Mates and Mirrors, or, the Story of Two Narcissists

Part 1: Fairy Tales

Can’t tell if I’m inches away from confessing the truth to myself
Or falling into self-delusion
Such a fine line, and I’ve been walking that tightrope for years.

But, you don’t need the truth right now
Can’t you see, I need you, mirror!
You think you muddled me, muddied me, meddled with me?

You think a dirty mirror does that?
But darling I wasn’t ready to see the truth clearly, anyway.
Which of us is?

So clean, your desire
Always for the sanitized
While I like the imperfect, the unpolished
Each a construct in its own way
Magnetic polarities repelling mangnetism
But flip either of us around and we’ll stick
On the other side of this charged realm

Don’t you see
Now, through the looking glass dimly
The hazards of existence?

You think that’ll bring me to my knees?
You think I’ll die the slow stifled death
Of one who is afraid to love fearlessly?

After all, weren’t you a part of my inspired self?
After all, you were my muse all these years.
You were, after all.

And yet, when we speak of the Beloved,
Don’t we speak of all the idealized love we’ve ever felt
And all the idealized love we’ve ever seen embodied in one muse?
And weren’t you always beloved?

But the hazards of idealizing one person invite disaster
This world is filled with imperfect people
Imperfect situations, imperfect solutions
It’s hard for the idealized to survive a collision.
Maybe the problem is not that some are narcissists,
But that some are not.

As the hummingbird’s wings fly in an infinity symbol
So your hands move on a piano
And my keystrokes are my piano
The fluttering page, fluttering time
It darts away as soon as I notice it.

Part 2: Reflections

If you followed the river
You’d never lose your way to the sea
But beneath the river you see
Is another river from which I was expelled

When my soul-half was torn away
The subterranean path I was on
Left on me gasping on a sandy bank
Unable to breathe this air
Out of my own, out of my home
How do I find my way upstream now, Muse?
I was with you but lost my spirit
When my soul-half was torn away

I can’t travel on the surface long
Before it becomes a desert
Tell me what to look for, distant star
Should I search thickets, gates, caves, ocean inlets?

How do I find my way,
Back to my cool lakes and quiet forests,
My world with a world?
Indeed, this parallel world
It’s the only one that matters
Without its waters nourishing my soul,
My blood runs dry
And though it’s of another world
It’s my only home in this world
Until the next one.
My vision, my home within a home.

My mirror, who is
The lover of dusty books, shorelines, wolves
And me.

Surrender

they say you haven't changed
well if that's true, keep your silence
Keep it, I don't want it anymore
I will speak now and I will hold my piece forever
My Peace--it's not really on the line these days.

they say you want attention
well if that's true, I don't believe you
Take it, I don't need it anymore
You always had it anyway
It doesn't cost me anything.

well who is it, they or you...
You say. Oh, that's right--
You're your own enemy
And they are happy to oblige
Scourging your soul, your skin
i can't tell the difference anymore.

You used to be you
then you disappeared
amongst the faces, amongst them,
amongst all of what the world babbles
psychobabble

they say you're a cliche, predictable, obvious
obviously, well, that may be true but I'm not, I won't
let it
I'm different.
Your mistake was believing you're not.
Your only chains
were the ones you laid over your shoulders
Willing.

It's become blase
It's become trite
To believe you're special, unique
but you are
and I am
and We're Not
Them
and They are.

Believe what they say, fine. That's what they say.
That's what you say.
They say you believe them, are coming to see, giving up
You say you believe them, I laugh.
Don't talk to me until you can prove them wrong
Again.

We all have to surrender sometimes
a little bit
sometimes a lot
but never all
And never ourselves
never our source, never our souls.

Humility
Is knowing when to let go
What to let go
Folly is letting it all go
The good with the bad
Yet it's true
Things bloom in silence
Evolve.

I trusted you, and only you
With silence, anyone else I would cut loose
Tell off
Let go
Never speak of again
Like her
If you're not doing what you say,
Don't let me see you until you are

And I know.
It's not just you,
it's me too
And I'm working on it.
We can't ask more than
learning from our mistakes.

How's this for predictable?
I made a promise and I won't forsake it
How's that for them
for all of them, for the world?
Some of us don't break our word so easily
When we give it, willingly.
They say everything's interchangeable
I'm not.
Your mistake was believing you are,
that people are, places.
You're not. And I'm not.

they say you want me to believe
that I'm so easily cast off
Who--they or you?
As long as I know I'm not--
and I do--
you see, one underestimates
Me. My self.

