Sanctuary, Sobriety, and Running for Life

While I was walking his high dogness this morning, I realized a few things.  First, it is sunny.  Really sunny.  I am THRILLED at how sunny it is.  I’m certain that Huntington Beach (today is the marathon I was going to run) is lovely as well, but I am delighted with the sunlight that was served up today.

Second, this is the first Sunday in years–over a decade–that I have not been affiliated with a church.  I left the Episcopal church unofficially eons ago, but I was a MINO (member in name only) at the church of my youth until I moved my membership to the church I had been attending here.  And, having withdrawn my membership this past week–well, it’s a bit of an odd feeling.  A bit lost, a bit relieved.

Pondering this second point, alongside the final one (below, not the one you are currently wading through), led me back to my ever faithful theme of sanctuary.  I have asked in these pages and elsewhere why it was easier to confess my stories of addiction than my stories of faith, and, moreover, why telling stories in AA was easier than in church.  And much of the difference lies in the absolute commitment to honesty and anonymity in the first.  One can tell one’s story in AA because every person in the room agrees to keep the story private–a respect and regard for each others humanity, in my mind, because we don’t always want our stories shared, and more significantly, I think we all want a modicum of control over where and how our stories are told.

I believe that congregations likewise have an internal responsibility to protect one another.  Now, this regard for one another cannot extend, of course, to protecting abusers and the like, of course, but members must weigh carefully how and why we divulge the story of another member.  It strikes me as a matter of hospitality and sanctuary to hold the stories of others as something close to sacred.  Perhaps stage one of creating sanctuary is something like what AA demands–an insistence on respect for each others stories–listen, no crosstalk, the story stays in this room and in each others hearts–yours is the only story that you can share.

Much can be learned in AA meetings that cannot be later credited to the speaker.  I’ve spoken often of the person who described sobriety as moving from a B&W TV on mute to full-color, HI-Def, volume all the way up.  A fantastic metaphor–but I cannot and will not ever divulge the identity of the person who articulated early sobriety so well.  The same is true in churches, where faith stories can be every bit as personal and deserve every bit as much regard for privacy.  Maybe this commitment to one another is step one in forming a community of sanctuary, inclusion, and hospitality.

Finally, today is 365.  A year ago (I had already stopped drinking, but it was 2/7/2009 when I renewed my commitment to my own radical transformation) I came to the conclusion that I am an alcohol failure–there is no “learning to drink right” for me and there never will be.  In a ploy to keep myself distracted from alcohol for a while, I also started training for a marathon–which was the best therapy I could possibly have found, quite frankly.   I’m nervous; after all, I’ve walked this hall before (I was just shy of 16 months when I jumped off the wagon in 2008), but I’m also, even for all the messes that exist in my life right now–I am in a much better place than I was in 2008, the last time I hit 365.

So, here begins Chapter 2, redux, wherein plans will not be made (as I cannot control.  Cannot.  Should not try so hard to control), but dreams will be hatched.  Today, I am moving at one day at a time.  And for all the sadness and confusion right now, I’m mostly content.

And that is good enough.

Radical Transformation

I hold Duff McKagan entirely responsible for this text.

Okay, that’s not quite accurate–he inspires part of my ramblings today, but not all of them. And, hell, it’s not like anyone reading these pages could possibly find the above comment surprising. So, Duff, thank you for providing the board from which I will now gracefully leap, or be shoved, as it turned out.

Last week, for those who don’t (shame on you) keep up with Duff’s various blogs, Duff jokingly proposed (see, yes, I got the joke) a new political ticket: McKagan/Novoselic in a post in which he speculated on some of the current failures in American politics, politicians in general being the most central to these failures.  Krist (the Novoselic mentioned above, should you be wondering), responded with a fantastic takedown of the American public and the need for “we the people” to become “more personally invested” in the entirety of the political process.  Duff then responded in kind.

Got that?

For what it is worth, I agree with both–sort of.  I do think that personal investment and radical transformations are significant and necessary.  Even though my last adventure on the matter rather blew up in my face.  A small, if rather vocal minority, advocated for radical change and were summarily rejected, often in rather vicious ways.  In the end, many of us either stepped down or outright left the church.  Two factions existed, they could not come together, and one gave up the fight.

Do I see a correlation with the current Health Care Reform Bill?  Yes, I do.  In this case, a vocal majority advocates for change but spend a great deal of effort hoping for a better majority.  As my husband often reminds the kids, better is often the enemy of good.  Hell, any one who has ever attempted  a dissertation might agree–there are two types after all: finished and brilliant.

And those categories tend to be mutually exclusive.

Yesterday, I ended my membership at the aforementioned church. That I was struggling with the direction of the church is nothing new to anyone here, and it is true that I resigned my leadership positions in December.  My foot has been out the door for some time.  What changed this week, though, had little to do with the church theology and politics, at least I think so.  What happened was gossip.

