I’m trying to learn to just let things exist in space.
If you are a creator or an over thinker (I am both, more the first than the second), you know how hard that is. If I see a blank page, it must be filled. I never suffer from writer’s block (though I do suffer from written schlock, which is what happens when you don’t have the sense to not write).
A lump of clay must be formed into something…maybe a bunch of somethings. A set up instrument must be played. Butter must be turned into cookies. Pork must become tacos. All materials must be transformed.
It doesn’t help to be a fussy Christian, though. You’re supposed to be the material that is transformed, but I admit I sometimes try to help God’s process along, like He needs my help somehow. “You may have noticed,” he says, all but his eyes obscured by a huge “World’s Greatest Dad” mug, “that I became flesh and died for you. I’m not really sure why you think you have to embellish that somehow.” He sips his tea, then sets it down. “I mean, it’s adorable that you’re trying to help. But maybe today you can stop trying to be better faster harder stronger & just let love transform you. Try it. It’s a whole thing. You might dig it.”
Today’s homily was about knowing Christ & letting Christ know you, as he knew to call Simon by a new name — Peter — aka The Rock, which forever changes my mind’s picture of the Father of the Church to Dwayne Johnson in a robe and sandals calling unbelievers candy asses. I don’t think that’s what Father intended, but that’s where I am now. The Rock — the Catholic Church. Inextricably bound up in my head.
And John knew that Jesus was the lamb, which was kind of not the thing you said to people back then.
We spend a lot of time not naming things. We say “difficult childhood” when we mean “protracted abuse.” We say “allergies” when we mean “I have had the flu for a week but do not send me home from work.” We have come up with a lot of complicated terms for what amounts to “terribly unhappy people”. Kids say they’re “talking” when what they mean is either falling in love or sending nudes (the opposite of falling in love).
I say “I’m working on myself” which is a sly way of saying “I, for some reason, do not trust the creator of the universe to move me.” I say “I am carefully considering my words” when what I really mean is “I am terrified you are going to think I’m stupid or horrible because I am unused to facing my raw emotions.”
What I am trying to learn is to just be. This is hard for women in particular because we are wired to communicate. It is even more hard for people of high verbal intelligence because we know there is AN EXACT WORD to describe what we mean, but it’s probably German.
But just being in the whatever is pretty much what God intended, I think. When you live there, inside the heart, whatever needs to exist just does. It’s the false reality created by our never ending streams of words that diverts the reality away from us. Words are protection.
Says the novelist. I literally make shit up & expect you to feel like it is real. I know how this works. I spent two days once looking up an obscure North English dialect so that another story I’m working on seems more authentic…to the maybe five people alive who care about such things. But again…that’s me not leaving well enough alone.
But we all make up our own narratives as we go along. A friend of mine who is not neurotypical helps point that out to me almost daily. Everybody has a version of themselves they present. Some are constant heroes of their own stories, some constant victims. Spectrum folks just say what happened, without the “polite” cushion of “difficult childhood”. It’s bracing. It’s a list of facts, happy and awful.
I am not “normal”, but I do have the gift/curse of crafting a narrative; I’m a storyteller after all. I also think narratives help us truly see things sometimes that we cannot look at directly — like the hole you cut into a box to view the eclipse.
I also think a gazillion things at once, so I can’t remember everything in order all the time. My roommate got annoyed with me (nicely) yesterday for telling a story completely backwards. But to me, that was when reality started. But she wasn’t wrong; going back and telling the story from the beginning helped me understand some things about what happened.
But again…this isn’t Being. This is Thinking. Thinking is such a gift when we want to cure cancer or put people on Mars. It should not hamstring the presence of love. It should not be allowed to shout out joy.
The “What would Jesus prefer I do?” post I did the other day is the one I keep coming back to in my head. Sometimes that really does amount to “Which choice, at this point, does the least harm?”, but the idea in future is to not even get there. From Wednesday on, I’ve been trying to naturally choose the thing that does the least harm, or even better, does the most good, to the best of my ability.
The thing that does the most good is always the thing that shows love.
“It’s not that simple.”
Shhh. Yes, it is.
Sometimes you can show me love by buying stuff I wrote.