I thought I was, metaphorically speaking, well-dressed with good vision, and wealthy. People, places, and things keep reminding me that really, biblically speaking, I am naked, blind, and poor. There is a recurring theme, a thread running through these days that extinguishes my spirit. It makes me feel crazy. Angry. Fearful.
I'm trying really hard to have a gentle peace as a backdrop to my life. The words "serenity" and "tranquility" come to mind. This is day 19, 844 for me. At various markers along the road, I thought I could manage my life through the right combination of chemical additives, but the body has not evolved for quick fixes.
People talk about "triggers," things that activate a sort of Rube Goldberg machine of dysfunctional behavior for them. I'm beginning to see, slowly, painfully, that I'm not a person who handles threats, perceived or real, very well. A threat makes me angry, and when I am angry I know there is something behind the anger, and it is almost always fear. I'm afraid I'm going to lose something I have, or not get something I want. Fear is the polar opposite of faith. They have an inverse relationship, like voltage and current in an electrical circuit.
So it starts with a thought, the thought that I've been threatened. The thought eventually manifests itself in words, because I have a need to talk with another person about how I'm feeling, hopefully someone who has felt like I do. And sometimes talking about it only reinforces the thought, the sense of being threatened., The fear increases, like the proverbial snowball rolling downhill. The thought has now become words, and with upward spiraling intensity, the words beg for some kind of action. It's uncomfortable, and it feels like action, any action, will take away the discomfort. In has been my experience that action born of this kind of thinking and speaking begets a new problem, a kind of guilt/shame cycle. The original problem can multiply, so that I soon find myself wishing I had only my original "problem" back, because now I am fighting a war on multiple fronts and it is clear I am losing.
I am learning who to go to for help and who to avoid with certain issues. Those who have thoughts and words helpful to me are few, they are vital, and they are also people who are busy helping others. We all have problems, and we all help each other if we are living honestly with an open mind and the willingness to change. We triage our fellows, sorting the victims and victors of life's drama according to the severity of their need.
Some days I feel angry, fearful, and resentful and I want attention to my painful condition. I want those with the right thoughts and words to be mindful of me, because I think I am bleeding profusely and I don't know how long I can hang on. It is in living through times like these, and coming out the other side, that I realize that God is good. Nothing explains everything, and no one can "fix" what's really wrong with me. We can only run from person to person, assessing the need and pointing others toward faith.
Please, point me toward faith when I'm in fear. Point me toward faith when I am angry and resentful. Without you, I am by myself to find God. He has found me, but I have the most difficult time sometimes in seeing the obvious, and recognizing Him in my circumstances.
23 June 2011
12 June 2011
Unfair Fights
I'm thinking about life. My life, your life, and the kid on the shore of Lake Atitlan in Guatemala 20 years ago who ran circles around me, singing, "Un quetzal la foto, un quetzal la foto!" Translation: "Give me a penny and I'll let you take a picture of me!" It's thinly-disguised begging.
I used to ride my bicycle on the streets of Phoenix, mostly commuting to work. Invariably, a vehicle would speed by me at 50 m.p.h., leaving a comfortable (for him) three inch gap between his 4000 lb. vehicle and my 30 lb. bike. This situation would spin me into an insane and alternate reality, much like I'd imagined "black-outs," described by recovering alcoholic/drug addicts (until I mixed tranquilizers and vodka I'd never experienced that kind of a black-out). Instead of seeing black, however, my world would go deep red, deep red mixed with black. Toxic rage would fill my body, livid adrenaline causing my legs to pump the bicycle pedals furiously in an effort to catch up to the offending vehicle (sometimes a city bus), drag the driver out of the vehicle, pummel the life out of him, or die trying. To describe my condition as angry, would be like describing a tsunami as strong. When the rage subsided, I felt only fear and disbelief that I was capable of such an intense emotion, and that it could manifest so quickly.
As I've heard others share their life stories in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, I've realized that life is not a fair fight. It's not fair for any of us, worse for some than for others, but unfair nevertheless. Some of us think we've found a weapon to level the playing field in the form of alcohol and other reality-changing substances. This works for a while, at least in our perception, but it's a cruel deception. We are only temporarily diverted from the problems life presents us, and in the end our chemical arsenals turn on us, and the battle becomes even more one-sided. It's like the burglar who takes the baseball bat out of my hands and proceeds to bludgeon me to death, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, but the end is the same.
Across the ages men have found a way to make the unfair fight of life a fair one, and that is to cease fighting. Acceptance of a power greater than ourselves and submission to life on life's terms are all that's needed to level the playing field, because, in the end, the real battle happens in the space between our ears, and nowhere else. If I am able to calm and still my spirit and ask for help, the bullies drop their sticks and stones and wander off to find new victims.
I used to ride my bicycle on the streets of Phoenix, mostly commuting to work. Invariably, a vehicle would speed by me at 50 m.p.h., leaving a comfortable (for him) three inch gap between his 4000 lb. vehicle and my 30 lb. bike. This situation would spin me into an insane and alternate reality, much like I'd imagined "black-outs," described by recovering alcoholic/drug addicts (until I mixed tranquilizers and vodka I'd never experienced that kind of a black-out). Instead of seeing black, however, my world would go deep red, deep red mixed with black. Toxic rage would fill my body, livid adrenaline causing my legs to pump the bicycle pedals furiously in an effort to catch up to the offending vehicle (sometimes a city bus), drag the driver out of the vehicle, pummel the life out of him, or die trying. To describe my condition as angry, would be like describing a tsunami as strong. When the rage subsided, I felt only fear and disbelief that I was capable of such an intense emotion, and that it could manifest so quickly.