Now, I’ve been pondering right speech of late any way in preparation for Lent (I was rather leaning on it as a theme), particularly after reading A.J. Jacobs’ delightful The Year of Living Biblically, which, sadly, I don’t have in front of me right now.  He notes in the course of the year that the need to think carefully before speaking becomes a concern of his almost to the point of obsession (the sections on honesty are just wonderful).  At what point do we abandon honesty necessarily?  What needs to be said?  Will it help or hurt the world for me to speak this particular act?

In the midst of all of this, I was reading slacktivist (granted, I am always reading Fred’s blog, it seems.  Really, I do have a life.  I promise) and this comment struck me:

The authors do a commendably thorough job of debunking and refuting Warnke’s claims. Their earnest, devout perspective makes that debunking even more thorough as it requires them to take agonizing pains to avoid bearing false witness or a lack of charity. You’ll rarely encounter muckraking conducted with such sorrowful reluctance or such genuine lamentation over every bit of dirty laundry uncovered.

And he’s right.  I read those articles and several more besides, as the writers at Cornerstone dismantled Warnke’s stories and others who helped to propagate the hysteria that has come to be known as the Satanic Panic.  Utter commitment to honesty and charity, even whist pointing out the myriad ways in which Warnke lied.

And then Tuesday happened.

I mentioned a few weeks ago (and the events I mentioned are largely why I’ve not been writing as much as I should) that several events had occurred in my life–big ones–but not ones that were mine to share, though they directly affect me.  I pondered laying all the stories out at the time, but it felt unjust.  And, truth be told, it still feels like it would be, so please bear with my vague references for a moment.  On Tuesday, it was relayed to me that one of those events had been shared with a party who had no particular need to know the situation.  The sharer of the story was a church member (who, I’ve no idea, given how few people I’ve told) and the sharee (?) was someone who has been troublesome in my life.

Again, suffice to say that the information was inappropriately shared.  At a time when I desperately needed sanctuary–and I was trying to seek it at the church, in my own small ways–a member of the church took it upon him or herself to tell the story to someone who not only was not a part of the tale but is also someone who I emphatically do not trust.

I wonder if the layers of conversation about gossip and right speech were to prepare me for a response to this mess.

Cue the Duff blogs:  Krist’s remarks in response to Duff made me think more about right speech–and right action.  I can sit back and complain about the ways in which I feel wronged or sad, or I can attempt action.  I can be that change, rather than simply hoping for it.

In other words, did the rugs get pulled because there is a transformation that I need to recognize and have allowed myself not to see?  Have I not been personally invested enough in something I need to pay more heed to?

I’m not quite at a point of action, though I did a damn fine job of running yesterday–maintaining a lovely 7:00 minute mile on the quarter-mile repeats. (Note to self: running fast–yes, this is fast for me–does not suck.  In fact, it rocks).  I am though at the point of consideration–seeking more examples of right speech (clearly, I don’t ever want to–even inadvertently–do this to someone else) and change.

I think, though, the notion of radical transformations will be my Lenten reading.  I’m also going to fast this time–I’m not buying any new books (this is HUGE for me, really) and I’m not going to eat meat during Lent, just to change up my meal structures for a while…see what happens.

I’m looking for book suggestions on this theme–any are welcome.  I’ll be blogging on the readings (and probably kvetching about the fast) throughout Lent.  I’m definitely going to include some political readings (I generally do, this is nothing surprising), but I’d really like to encounter some that deal with transformations of process, not just idea-worship (which I excel at already).

Okay, I promised to write on Beautiful matters, rather than just Disease ones, so to sum up the beautiful here:

• Political dialogues by favorite bassists who are also willing to think and explore possibilities (what is not to love, really?)
• Lenten readings
• A chance to create, rather than receive, sanctuary
• Running.  Running fast, in particular. Next race is at the end of the month.  Woot!

And while this last is clearly about addiction, it is also quite beautiful:

• This Sunday will be 365 days

Life is Beautiful: High School Edition

I suggested last time that I should focus for a while on the beautiful, given the particular difficulties in my life right now. Blogging (or journalling for that matter) on the “good things in life,” as a reminder if nothing else, is not a particluarly novel approach, but it is sometimes necessary.

So, today’s brief post is on wrestling.

Strictly speaking, I don’t find High School Wrestling pleasing in any aesthetic sense. I often have a hard time watching, worried as I tend to be about things like broken necks and various injuries to appendages. I am pleased, though, by what TG (Tough Guy, my athletically-inclined son) finds in wrestling: camraderie, physical activity, among other goodness. He smiles when he is thoroughly worn out by practice. He’s attentive and happy even when working the stats table. The joy these kids find in competition, stregth, and repetiton baffles me at times, but thier swagger over the whole affair is pretty compelling.

Since TG stared HS last year, I’ve spent waaay more time at HS athletic events than I ever did in high school, where I was a proud theatre geek, and where we had far less adult supervision at any given moment. I wonder if that still holds true for HS theatre….

