The glory and horror of the flesh...

I was perusing Barnes & Noble yesterday and took the time to read, "The Littlest Angel." I know that it is a popular children's story, but I had never read it before. At the end of the story, a little boy who apparently became an angel in heaven after departing from earth at the age of 4, offers the baby Jesus a small box containing all of the treasures he had collected while on earth. These treasures were mementos void of monetary value reflecting experiences that he had cherished when he lived housed in his earthly body. After his impulsive offering, the boy was fearful that this gift would not be well-received. To his surprise, God honored the boys gift above all others because they were indicative of the types of things that Jesus would soon discover. In all its pleasure and pain, the life of the flesh was honored in this story.

I have been pondering my own disconnection from my body in the recent week. The body sometimes houses memories that the mind cannot bear. It is for this reason that I believe we often do everything in our power to disown our bodies, to retreat to our minds or our hearts, to flee the marks that our bodies store on our behalf. Perhaps it is time for me to re-enter my body...no matter how frightening, shameful and overwhelming those memories seem to be. Maybe it is time to set my body free, to face the memories, to loosen the chains. My mind has been set free and has been exploring new territory for a while now. But now it's time for the harder work to begin - the beautiful, messy, painful and pleasurable experience of setting my body free.

A dear friend from my time at MHGS (I've posted quite a few links to her blog in this space) just posted a movie review on Black Swan that is worth reading here.

Music as a healing balm...

Whenever I need to connect to what is going on inside of me, music tends to pave the way. This song is serving such a purpose today.

Inspiration. Beauty. Witness.

Be forewarned squeamish readers: this is a gross one

I think I have a rare disease of some sort. I'm pretty sure I've suffered from it since shortly after birth (or perhaps I contracted it in utero). My meager attempts at self-medicating haven't really worked out so well and I'm trying desperately to make peace with the persistence of this illness. So instead of dissociating with an episode of the Bachelor where I can get lost in analyzing the messiness and pathologies of another, I'm attempting to work out some sort of peace treaty with my personal plague here in this space tonight.

For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with parts of me oozing out all over the place. Almost every place I've travelled to, every person I have met, every situation I have encountered - has been stained with the presence of my own personal form of ooze. The actual oozing isn't even what irks me the most -- it's that I feel like I have little control over when it oozes, where it oozes, how pungent the smell of the ooze is or how others respond to what oozes out. It manifests itself in the form of anxiety most frequently - rapid speaking and breathing, shakiness and unease. At other times it's demonstrated in a quickness to anger or tears. I honestly think I could live with the oozing if it only happened in the comfort of my own home - the place I love to hide and find rest in.

Today was a day where I felt like I oozed all over the place (and surprise surprise - I'm still oozing right here right now). And I hate days like today. I think part of the self-contempt comes from a deep place of shame because I often feel as though so many of my peers are better at controlling their oozing. I've at least come to believe that no one is free from ooze entirely, yet some exhibit a greater capacity to contain and prevent leakage. If only I could learn this skill.

But I haven't thus far. I haven't learned how to completely self-soothe in every situation. Maybe I'm not supposed to be able to accomplish such a task. If I knew how to control my oozing entirely I swear I'd never let it out in public. It never feels very safe. But if I did that then I may never be able to find someone who knows what to do with the substance that desperately needs to get out from inside of me. If I could control it, it would be left unattended deep inside of me - eating me from the inside out. It would turn into an even more deadly infection.

Yes, my oozing can seem obnoxious or annoying to some (especially when it leads to an inability to focus in class and a need to talk out of desperation to one of the few friends I feel understands me). It can create awkward moments of certain exhibitionistic behaviors. But there are times when my ooze temporarily loses it's stench and the sulfuric shades of green fade long enough to see the beauty amidst the nastiness. Do I really believe that? It feels a bit like I'm trying to convince myself that there is beauty in my own desperation, my own neediness that manifests itself in anxiety, anger and sometimes sorrow. But I do long to believe such a thing. It's easier to believe it on behalf of the other than it is to believe it for myself. Maybe someday. Maybe someday I'll make peace with my oozing all over the place.

Lost and Found

Has it really been a month since my last post? Apparently. So where have I been? That's a damn good question...and I'm still trying to figure out the answer. I think I've been lost in my own head. It's amazing how easy it is to get lost in there - so many corners to explore, so many places to hide. I often wonder if other people spend as much time retreating to their own inner world as I do. Do others feel haunted by all that they haven't made sense of or are they able to somehow disconnect, dissociate or detatch from the perplexities involved in the circumstances of their own lives?

Retreating to my own inner world is likely a favored coping strategy. Journals and music have been the avenues most frequented as a means to this end. As I write I release the words discovered in these solitary places that exist in my mind. Music offers a maternal presence in the journey - it's where I find attunement - the tone of the music, the lyrics of the songs - they offer a mirror to what I'm feeling, they provide the language I'm searching for. It is how I've survived, how I've tended to the wounds that have never really healed.

Perhaps these wounds are left unhealed because in my best effort to cope I attempt to be the doctor and the patient at the same time. Early in my faith I was taught to believe that Christ was the Healer - that He, and he alone, was the One who could wipe away the tears, stitch up the gaping wounds, and tend to the swollen ankle causing an undeniable limp. It's been over thirteen years and I'm still crying, bleeding and limping. Does this reality reveal his lack of healing powers? Or maybe it is reflective of my weak faith and propensity to live entrenched in sin? Or maybe...just maybe...it has more to do with our skewed theology. Maybe healing isn't about the tears miraculously disappearing. Could it rather be about someone witnessing them, acknowledging them, knowing of what they reveal, feeling their power to drench and tracing their faint stain upon the cheek of the wounded.

I'm beginning to believe in the power of Imago Christi. As I'm attempting to expose the wounds to another, I am hoping to learn something of Christ's healing in a new way. But this kind of exposure feels foreign to me. It is not about suddenly ripping my hand away from the infected and grotesque wound in an effort to shock, frighten or push people away. It is about taking the hand extended and squeezing it while I allow her to remove the inadequate bandages placed upon the wound so long ago. It's about letting the tears fall in the presence of another. Letting her see the pain and bringing it out from the seculsion of my inner world so that I stop hiding in the lostness of it all. It's about recognizing that when someone is standing right next to me, it's easier to contend with the limp that may never fully heal in this life.