Trusted, you'll prevail
I know it
And if they're right,
Don't let me know about it
Because I never will be
Trite.

Is God a Man?

Genesis 5:2 He created them male and female and blessed them. And when they were created, he called them "man."

Matthew 19: 4-5 "Haven't you read," he replied, "that at the beginning the Creator 'made them male and female,' and said, 'For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh?'"

Genesis 1:27 So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.

I have been told for as long as I can remember by Christian legalists that I'm not "really" a Christian. Why? Because I don't believe in Jesus as Savior? Because I do! That makes me a Christian. Yet some treat Christianity as a report card where you have to get the "right" marks, and if you don't, you do not pass the human litmus test for being a beloved child of God. Good thing God is God, not a bunch of religious zealots.

Here are some of the ways I've been told I'm not really a Christian (I'm not kidding--by churchgoing, fellow Christians):

because I vote democrat
because I think same-sex marriage should be legal
because I don't necessarily think everyone who's not a Christian is going straight to hell
because I don't enjoy going to church (being told at church you're not a real Christian kind of makes you not want to attend anymore)
because I, quite frankly, do not go to church
because I believe all things can be forgiven
and the most bizarre way of all:

because I don't particularly care if God is defined as male or female.

Yes, friends and foes, I have literally been told that I am no Christian at all, just because I entertain the possibility that God is both male and female.

Let's look at how the sentiments of my critics add up:

Despite what the Bible says, they are saying that faith in and love of Jesus as savior is not actually enough. It is.

They are saying that if I believe same sex marriage is ok, I am not a "real Christian," and am therefore going to hell. They are saying if I believe God is both male and female, I am no Christian at all, and am therefore, in their view, going to hell. Aren't you glad God is God, and not a fellow person? Because I'd apparently be doomed to eternal damnation for daring to disagree with group interpretation. This is a form of control.

Now, to address the actual issue of God's anatomy. I personally refer to God as "He," because I've been raised in a tradition that does so, and it's fine with me. But it does not bother me at all if another person wants to think of or refer to God as "She." Why? Because I believe that God is quite possibly beyond gender or sex, or encompasses both.

"You think God is a woman?!" the outraged ask.

"Well, do you think God is a man?!" I reply.

Is God a giant man, really? Does He also have specific characteristics of human gender and race?

"Well, no." they reply. "But He is male."

"Really?" I ask. "But how do you know? Do you think maybe God is beyond our human notions of gender or sex?"

"Because--well because because the Bible says!! He is called He! He is called Father!"

"Well, yes, I do certainly agree that the Bible does refer to God as He, and as Father. But it also refers to both male and female as 'man.' Who has seen the face of God? Who knows what God looks like? Doesn't it say God created them both in His image, male and female?"

At this point, if I am going to be called a non-Christian, this is when it happens.

My point is this: I personally do not care whether God is male or female. I am willing to exchange my desire to be right at all costs for the wonder of the majestic unknown. Ask yourself: Does it matter? Why does it matter to you? Would God being male, female, neither, or both make you love God any more or any less? It shouldn't. Because if God is truly omniscient, God has perfect knowledge and understanding that transcends biology and gender.

'Nuff said.

No Other Meaning Than This

I did yoga this morning with the snow coming down softly outside, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw the snow falling inside.

I started running in October because I was actually becoming discouraged with yoga, and was seeking an alternative form of exercise to boost my energy level. But as time went on, I learned that running has actually helped my yoga immeasurably. I had attended a few of the yoga classes at the Y again, now that I have my nights somewhat free. But, it felt like we were all just going through the motions. So, some in the class can achieve a full crow pose? For what purpose, other than some contortional pi$$ing contest, either with oneself or with others? The classes were a series of poses, with a meditation at the end. The interlocking spiritual and mental benefits one should get from yoga were not present, there. So I stopped doing yoga for several months, and concentrated on running. Physically, it was satisfying, but again, I wasn't feeling holistic benefits, beyond the increase in energy and self-image I was gaining.

