In The Tent

For Jen

      

"Isabella's Butterfly", Chuck Johnson

Happy Wednesday to my beautiful, brave, courageous,
inspirational best friend.

I love you.

Just Another Manic Monday

"Blue Monday"

I got home from the retreat last Thursday night, and have spent the last three days getting more of a taste of the chaos of life on the street. On Friday I went to see my friend L. It was 10:30am and we woke her up. Her home is one room in a surprisingly clean building in the middle of a drug infested neighborhood. It's small, but there is evidence everywhere of attempts to make it warm and inviting and her own. We took a walk to her methadone clinic to get her daily dose. L supports her habit through prostitution, and both have been fixtures in her life for many years. Her clients are strangers, regulars, men with twenty dollars and men with two hundred dollars. Businessmen, tourists, men from the "right" side of the tracks crossing over to get their fix. Her nose runs constantly and sweat literally drips off her face, the side effects she says of the methadone. We walk back to her room, and she says hello to many people on the street, people she knows by name. We make plans to meet again next week for lunch. She makes no promises though. It's welfare Wednesday, and that's a day to forget the cares of her world and party for awhile. Or she might be working, taking money from others who want to party with her. Don't take it personally if I don't show, she says. I could tell you that I won't do drugs and that I'll be there but I don't want to lie to you, she says. I tell her I won't take it personally, and I'll love her anyway. We can meet another day.

Friday afternoon with B, frustrated and despairing that life is never going to get any better. She wants to stop the voices in her head, beating her down and taunting her to take her own life, but she can't. She needs rest, safety, and break from her environment. We go to the hospital, and after many hours she is assessed and admitted for a short term stay. This is progress. Usually she drowns out the voices and the anguish with alcohol or pot or cocaine or heroin. She agrees to sell so she can buy, or at least be compensated with a free hit. She's never sold her body but, on this afternoon, is tempted to do anything that will bring in money to feed the cravings inside her. She settles into sleep late Friday night, the cold quiet hospital bringing a security that she can't seem to find anywhere else. We would later learn that it is the same unit that provided security to her mother, many years ago, after one of her many suicide attempts. B remembers visiting her there.

Jen and I go to visit B on Saturday. She is rested but agitated. She is thinking alot about her mother. We go for a walk, for a decent cup of coffee, we chat, we hug, we reassure her that we love her and are on this journey with her. She is filling out another application for an addiction recovery house. She has been waiting for weeks, but still there are no beds available.

Sunday night, B calls angry and upset that she has been discharged from hospital. She feels abandoned and beyond help.  This isn't truth, just lies that have been spoken over so many times that they have become a part of her. We punch holes in the darkness and let some of the light shine through. Her best friend - a drug addict and prostitute - is going to stay with her tonight and take care of her. Tonight B is my priority, she says.

It's Monday and B has made it through another night. She is filling out another application for another  recovery house. 

T calls. We were going to have lunch on Wednesday but she needs to go and visit her elderly mother. T is a drug addict. She has sold her body. Her body is bruised and worn from years of abuse, her own and the abuse of others. She lives in one room in a seedy hotel in another drug infested block. And she is also caregiver to her mother. We'll meet on Friday instead.

Three women. Three days. An endless cycle of addiction, mental illness, prostitution, homelessness, poverty, hunger and abuse. Understanding the big picture is crucial to entering this world, and it's one I'm still trying to figure out. But I know that I can't ask L to stop prostituting without offering help for her addiction. She sells her body to support her drug habit.  And B will continue selling drugs as long as she feels hopeless about her future. And she will continue using drugs until she finds another way to stop the abuse flashbacks. And T's health will decline until she's able to be properly nourished. But that's difficult when you live below the poverty line. And breaking out of the cycle of poverty requires opportunity and employment and wellness. How do you get well when you're addicted and homeless and hungry and poor and broken.

I don't know. I'm still trying to understand the whole cycle and how it works, because I believe it's going to take a system to change the system. Or maybe a village. Or maybe a community. Or maybe a church.

I just got off the phone with B. She's drinking. She has been for the past six hours. She was angry and sad, and somebody offered her alcohol. She's going to lock herself in her room for the rest of the night, to write and listen to music. The streets are not safe for her tonight.

