Barney

While in Colorado, I spent the majority of my time with my dear Chloe and her dear Barney. This lovely gentleman is a 10 year old pug who was rescued from a puppy mill situation. He had been studding for the entirety of his life, but had escaped his entrapments and was found running down the street. The woman who found both Barney and his mate had been fostering the ol' gent when Chloe found out about him. And now, seven months later, Chloe and Barney are in love.

Of course, it's not all sunshine and roses. Barney is old and has a lot of health problems. Chloe is young and very active. But, somehow, they make sense. Being with them reminded me of how much I love Ace and the amazing trials and growth that come from letting a dog into your life (and if I may be mushy, heart).

Before I left for Colorado, Ace and I were standing in the backyard. It was a frigid Bostonian evening, but I had wanted to give my dear boy one last chance to relieve himself and sniff around. As he was examining his favorite nooks and crannies of the backyard we share with the rest of the apartment complex,  a man chanced to walk by. Because we had just run out for a moment, Ace was off-leash and the gate was wide open.

I froze. I hoped that Ace would not see the man and tried to reposition myself between Ace and the open gate. Too late. He set off at a pace that I couldn't help but admire. I called out to the stranger, "He's a nice dog. I promise. He won't hurt you. He just doesn't like strangers."

I wanted to call after Ace, but by this point I knew it was futile. Ace is not a huge fan of the "come" command and less so when I sound upset. I rushed out the gate toward both Ace and the strange man. Still a good twenty yards away, the man responded, "Don't worry. I have dogs. It's ok."

"ACE," I yelled. "COME."

Before I could take another step, Ace dropped his tail, turned around quickly, and trotted right back to me. I was so shocked that he had responded that I didn't know what to do. I looked at the man and apologized. I looked at Ace and simply said, "Good boy. Thank you for coming back. Oh and making me look like a fool."

As we turned toward our apartment, that moment lingered with me. Actually, Ace had not made me look like a fool. There was nothing foolish about that encounter. I probably shouldn't have left the gate open, sure. If I hadn't, though, I wouldn't know now that Ace can come back. I wouldn't know that I can be that vulnerable and open to disaster and somehow the world could not fall apart. Maybe leaving the gate open was an accident, but maybe I left the gate open because I trust Ace. And, in the end, I have to trust him and myself, and the universe. Because bad things may happen or greatness may happen, but neither can possibly take place if I try to control everything. Life inherently denies anyone control. That's half the fun.

When I think of Chloe and Barney, I can't help but see the same principle in action. Despite his age or any illness, Chloe has taken Barney into her home. At first, I saw this as some benevolent act of bearing witness as a good dog fades into old age. Examined in light of my experience with Ace, though, I know that really, Chloe has embraced the uncontrollable nature of life and love (even with a dog). I admire her so much for this commitment to Barney and to allowing a dog so different from herself change her life daily. These little four-legged buddhas crawl into our lives, hog our beds, and pry open the dark recesses of our hearts, showing us how to just let go, take a risk, and trust in life.

How lucky are we?

Barney is a rather splendid co-pilot. Er, well, backseat driver.

Too cute.

He's hunting geese as if he were a spry eight year old.

Everything Will Be Okay

In the wee hours of Sunday morning, I sit in bed with my lovely dog curled up at my feet. The life we lead is not so bad. It's been an amazing spring break (filled with a whole week in Colorado for me!), but it's time to get back to the grindstone, the books, and training for the ride (donate here to help me keep motivated).

I've been up late studying--reading articles and books about sight, knowledge, and ineffability. Ace has been enjoying the finer points of a life of leisure, namely sleeping. As I try to quiet my brain to join him for morning dreams scripted by my unconscious, I cannot help but feel content.

The last few weeks have been a bit uncomfortable. After deciding not to pursue a PhD for the time being, I've been engaged in the process of disseminating this information to those I love. While the emotion has mostly been one of relief, I have also felt nervous about telling my mentors from college, including my advisor. It turns out I had myself all worked up for nothing. Everyone expressed support, love, and hope for me. To think, I could tell people I have less of an idea of what I want to "do" with my life and more confidence about how I want to "be" and that they would listen to all my hippie dippy nonsense and then encourage me? To see (and be seen!) so completely without a bunch of inner turmoil and self-flagellation is truly refreshing. As my chaplain and friend put it, "It's nice to be able to change without going through crisis."

