Thursday 31 May 2007

Caravaggio's intensity


(click on picture for the same in a bigger size)

Film review 5: Marie Antoinette (2006) directed by Sophia Coppola

The ultimate party-girl: fun and loveable, worried about a lot of day-to-day things and trying to re-create an island of bliss for her friends. She’s not entirely oblivious to the world but she’s busy trying to hold her ground and be happy.

She reminds me of so much in mainstream western life: honestly, we can’t spend our lives trying to debunk capitalism or thinking about who produced our sneakers, that'll just drive us nuts. On some days, I'm scared by the grimness of having to painstakingly document disastrous working conditions (did you know that it was Franz Kafka’s day job for a while?) and I'm scared of the emotional toll. I don’t even want to inhabit that world; I want nothing to do with it actually, why should I even seek it out? Do I even have to be aware at all? Let’s have champagne in the park instead!

My favourite commemorative plaque

"Thank God for James Young Simpson's discovery of chloroform anaesthesia in 1847"
in St Giles Cathedral, Edinburgh.

And while I'm at it, one of my favourites mottos ever is also British: "We believe in life before death", motto of Christian Aid UK.

Wednesday 30 May 2007

Film review 4: The Squid and the Whale (2005) Directed by Noah Baumbach

Divorce as experienced by the kids. In the movie, teenager Walt Bergman seeks to manage the madness and idealises his friends' parents. Said friends' parents only see him as an awkward and dysfunctional youth, and not a good influence on their own kids. Ouch.

Crybaby

We were traveling in Peru with a psychologist friend and we had each gone separate ways for the afternoon. In front of a monastery was a guy in rags. I'd never looked alienation in the face until I saw this guy, he seemed profundly disturbed and unable to relate to man or beast, utterly beyond reach. It made me want to scream, or run, or I don't know what: like a chemical reaction it totally unsettled me.

I decided that I would sit there, with him, not too far. Sit there and not say a thing, wait for a sign to come from him. Lots of people stopped for me: what are you doing there? Are you alright? I asked them about this guy; how long has he been there? Do the monks not care?

-This one you know, he's just like that, it's sad but there's nothing we can do
-The monks have tried but it's too difficult
-I know, this is really sad, someone would usually just give him some food on
market days

I stayed for a while. I got zero signs from this guy. I bought him a pack of pralines and walked back home. I was mega bugged. My friend Helen asked me what was wrong and I just cried convulsively for twenty minutes. She was worried about me now. In pure psychologist fashion she said "this guy is not the reason why you're crying, there must be something else, that was just the trigger, you must be really sad about something else, and this is just the excuse you've got to cry, what else is making you sad? You should talk to someone if you feel like that". Now there was something wrong with me.

Psychology was telling me that whenever I think I feel for someone else, I really don't feel for them at all: human beings are just a bundle of selfish motives anyway, and these motives get expressed in socially acceptable ways. Psychology could uncover these hidden motives, teach me how to deal with them and turn me into a happy consummer.

I'm sure that there's some truth in this, but I don't think that's the whole truth. When I'm sad I cry like a newborn until it passes. I don't even care what my motives are. But now I either lock my bedroom door first or I choose to be with friends who know that they do the same when they're sad, and are therefore not in the least freaked out by it.

Another friend once told me: "you cry like a baby, it's almost soothing, I haven't cried in fifteen years". She had had two abortions, and lots of problems but she was a tough one. I almost said: look let's get a bottle of wine and feel sad about stuff. I promise you that we'll come out on the other side with angelic smiles. Still, like in Dante's divine comedy, we've got to cross hell first. Then we can rejoice like mad people in the joys of purgatory: there life still sucks, but now you've got hope and you've taken on God's gentle yoke and you're so unspeakably grateful you feel like crying for joy.

Tuesday 29 May 2007

And I say: love the policy-makers!

I get paid to think about the broader political economy of developed European nations. I work in direct co-operation with the civil service and the political parties. In this sense, I'm not exactly countercultural.