Just another manic Monday.

Calm the storm, Jesus.

Three Little Eggs: Lessons from the Nest

"Garden and Bird's Nest", Maria Eva

I'm back from the retreat tonight and there is lots to share that I will after some sleep. But there was something that I know I need to try and capture before it's lost. A huge and profound lesson from the smallest of places.

The dining room at the front of the house has a set of french doors that look out onto the porch. There in the window is a tall iron planter with a basket full of spring flowers and greenery. Several weeks ago a little bird set up shop, built an intricate nest and proceeded to lay three eggs. The palest blue, with dark chocolate specks.  If I was a bird looking for a place to do this most important work  I would have picked the same place. Perfect, really.  Sheltered, covered, protected and surrounded in beauty. Smart mama.

But more amazing from our vantage point, this has all unfolded at eye level as if nature decided to pitch a tent and charge five dollars and invite us all to come and see 'The Most Amazing Show on Earth!!' It has been mesmerizing and I for one have spent more time than I can tell you standing at that window, watching and taking it all in. The detail in the nest. The way it is perfectly shaped to fit the mama's body with no gaps or open space. The way she is alert to every observer, her eyes following their every move. Sometimes even fluttering around the nest and squawking in a fierce show of maternal protectiveness.  And imagining all that is going on inside those tiny fragile eggs. Cells dividing, growing, hearts beating, bodies forming, life emerging minute by minute.

What happened next still leaves me shaking my head in disbelief. I didn't witness it myself, but I heard it told firsthand from the person who did. A woman, a guest at the house, was told about the nest by another house guest and then taken out to the porch to see it for herself. Looking at the nest, she said, 'that's not real.....it's fake'. And then she actually picked up one of the eggs, held it in her hand, and put it back into the nest. And then she walked away.

The mama hasn't been seen in the nest since then. I'm told that without her presence, without the warmth and feel of her body nesting and nurturing those eggs, they will die before they're even born.

Now, what kind of person would do that. I know that sounds judgemental but I don't care. Even if you doubted that the nest and eggs were real, what would make you go and take one of the eggs out of its' nest and then flippantly toss it back into the nest. How could you hold something so sacred and miraculous in your hand, the hope and promise of new life, and treat it like a piece of garbage. I can't stop thinking about this woman. I wonder if she knows what she's done. I wonder if she's thought about the fact that she has left those eggs, that life, abandoned through her actions. I wonder if she cares.  And I wonder what her story is, what in her life has left her so angry and cold and empty that she can't see and embrace the potential for life in another.

Those three little eggs have made me think about hope and the potential for life and growth and rebirth in all of us.  How vital physical touch and presence and relationship and connection is to the soul and what happens when we have never had that. How the actions of one can be devastating to not just one, but so many. How quickly we can judge where there is the hope of birth and new life. How easy it is to look at the shell, the exterior and decide if there is anything alive inside. Anything worth our attention, our watching and waiting, our nurturing, our awe and wonder. And how quickly we can turn and walk away when the judgment is no.

Profound lessons from the smallest, tiniest of places. That is so God. But I still really hope that the mama comes back.

For Helen

"Angel Heart", Eric Reed

Remembering you today on the fifth anniversary of your passing. Remembering your beauty, your grace, your infectious full body laugh, your incredible cooking, your heart, your deep love of God, your welcoming spirit, your other-centredness, your pumpkin bread and spanakopita and baklava, your compassion, your comforting presence, your strength, your belief in raising strong independant women, your fabulous shoes, your seasonals, your wonderful accent, your beautiful olive skin, your courage, your wisdom, your mothering, your sense of adventure, your love of life.

You are so deeply missed and loved.

Breast cancer can be beaten.