In the wake of this proclamation, I have come down with a cold. Maybe it's a consequence of all my jet-setting, or perhaps it has to do with the changing weather, but part of me wonders if it's all connected. Perhaps I'm having what my dear qi gong teacher, Ellie, would call a qi reaction, or what I might call, my body-expurgating-some-built-up-gunk. Maybe at the same time that my head came to a revelation, my heart and body jumped on board. Or maybe it's foolish to think my head was ever the one steering, at least not these days. More likely, my heart has been at the helm all along. It just took my head a while to catch up and now my body can relax and swab the decks (to stick with the boat metaphor).

I think one of my greatest fears was letting people down by sharing the next step of my path with them without actually knowing why or what might come after. The outpouring of unadulterated support is echoed in the words of my advisor, who after a talk over lunch said to me, "My suspicion is that you'll find revelations where ever you go."

To be so loved and to have so much certainty in who I am expressed by those I admire most is humbling.   Yet, somehow, it affirms what I already know about myself: No matter what, I will be okay. My heart encompasses wide expanses that I have yet to travel, as does the world. In the years to come, I hope to explore both. And with a sidekick like this, how could I not believe that everything will be ok?

A few new paint strokes

About a year ago, after a break up, I met with my meditation teacher/friend. As I cried and mourned the loss of that relationship, she told me that sometimes freedom comes at the cost of loss. She also explained that an ending can be an opportunity for opening doors that have been closed. “In our lives, we get to paint many paintings. We just have to choose which one we want to hang in the center.”


At that time, it struck me as a poignant reminder to think of my life as more than just a relationship that was ending. Now, I am returning to this metaphor as I think about my future.

I have decided to step back from the painting I have been focusing on. The picture is not complete, but I think that it might be time to relocate this large canvass that has occupied my field of vision. I’m not discarding the work over which I have toiled; rather, it’s time to pull the painting down and place it to the side of something new.

This new canvass is not blank. I am not starting over. There are many strokes already filling the borders of this work. In fact, many of the techniques I learned from what used to hang in the center (academia) will be utilized in this new space (yet to be named). Eventually, these strokes and techniques will come together to complete another scene, another dream for my life.

Being back in Colorado has given me the chance to reflect on the questions I’ve been asking myself since the winter break over coffee and meals shared with the people I love. The long conversations with my good friends and my mentors have helped me to find the words to describe a decision that I feel was made back in December. After I graduate from HDS, I will not immediately enroll in a PhD program. At this point, I do not think I want to make my career in academia. This is not to say I have abandoned the project or that I suddenly no longer want to be a professor. I do. It’s just that I’m realizing more and more that there are things I need to do before returning to the classroom (to be 100% clear: I am not leaving my program or regretting any decisions I have made to date. Just reassessing).

Maybe I’ll be out in the “real world” (silly phrase that that is) for a year and decide that it’s time to get a PhD. Maybe I’ll get a PhD in a research field and then work with faith communities to help them strengthen relations with members. Maybe I’ll be a professor when I’m 60 at a community college in Denver. Who knows? And, I believe I don’t need to know now.

There is no blueprint dictating how I build my life. For me, living is not a fulfilling of plans already made. Instead, it is something to be lived—truly an ever changing canvass. Some days, the picture may be unclear or fuzzy, which might scary. Others, I might think I know what’s coming into focus, just to find that something entirely different fills the edges of the frame. And, should I ever find that the picture has become something I no longer enjoy, there are an infinite number of dreams to be dreamed, and plenty of paint with which to fill a new canvass.

A strange concoction called "adulthood"

Today, I did my laundry, took my taxes to the post office to mail them (and promptly left because the line was nearly out the door), made my first successful omelet, called one of my parents to wish him happy birthday (on time!), turned in a paper that was due today, and am currently working on another paper I have due on Monday. Somehow, with all that I’ve accomplished by three p.m., I still got in a walk with Ace, a cup of tea, and wrote this entry. In the strange mix of grown up tasks and infantilizing schoolwork, I can now see that this is my version of adulthood.