I feel isolated in a sea of radical christian literature that just wants to "resist the evil system". Evil or not, I'm involved in managing that system in the best, most compassionate way. I've got the ear of quite a few officials, except that I'm not sure what to tell them.

I really wish I could find an accountability partner not so much on my personal ethics, but on the direct advocacy which I provide to people in power: So how are we going to run this country in the present socio-economic conditions? What are we going to offer the electorate at the next election? Failing that, I just imagine an accountability partner in my head, someone who, knowing my aims, would be proud of the work I'm doing.

Why are christian thinkers so rubbish when it comes to thinking about democracy? They all supposedly operate under the rule of the spirit. Well fine, me too, as it happens! But hell, I've had enough of people understanding this to mean that God rules their personal ethics, like whether they recycle, or give a few coins to a guy on the street or buy ethical coffee.

Sometimes I feel like even Jesus did not care about the business of running countries, and in any case He did not bother to say a word against the institutions of slavery, torture or the death penalty; although you may say that this flows quite logically from the injunction to love our neighbour and to treat the least brothers of His in the way we would treat Him*.

In any case, I deeply admire people who engage in politics and who manage to bring about great policy changes, just like the Quakers (who as you know never remove their hats) deeply admired Thomas Clarkson, and they did remove their hats at his funeral. I'd like to remove some hat today.

Let's think politically at the scale of our country: what would the spirit want there? And don't even get me started on the idiotic argument that all political power is necessarily satanic because by essence it takes upon itself a power that should lie with God. Politics is stewardship too: what does our country want to achieve in the world? Please people, let's reclaim politics! Please let's do politics again.

*I find the thought strangely vindicating: policy makers (and policy advocates) can make great policies for the most vulnerable! See if we don't.



Picture: Thomas Clarkson, the (unofficial) patron of policy-makers, academic political scientists and of this blog.

Do you speak clubbing?

They know what is what
But they don't know what is what
They just strut
What the fuck?
Fatboy Slim, Song 69

Strut, strut·ted, strut·ting: to walk with a vain, pompous bearing, as with head erect and chest thrown out, as if expecting to impress observers. (dictionary.reference.com)

Monday 28 May 2007

The next time you feel like GOD can't use you, just remember...

Noah was a drunk

Abraham was too old

Isaac was a daydreamer

Jacob was a liar

Leah was ugly

Joseph was abused

Moses had a stuttering problem

Gideon was afraid

Samson had long hair and was a womanizer

Rahab was a prostitute

Jeremiah and Timothy were too young

David had an affair and was a murderer

Elijah was suicidal

Isaiah preached naked

Jonah ran from God

Naomi was a widow

Job went bankrupt

John the Baptist ate bugs

Peter denied Christ

The Disciples fell asleep while praying

Martha worried too much

The Samaritan woman was divorced, more than once

Zaccheus was too small

Paul was too religious

Timothy had an ulcer... AND

Lazarus was dead!

From this (rather good, if annoyingly conservative) blog, which also has an hilarious Rowan Atkinson Sketch: "Not the Nine o'clock news- Songs Of Praise" which got me rolling with laughter. Must learn how to post some Youtube in here

Slow down, you crazy child

Gosh, this blog started real quick. I wanted to create a place in which to do some thinking, but I realise that I haven't got a plan. So in the next few days, I'm going to think about topics which I want to investigate somewhat more in depth, instead of just running ahead trying to accomodate a huge enthusiasm.

The greatest thing I've learned in these past years is that the extraordinary is so ordinary that I don't even need to record it. It keeps happening, so don't you freeze the croissants. There are plenty of very good blogs out there, the web doesn't need another girl dissecting her every passing thought.

My best friend, who's the most supportive best friend on earth, just says that she loves both the crazy enthusiasm and the deeper reflection, and that I'm going to find just the right mix, as I always have. I just love my friend.

