What happened to the wedding dress?

Well, I am on my way towards donating the cost of a real wedding dress to a charity that digs wells in Tanzania.

Meanwhile, I caught up with my old Arts teacher. She had been clinically depressed for years but her teannaged pupils called her out. They knew she had run a theatre club in the past and they wanted a theatre group too so they kept asking until she gave in and ran it once gain. This year they will be playing some Moliere. That's as fabulous a future as I could dream for my wedding dress, so there happily it goes, along with a couple of over-the-top formal dresses I bought in England.

At the same time, I was visiting someone at the nursing home, where my three months old baby was the star of the show among residents and staff alike and was getting lots of cuddles. One afternoon, some sinapses connected in my busybody brain and I called my arts teacher once more. Any way she could bring her theatre club to play Moliere at the nursing home too?

I know that in the grand scheme of things, these are tiny little gestures. I call them "cosmetic gestures". They take no effort and they don't change the world. Compared to some of the other things we might be trying to be as Christians, these are easy, fun and almost relaxing.

They remind me of the wisdom of the guy who was leading the marriage preparation weekend we went to. He said "Sure, you go set up charities and go change the world, but in the meantime remember that nobody can love YOUR family and YOUR friends better than YOU can".

L'amour en héritage

J'ai reçu l'amour en héritage
Un matin au pays des cigales
La folie et le génie voyagent
Bien au-delà du temps
Bien par dessus des océans
J'en ai lu j'en ai tourné des pages
Pendant mes années folles ou sages
Pour quelqu'un qu'on met pas en cage
C'est un beau cadeau
L'amour en héritage.

Et si ma vie se traduit en je t'aime
Si mes chemins ont croisé des torrents
On est toujours un oiseau de bohème
Une enfant de printemps.

J'ai reçu l'amour en héritage
Un matin au pays des cigales
La folie et le génie voyagent
Bien au delà du temps
Bien par dessus des océans
J'en ai lu j'en ai écrit des pages
Avant de poser mes bagages
J'en ai vu tomber des pluies d'orage
Avant de trouver
L'amour en héritage

Et si ma vie se traduit en je t'aime
Si mes chemins ont croisé des torrents
On est toujours un oiseau de bohème
Une enfant de printemps.

Omer Wells are us

I'm living my own version of the Cider House Rules these days. The going back part. The part where Omer puts his steps in those in those of his "father" while the father figure has just died and will never again hold his hand. This Sunday will be my last in the only church I knew while growing up in Alsace. The Sunday after that will be my first in H.'s parish, somewhere in rural Australia.

Unreservedly your servant

I remember my reaction when I first came across a sco-ld's bridle. This was a medieval device used to punish goss-ips, a metal contraption that fits inside someone's mouth to prevent them from talking. My thoughts were: oh God I need one of those, I wish someone fitted that in my mouth until all I was ever able to utter was praise for you. I meant it too. It scared me to think this and I didn't tell anyone. Gosh I'm weird, I thought, who thinks things like that? Am I sick?

Then one day we took a friend to visit the ruins of a Scottish castle, and again my thoughts scared me. God, I'm so disempowered that I wish someone locked me up inside some damp medieval cell until, through tears and shivering and sickness, I was able to promise to do nothing but serve you forever. I meant it too.

No chance of that happening either... Instead, I would always fail and no one would help me, no one would discipline me, and my life would be spent sliding further and further away from my heart's deepest desire, because they are too weird for the time I live in.

It didn't go away. I wondered what it was that had got its nasty grip on me and was disempowering me? Why was I so in despair that shivering in a medieval castle would be the only thing that could rid me of this shapeless thing? I felt like a seabird caught in a oil spill, my wings and entire body caught into a tarry black stuff that was asphyxiating me, with nothing but spiritual death to look forward to.

The only way out I could see was to embrace the weirdness. My thoughts might be weird but I meant them. However, procuring a sco-ld's bridle or being shut away in some damp dungeon was not a very realistic option. So I thought up a 21st century variant. I put a soft hairband on my wrist and spent all of my free time and lunchtimes sitting on the floor with my wrists joined together in it. I'd refuse to read a book or watch a movie. I'd say nothing and think nothing except ask God for mercy.

The only time off was when I was at work, or volunteering, or spending time with my fiancé. At the jail where I was volunteering, I served tea and coffee while trying to remain humbler than my clients and serve them with deference. It might have been a tad artificial, but I didn't know any better.

A year and a half went by and the disempowering back tar did not go away. I just didn't know what to do. I was starting to see sense in some of the op-us dei self harm stuff but my intelligence drew the line. Barely. And only because I was pregnant. I kept doing what I was doing on the volunteering front. I kept begging God for help.

Bit by bit, the right things began to happen through me. All the stuff I'd felt disempowered to do. These occasions were brilliant and almost flawless. I could hardly believe that these were occuring through my body. All I knew is that I still wanted to be God's servant. And I was terrified that they'd stop.

I think that I have an inkling about what the guys at Emmaus meant when they said: were not our hearts burning within us while he was with us? A lot of my weirdest thoughts and decisions boil down to the fact that this foggy inkling is also my most valued possession. Whithout it I would feel like jumping into the next river and filling my lungs with water.

First follower

I've thought a lot about this little video since coming across it. I'm not sure if I fit in as the initial nutcase, or the first follower of the initial nutcase. It depends on the occasion I suppose, but I'm often early to join in the nutcasery.

Something pretty huge is happening to me these days that I'm not even at liberty to write about. It doesn't involve only me and it would feel wrong to weave a story out of it. In fact, this is pretty strange, but I don't even feel like I should think about it.

It isn't my story, it's yours. I'm a quasi stranger parachuted into more intimacy than I have been explicitely given, it isn't my place to be there. But if I'm honest it's all I can think about. So I'm just going to jot down my feelings in a semi-structured way and see what comes of it.

Fear

I fear that I'm not good enough, that I haven't got the heart qualities I need. By these heart qualities I mean knowing what to do, how to be and whom to call upon. I'm spending hours upon hours second-guessing myself about what the best course of action is, but I'm playing by ear entirely and I wish I was someone with a better habitus for this. I fear that I'll do too much, or not enough, or not the right things.

I fear that I'm almost abusing you in some way, that you didn't choose me to be with you in this vulnerability. That I came across it at a time when you couldn't hide it and it isn't fair because you might not have desired to show it.

Shame

I'm vaguely ashamed that I can't just take this in my stride. That it's taking so much of my mental energy just to process it.

I'm ashamed that it's your story not mine and that I have no right to make it such a huge part of my mental landscape, because we don't have that level of friendship and you might not have wanted that if you knew.

Anger

I'm angry at the local subculture which is allowing this to happen with noone lifting a finger to reach out.

I'm angry at your hierarchy for not taking into account the incredible loneliness of this occupation and I'm angry at their choices and at their indifference.

Sadness

I'm so incredibly sad that I could cry my bodyweight in tears. And mostly, when nobody is watching, that's just what I do.

Pride

I'm proud that I've been able to break free of conventions and come and visit you anyway. I'm proud I put my son in your arms. I'm proud to extend joy, tenderness and laughter. I'm proud of my imperfect best attempts. I'm proud of my genuine desire to acquire more heart "for next time". And despite all the awkwardness, I think you would have been proud of me too.

Love

I hadn't realised how much I loved you until now, and if this hadn't occured I probably never would have done. I feel like the kid in The Mission who picks up the monstrance from the floor when the priest gets killed and holds it high again. And it's true that kid hasn't got the full habitus, but he's got the seed of things to be, that seed which time and time again prevents the whole mission from failing.