As I've heard others share their life stories in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, I've realized that life is not a fair fight. It's not fair for any of us, worse for some than for others, but unfair nevertheless. Some of us think we've found a weapon to level the playing field in the form of alcohol and other reality-changing substances. This works for a while, at least in our perception, but it's a cruel deception. We are only temporarily diverted from the problems life presents us, and in the end our chemical arsenals turn on us, and the battle becomes even more one-sided. It's like the burglar who takes the baseball bat out of my hands and proceeds to bludgeon me to death, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, but the end is the same.
Across the ages men have found a way to make the unfair fight of life a fair one, and that is to cease fighting. Acceptance of a power greater than ourselves and submission to life on life's terms are all that's needed to level the playing field, because, in the end, the real battle happens in the space between our ears, and nowhere else. If I am able to calm and still my spirit and ask for help, the bullies drop their sticks and stones and wander off to find new victims.
09 June 2011
No, really. God spoke to me on Interstate 8.
I sometimes hear people say that God literally spoke to them. As in, audibly. As in, they, with their ears, heard God, with his voice, say something, usually something directly intended for them. I, personally, have never been the recipient/participant of a God monologue/dialogue. It's only my opinion, but I think if you think you actually hear God's voice in an audible way, you're covered under the DSM-IV definition of schizophrenia.
Forgive me if my tone is a bit skeptical. I have difficulty wrapping my mind around an unverifiable and, invariably, beneficial experience of another. I dunno. Maybe I'm just jealous. I do know that I'm not always cheered by the good fortune of my fellows, and my happiness for them seems inversely proportionate to the size of their prize. For example, if you get a modest tax refund, I'll smile, congratulate you, and pat you on the back without further thought. However, if you win the lottery and become several million dollars wealthier, I can force myself to smile, congratulate you, and pat you on the back with the singular motive of sharing in your newfound wealth. At the precise moment it becomes clear to me that you have no intention of sharing your money, I will become bitter, indignant, and unkind toward you. It's not pretty, but I think it's the truth.
Now back to the God-speaking thing. This morning, my domestic partner and I were cheerfully motoring through the Flintstone-esque mountains of eastern San Diego County at, apparently, 85 miles per hour, when a certain California state employee with radar and a black-and-white car fulfilled his duty to his employer by personally and punitively suggesting I slow down a bit. "Officer Friendly" was polite, professional, and efficient, asking for my driver's license and proof of insurance. In less than five minutes, I was invited to sign my speeding ticket and encouraged to use caution as I returned to the flow of the interstate highway.
But I noticed something different from this situation, compared to similar situations in which I've found myself in the past. For starters, my heart and mind weren't racing. I didn't feel nervous, shamed, defensive or angry. I thought, "Hmm. I was speeding and I got caught. I guess this makes up for all the times I've broken the law and didn't get caught. I guess there is justice after all."
As we continued on our way to the beach, I asked the God of my understanding, the one who's never spoken to me audibly, if perhaps I might glean a larger lesson from the incident. I think I received an answer to that question. I think God was speaking to me through the California Highway Patrol. I thought about other aspects of my life. I think the message was: "slow down."
Fair enough.
Forgive me if my tone is a bit skeptical. I have difficulty wrapping my mind around an unverifiable and, invariably, beneficial experience of another. I dunno. Maybe I'm just jealous. I do know that I'm not always cheered by the good fortune of my fellows, and my happiness for them seems inversely proportionate to the size of their prize. For example, if you get a modest tax refund, I'll smile, congratulate you, and pat you on the back without further thought. However, if you win the lottery and become several million dollars wealthier, I can force myself to smile, congratulate you, and pat you on the back with the singular motive of sharing in your newfound wealth. At the precise moment it becomes clear to me that you have no intention of sharing your money, I will become bitter, indignant, and unkind toward you. It's not pretty, but I think it's the truth.
Now back to the God-speaking thing. This morning, my domestic partner and I were cheerfully motoring through the Flintstone-esque mountains of eastern San Diego County at, apparently, 85 miles per hour, when a certain California state employee with radar and a black-and-white car fulfilled his duty to his employer by personally and punitively suggesting I slow down a bit. "Officer Friendly" was polite, professional, and efficient, asking for my driver's license and proof of insurance. In less than five minutes, I was invited to sign my speeding ticket and encouraged to use caution as I returned to the flow of the interstate highway.
But I noticed something different from this situation, compared to similar situations in which I've found myself in the past. For starters, my heart and mind weren't racing. I didn't feel nervous, shamed, defensive or angry. I thought, "Hmm. I was speeding and I got caught. I guess this makes up for all the times I've broken the law and didn't get caught. I guess there is justice after all."
As we continued on our way to the beach, I asked the God of my understanding, the one who's never spoken to me audibly, if perhaps I might glean a larger lesson from the incident. I think I received an answer to that question. I think God was speaking to me through the California Highway Patrol. I thought about other aspects of my life. I think the message was: "slow down."
Fair enough.
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