Eh, no matter. For the moment, my world is good, safe, and protected in this gym, not unlike the natal-like safety theatre once provided for me. Gym as sanctuary…

That’s rather groovy.

Straightening Out the Rug

Okay..weird.  I wrote this several days ago (last Thursday) and thought it had disappeared into the great beyond.  Lo and behold, this morning it reappeared.  I’ll comment on it below, but…it seemed worth posting this intact.

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I don’t know how many of you remember the silly-ass movie Top Secret (ah, the days and youth of Val Kilmer), but the scene in the diner when he starts spinning on the rug, has for some stupid reason been in my head for the past few days:

Go to 1:26 to see the spinning scene, but the clip is worth the few minutes of goofiness.

Rugs are on my mind–and I am pleased that I defaulted to parody here–because the rug was pulled out from under me rather dramatically twice this week.  While normally I’ve no particular hesitation in sharing my various mistakes and tribulations, these two particular incidents are not mine to share.  They were big and unexpected and utterly terrifying, though.  I’ve not had a panic attack, nor given into my various demons, though I’m quite depressed.  I’m of the opinion that depression is a perfectly rational response, so I’m not worrying over it so much as just trying to maintain a semblance of normal.

The highlight of the past few days was teaching this morning.  I think I have one of those rare classes–mature beyond my initial expectations and wonderfully curious and opinionated.  While they have no idea what has happened, I can’t begin to express the gratitude I owe them for holding me up this morning, when they didn’t even know that they were doing so.  It felt so good to be up there, out of my little reality, and teaching, especially with such delightful students.

One casualty of the events is the marathon I’d planned to run on February 7th.  I’m sad to let it go, but it is prudent to do so.  Once I’ve dusted myself off sufficiently, I may decide to put the training thus far to use toward the ING marathon in Atlanta this spring, but we’ll see what shakes out.  And, as ever, I’m not inclined to believe that things can’t get any worse (or won’t get better, for that matter).  Situations can always degrade and improve.

Anyway, my prayers are with you all in your own situations and moments–good and bad.  My prayers are for all Haitians–ones who lived through the earthquake directly and ones who will experience the aftershocks in the days and weeks to come, both in Haiti and abroad.  My prayers are with those who my lesser brain would like to dismiss and deride right now, because, as a wise woman noted in her tweets of late: “I cannot afford the luxury of a negative thought.”

Couple of readings to share:

On the upside, I’d like to share a few reading goodies: What I’m Up To, from Paradise Perspective.  Great thought: “Keeping focused on the moment, and remembering to be present for this inch, this stitch, and NOT the finished garment (or what’s for dinner) is the goal.”

This one is a couple weeks old, but worth the read:  Starting Over, from Duff’s Reverb Column.

(added on Monday): From slacktivist, Dear Pat Robertson, STFU.  I think the title explains all you need to know.  Amen.

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I’m feeling better today.  My memories of last week are foggy at best–except when I was at work, when I was able to focus most– it was utterly awful.  And the third thing (convinced as I am that bad things come in threes) seems to be the possibility of additional furlough days (not sure yet–we have several already worked into the semester, but I’m not sure if they “count”).  But, it is what it is.  We’ll get through the two big “bads” of last week and the potential for more furlough days.  Our lives may look different in the end, but, we’ll get through.

Right now, I’m taking things one stitch at a time (most humorous to me, since one of my current books is this gem: The Happy Hooker.  Why the heck not, right?

I think for the next few posts, I’m going to work on compiling my Lenten Reading list (I need a theme–thoughts?), writing about books, and trying very hard to write the positive.  Focus on the Beautiful, for a while, rather than just the Disease.

Dancing as Fast as I Can

I’ve no idea why this particular title popped into my head for this post.  Ah, well.

I seem to have ended the last on a bit of a pseudo-cliffhanger, so let me dispense with that from the outset.  While the insanity has returned, I am working through it and am not self-medicating, nor do I have any interest in doing so.  Weirdly, though, I had a dream last night in which I drank wine , and then poured it down the drain when I realized what I was doing (I said weird, right?).  An attempt to summarize last winter, perhaps?

So, the insanity thing (and I am using the term loosely, as I do with manic later, I’ve no clinical diagnoses beyond OCD, which is, usually, controllable through behavior modification for me).  At some point in December, and I could look up the date that I realized what was going on, as I believe I tweeted about it, but I’m too lazy, I realized that my thoughts were travelling at light speed again.  On the one hand, the manic feelings are wonderful–I feel like I can accomplish endeavors that I normally eschew because I am an inveterate coward.  If I can harness focus long enough, I can produce some good works–interesting class arrangements, book plans, research proposals, house rearrangements (I very nearly decided to tile my living room over the break.  I am fortunate that we are saving for a vacation, so I didn’t want to adversely impact that by blowing a whole wad of cash on tile and supplies), and so forth.  I mean, I am flying and inventing and all manner of good stuff.