Sunday 27 May 2007

St Paul's 3rd Letter to the Corinthians

My Dear Corinthians,

I, Paul, by the will of God an Apostle, having written twice to you on several matters of great importance now find myself compelled to write a third time.

I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it any more.

SHAPE UP!

Paul, by the grace of God, Apostle to the Gentiles

In some corner of England

I'd forgotten my bracelet in Church, so I went back. The gown-wearing congregation was eating scones, butter and jam, and drinking tea (what else?). All the meanwhile leaping into song as if they couldn't help themselves: All creatures of our God and King. The hymn had been too short, we had more to sing, the only way forward was to sing it some more. Three or four times, small groups started singing a couple of verses, before they stopped again. And it kept resounding, as we balanced our cups of tea and saucers, spreading some jam on the scones.

We were making small talk with a group of women (I was ahead of myself advocating a bottom-up putsch towards using TRADITIONAL LANGUAGE again, please someone, let's say the old BCP again). A quaker friend was relating some grand deeds of the quaker bunch who won't remove their hats. At some point she hugged me and I had not even known her before. I made it back home, the rays of sun were sparse -we're in England-, I saw a dead mouse on the way. I wondered whether that hymn was going to leave my mind anytime soon as I noticed my stepping in tune with it. I decided that I wanted to go to the cathedral for evensong. Just for the the pleasure of kneeling in there and asking for God's grace.

Here's for the cheesy midi file: I'm sure there are some better versions on the web, but I like the midi file, (a) because it's more rapid than the other versions, and close to our way of singing it, (b) because an emotionless midi-file does not colonise your own voice: you pick up the melody and then the hymn is yours for singing, you get to provide your own emotions! and (c) because I love cheesy midi files hymns in any case.

Yours in scones, jam and Britishness!


picture: http://cakes-direct.co.uk/images/creamteas.jpg

Saturday 26 May 2007

Film review 3: The Little World of Don Camillo (1952) and sequels. Directed by: Julien Duvivier

Don Camillo taught me everything I know. It would be tough to choose between it and the actual Bible to take on a desert island. So much for "sola scriptura".

A romantic girl

"Hallo! What now? Having breakfast without me!"

It was Cécile, just come from her bed, her eyes heavy with sleep. She had simply put up her hair and flung on a white woollen dressing-gown.

"No, no!" said the mother; "you see we are all waiting. Eh? has the wind prevented you from sleeping, poor darling?"

The young girl looked at her in great surprise.

"Has it been windy? I didn't know anything about it. I haven't moved all night."

Then they thought this funny, and all three began to laugh; the servants who were bringing in the breakfast also broke out laughing, so amused was the household at the idea that mademoiselle had been sleeping for twelve hours right off. The sight of the brioche completed the expansion of their faces.

"What! Is it cooked, then?" said Cécile; '"that must be a surprise for me! That'll be good now, hot, with the chocolate!"


Emile Zola, Germinal

I always liked the character of Cecile Gregoire in Germinal. A sweet-natured eighteen-year-old girl, whom her parents shelter from the world. The father might be busy "clawing a fortune out of the guts of society" (Steinbeck), but Cecile is their cherished daughter. She's a romantic girl, and happily gives away her stuff -and brioche- whenever she has a chance. She plays with the children when Maheude, a miner's wife, comes to borrow five francs. Her parents won't let her give away money. She has no idea of the world she's part of. She's just busy taking piano lessons, reading books and drinking chocolate.

Cecile was her parents' island of innocence and purity. Their daily activities were worthwhile in order to dot on Cecile, and maybe one day marry their lovely daughter to a notable of the area. Her giving has disastrous effects, the miners hate her inadvertant condescendence. When they raise against the mine owners, they murder Cecile in order to uterly destroy her father.