I came back to doing kundalini yoga on my own this past week--ie, mantras, spinal series, 5 Tibetan rites, meditation, and prayer. Kundalini yoga is very different from other forms of yoga, and it is kundalini that I prefer over all others. The problem is that it is hard to find kundalini studios and teachers, and group classes at the Y certainly do not offer this type of yoga. I found that running had not only increased my strength and endurance for the kundalini exercises, but had increased my lung capacity and rib cage flexibility for the spinal series and breathing methods.

Practicing yoga has a purpose for me beyond striking challenging poses, getting a workout, or joining a class. It breaks me out of thought patterns that can become entrenched in my mind. It re-centers my mind, body, creativity, and energy. It gets me in touch with myself, as well as with God and others, as we use the energy we gain to project healing prayers for others, and peace into the world. It reminds me that spirituality involves being interconnected to all creation, not just to our "communities" or other people in our own religion. It reminds me that the mind and body are actually, strongly connected, and this is humbling knowledge as well as practical. There is meant to be a higher purpose to yoga than perfecting one's downward dog.

Last week, a friend mentioned that they were feeling nihilistic. It made me think about how I never ask people what they believe the meaning of life is anymore. Is it a trite question? Sophomoric? Are we all too busy these days to think about it? Or do we just not want to think about it?

Of course, there comes a time in each of our lives when we wonder what the purpose of our lives might be, and what value all we do might amount to. Over the years, I've heard a variety of responses to what the meaning of life might be. "To love and be loved," is a typical answer, and not such a bad one. "To make a difference," or "to do good," is one I've heard a lot. "To better oneself as much as possible." A few very optimistic ones have said, "to perpetuate more life."

Yet none of these answers are failproof. If the meaning of life were to love and be loved, or to do good, we should be wired to do so as much as possible. But we are not. We are filled with selfish ambitions and desires. We are wired to sleep much of our lives away, and spend many of our waking hours in pursuit of basic survival--the means to procure food, shelter, etc. Oftentimes love between people seems hard to grasp, let alone attain. Ultimately, life is filled with the mundane, with distractions and hardships, illnesses, disasters, and the needs of the body. And that's not even getting to the "higher needs--" the needs of the mind, of the intellect--the needs to create, learn, pursue, pray, explore, and think.

Whatever way we look at it, any worldly definition of meaning--whether it's love, doing "good," bettering oneself, or creating more life-- meets with almost crushing obstacles. The harvest fails. The body gets injured. The car breaks down. War breaks out. The field or the home floods. Our lifestyles cannot sustain our bodies, or our bodies cannot sustain our lifestyles. Things need attention. Things fall apart and need to be repaired, including ourselves. We need to eat well, and exercise, and bathe, and get enough rest. Oh, and mow the lawn. We may find ourselves spending the tiniest portion of our life on the "meaningful" bits.

Even if we have got our lives in relatively good balance and smooth sailing, "making a difference" and "doing good" are concepts in flux. One only needs to look at human history and the misguided intentions of the past. Also, it can be an arrogant way to live--"doing good" often involves power structure and institutional or societal hierarchy. History sings the praises of great leaders, but not of the parents who raised those leaders, or the farmers who fed them, or the teachers who taught them, or the janitors who kept their hallways clean, or the construction workers who built the roads they traveled on. We cannot all be Gandhis and Einsteins--life is just not set up that way. Someone needs to grow the food. Someone needs to slaughter the animals while others are busy trying to "make a positive difference."

Just as exercise has a higher purpose, so everything does, if we are in the service of sat-nam, ie, the True One. God creates us and gives us all a place in the world, and I believe the meaning of life is to live in the service of our God-given purpose. Every living thing--all of Creation--has a God given place in the ecosystem, if not in society. If we move our view of "meaningful life" from a human-centric one to a Creation-centric one, we see that every living thing has a purpose in the world. But first, we have to overcome our selfish notions of self-importance, of success, of significance.

There is a whole, wide world out there, and we should not believe ourselves above any part of the human experience. As parents, we create our children for love and for meaning--and while it pleases us when they are obedient, or when they're working hard to achieve, we do not want to see them so busy with school or homework (I hope) that they never notice the world around them. We did not create them for obedience, or doing the "right" things all the time. We created them to be infused with love and light, to live in this world and find their place, and from this, meaning and joy.