Except, of course, I have difficulty remaining focused on any one of the impulses long enough to see it through–mostly.  I can finish house projects (because I can’t stand to be a disappointment to G.) and class arrangements (since I need those to be able to teach, though I often create plans that get me WAY in over my head).  I’ve yet, however, to be able to finish a book, unless you count my dissertation, which, quite frankly, you shouldn’t.

The racing thoughts are also given to making me impulsive about whatever I begin obsessing over.  I often MUST do that whatever, just so I can stop thinking about it.  Like…piercing my nose.  Always wanted too, was either too cheap or to fraidy cat, and then, BOOM, obsessing + time off = finally got the damn thing pierced over break.

I’m practically fearless on the highest moments.

And while fearlessness is often a good thing for me (well, why the hell not try doing that differently) or merely kind of silly (such as the nose), it can also lead to a fair amount of trouble for me if I don’t reign in the obsessions.  See all of 2008 for examples.  At that time, I saw the racing as a normal outcome of sobriety–more energy available and, a year after getting sober, a finally clear head.   And it was by no means all bad.  I applied for a job I never imagined having, taught myself all kinds of cool stuff, had a blast in my classes, etc. Fearlessness (aka insanity) uncontrolled, however, lead directly to relapse in July 2008.

Because I am learning not to be ashamed of myself and my actions (hence the existence of this blog–shame, when it begins to overwhelm, is a dangerous thing), I am able to look over the events of 2008 and see them for what they were.  I can now recognize both the insanity and also where fearlessness can lead me, so when I awoke to the race in December, I could call it by name.  And, more importantly, I have learned ways to cope with the racing thoughts and to sort through the obsessions and impulses to deal with them more appropriately.

So, over break, I read and reflected.  I made myself take time off from doing, just so I could be.  And I generated a list of resolutions for 2010, though I gave myself the caveat of grace–if I don’t live up to them, it is not the end of the world and I haven’t failed.  The goal, here, is in the process:

1. Run 2 marathons (running the first on February 7 in Huntington Beach, CA)
2. Run 2 half-marathons (VB, here I come!!)
3. Run 1000+ training miles
4. Quit biting my fingernails (this will be the worst)
5. Reach goal weight
6. Sit zazen at least 30 minutes three times a week.  At the office.
7. Find an AA group to attend.   Oh, and attend.

There was another…and damned if I can’t remember what it was right now.

Number 6 is a part of Step 4–zazen is excellent for facing my realities, both the positive and negative as is, of course, 7.

All in all, I think I am proceding well in Step 4, which is, to the best of my figuring, a process of recognition.

Shall We Tango?

Gads, I had to look up a four step dance because the ONLY thing that came to mind readily was four square, as attested by the name in the link above (and, of course, four square has beans to do with dancing).  But, I started down this path with dance, and dammit, I am going to hold on.  What I’ll do when I get to seven, I’ve no clue, never mind, say, twelve.

So, step four.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

Fearless, eh?

Needless to say, this one may take a few posts/months/lifetimes.

That said, I’ve learned a bit on this particular path.  Let’s take Friday, for instance, shall we?

Imagine this:

A free day off, due to snow, or, in the case of my particular situation, a threat of snow near the main campus, which shut down both campuses.  Not too shabby.  In my fit of exuberance over a day off, I decide to do my 24-26 mile run a day early.

A beautiful new route with minimal hill craziness.

Did I mention yet that it was cold?  So cold, in fact, that by the time I dragged my tail back inside, the wind chill had dipped to zero.

ZERO.

In Georgia.

Me=prideful fool.

And, as I walked/ran/dragged/prayed my way through the last 4.5 miles, I started thinking (mostly to distract myself from my increasingly frozen hands).  On the one hand, a year ago, I’d never have imagined running 24-26 miles on purpose, nevermind in cold weather. I chalk that up as a good thing, even if a tad daft in this weather.

See, a year ago, I was reaching the pinnacle of round two.  On NYE 2008, I told G that I knew I would have to learn to drink differently (yes, yes, we were still on that little mindtrick) or give it up completely.  I’d even convinced myself

addicts, please, sit down.  You’ve seen this one a thousand times before.

that I could just drink really good wine.  Expensive stuff to keep me from wanting to buy too much (because, you know, it was the spending that was the real problem).  By the end of the month, even I couldn’t pretend that I could keep up with the dance.  And at the beginning of February, I threw my hands up and threw on my running shoes.

I’ve logged over 800 miles since then.  My poor feet.

So, while it was a foolish pride that allowed me to think I could defeat the cold, despite being utterly unprepared to deal with temperatures below, say, 60 F, it was equally miraculous that I would even consider the possibility.