I know I’ve blogged about this before, but it’s amazing to realize that I’m growing up. You know the saying that a watched pot never boils? Well, I’ve been waiting for my adulthood to “boil” since I was thirteen. And as soon as I looked away, that sucker hit 212*F (if adulthood is comprised of the same material as water, which I assume it is).

I’m not sure that this is exactly what I had in mind when I was daydreaming as a little girl, but perhaps, as my dear friend Ursula put it, there is not some “real life” out there waiting to be attained by me. I cannot continually imagine a far distant future and wait until I get there to be happy. Happiness is something deeper, more everlasting than that. Or maybe there is another term like “joy”, or “contentedness.” Maybe I should ask a Buddhist.

Whatever you call it, I think I have it. Or at least some version of it. That’s not to say that I don’t still worry (about bills, about school, about Ace’s ear infections) or that I don’t experience sadness (I’m still mourning the loss of my grandfather), but its something that lies beneath that.

A strange example of this was when I was speaking with someone about the death of my grandfather and my choice to miss a week of school. She said to me, “Well, you’re an adult. You’re making the choices that seem right despite the consequences because it is your education.” And, I agree. There is something about the death of my grandfather that has aged me markedly. In a real way, it’s as if his death has forced me to look at what I’m doing with my life and to ask: Why? This is a scary feeling. To think that I’m not sure why I’m doing what I’m doing, to think that perhaps somewhere along the way I lost track of what I wanted from life, to think that maybe I missed my stop. Beneath all those flittering emotions, though, there’s a vast ocean of certainty that I am going to be ok. No. Even more. That I am continually and always will be ok.

And, maybe, this is what it means to grow up—to lose the people you love, to lose pieces of yourself, to learn how much more expansive you can be. When I was in California looking through photos for my grandfather’s slideshow at the funeral, I was struck by the diversity of shots. There were so many I’d never seen. I saw a photo of him with his parents, and found the program from his mother’s funeral, which he kept in his sock drawer so that he might see it everyday. I saw photos of him with three different wives at different stages of his life, and I saw so, so many photos of him happy. If nothing else, these photos were a testament to the great expansive sphere of his life. I was lucky to occupy a portion of it, but to know that he had so much more comes as a great comfort. So, as I grow up, I am looking to his example: To mourn those I love. To love and love again. And, to let myself touch and be touched by so many people that my grandchildren will look around at my funeral in awe of the memories each heart holds.

November 25, 1939-January 16, 2011

Today, we held my grandfather's memorial service. It was a lovely way of remembering him and as part of the service, I offered the following:

When I think of my grandfather, I think of Pops because that’s what I called him. I think of eating cartons of Cookies and Crème ice cream just between the two of us.

I think about how honest he was and how he once made my uncle Brandon drive all the way across town to give money back to someone who had given him incorrect change.

I think about the fact that he was one of the most loving people I have ever known and how he was one of the only constant figures throughout my life. When I was two, he brought my sister, Ashleigh, and I into his house. It wasn’t like he had a lot of room. He had two sons, Brandon and Keith, at home. He’d already been a father to so many, but he was ready to be a grandfather to me.

I think about how stubborn he was and how stubborn I’ve always been. When I lived with him, I was obsessed with the neighbor’s lawn figurine. It was a squirrel and I stole it on a regular basis. Every time It mysteriously made its way to our house, my grandfather made sure it was returned to its rightful owner. And every time it made its way back to its rightful owner, I made sure it found its way back to me. Our game continued while I lived with them. Later when they moved into the house on Berkeley, he made sure their backyard had a little squirrel so that I would never have to return to my days of thievery.

But, above all I think of his change jar. Maybe it seems trite or self-serving, but a glass jar half-filled with coins is my symbol of Pops. Ever since I was a tiny child, Pops would gather his change for me. As he drove across California and the Western United States, he would save his pockets full of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. I imagine his pants hung heavy with the coins jingling. Lugging those little bits of currency and love back home, he would return to the woman he loved most in the world. In the last decade, his return was welcomed by two yapping dogs alongside my grandmother. As he dumped the metal coinage into the jar, he not only saved up money, but also hope.