I like Cecile, because like her, I sometimes want to share the fun of a mainstream lifestyle. I love dotting on people, and on some level, I'm sure that it's not that stupid. One of the most popular charity in France makes a point of giving diamonds and Spa holidays to people who have never experienced them. I want to invite people into my life, I want to let them borrow books, CDs, come in my home anytime. I want to treat everyone like I treat my little sister: cook, take bubble baths, watch DVDs, eat Italian biscotti with cappucino, read magazines, meet my friends. I would like to provide a heterotopic place in which the folks I love can refresh themselves, a little island of friendly normalcy.

It has worked beautifully before, semi-strangers evolved into lifelong friends and really enjoyed the hospitality, which they soon reciprocated. While on other occasions it has seriously backfired and I was perceived as a monster of condescension. And I don't think I behaved any differently, though I probably should be more tuned to different personalities and adapt to each person.

At the end of the day, I wonder whether I'm right in my idea that the mainstream can be really therapeutic. I think I am, I've seen it work with folks who soon felt at home there. But I have a nagging feeling that on some level I might also be wrong, that's why I'm haunted by Cecile. Must think some more. Meanwhile, I'm off to make a luscious hot chocolate with biscotti to go with my book.


Picture: Actress Cecile Bois, plays Cecile in the 1993 movie Germinal

Film review 2: Nadie hablara de nosotras cuando hayamos muerto (1995) directed by Augustin Diaz Yanes

The title translates as: "Nobody will speak of us when we're dead".

In the movie, Victoria Abril struggles to survive and escape prostitution in Madrid. Victoria Abril is just stunning. The movie is not really sad, not really hopeful either but packed full of compassion. I haven't watched it in a while (since 2002) but I remember loving it and wanting to get all my catholic friends to see it. Graphic at times.

Film review: The Son (2002) directed by Jean Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne

It's going to be hard not to diclose the plot. I think I'm too tempted, so I'll just leave it to the pros on the IMDB:

"Olivier - meticulous, careful, even-handed - teaches carpentry at a vocational school in Liège. He's asked to take on Francis, 16, a new student. He declines the request then begins to watch, even spy on, the new lad. Olivier knows something. Later that day, he's visited by Magali, his ex-wife, who tells him that she's remarrying and is pregnant. Olivier seems to follow instinctive responses: "why today?" he demands of Magali; he continues to follow Francis; he changes his mind about enrolling the youth. What's the history between the two? After that becomes clear, what is it Olivier will do? Is this precise and measured carpenter in control of himself?"

In my view, this movie pictures in the most touchingly understated way what the son (of God) is on about. Welcome into the soul of Belgium. Don't read the Amazon reviews, these idiots give the plot away.

Friday 25 May 2007

Another stunningly beautiful quote

"Preach the gospel at all times -- If necessary, use words."
Saint Francis of Assisi

Let's quote some Luther

"You know the real basis and foundation of your salvation, on which you must rest your confidence in this and all troubles, namely Jesus Christ, the cornerstone, who will never waver or fail us, nor allow us to sink and perish, for he is the Saviour and he is called the Saviour of all poor sinners, of all who face tribulation and death, of all who rely on him and call on his name."

In Theodore Tappert(ed) Luther: Letters of Spiritual Counsel (Vancouver, British Columbia: Regent College Publishing, 1995)

A matter of molecules…

Your blood in my veins follows its own trajectory somehow. We’re roommates in this body and those few molecules step in the driver’s seat. If I won’t let them, they shock me into reacting. Whatever happens, they’ll always be there, present in me and in others, and I’ll forever cherish them, I’ll forever trust them and I’ll forever try to treat them as well as I can.

I think there’s a passage in Luther somewhere, who in the midst of despair, just relied on the body’s baptized molecules. His body was baptized, and if his spirit was struggling, his body could never be totally cut off from God. My body was baptised and partakes in the sacraments, it knows the way, there are some things it will not do unless my reasoning forces it. And if we land in the pig stall, deperate and longing to eat the pigs’ food. God will technically never be apart from us.