Hang around addicts enough, and you’ll hear that the insanity returns first–that is, the mindtricks come before the alcohol and drugs.  The conviction that I can do anything, even conquer alcoholism, by just learning how to do it “right.”  And, as my lack of posting my attest to those who have figured my habits out, I have some concerns that the insanity is returning.

But, I recognize it for what it is this time.  I knew it the second it arrived in December.  The question this time–>have a learned to recognize it well enough to redirect it?

The Waltz

I played with “step notions” in the previous two posts on this subject.  In keeping with the theme, I’m moving on to the waltz, which, for the uninitiated is a three-step dance.  And, Viennese waltzing, to the surprise of no one who has been forced to sit through my “Oh, Vienna” routine, is my favorite waltz style.

Steps one and two were, well, not easy, certainly.

1. We admitted we were powerless over Alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.
2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

Ah, the italics.  Something like the whisk in the waltz, and the method by which we link our dance movements.   As we understood him.

As I mentioned before, for various reasons number two gives me trouble, but that’s probably because of number three, more than poor old number two, which is really just a recognition.  Three, now, three is the commitment and the task to carry us forward.

I’m generally resistant to anything that leaves me out of control, except, of course, my major vice, which often led me to be gaily and happily out of control.  Alcohol was the only space where I allowed myself release from constraint, at least during the worst years.  Prior to that (and now, thankfully), music is a space in which I allow myself release.  Please remember that when you see me gleefully headbanging or whatnot; this activity is important to my sobriety

Yet, I was also an inveterate control freak when drinking, particularly with respect to the amount of alcohol in a given glass.  In hindsight, alcohol offered a bizarre mix of control (over intolerably stupid things, normally) and release (from my usually self-imposed mental constraints).  No wonder I was batty.

So, yesterday, I had a long talk with TG about my drinking.  Little has happened in my life as remarkable as what he said to begin the conversation.  My 15 year old, as we drove down the street, was waxing ecstatic about the horrors of middle school (and I was agreeing wholeheartedly) and simultaneously claiming to not really remember middle school.  At which point, he dropped this on me:

I remember when you used to drink too much, though.  I’m sure I didn’t help.

Ouch.

I assured him that he–whatever his middle-school borne drama was–had nothing to do with my addiction.  They may have existed in the same time and space, but they were not correlated, at least in that direction.  Do I believe that my drinking had an adverse effect on his middle-school years and behaviors, yes I do.  Do I think the reverse–that his attitude and behaviors in middle school affected my drinking?  No, I do not.  It horrifies (though it does not surprise me) to hear that he correlates the two, though he denies that he thinks his behavior made me drink.

Then you relapsed, but it wasn’t as bad.

Now, I’ve used the term “relapse,” in describing the events of 2008, but hearing it from TG was much, much harder, as I suppose it should have been.  I would challenge his notion that things weren’t as “bad,” but we’d need to talk through his perspective first, and he was already veering off into a related tangent, namely that of my drinking behavior.

I’m, as a rule, rather quick to anger.  I’ve learned via several of the “hard ways” to calm down and respond more thoughtfully than I did as a teen and twenty-something, but it doesn’t always work, and it was worse when I was actively drinking (or passively drinking–how the hell would that look?–or playing dry drunk, *sigh*).  As TG observed, though, when I was drinking, I’d get bent out of shape over things that I might have otherwise let slide.

He’s right, of course.  I was desperately seeking control over everything, including things I have absolutely no control over.  Many things I have absolutely no control over, come to think of it.  Some time in therapy and some time away from the booze has improved the situation–I’ve learned to react far more calmly and not to try to control situations–especially when my reactions were based on protecting the expectations of other people.

That’s almost as difficult a road as addition recovery right there.

All of this is to say that step three, where we turn to whisk has long presented problems for me.  Give over my WILL??  And this is to say nothing of the part in italics…how, exactly, do I understand God?  I can get on board with a higher power that can restore me to sanity (goodness knows I’ve had a few of those–but were they also only distractions?), but step three seems to demand that I know how the holy hell I understand God.

And THAT is a constant flow and flux.  More to the point, my mind wants to be able to articulate my understanding, which is well nye impossible (and, not just a little bit of a control issue–MUST WRITE, DEFINE, CODIFY!)

But, when I run, I can see providence and hope.  When I teach, I can see opportunity and curiosity.  When I talk to TG honestly, I can see faith and possibility.  While I cannot define and articulate, I can experience and understand.  And each facet of that understanding–each movement in the dance–is revelatory.

The hope in the third step is breathtaking.

The Limits of Sanctuary

The end has been long in coming, but this week I am wrapping up my work at the church I have attended for the last decade.*  I have already said no to continuing as worship department chair (to the delight of many, I am sure), and next week I will submit the report to the board regarding the nomination of board officers for 2010.  After next Tuesday, I have only three days that require my attendance, and one of those is to place flowers.

