i seem to have patterns of writing and dormancy for this blog.  most of my energy has been focused on another blog—a project worthy of such effort.  depression has left and i am alive and in wonder.  i’ve been running a lot, and slowly emerging from the fog.  perhaps when the marathon extravaganza is over i shall return to writing here, this blog of my spiritual wanderings.  until then, find me here, at run megs run, and read why i am running two marathons within 7 days of each other.  it’s inspiring, i guarantee it.

I left home quite some time ago. Here, I do not write of the leaving home I did at age 19. No, I mean that over a year ago I left the holy sanctuary of God’s surrounding love and squandered away some of my blessed life.

Leaving home…is a denial of the spiritual reality that I belong to God with every part of my being, that God holds me safe in an eternal embrace, that I am indeed carved in the palm of God’s hands and hidden in their shadows…Leaving home is living as though I do not yet have a home and must look far and wide to find one.
(Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son, 37)

Henri Nouwen so beautifully writes his journey home from depths and dark places in The Return of the Prodigal Son. Long ago acquainted with Nouwen’s work, this is one I missed—until now. His writing and life bring hope to me in an otherwise heartbreaking period in my life. Years of balance, strength, and peace have met their demise in the wake of rage and resentment. I am broken, shattered by a series of events in my own life, the choices I have made; and swallowed by similar downfalls in my family. Oh, what have I become that I obsess and rage instead of listen and pray?

In this moment of night I find myself emerging from melancholy to feel the embrace of God, rejoicing in another day, and thankful for shelter and food. I want it to linger, so I keep awake long into the night.

Nouwen says of home:

Home is the center of my being where I can hear the voice that says, “You are my Beloved, on you my favor rests.”—the same voice that gave life to the first Adam and spoke to Jesus…the same voice that speaks to all the children of God and sets them free to live in the midst of a dark world while remaining in the light. (37)

I have so many places, physical and emotion that have been “home”. Nouwen introduces the home that only a loving God can bring, and this home, I believe is expansive enough to encompass all places and times of being at home. These are “home” because I am loved by God.

Fearful of failure, I forge on. This is not the first time I have been at these crossroads, nor will it be the last. I should hope, however, that I am through one horrible cycle of self-destruction. The fear in me waits to fall again, and it says to me in a hurried tone: this time you may be on your own, even if you break through the darkness. Enter the image of the prodigal son—broken and shamed, he is embraced by his father. It is at the same time comforting and heartbreaking, as I prepare to welcome God’s embrace, and yet still have broken family and relations that are unresolved.

Faith keeps me going. “Faith,” Nouwen writes, “is the radical trust that home has always been there and always will be there.” Come what may with family, community, job, finances, health this radical trust believes I am home.

Annie Dillard writes of running from this love, too. In her book, Teaching a Stone to Talk, she writes:

Even now I wonder: if I meet God, will he take and hold my bare hand in his, and focus his eye on my palm, and kindle that spot and let me burn? But no. It is I who misunderstood everything and let everybody down. Miss White, God, I am sorry I ran from you. I am still running, running from that knowledge, that eye, that love from which there is no refuge. For you meant only love, and love, and I felt only fear, and pain. Sone once in Isarel love came to us incarnate, stood in the doorway between two worlds, and we were all afraid. (p. 141)

So here I am. Unsure of what lies ahead. But, for the time being, safely held by God.

This poem reflects something I need to give and receive in my life now…something I’ve lost beneath blinding rage. It isn’t pretty and I need to release it and grasp on tightly to the love of God.  The poem is a critique of church rules and right ways of doing things. However, the silly lies of anger are written on my walls.  I’ve been here before, recently even.  Something clicked tonight at church, and I breathed in the life-giving breath of God.  I hope love is written on my heart, and that this time it lasts—that God’s graffiti will paint over the anger permanently—I don’t want to sink back into that angry place.

