked back to where I’d left my boots and watched the tide slowly reclaim the wreck. All the while, the wind howled off the dunes behind me and I was getting sandblasted. Sheets of sand went sailing past me. And me, being me, thought that was the coolest thing ever.

I said I’ve spent the last few days alone. But really I haven’t. God and I have hung out together, like old friends catching up. Yeah, that’s new ground for me. I mean we spend time together but there’s a timetable and I make an effort to try to relax. Why that’s so hard for me, I don’t even know. But these last few days I can’t even say I let my guard down. If I had it up at all, it got swept out to sea with that first big cold wave at Race Point. See, as I sat there drying out and laughing over my chilly sogginess, God laughed with me. And as I sat at Head of the Meadows mesmerized by the incoming tide swallowing the old shipwreck, a quote from the Sufi poet Rumi kept echoing in my head:

“You are not just a drop in the ocean. You are the mighty ocean in the drop.”

And then came the whisper than finished the thought,

“I know because I made you that way and I love you. See what I see.”

Are you ok?

I spent yesterday afternoon with a houseful of good friends celebrating St. Patrick’s day with good food, good whiskey and lots of laughter. I was chided for having not posted recently. I had promised my friend Frank that I would post 2 weeks ago and well… life got in the way. So in answer to the question that I was asked repeatedly yesterday: Yes. I’m okay. Really truly okay.

I’m not really in a church at the moment and yesterday’s party was full of people I’ve gotten to know through my parish over the years. It was a gentle reminder that I can’t stay without a community for too long. Do I miss it? Not yet. Will I? Yes, eventually. Probably sooner rather than later. But right now, I’m where I’m supposed to be. Where is that exactly? I suppose this is my desert, my time and space to be alone with God.

If you’ve been reading my scribbling long enough, you know I have my share of issues with God as well as my issues with Mother Church. Trying to separate the two finally became impossible to juggle. It filtered through my thick skull that trying to figure out where I stand as far church without understanding where I stand with God is quite simply a waste of time.

Life always comes down to the same question. Where am I with God right now? In a very strange new place. I’m not entirely sure that I like it but I haven’t run screaming either so I suppose there’s something to be said for that. I’ve spent so many years locked into a fight-or-flight stance with God that giving it up, is well…. a little terrifying. I’ve made my disquiet about it very well known, probably a hundred times a day. That level of honesty is something new for me.

It’s not like I’ve never let Him know when I’m afraid. Many a night I stayed up all night when the marriage went to hell, when Eugene was sick, when my eyes went haywire and I was afraid that one morning I’d just wake up blind. He’s heard about all of it. Not that I would dare to think He was going to step in to fix it but He was the only one awake and listening at 3 in the morning.

And it’s not like I’ve never let God know when I’m pissed off. I’ve cussed Him a blue streak. In several languages. But instead of hanging around for an answer, I’d usually end up screaming, “Go away and leave me alone!” I was so furious with Him, I kicked the door shut between us and slammed and threw things and broke things. Like a kid who had a really bad day, I threw a full scale temper tantrum.

And when I got tired of running, tired of fighting and tired of yelling, I sat there in the middle of the broken mess that I’d made of my life and realized that He was standing there at the door.
Waiting.
Patiently.
I don’t know what I expected exactly. Anger? Annoyance? Disappointment?Impatience at the very least. Compassion and gentleness weren’t exactly at the top of the list.

So for the last couple years, I may have opened the door but I’ve been pacing in circles. Watching Him. Waiting for even a flicker of trouble. Little by little the conversation became less one-sided. The anger, the impatience, the disappointment that I expected from Him never materialized.

Now, I’ve stopped pacing. I can say what I think. I can say what I feel. I still flinch. But at least I can say it. I could finally say the one thing I never would. “I’m afraid of You.”

There was no argument to the contrary. No attempt at persuasion. His response was simply, “I know.”

So here we are, in this strange new place where blatant honesty is not only acceptable but expected. It’s a little unnerving. But it’s okay. We’re okay.

See I have a thing about doors. I know where they are. Always. I know if they’re closed or not. I know if they’re locked or not. I know how many steps are between me and the door. Most importantly, when anyone is between me and the door, I how much I trust them.

He’s in the room.
We’re talking.
And I’ve quit counting the steps to the door.