I am leaving my roles in the church in part because of the events surrounding Rev. Dean’s departure last month, but as anyone who has read parts of this series on sanctuary is already aware, I knew my own departure was imminent months ago.

Certainly the fact that a member of the church could send a letter to the minister, threatening him, his family, and his “cohort” was a nail in an already closed coffin, as I cannot abide remaining in a situation that perpetuated such hatred.  Make no mistake, this was not the work of one unhinged soul; it was, rather, the culmination of so many pieces, ones I have written about before and ones I will write about today.

Worse yet?  It was not the only letter received that week, though the other was not sent to Rev. Dean.  That other letter, though, was equally appalling and destructive.  I’ve never seen the second letter, and I hope I never do.  To know what it contained, the cruelties it aimed at people I hold dear, people I admire so very much, is enough.

I cannot allow it to appear that I support these letters or their writers by remaining here and silent (well, here and loud, either, for that matter).

I sat through the service for the First Sunday of Advent this year, feeling numb.  Advent has been tough the last few years; I acted as worship chair for several years in part to mediate between Rev. Dean and some members of the church during this season, as it constantly seemed to bring out the worst.  This year, there was none of that strife–I did little other than arrange the decorations for the Hanging of the Green service.  We sang the standard carols, heard the standard lessons, and, still, I felt completely numb. Not even the rage I’d felt the day before, hearing once again the litany against “them”–the AA meetings to whom we provide space.

Even while singing carols that mean so very much to me, I felt nothing.  In that place and space, Advent has been leached of its hope and magic for me, at least this year.  While I could probably be accused of rushing to the manger, I truly enjoy the season of Advent, because of the hope and promise of sanctuary, here made manifest in the story of a manger.

So, in light of all of this, next week, I will submit the following, both to resign my position as Elder and to further withdraw from the church.

Dear Elders, Board Members, and Church:

I find myself in an unusual place right now, feeling lost for words and unsure of how to convey what I now feel and think, and how to ensure that my point is made, when I have no clear idea how to articulate it.  Suffice to begin by getting to the heart of the matter: with this letter, I submit my resignation as an Elder of this church, effective on January 1, 2010, as have so many of the people I respect and cherish already.

Thank you for the opportunities of the last eleven years.  To be called as Elder was among the most meaningful experiences of my life so far; I remain both honored and humbled for it.  However, the events of the past few years have made the limits of sanctuary visible to me, and I believe, in this light, that this church can no longer be a sanctuary for me and, as consequence, I cannot help lead it to remain or become a safe space for others.  Lest there be any confusion in what I mean here–I mean nothing about the building.  Bricks and mortar and stained glass do not a sanctuary make.

My decision was made months ago, though I had intended to wait until Fall to submit my letter.  The position I started in January is far more demanding of my time and energies than I would have imagined, and I cannot in good conscience pretend that I can fully engage the work necessary for strong church leadership, ever how much I wish that I could.  Moreover, in light of the events of fall, beginning with a letter that has been too little recognized as a brutal violation of the sanctuary of this space to Rev Dean’s resignation to the events of November’s board meeting and G’s own resignation and the continual, but vocal and painful resistance from some to AA meetings in these walls, I withheld my letter.  There was too much going on; the words I had then were too fiery to be fair. My resignation is not about Rev. Dean, or other members, or AA, the 8:30 service, or G, or the building, or mediation, or the scores of other pieces, truly it is about a desire to seek and create sanctuary, and I feel I cannot do that here, ever as much as I have tried.

We’ll still be here, at least for a while, and I do pray for this church and for peace here, unceasingly.  My hope is for the church to flourish. In the nominating process, I tried to leave you with officers I believe can lead the church to that peace and through any rough seas that may be ahead.  I wish I could count myself among those who would help in the days ahead, and I pray for the best for all of you.

Yours in Peace,

K

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*Funny, as I type that I realize how silly it is that I still feel like I am new there.  It’s been 11 years.  Criminey.

Mohawks, Irony, and Youth Culture

TG’s first weekday wrestling match was last night, and Boyo won one of his two matches.  He was pleased with the win, critical of his overall performance, and, generally, a Tough Guy.

This morning, he’s a tough guy with a backache.   Poor boyo.

High School Wrestling is a strange enterprise.  For myriad reasons, but I’d like to address the reason most closely associated with this blog’s enterprise.  Oh, wait.  Okay, the second most closely…

First would be the potential addictions, of course.  Steroids are of major concern, but after seeing them twist the bejesus out of each other last night, I’d say that those mats are likely the beginnings of more than a few painkiller addictions.  Hell, I wanted painkillers, and I was only watching them.

But, I want to address something close to my heart: punk–this time, via the mohawk.  Now, those of you who aren’t hanging around high schools or watching Glee (or UFC, according to my High School fashion correspondent) might be a tad baffled as to why I am discussing a trend to indelibly linked to my own teen years.

My tweet-o’horror last night:

I’m disappointed in the quality of the mohawks here today. Kids these days. Sheesh.

