Self-confession: I am a socialist. Okay, I do not honestly consider myself a socialist but I do
honestly believe that my father considers me one. It is hard for me to share my serious
thoughts. There have been too many
occasions in which I’ve either been on the receiving end or the witness to a
diatribe on the political or religious or economic or stereotypical failings of any given
group of people. I have a very
distinct memory of being warned not to associate with a set of siblings in my
neighborhood because they were a particular kind of poor people; ungrateful,
free-loading, destructive, dramatic, chaotic. But they were my friends, we watched Doug together, but
their parents had some mental illness, and more often than not I had more to eat than they
did. I know the tension with that
family set the stage for my career as a social worker. That tension is part of my hard
thing. Helping other people who
aren’t grateful for it or deserving of it became equated with economic travesty and social
oppression. Sometimes I wonder if
losing myself in the service of helping people to understand themselves, be empowered to live better lives, and help their children isn’t just a reflection of my need to convince my father I’m not
a socialist. Because, truly, if
being grateful or deserving is a requirement for grace, then what does that say
about my God? What does that say
about me? I am scared to admit,
but entirely confident that I have a pattern of not being grateful for God’s
will. I have pushed back; I have
run in the other direction, I have slammed the door. Can he handle it or more importantly will he? And will you?
------------------------------------------
My arms are stretched out as far as they will go. My legs are stretched out like I’m in
midst of a jumping jack. I push
myself to float on my back with as little resistance or correction from my body
as I can muster. I’m alone in the
moderately sized pool of my hotel.
My body begins to rotate to the right. Arm adjustment.
Neck twitch. Leg
adjustment. Try not to move. Trust
that the water will carry you. Arm adjustment. Stiffen back. Fingers reflex.
Try not to move.
You won’t submerge. You
won’t submerge. What is there to be afraid of? Arm adjustment. Head adjustment. I can’t stop. Breathe. Relax. I feel weightless. Arm
adjustment. Leg adjustment. I can’t control the
reflex. I can’t trust that I won’t
submerge even though submerging wouldn’t be the worst thing, would it? I wonder when I get to heaven if I’ll
be able to float without defense?
---------------------------------------------
I think we write darkly because the struggle is dark. And we have dark places that no one
else knows about. Is it all of
me? Heavens no. But it is there.
You know, it wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Sometimes I have to
remind myself of that.
The struggle
wasn’t a part of the original plan, at least not to this extent. We’ve always had a choice and with a
choice there’s a struggle. But
THIS struggle is a whole other animal AND it is a very REAL struggle.
That’s the part we
forget.
“Oh take me back to the
start”
We think that every struggle is the first struggle—Adam and
Eve and that damn fruit.
But it’s not.
How could it be?
We are lost.
We are lost and AND we’ve not always been lost. We are perpetually attempting a return
to the start—when I knew Him and I knew myself as His creation.
It is a dark and desperate and difficult journey through
shit. It should be a
struggle. And if it’s not a
struggle then
I don’t think you
really get it.
Maybe we write darker because it is dark. The struggle is dark and real. It’s not who we are but if we cant name
it,
we may mistake it for who we are supposed to
be.
No comments:
Post a Comment