If we limit meaning to human-centric notions, what does it say about our respect, tolerance, care, and gratitude for non-human life? Nature has always been all around us, but it seems ever-increasingly pushed away from our daily concerns. If we ignore the rest of Creation, we are cutting ourselves off from wonder and the fact that it's not just all about us. It's not just all about us as humans, nor is it just about human society. Again, there is a whole world out there, filled with God-created sentient beings, beings who have a purpose in an interdependent web--ie, a relationship. I reject explanations about the meaning of life that narrow a meaningful life to a particular sort of life. What do we do to ourselves when we, either deliberately or through complacency, come to see the natural world as nothing more than backdrop to human drama, and other creatures as nothing more than tools to be used for human purposes? We lose compassion for other beings, as well as opportunities for wonder, for exploration, for inquisitiveness, for scientific knowledge, for understanding the nature of God, for quiet, for meditation, for solitude, for comfort.

I realized this today as I read my son a book about nature. "Nature is more beautiful than gold or jewels so rare. Each day's a precious gift for everyone to share." I talked to my son about what dew is. About what irises and pebbles and poppies are. About what it means "to bloom." About milk thistle and how blackberries grow. And about foxglove, which provides digoxin, one of my son's life-saving heart medications. He soaked up all this information with excitement and pleasure. Why? Why did we talk about it? Because I want him to grow up and be a famous biologist? Because he longs to know about this world around him, and because I want him to know it is all interconnected, and we all have meaning, from he and I to the foxglove to the dew.

We cannot deny all of our existence except the one element we most approve of--whether that be our ability to love others, or to make a difference, or to create more life, or to better ourselves. First, we need to be in the service of God, and from Him (or Her, if you prefer--it's as arbitrary as Him), the true sense of purpose, humility, love, and action will come. God created us to live a wide range of experience, and through Him (or Her, if you prefer), there is meaning in everything, from eating and washing, from repairing the car and taking breaths, from being in love and making a family, to making a difference and exercising and sleeping. Do not live in one dimension, but find meaning always in service to God, in knowing that your purpose is interconnected to everyone else's, and in acting as part of such interconnection.

The Broken Page

Prayed to the Lord for a new beginning, and here I am, broken at the blank page, coffee in hand, trying not to be overcome by nervous mom anxiety. Today my heart kid wouldn’t eat breakfast, wouldn’t drink much, woke up trembling and coughing and with a diaper that wasn’t wet at all. He has a heart cath scheduled for Tuesday (today is Friday) and I don’t know if he’ll be able to go under anesthesia with this cough. He wanted to go to school so badly, but I hated to send him with an almost empty-stomach, with my nervous fretting energy flitting around the little lightbulb of his existence. We got our first snow of the winter, finally, last night and the school wants to let the kids outside, even though it’s only about 20 degrees out right now. I plan on swooping in shortly before release at 11:30, always the earliest mom there, to rescue my son from imminent dehydration/hypothermia/neglect. And to give him his next dose of medications, which I push back so he can go to preschool. But this is all my nervousness—he loves preschool, and they take great care of him. Keeping him home to mope about and stare longingly outside didn’t feel right, either. So I released him like a canary from cupped hands, and he raced into school with a “goodbye Mom!” and didn’t notice at all when I came back in with his snowpants and boots. This makes me happy—to let him be where he wants to be. I just hope he’s ok—that his strange and “off” behavior is nothing more than a touch of a cold and maybe, like me, being woken from 1:30-3:30 am by snowplows.

Life is not tied up in neat packages. Unfinished novels show us that—Hemingway died and left over 300 unpolished, unfinished, or otherwise unpublished works behind. Yet that doesn’t stop us from reading them, from imagining our own endings, or engaging in a self-satisfying flight of fancy, "WWHD?” “What Would Hemingway Do?:” imaging the old man had something up his sleeve after all. But reading a published, unfinished novel reminds me that tying up all the ends is merely a convention of the genre, like a sitcom or a blog post—an “all’s well that ends well” or a sense of an anecdote, a false sense that it has happened, and we can now stand back objectively and laugh about it a little—“see how cool I am? I can see the irony in my own situation.” The end. But no, problems aren’t always resolvable, especially not to an author’s or mine or your satisfaction. Maybe we don’t want resolution to a story yet, and resent having to tack on an ending to an otherwise unfolding story. And that is how I feel about my journey right now. I want to write about being a heart mom, but to do so with any authority seems to imply I have something final to say about the topic, and just when I think I’ve found my footing, I have more summits to climb after all.