Until my sister moved to Fresno, we would split the coins from the jar, but once I was the prodigal granddaughter returning from afar, the coins became all mine. When I was fifteen and sixteen, the money was a welcome boost to my spending money for my trips to California. As I’ve aged, the rolling of coins and the clang of the coin counter became vastly more important than the amount of change collected. The time spent in my grandparents’ bedroom—a place that had always held the mystical charm of adulthood—meant so much more than a couple dollars in my pocket.

I know now that every coin was a hope and prayer for me. It was a dream saved that I might one day cash in. Every time he made it safely home, he was storing up safe returns for me. As I traveled around the country and the world, he was bringing little pieces of his travels back for me. No matter how alone or afraid I have felt, I have always known that he was here, saving up good things for me.

The fact that he always saved those coins is a testament to the fact that he believed in me. He believed in all of us. Because we’re a family. We may not all share DNA, or common goals, or communal memories. But we share him. We share Pops and the love he had for all of us. We were so lucky to have him in our lives as long as we did, but it’s our turn now. It’s our turn to collect the coins of our lives, whatever form they may take. It’s our turn to save up hopes and dreams for ourselves and each other because that’s what a family does and Pops would have wanted it that way.

Regret and Forgiveness

I could tell by his tone that my grandfather was annoyed with me. He looked at me and said, "I don't know why you keep crying." As I started to weep, I told him through the tears, "I'm sorry. I'm just so sorry. I can't make anything better.  And, you're gone."

Suddenly, I was choking on air. My chest was heaving and I was in a dark room. I had been dreaming, but the fact that it was a dream didn't stop the tears from streaming down my face. For what seemed like an eternity, I could not stop my chest from heaving lying on my back on an inflatable mattress in San Francisco. I had seen my grandfather and I had had a chance to talk to him.

Over the winter holiday, my grandfather and I had argued about my "theories" and my answers for everything. His attitude had hurt my feelings immensely and felt like such a dismissal of all my hard work. I left California more than a little frustrated with him. The past few weeks this feeling has plagued me. I feel like such a jerk for taking his comments at face value. Instead of understanding that perhaps my grandfather was trying to relate to a whole world he didn't have any conception of, I treated his response as if he were an ignorant simpleton. What a fool I was.

I've been trying to put a word on what I'm feeling and it comes down to disbelief. I can't believe my grandfather is gone and that I'll never see him again. I can't believe one of the last times I ever talked to him was a fight. Above all, I can't believe that for a second I was foolish enough to think he wasn't infinitely proud of me.

My dream may have been just that, a dream, but now it feels like a sort of forgiveness, as if that dream gave me a chance to talk to him. To tell him I'm sorry. It has given me a way to understand my own grief. Maybe it is also a chance to understand that families fight and that for all his frustration with me, that my grandfather was proud. For Christmas, I got him a Harvard t-shirt and he loved it. He wore it the next day and made sure that everyone we were with took note of his shirt and told them about his granddaughter who goes to Harvard.

Unlike the dream, the reason I'm crying now, here in this Starbucks in Fresno, California is because I love my grandfather. I am crying because it is hard to say goodbye. And, I'm crying because my heart hurts.

Silence, Or: it seems like theological school is getting to me...

I'm settling in for an afternoon of reading Simone de Beauvoir with a cup of hot chocolate. I just walked home from Davis Square and there's just enough of a chill in the air for my cheeks to be burning. After a week of spring like weather, it feels like late winter again here in Somerville. I'm grateful for the decline in temperature as it is helping me stay on task with my reading. Don't get me wrong: I love Simone de Beauvoir and everything she writes seems like pure gold to me, but it's just hard to concentrate right now. Above all, it's Saturday and I have never been a productive person on Saturdays. Put on top of that the fact that I leave for California tomorrow to be with my family through my grandfather's funeral on Saturday and you've got a recipe for laziness.  If the weather were nice, too, I would be hopeless.