God’s Graffiti

We’ve splashed our rules
all over the sanctuary walls…
so many rules we don’t have time
for dancing…
our graffiti
defiling the house of God.
God’s graffiti is different:
God writes LOVE
upon our hearts.
Some night, let’s sneak in the sanctuary
and paint over the rules
and write God’s graffiti
all over the walls…
LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE

– Ann Weems

I need lots of rest—mind, body, soul.  I read this poem differently now than I have in previous years.  It is from a book of poems given to me seven years ago.  The “journey” spoken of is the journey to the cross through the season of lent.  At a time when foundations have been shaken, my relations with self and others out of sort, this is where I want to be: resting in God…

Come Unto Me

When the journey gets too hard,
when we feel depleted,
when our compassion
turns to complaining,
when our efforts toward
justice and mercy
seem to get us nowhere,
it’s time to remember
the humility part—
that it is God who has made us
and not we ourselves;
that the saving of the world
or even one part of it
is not on our shoulders.
It is then we can come unto him,
and he will give us rest.
With rest we’ll remember
what it is we are about.

— Ann Weems

Quite the adventurer, I have traveled many places in my life, and aspire to continue my worldwide wanderings as long as I am able.  These pictures below are from two adventures during March, the first a semester break trip to Greece in early March 2002 (the 2-month semester break also included travels in Italy, Sweden and Norway) during the year I studied in Germany; the second, a wandering through the UK in March 2007—the picture is from the top of Mt. Snowdon in Wales.

March often is the beginning, or at least the middle of the Christian season of Lent, the 40 days leading to Easter…a time for reflection, discipline, and a whole heap of other traditions.  For me, this lent—these 40 days before I proclaim the resurrection of Christ, are about clearing house, de-cluttering mind and living space.  I am not able to wander as in previous years, but this cleansing is necessary.

A case of being in the right place at the right time with the right camera.  This picture captures how I have felt as of late…light shining through darkness, beauty, hope. (taken on 31 December 2008 at the Agra Fort in Agra, Uttar Pradesh, India)

28 December 2008

The distinct odor of exhaust and pollution hangs in the air.  It covers the visibility of the sky above and sticks to my lungs.  High above black Kites soar in circular patterns over the city.  There isn’t a place nearby for a vantage on my two feet, although I’m not sure there’s much to see.  It is warm, or at least to my perspective 50F degrees is warm.  In the gray Seattle mist, 50F can be chilling.  This sunny 50F in Delhi feels pleasant and welcome, considering I had left my normally rainy home with a foot of snow on the ground.  So even when the overnight temperature in Delhi dropped to 40F, and Delhi wallahs were cold, I felt fine.  No thank you, I don’t need an extra sweater.

The moment spent gazing at the soaring Kites in the afternoon haze is suddenly jarred by my reality of Delhi–a near miss with a person, animal, or vehicle of some sort.  This time it was a man on a walk.  This place isn’t crowded, I almost ran into him because I wasn’t paying attention. Wising up, I also notice there are runners.  As I breathe in shallowly, I wonder how anyone could run in this stagnant choking air.

However, for the moment, I am satisfied with this mostly unobstructed walking path.  Lodhi Gardens is one of the few places of clean open space in the densely populated city of Delhi.  The walk exercises my legs, which are desperately in need of movement after 20+ hours of travel on packed planes the previous day.

My friend’s mother is chatting, and I chat, too, all the while my senses are on high alert, recording my surroundings for future use.  Of special note are the ruins built by ruling powers of long ago.  These structures stand in contrast to the families who sit on the open grass, talking and eating.  I wonder about the families and their stories.  The old Mughal period architecture surely has stories, too—of their builders, those buried beneath the stone, and of the millions of passers-by over the years…

I am going to write about my travels in India. What you’ll see is a patchwork of stories as told through narration, rumination, and information that may or may not be in chronological order…I haven’t decided yet how to continue.  Today’s story is my arrival in India, and first impressions of Delhi.

Saturday 27 December 2008

After two long flights loaded with screaming children and minor incident with two drunk Russians involving a knife, we finally clear customs at Indira Gandhi International Airport.  It is nearly midnight.  Oh dear God, I think, as I try with all the concentration left in me, I am really looking forward to a warm bed.  However tired, I’m alert through adrenaline, and I scan the airport, careful not to lose sight of my friend in the chaos.  The air inside the airport is stale and smells musty, a sure combination pollution and the body odor of the thousands who have traveled through its doors.  All around me people are sitting, standing, waiting, and carrying luggage.  My stiff legs welcome the chance to dodge the piles of suitcases and the crowd of people coming and going.

Reprieve from the dry air from the plane, and stale air of the airport is not found outside in the night air, as I struggle to breathe the choking air through my nose.   A slight burning sensation fills my lungs and I gasp for air.  As we walk to meet my friend’s father, who not surprisingly, stands out amidst the sea of brown faces waiting for their passengers, beloved and stranger.  I am in a dreamlike state, nearly in disbelief that I am actually in India.  Wait.  I’m in India!