Thursday 24 May 2007

Might come in useful: the vatican's new on-line indulgence market.

Welcome to the Vatican's new on-line indulgence market.

PAPAL INDULGENCE CATALOG
Now offering absolution of a greater variety of sins
Bulk discounts available
MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON YOUR SOUL

So frustrating

The stupid antivirus re-started the computer without making copies of my word documents. I lost a couple of days of work and some unsaved docs of random thinking. Tempted to hate the whole universe. Going to have a fag instead. Grump.

... says the girl who once got her very dead laptop (with all her PhD data) to work again in a pub called the "blind beggar" after two techies had declared that there was nothing they could do.

Quaker power

I'm scared, I don't know if I'll keep writing here. I would like to have a place that keeps me accountable to (imaginary) readers who are intelligent enough to do their own thinking. I think that at some point I would like to engage in dialogue about these things. At the same time, I really have a big Quaker ethos: I have nothing to say, please tune in to the voice within yourself. I'm wrong on many occasions, and that's fine because I can always change my mind. I don't mind walking myself into a hole, but readers beware, be safe: do your own praying.

On disagreeing with Bonhoeffer

It's been a while since I've been exposed to the "all or nothing" brand of protestantism. It practically got me to give up faith as a teenager, and maybe the conclusion of today's reading is the same: by Bonhoeffer's standards I've got no faith. And in a way that's okay, by his standards, most of my friends have got no faith either, and I love them dearly, and I believe that God does too, but Bonhoeffer seems to think we're rebellious and likely damned.

I know exactly what my reply is to Christ's demand to give up everything and follow him is, and it's "Yes, I hope I'm gravitating towards this, I'm also really scared, help thou my unbelief" (although this answer could start with a "no" and mean the exact same thing, oddly enough).

It is an honest answer, but according to the passages which Bonhoeffer quotes, it's a dreadful one. He cites Lukes 9 57-62: "No man having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God".

Oh well, in that case I'm definitely unfit for the Kingdom, I won't even argue. I never understood this passage anyway: why should a guy not be allowed to say goodbye to his family? Is that not incredibly harsh? I really can't relate to this! This gets me to think that I'll never be a full-on disciple of Christ, maybe an admirer in the crowd, maybe a punter among the thousands who are just pretty awed by his stuff and slowly but genuinely trying to rewire their life according to his teachings. Am I unbiblical? Well what about the mustard seed which is tiny at first?

So if one guy comes to a lutheran pastor of the kind Bonhoeffer advocates, and let's say s/he is finding it hard to obey one thing, the lutheran will just say: only he who obeys believes and vice-versa, you know full well what God wants you to do, thus I order you to obey this NOW!

My approach is sometimes the same as his -when it feels called for-, when it feels like "Look, this is serious matter, it may feel nonsensical but let's put in an unconditional vote of confidence NOW, please". Let's call this option one.

Sometimes my approach is not this at all: sometimes I cut myself (and others) some serious slack instead: "Okay, you've been trying too hard, this is not a good sign, maybe you're caught up in your own thinking and you can't hear the voice of your Shepperd anymore. So stop trying for a moment, make yourself a cup of tea, pray directly to God about your difficulties, we're all wicked rebellious souls most of the time, just trust the mercy of God", this is option two.

Okay grace is costly, but it is free to all men of good will. In any case it is not as costly as people like Simone Weil make it out to be, who never took part in the eucharist because she wasn't worthy or something along these lines: "When I read the new testament, the mystics, the liturgy, when I watch the clebration of the mass, I feel a sort of conviction that this faith is mine, or, to be precise, would be mine without the distance placed between it and me by my imperfection" It reminds me of some jewish currents who won't even pronounce the name of God (instead of relying on his love like one relies on one's father). Are we seriously off course here?