My hot chocolate, my reading chair, the howling wind, and my handsome dog make it all a little easier, though. There's something comforting about being alone with just the sounds of the world to distract me. It reminds me of the story of Elijah listening for the voice of God (1 Kings 19:11-14). God was not in the wind, nor the earthquake, nor the fire, but instead in the silence. Perhaps I've been studying too much Negative Theology, but there is something deeply confounding, yet peaceful about that idea. After all the years I've spent learning to read, write, and speak, there are things that are best expressed in the silence. For a girl who has spent most of her life talking and trying to express herself adequately, it comes as a great relief to know that with all the power and might that Elijah's God had, he expressed himself in silence. But the silence did not last. After Elijah entered the cave, God spoke. Not only did he speak, he asked Elijah a question.

I think perhaps I am in a phase of silence in some aspects of my life, but I must have faith that as with Elijah, the silence will not last. While I'm not waiting for the voice of God to tell me of the anointing of kings and the destruction of a ton of people, I am waiting for my own still, small voice echoing in the cave.

Or to stick more closely to the story, I guess I'm waiting for the question. And I will wait in the silence as long as it takes.

Taking a cue from Ronnie

I've been under a dark cloud this week (as you can tell from my last post). Most of my time has been spent alone with Ace and countless hours have been consumed with collecting, organizing, and reading materials for my classes. It turns out, there is no space on syllabi for heartbreak. So, basically, I've been one giant ball of stress. The other night, I was trying to open a bag of salad and nearly lost my mind. My dear Hunter came to my rescue, opened it in about 2 seconds without a word of judgement, and handed it back to me. I felt embarrassed at my short temper and frustrated that it was so easy for him to open it. Graciously, we both ignored the situation and discussed our school work.

Yesterday, in the middle of one of my stormy moments staring at the computer, the much beloved Ronnie burst into the Religious and Spiritual Life Office. Ronnie works in the mailroom here at HDS and pops in the office to collect mail on a regular basis. But, he is so much more than that. To me, he feels like the soul of this place. He knows everyone's name (which has got to be a challenge, given how quickly the student body turns over), and if he happens to forget yours for a second, he feels awful. I love seeing Ronnie and dark cloud or no, this time was no different.

"Sierrah!" he said in his Bostonian accent.

"Hey Ronnie!" I said, "how are you?"

"Oh I'm good. It's Friday, you know."

With a deep sigh, I replied, "Well thank God for that. Any weekend plans, Ronnie?"

"You know Sierrah, I'm gonna sleep in tomorrow and then eat some scrambled eggs." And with that he was out the door, calling, "Have a good weekend, Sierrah!"

A simple comment about a simple plan. Ronnie's joy gave me pause.

This morning I slept in. When I woke up, I stayed in bed for another twenty minutes, talking to Ace. When I got out of bed, I rummaged the fridge to find the perfect ingredients for banana pancakes with honey-yogurt. A simple and delicious way to embrace a new day. And as I pull out my reading for today, I can't help but think of Ronnie, off somewhere enjoying his scrambled eggs.

Undertow

I keep hearing that grief comes in waves, as if I am sitting on the beach letting the water rush up around me. Growing up in the mountains of southern Colorado, I don't really know much about the ocean. I can remember clearly though my first grade teacher (or one of those early ones) talking about undertow. The way it was described to me was that you could be close enough to the shore to see people you love and then suddenly, a current could sweep you out and away. Even strong swimmers could be claimed by undertow.

This morning, I awoke to find an ambulance in our cul-de-sac. I didn't think much of it as I was trying to get Ace out for a morning run. After our run, some homework, and a change of clothes, I set out for my day. As I passed the house on the corner by our small park, I looked up. Two men, who I later recognized as part of the coroner's team, were carrying a black bag. I stared for a moment trying to decipher what was happening. I recognized the black shape from television shows like Dexter and CSI. I looked away quickly, shamed by my voyeuristic gaze. I had just seen a dead body, but what right did I have to witness the last time this man would leave his home?