Well, perhaps not horror exactly.

I’m fond of the mohawk*.  In the years I’ve been teaching, I’ve had a few students who sported them, even one fellow who wore some truly impressive Liberty Spikes (I admit it…I covet the style.  I’m not sure I have the patience for the maintenance, however.).  Some were of high quality and talent and others were of middling effort, but acceptable, for the most part.  Granted, in the last year or three, I’ve had several students sporting  faux hawks, which disappoint me tremendously, but I’ve not encountered the likes of the ones I saw last night outside of television.  Say, on Glee’s Puck, for instance:

I should have known…there’s Glee fanfic.   OMG.  Sorry.  Oh, and PUCKLEBERRY????  WTF?  *headdesk*

Now, Puck’s hairstyle is clearly intended to be all about intimidation.  He’s the jock with an attitude, given to lying and threatening as needed, tossing the occasional slushie, and to singing “Sweet Caroline,” should it help to get in Rachel’s pants (or Quinn’s, or whomever he was actually hitting on in that episode).

*headdesk*

According to TG, UFC fighter Chad Lidell is responsible for the appearance of mohawks on the mats.  Now, I’m not sure I agree completely with his assessment, but this picture amuses me sufficiently to include it here.  Lidell’s mohawk is not of my favorite style,admittedly, as I am rather fond of the more flashy, work- intensive mohawks.  The photo is apparently from Lidell’s** stint on Dancing With the Stars.  But it is serviceable, and, I suppose, it does fulfill the intent of being “intimidating” (I guess.  Not for me, but, hey, maybe it works in the ring).   Football players have used a similar mowhawk-style over the years, with a varying degree of success with regard to intimidation, but certainly they do tend to stand out (Chad Johnson’s blonde mohawk–there is a pic on the mohawk link above).  I’m not a huge fan of the wide mohawk look in any event, so I’m probably a bit biased on the matter.

Thing is, the kids last night had either poorly maintained mohawks (sides growing out really, noticeably–perhaps working on getting rid of the ‘do??) that might have worked or were, well…it looked for all the world as if we took a standard, every day male haircut and then removed the sides.  Pitiful excuses for mohawks.  What is this world coming to?

There was a point here…

Ah, yes, I recall.  I had been pondering punk and youth cultures in general of late, and wondering how applicable the theories (link points to previous brain droppings on the matter) might be to current American, and, particularly, Southern, white Millennials–and, more to the point–if they could be applied at all.   I keep reading incredible rage in papers from this group–especially the males, and I haven’t pinned down where the rage is coming from, largely because it is so diffuse. They rage against everything…

And, yet, much of it seems to be a tempest/teapot thing.  Indeed, on more than one occasion, it has occurred to me that I am seeing reflected rage–”I’m supposed to be angry” so I am, but there is no identifiable trigger.  Some will cite the economy and current economic practices, but these are also upper middle-class students, many of whom do not pay their own tuition, who live away from their parents, but are largely subsidized by the parents, and often approach college with radical learned helplessness.

And yet, rage.

What are the points of resistance?  What are the specific spaces of frustration, change, etc.?  How is it (and is it) reflected in the codes of their behavior and dress? Most of this was idle thought, but looking over the mohawk-travesty got me wondering about it again.

Much of punk style was initially ironic co-opting (one could argue as much about the mohawk, certainly).  Sarcasm and sardonic humor are a mainstay of the punk music genre (thank goodness).  But, as my colleagues often point out (following just about every 20th century European literary theorist), our American students have almost no sense of the ironic.  Many of them simply cannot recognize it, even when it is pointed out to them.

And I caught myself wondering if these half-hearted ‘hawks were significant in that fashion (a mohawky death of irony).  The styles  come to the students via media images from sports, which co-opted the “fierce” associations with the mohawk and reflect a period these kids don’t recall, but have likely been exposed to via the Quincy-punk media image (again, fierce, violent, but also often ridiculous), which does still pop up every once and again.  But, students do seem to be aware on some level that punk was associated with rage and rebellion (at least, those who have any concept of punk do)…so are they co-opting it without irony?

*sigh*

Yeah, kids these days.

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*Okay, I have to admit something here. I have Darby Crash’s voice in my head right now bitching about the use of the term mohawk. Mohican, it keeps saying, Mohican. Gimme a beee-ah. Mohican…. Oi.

**Every time I type his name, I find myself wanting to go read Borges’ “Garden of Forking Paths,” which faux-references (sort of) Liddell Hart.

The Two-Step

*blushes extravagantly*

Oh my…I’ve been absent a while, haven’t I? Whoops!

Lesseee…much to catch up on…including a bout with teh DREADED SWINE FLU.

Yes, I know that if I’d gotten either of us vaccinated that this probably would have been a saner week, but I didn’t.  Why?  Old standby:  only time I ever had the flu….