We're all too rebellious, grace is free: it's got f*ck all to to with our worthiness. It is the experience of this lavish grace that shocks me into loving. Some of us were not (yet) called to follow Christ in the way in which the apostles were. Some of us will probably forever be tax collectors whose only hope lies in Lukes 18-13: "But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, 'God, have mercy on me, a sinner.'"

I'm still liking "the Cost of Discipleship": though chapter two provoked a knee-jerk reaction, the books gets a lot better after that. I really thought I had this Christian thing sorted while in fact I just got hooked by the cosier aspects of it.

Wednesday 23 May 2007

I should really learn some stuff about economics


Picture: Dorothea Lang

Edit: And does anyone know why God lets this kind of misery happen? "You father knows that you need these things" Um? yes? Why does God let famine happen?

Twenty yards from Love

This post will probably be somewhat useless, but I'm trying to define a correct attitude for relating to someone who lives on the street, and I'm starting to think that there isn't one, unless we really are "in the same boat". This said, I've been relatively good in the past. The guys in my street really liked me, even though I was not giving them a penny most of the time and jockingly told them to get a job. They respected me for not engaging in charity. Danielle: she's tough, she's always telling us to get off and go to this and that place.

Maybe I should owe up to flirting quite a bit -I think flirting is a gift from God-. I would not say much, but I would convey something along the line of "look, I like you, we live in a nice social democratic country, plenty of services, so if you stay here it's your fault, if it was me I'd go". I flirt like there's no tomorrow, who around here is a feeling a bit unloved? Don't you guys know how God loves every single hair on your head? And (on occasions) I do to: I won't let you grow cold, hungry, or desperate.

Fortunately, I don't overestimate the hardship they're in. Sleeping on the street is tough, but manageable. I've done it (not often) but enough to know. So it doesn't freak me out quite that much, and I don't engage in condescending -at least I try not to-. If they complain about some stuff, I will listen and then de-escalate and complain about my own very hard life (usually something real like: I don't get on with my boss).

I think they knew that they could ask me for help if something came up. When I saw one regular smiling guy really scared one day, almost tearful, he really needed five euros, and wanted to kneel in front of me (FUCKING HELL MAN!) so I would give them to him. I didn't believe his story but I thought it might be a good idea to do so.

This guy later helped me reach a defensive newcomer who wouldn't trust anyone but him, and me by extension: on that day, we got him to leave the spot he'd been surviving in for one week. I miss living near St Maurice Church: 20 yards from you and twenty yards from God.

Tuesday 22 May 2007

What would Larry David do?


"In any given situation, there are at least two options. One conforms to conventional standards of behaviour and conversation. The other, is the way of Larry.

Emulate this legend in your own lives. Insult, lie and cheat your way to the top. Lose old friends and alienate new acquaintances. Wave the banner for racial and cultural stereotypes. Achieve comedic greatness. It can be done" (from the eponymous facebook group: WWLDD)

Sunday 20 May 2007

Business as usual

I spent some of the afternoon pondering on how I was going to conciliate some of my very radical tendencies with the benedictine idea of moderatio. I surfed the web, thought hard, took some notes... I was going to finally have a clear position on stewardship and that kind of stuff. It was going to be quite good: I would not have settled for anything less than great stuff.

But it was going nowhere. I moved on, thinking that my grand project might take me a while, and that I'll have get back to it. And then it occured to me that I was not going to live by a written rule, however defined. I was going to live by tuning in to God directly for guidance. Um, okay.

The watchman opens the gate for him, and the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them, and his sheep follow him because they know his voice. John 10 3-4

Edit: And this morning I was thinking that this was not funny: I could not discern anything on a topic which had been of genuine concern for a while. Turns out the right thing to do is something I don't really want to do. So now I long to escape and I have a renewed enthusiasm for my (suddently) very wonderful job. As my friend John was saying when he got asked what he did when he thought God seemed to want him to take a particular course of action: "You mean those? My policy is to ignore them" with a lovely smile. John is a benedictine monk.