I've been troubled by this event all day. There was something so unsanctified, unholy, irreverent about the whole thing. It seems unfair. A whole life ended today and there was no pomp or pageantry. No one wept in plain view. Just a bag and two profane pallbearers. Perhaps the worst part to me was my own presence. I had the distinct feeling that I should not have been there. Then again, I've been wondering, perhaps that's exactly where I needed to be. To bear witness to the literal passing of a life before my eyes. To be present for the death of a stranger in a way I couldn't be present for my own grandfather's death.

It was only a moment. What could I really have seen or felt in a moment? How could I have been part of something significant in the time it takes to look away? Maybe it's okay not to know exactly what is happening. Maybe instead simple cognizance of change is what matters. And maybe the ways people--those we know and those we do not--touch us is beyond our control.

A package came to my grandmother's house last week. She opened the box to find my grandfather's Valentine's Day gift for her--three rings. As she told me this story, I started to cry. She said to me, "Everyday I got to say, 'I love you.' and 'Come back home safe.' And every night I got to kiss him and tell him I loved him. I knew him better than anyone. I was so lucky to love him." Even after his death, my grandfather is still touching the lives of everyone who knew him. I bought my bike this week and it feels cruel that I won't be able to share that with the man who helped buy it.

So maybe I am being pulled out from shore. Perhaps, though, this is the vantage point I need.

Betwixt and Between Bus Stops

I'm in the process of writing applications, but they aren't quite done. Classes have begun, but two days were canceled because of snow. Ace has started his meds (for an ear infection), but it hasn't really started to make a difference. Everything is just in between.

I think Victor Turner might delight (or despair) in my use of his infamous term to describe my state (and title my entry), but his description of the initiates feels appropriate. As if I were on the edge of a revelation, as if I were to become part of something bigger, as if I were about to emerge as a new member of my "culture-sharing group," as if I were about to embark on a quest alone into the great big world--I must wait. That's not to say that I am idle. I am busy preparing statements, brainstorming, organizing readings, daydreaming about the future, and living here in Boston.

Since it's February and I'm finding Boston's weather to be rather brutal, I decided to buy a monthly bus pass. That's right: unlimited rides on the bus (if you grew up with public transit systems that are reliable--or existent!!--you don't understand the glory that is a Boston public bus). The pass seemed like the right choice given the fact that I start my training routine  in earnest this week (hear more about why I'm training here)and will likely have to spend late nights on campus poring over ancient texts (seriously, I have a class whose texts reach back all the way to Plato. Awesome.). For the most part the bus is relatively on time (in a five to ten minute window either way) and definitely toasty as compared to the whipping wind, biting frost, and sudden onslaught of rain that pervade this Bostonian winter. This evening in such weather, I made my way to the bus stop nearest the Divinity School two minutes before the bus was to arrive to take me home. I stood in the cold, bemoaning the fact that I had forgotten my hat and my gloves as drops of rain ran off my eyebrows.

I looked in the direction of the bus. Nothing. Car, car, bike, man with umbrella, car honking at man, car, car. I checked my watch. Should have been here five minutes ago. A car honked as it drove by. Well, I thought to myself. Perhaps I should wait a bit longer. As I stood there weighing my options, that old familiar feeling came over me. Somewhere between anticipation and indecision, I was perched on the edge of change and movement--the pause before the song, the deep inhale before the dive. I hesitated a moment longer and then, before I could even make my decision conscious I was walking through freezing rain and ice covered bricks back to my home. Slipping the whole way, there were moments of doubt. I would look over my shoulder and think, Man, should I have just waited a while longer? But even as I thought that, I realized that there was something very refreshing about a late night walk through the snow and ice with rain dropping on my head, as if I had really never experienced a moment like this before. Before even realizing that I had beat the bus home, I knew that I'd made the right choice.

The struggle between deciding to take the bus or walk has the same character to it that my life seems to have right now. I'm waiting for a lot to take form, both at Harvard and beyond, and that can be an uncomfortable stage for me. So often in my life, though, I've found that when I feel like I need to take some action, but I don't know what that action might be, that really I just need to wait. Give it a while to rest. Take a deep breath and see what comes of it.

I guess sometimes you have to wait for the bus just long enough to know that you're supposed to walk in the rain.