Oh you totally know the rest; I am not boring you with the details.

I’d say that was the sole cause of my failure to write, but, um, it would be a lie.  But, yes, TG (the kid) and I both seem to have managed to have acquired H1N1 this week.  It’s all his fault, of course, as he brought it home, probably from the wrestling mat.  That said, both of us seem to have encountered mild versions of this beast.  And I am very, very thankful for that.

Shall we dance through the last few weeks?

Bookage

Been reading tons.  Granted, most of it is best described as tawdry fiction (um,

Twilight Saga,

*runs away*

BTW: the link may have my favorite description of Twilight ever: “I kind of love it like cake. With rainbow sparkles sprinkles. Carried in by ponies. Pink ponies.”  Yes.  Yes.  Yes.  Unadulterated (by actual plot) fluff)

but, I have been reading.  I’ve even been reading a fine introduction to Higher-Education-Law-that-Every-Academic-Administrator-Should- Know-by-Heart-and-Abide-and-Recite-and-Sleep-With-and-Dream-of-Daily.

You know, almost three years after I joined the administrative ranks.

And several other pieces that I should have a better recall of, but the H1N1 has deleted some of my mental acuity and, worse, my bookstack has been cleaned up.  And, if you’ve ever seen my home or office, you are already aware of what happens when my piles are moved around and/or organized on my behalf.

It is NOT pretty.

Running

The major news of the month is that I finally defeated (er, healed) the plantar fasciitis that has been afflicting my poor, innocent left foot since the beginning of October.   And seem to have found a pair of shoes that are friendly (that is, soft enough).

A certain long-distance running buddy will be delighted to find out, since I poked fun at her when she kvetched over the same earlier in the year, but, the new feet-shields are pink.

PINK.

I am being punished, I am sure.  I’d forgotten she called them Barbie crosstrainers…that nearly makes me feel better.  I’ve not, however, bought a running skirt, so the punishment is not as dire as it could be.

Last week was 14 miles (and a hilly 14 at that), and, providing the foot, lungs, and other assorted ailments manage to stand down, I’m shooting for 17 on Sunday.  Woohoo!  No encounters with dogs (and I’ve brought no new ones home), so G. is still pleased with this whole running fiasco, despite my almost two months of hobbling around (while simultaneously training for a marathon).

What?

I’ve been pondering that big celebratory race that I think I need to run when TG graduates from high school in 2.5 years.  Yes, only 2.5.  He’ll be 16 in April, people. *shudder*

Anyway, I’ve long thought that I should do something in honor of his graduation (yes, for me.  I’ll have SURVIVED his High School years by then, dammit!).  Generally, I’d thought a smashingly good vacation would be in order, but now I’m sort of leaning toward  a big trail run…maybe 50 or 100 miles…or something equally ludicrous.  Suggestions, incidentally, are welcome.

TG, FWIW, believes that I should do a triathlon in honor of his gradation.  I think we should both run some friggin long trail race.

Mud, trees, pits, water, interminable length?  Just. Like. High. School.

Sobriety

In case the notes on the previous suggested a potential for relapse was imminent…it wasn’t.  Well, no, a potential for relapse is ALWAYS imminent, and I think that’s part of what led me astray last time.  I never really believed I needed to stop drinking.  I thought I needed better control, distraction, something.  See, in Step one, I got the second half:

• Step 1 – We admitted we were powerless over our addiction – that our lives had become unmanageable

I knew my life was unmanageable, but I also believed that if I were just stronger, more controlled, “better,” that everything would be okay.  Consequently, I could never really commit to the following:

• Step 2- Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity

Now, some of this is a result of my then-torn feelings regarding church and my role in church (general sense) and the Church (the one where my membership is currently).  If you’ve ever read the big book, you know that the lead up to Step 1 takes nearly as long as Breaking Dawn does to final peter out (yes, lesson learned.  But, it was still fun tawdriness.  Dude, Bella is more of a Mary Sue than most of my characters…and that is saying something), but two and three come rather quickly alongside it.  Consequently, it can appear (and I tried valiantly to make it so) that these three come rather lock-step.

For me, this was not the case, and it remains so.  I’m still finding the rhythm for Step 2 right now, as I can intellectually agree with it, but I waiver from moment to moment on exactly what it means for me.  In other words, while I get it, I can’t figure out how to apply it (and, oh, how this reminds me of theory classes in grad school.)

I accept that my best higher power right now is often running–it’s freeing, stabilizing (holy cow, I am not a nice person when I haven’t been running).  It keeps me from just being the dry drunk that I was for the first round of sobriety by providing me with a focus that does not (as Church did) also provide drama.  As a part of my program to continue getting healthy, I’m leaving that Church soon, but as this post has wound around and about enough, I’ll save those thoughts for another day and another Sanctuary post.

So, I’m still here, still alive (and coughing), running, pondering, reading, and, naturally, obsessing.  Life is good, ya’ll.