"I tended him, God healed him" (Ambroise Pare)

Crack is fucking horrible: I think I smoked it once, when a sombre character passed a joint to me and I thought it was weed. I spend the next half week very sick and longing for the stuff. I was looking for him on the streets, I thought he had the best marijuana in the world. I knew that marijuana was benign and I wanted to buy some off him, I asked lots of people if they had seen him. I bought some weed three or for times, trying to recover something similar to what this guy had passed on. I was 15 and a rather clean, reasonable teenager. I never found this guy again. I never knew the name of the stuff I was after until a couple of years afterwards. I've had a very narrow escape.

I read the story of "Mike" on poserorprophet's blog, and if I wasn't so shut off in my shell these days, it would have made me cry too. I too wish that our Lord would order the addiction to unbind him and let him go.

My prayers will be a lot less civil, I guess. I'm often playing the blind beggar who just won't shut up, yelling at the top of my voice, in a mixture of rage, sadness, shame, hope and the longing for love: Jesus, son of David, have pity of us! My lord can handle that sort of things. He can handle all of our anger, all our murderous rage, the unspeakable wickedness that we all harbour somehow. So we may as well show ourselves as we are. You can express anger at God, you can even crucify him for real, that won't change the love he's got for you*. So go ahead, scream like a baby from the depth of your guts: don't be polite, don't be nice, be truthful: you aren't too wicked for God. One of my catholic friends says she doesn't know anyone else who prays like it's a lovers' row. But sometimes my inner truth isn't full of Hail Mary's, it's full of rage. And the (raw) truth shall make us free.

So right now my prayer a half-hearted cry, not of the very faithful type. I'm afraid to pray because I'll be brokenhearted if it doesn't "work". Mega-lame. And I design a plan in my head of what I will do, the next time I encounter this type of addiction (because it is so common). It's a very holistic plan, but there's some missing variables, it will need more thought.

I think that there are a couple of main ingredients in the recovery of an addiction: (1) the recognition that I've got a problem, (2) the true desire to change, (3) the belief that someone can make me change (God, or my group of buddies) and (4) a way of coping with withdrawal.

Number one is fairly obvious to most. My missing variable in that equation is number two the desire to change: you've got to have a plan for life, a role model you admire, or at least someone who loves you and that you would like to be proud of you - a kid, a parent, a friend, a loving God- The AA or Narcotics Anonymous (preferably a well established group, with loving old-timers of the kind presented in the movie "where the heart is") can take care of number three, you don't have to have faith initially, you can just sit back and see it work.

And I'm going to share my method for number four, I'm going to advocate for the super messy form of prayer, loosely adapted from pop-psych guru John Gray (I wish I had a less cheesy source, but it works). I take a piece of paper and write to someone (I write to God more often than not) and write all the ways in which I am angry at them, sad because of them, all the ways in which I'm fearful, all the reasons why I'm ashamed and sorry. I spew it all out: there, the whole messy truth of my soul, full fucking disclosure. And it doesn't look pretty, and it doesn't sound like a whispered Hail Mary. When I've done that to the best of my ability, When I've run out of things to say, somehow I get connected to the love again, quite automatically every time. I overflow with gratitude for the love in my life, and it's better than a "high".

I'm no angel. I'm a seriously flawed human being who feels like crying when she reads the dedication to Huber Selby's novel, Requiem for a Dream:

"This book is dedicated, with love, to Bobby, -who has found the only pound of pure- Faith in a Loving God".

* on this topic, the wonderful passage of the conversion of a noble woman who realised that she passionately hated God since the death of her infant son, about halfway through the Diary of a Country Priest by Georges Bernanos. IMHO one of the most beautiful pages of western literature.

Saturday 19 May 2007

A beautiful quote

"If you have come to help me, please go home. But if you have come because your liberation is somehow bound with mine, then we may work together" Lilla Watson

Tricky...

“When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist.” - Helder Camara, Archbishop of Olinda and Recife, Brazil (1909-1999).