Musings on Gangs, Grief and the Heart That Binds

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Angel of Lost Hearts", P. Greenwood

So we were sitting watching CNN tonight. We try not to make a habit of that because we've discovered that it's not good for our blood pressure, but tonight there was a one hour documentary on street gangs in a particular urban neighborhood somewhere in the US.  They interviewed one young man who looked to be about twenty five years old. His name is Kiki.  His head was shaved and his body was covered in piercings and tattoos.  He was asked why he stays in the gang. Because it's all I've got, he said, I've got no where to go. There are codes and rules and morals and values on the street that are different than anywhere else. Tagging, tattoos, signs, colours all mean something. It really is another culture completely. And as in any culture or society, there is grief. Kiki said that everyone he knows, every friend he has is either in jail or dead. I don't care what you think about gangs or gang members or whether you subscribe to the "they're on the street because they choose to be" explanation or not, you can't avoid that fact. There is multiple loss, trauma, vicarious trauma and grief that is palpable.  It's like a war zone. I have felt grief and loss in my life and I can't imagine how you cope with having your entire community taken away from you, usually suddenly and in the most violent of ways.

Father Greg Boyle is my new hero. He is a Brian McLaren-looking Catholic priest who lives and ministers in this neighborhood. His motto is jobs not jails.  He started Homeboy Industries and offers jobs and job training for gang members who are trying to get out of the lifestyle.  He helps them access medical treatment to remove their tattoos.  So you give them a second chance, he was asked. Who gave them their first chance, he replied. I've never seen a kid with hope enter a gang, he said.

My home city has a neighborhood like this too. Actually it has a few. Drugs and violence and prostitution and death are all common, normal in fact. Several years ago women started disappearing from this neighborhood. Prostitutes. Faceless nameless women. You may have heard about this. Several years ago the remains of prostitutes were discovered on an animal farm just outside the city. The numbers are well over fifty now. They are faceless and nameless to most people but I've learned that when you live in a culture like that, the world is small. Do the math and you realize that there are people walking around those streets not just hopeless and despairing, but full of grief.  I wonder  how many women have lost confidants or best friends or sisters or all of those. 

Really, we're all the same. No matter what culture we live in or what community we are a part of or what rules we follow, we all form attachments to people. We all want to belong, to be a part of something, in relationship with someone. We all open our hearts in one way or another, to love and be loved.  And when we lose someone, our hearts break and bleed and we feel lost.

I have many new friends, women who make their home in that neighborhood. Some prostitutes, many addicted and homeless.  On Monday I'm going on a retreat with ten of these women. For three days we'll share the stories of our lives, our grief and our joy, and our hearts which hold everything that bind us together as God's children. Nothing more, nothing less.

Peace to you this night  Kiki, Father Greg, Lou, Laurie. And to me.  May we all be found.

Love Really Does Come First

On this cool rainy night, love and peace  and deep healing rest to you.

Seasons

"New Life",  Susan Mink Colclough

There is a tree in the front yard. Not a little tree, but a big one, tall, looming, substantial, a definite presence. Most of the year, it is bare. There are no leaves, no blooms, just a lot of mousy brown bark that in some places is rough and nubbley and gnarled. In other places the bark is split, as if it had been cut and wounded and scarred.  It shows signs of unwelcome guests, strangers who have tried to inhabit and feast where they were not meant to. And it's role in the landscape seems at best unclear. Too bare to offer shade. Too plain to bring beauty. Too weak to climb on, swing from. What 's the point? Maybe it should just be cut down, removed.

But there will come a time when life will begin to emerge. Little buds unwrapping hour by hour, day by day until little green leaves appear. There won't be a lot. It won't be full and lush and majestic like other trees. It won't be the tree of  summer memories and tire swings and tree forts and deep conversation under its' shade.  But signs of life will draw attention, a second look, a flutter of hope for what could be.

And every year, in a temporary but glorious season the tree is not just alive but it is living. Covered with the most beautiful and palest pink and white blooms.  Delicate but a presence at the same time. The fragrance is so sweet that every living thing stops to take it in, birds, insects, you and I. And all are filled, even just a little bit, because of its' beauty.  At this time, in this moment, it is the most beautiful tree in the garden. And even though the seasons will unfold and the tree will cycle through, we have all seen and smelled and tasted it's glory.  It is the embodiment of hope and potential, of redemption and rebirth and new life. It is the gift of spring made all the more beautiful and cherished because of the gift of winter.

I'm so glad we didn't cut that tree down, she said.

So am I.