I stare at the line of a hundred men of standing against a railing, some holding signs, others staring, seemingly straight through my being.  This moment, I think to myself, is something to hold onto.  As if in a movie, a distant Indian rhythm dances in my head and my sight turns to slow motion, passing a hundred beautiful faces with curiosity.  Even the crowded airport is initially enchanting.  Back from the dream, a cacophony of conversations, rumbling engines, and shrill car horns fill my ears.  This, I would discover, is the discordant noise emanating from nearly everywhere Delhi.

The reunion with father was quick, as together the three of us strode through the crowds to the car where Francis, the driver, was waiting.  Mother, conversation, and tea were waiting to welcome us to the residence in New Delhi.

Without regard to the poor visibility at night, my eyes are drawn out the car window to the world outside.  On the road at midnight, and still there were cars and trucks crowding the road as we pass shadowy buildings.  It became evident, almost immediately, that honking in India is not merely reserved in defense or anger, as it most often is in the US, it is a signal (replacing the turn signal blinker) and used liberally.  Trucks are colorfully painted, and on the back have “Horn Please” written in English.  And the trucks have the right of way.  The rule of the road is, “might is right”.

At some point, midnight passes and it is after 1:00am on the 28th.  I note in my head that back home, 13.5 hours behind and a world away, it is only noon on the 27th.  It is 3am when my head finally hits the pillow—after a warm welcome at the house in New Delhi with my friend’s parents who served us tea, cookies, and generously handed out presents.  I quickly fall into a comfortable, yet brief sleep.  The last streaming thought before sleep was again, ” Wait.  I’m in India!”

Awakened by the stirring of mind and body, I reflect on my recent world travel.  As my senses were overwhelmed each day that I was in India, my mind is overwhelmed at the observations and memories.  Bewildered and unsure of where to begin, I think I will free write this entry.  More entries will follow with narratives of my experiences.  Until then, streams of consciousness…

India defies simple explanation.  While India’s borders occupy one-third the landmass of the United States, its population is more than tripple the US population.  The subcontinent is extremely diverse in landscape, climate, culture, religion, and language.  The north borders with Tibet and the Himalayas, and to the south lies a subropical paradise where spices grow and have been traded for centuries.  Christianity was introduced to the subcontinent in the first century by St. Thomas.

I left a snowy Seattle depressed, and in need of renwal.  Knowing that traversing India was not going to be quiet, I was prepared to be shocked.  The first step outside into the Delhi night were oppressive–while marveling at the thousands of people passing through and waiting at Indira Ghandi International Airport, I was also chocking on the smog. I let the chaos wash over me, noting the hundreds of faces lined up waiting for their person to walk through the door.  Even in the middle of the night, Delhi’s roads are noisy.  My senses became full of streaming observation and I forgot my depression.

This morning, I am faced with what was my life, what it became, and what now am I to do with myself, the same person yet changed forever by India…

As I have recently found a spirit guide in the Great Blue Heron (see previous entry), water has long been an elemental spiritual presence for me.  Waters are symbolic of baptism, of cleansing and renewal.  I have been a long time away from water, too.  The following is a meditation I wrote while living in Germany back in February of 2002.  I would walk along the banks of the Neckar River in Tuebingen.  The water became a place of comfort, a friend to me at a time when I was walking a lonely path with many questions on my heart…

O still river, how long it ha been since I have seen your waters gently flow by.  How good it feels to sit here next to you, observing your nature.  The long days have made me weary and you are at present my only friend.  You understand me and speak to me in ways that others cannot.  I see my true self through the reflection from your waters.  You sustain me, you guide me and you give me life.  And today, when the life has been sucked away from me, I come to you to be renewed.  I come to sit at your banks and wash away the dirt from my face.  As still as you are right now, I feel the power within your soul; I feel the power within my soul.  And when our time together comes to an end, I take with me the images I see before me, so I can return to them in my dreams.  Forever you will flow, forever you will be and forever I will be in you.  O River of Life, I fall on my knees…I remember my baptism in your waters and I ask forgiveness.  I leave your presence, a Child of God, renewed and cleansed.  I look forward to the next time we shall meet.  It may be here or in another place far off, but your waters are eternal and will never change.