Solidarity

Roel Hoffman

Mostly we think of people with great authority as higher up, far away, hard to reach. But spiritual authority comes from compassion and emerges from deep inner solidarity with those who are "subject" to authority. The one who is fully like us, who deeply understands our joys and pains or hopes and desires, and who is willing and able to walk with us, that is the one to whom we gladly give authority and whose "subjects" we are willing to be.

It is the compassionate authority that empowers, encourages, calls forth hidden gifts, and enables great things to happen. True spiritual authorities are located in the point of an upside-down triangle, supporting and holding into the light everyone they offer their leadership to.

Henri Nouwen

I love this quote.  And I love this concept of solidarity. But what I love most is that in this model of solidarity the roles of "spiritual authority" and "subject" are not assigned. No one has a name tag. The authority becomes the subject, the subject becomes the authority. Even better, just two people, walking the path together. Each taking their turn navigating, watching for potholes and rocks and dangers along the way, keeping their eye on the horizon, never losing sight of the journey. With only a step, a stride, the positions change. But it really is only a stride that separates. Always side by side. Hand in hand.  Heart to heart.

Freedom Has a Scent

Iberia Lebel

I am a visual person. Nothing pulls a concept, idea or thought together better than an image. This morning I'm thinking about freedom. What it looks like, feels like, sounds like, smells like. Like any good insomniac I was up way too early this morning watching images of the funeral of Pope John Paul II. I smiled to myself as I saw world political and religious leaders, people of many different ethnicities and faiths gathered together. People who the media were describing as "arch enemies". People who on any other given day might have fought each other on the streets, on a battleground, on CNN for that matter.  People who were calling out for the Pope's sainthood, cheering and yelling his name like they were at a rock concert instead of the funeral of the Holy Father. Freedom from rules and conflict and war and hatred even if only for a few hours on a sunny morning in Rome.

Earlier this week I had the honour of sharing story and communion with a friend who is on a journey towards healing and wholeness.  Abuse and lies and curses spoken over her in the name of Jesus, who I'm convinced would be disgusted to have His name associated with that, will take time to be replaced with the truth. But there was something in the tears, in the telling, in the reassurance that she is loved and accepted just as much as before. If only for a few hours, there was freedom.

This morning Jen and I are having breakfast with a friend. She lives in East Vancouver and is trying to turn her life around after years of horrendous abuse and the carnage that followed. Alcoholism and heroin addiction and mental illness and criminal activity and incarceration and poverty and homelessness. About a month ago she was baptized. She still lives in East Vancouver, perhaps the worst postal code in all of Canada and darkness so real and present you can feel it.  She is taking steps to get out. But in the meantime she isolates herself in her one-room home. There she lights her candles, listens to her music and prays. There, in that one small space amidst so much bondage, there is freedom.

Yesterday  Oprah profiled a women's prison somewhere in the US. She recruited three suburban moms and career women to experience life as an inmate for one day. 24 hours. During that time they had the chance to meet and talk with some of the real inmates. It was amazing to see how almost immediately the barriers of colour, age,and  socioeconomic status fell away leaving only the common denominator. Women. Mothers. And each one, the pretend and the real inmates, had a story to tell of life and loss and love and brokenness. On reflecting back on the experience, one woman came to the humbling realization that one different decision or  step in her life and she could have been the woman behind bars.  They laughed together, cried together, embraced each other and saw through the exterior to the heart. Many of those women will be in prison for a long time. Many are missing precious years with their children. Many are in prison as a result of addiction. Many are survivors of abuse that set off a cycle of self -destructive behaviour, the consequences of which are being paid for now in a small 7x9 cell. I know that the element of choice can't be ignored, but there is a bigger systemic issue at work here and there is something very wrong when the best we have to offer the broken and violated and abused is a jail cell. I don't see justice in that, but maybe that's another discussion. This morning I'm just thinking about those women, their faces, and I pray that as barriers fell and stories were told and unity was felt and grace and love extended, they saw and felt and heard and tasted freedom.

Even for just a few hours.

Becoming to Be

Tashimoto

In the spirit of multidimensions, the new past,  story and Created purpose.......

Peace to you this night.