the psalmist lifts up her voice

When I was a very little girl, I had a pink gingham dress that I loved. I loved it so much that when I outgrew it that my mum turned it into a pillow. I couldn't say gingham, and somehow it became known as my prinkle dress and then prinkle pillow. I slept with it every night, wherever we went.

I've been cleaning out stuff from the house; and making a particular effort with a closet in my bedroom, that is largely useless for clothes, because it's spilling out with other things. And making enough progress that this past week, I'd considered a few times some of the things I knew were in there. Thought about the threadbare, stained, lumpen prinkle pillow.

I stood in my bedroom this morning, holding it. One of the pieces of advice for letting go of things is to take photos if they have a sentimental value. But... what would I do with a picture of a bedraggled pillow? I thought about why it was important. It reminds me of my mother; who I love, and is still alive and well. If I want to connect with her, surely picking up the phone is better than holding on to a pillow. And then I remembered the times as a child when I would cry and cry helplessly into the pillow; feeling friendless and miserable. Hardly feelings I want to hold onto.

And then I thought: when I feel like that now, I can call my friends. I'm not alone. I don't need this pillow, because I have far, far better support networks than a worn out child's dress stuffed with polyester.

And with gratitude, put it in the garbage bag, and out to the curb.

I've started watching the A&E show Hoarders on Monday nights. My daughter stood riveted in the room for about five minutes before going upstairs, agitated, because she couldn't stand it anymore. And then she came down twice with huge arm loads of paper clutter from her room - old school work and fashion magazines.

I think what set her off last night was that the homes on the episode weren't that bad. They weren't places where the crew uncovers long dead cats, for instance. And I think she could see that there was definitely a continuum from here to there...  that's it's not just messiness I struggle with, but hoarding behaviour.

The stories are a little too familiar; family histories with divorce, depression, alcoholism; emotional attachment to things because of grief, collecting things with potential, and then drowning in them. Accoutrements for hobbies that aren't used. And I hear some of my inner dialogue on the show "This could be useful" or "It belonged to my grandmother" or "I keep meaning to sort through that pile".

unclutter_2010

I've decided to try again this year to work at letting go of some of the stuff in my house. I appreciated the discpline and reflection space at unclutter_2009 , and so am doing unclutter_2010 .

The goal is to get rid of one thing every day, and an extra thing for each new one I bring into the house. I did it for the first few months of last year, and appreciated most of all the shift in my attitudes about acquiring new stuff.

( Jesus comes to us... )

I wish you not a path devoid of clouds,
Nor a life on a bed of roses,
not that you might never need regret,
nor that you should never feel pain.
No, that is not my wish for you.
My wish for you is:
That you might be brave in times of trial,
when others lay crosses upon your shoulders.
When mountains must be climbed,
and chasms are to be crossed.
When hope can scarce shine through.
That your gift God gave you
Might grow along with you
and let you give the gift of joy
to all who care for you.
That you may always have a friend
who is worth that name.
Whom you can trust, and who helps
you in times of sadness.
Who will defy the storms
of daily life at your side.
One more wish I have for you
that in every hour of joy and pain
you may feel God close to you.
This is my wish for you,
and all who care for you.
This is my hope for you,
Now and forever.

- Carmina Gadelica

I was planning on going into my office this morning, turning up the heat and holing myself up to catch up on some reading. But once I actually looked at the bookshelf in the kitchen where I keep my church books, I realized I had enough catch-up reading at home to keep me busy for a few days. And this way I don't have to change out of my yoga pants or brush the snow off the car.

So I've been reading through 50 Ways to Pray, and when I got to the chapter on body prayers I had to take a break.

I realized that just the title of the chapter was pushing my buttons.

I was at a workshop this fall where I ended up in the body movement section, and I hated it.  I knew I would, and wasn't, actually, as bad as I thought it would be, and it was good to push into what I know is an uncomfortable area for me.

Partly, I'm a bit physically reserved. Partly, I have no reaction when the leader instructs the group to strike a pose expressing sadness. Anger. Joy.

I just....   have no response to that. Sure, I know what the appropriate response should be - I've been at enough of these to see everyone else throwing out their arms for joy, or skipping around, or curling up for sadness. And I do, actually, know what some of my physical tells are for emotions, but some of them are really, small - more like a tightening of shoulders, or a curled lip.

And then, inevitably these things seem to progress to "dancing" around the room - interacting with the others, and maybe waving scarves in the air. While listening to Loreena McKinnet or the like.

And I suppose therein lies one of my deepest irritants with the whole thing. If you want me to dance, play dance music. Maybe I'm the only one in the room who's been inside a club in the last 20 years, but I just hate the way these embodied prayer things cluster together cultural assumptions about music and movement and personal space.

I suppose, given that it is embodied, maybe it's not surprising that this is the one that pushes my buttons.

Anyway, back to reading. And a fresh pot of tea.

The moon is full, the autumn nights grow longer,
In the north forests startled crows cry out.
Still high overhead, the star river stretches,
The Dipper's handle set to southwest.
The cold cricket grieves deep in the chambers,
Of the notes of sweet birds, none remain.
The one evening gusts of autumn come,
One who sleeps alone thinks fondly on thick quilts.
Past loves are a thousand miles farther each day,
Blocked from my drifting and my sinking.
Man's life is not as the grass and trees;
Still the season's changes can stir the heart.

- Wei Ying Wu

I rode my bike to work on Tuesday. It's about 13km there... I had to take the racetrack road (the long way), since the trail is closed down to the village and the highway is too busy. I had a wonderful ride down... through the soybean and corn fields, past the shorn hay and wheat and oat fields.

When I lived in the city I was a commuter cyclist. Traffic and stop lights and smog alerts. When I left my office in the afternoon to ride home, I was dismayed that the wind had picked up and was now gusting from the north - the direction I had to pedal back home, all 13 km.  Strong enough that even the momentum from the gentle downward slopes was barely enough for coasting. It was a very long ride back, and I had lots of time to reflect that I don't do things that are physically challenging and uncomfortable very often. It was humbling to need to physically work to get myself back home. No easy push on the gas pedal. No controlled climate, no windows to roll up and shut out the weather. No way home other than one pushed pedal and then another and another.

From the Early Canadian Galt Ladies Cookbook
1898
by The Ladies of Galt

Liniment for Rheumatism, Sprains and Bruises
Mrs. Hume

One ounce spirits of ammonia, one ounce spirits of turpentine, one ounce tincture of opium, one pint rain water, add a little soap. Shake well before using. Bathe affected part well with hot water before using.

I started back to work this morning with worship at one of the local retirement/nursing homes. I brought my Where the Wild Things Are puppets with me, and we sang old hymns of trust and commitment. The more I sing those old songs, the more they speak to me... the imagery of following in trust, of leaning and resting.

Back in the office I've cleared off the mail from the desk, and the email from the inbox (mostly). I've shelved a bunch of books, and started to let my mind drift back into my list of things what need attention. Hmph.

But I had lovely, relaxing vacation time - some visiting, some gardening, some theatre, lots of sitting on my porch reading Not!Work! related books. And some reflecting of what from that luxurious time off I would like to bring with me into the fall.

• more reading - in the office or at home; and a mix of work and recreational reading
• yoga classes & other physical exercise - I feel soooo much better than I did at the beginning of the summer and its the yoga and swimming and biking that's made all the difference
• time with my kids - going to a play, sitting on a bed laughing, whatever
• writing letters
• reflection time - I think I need this at the beginning of my week and at intervals throughout the day - a check-in for how I'm doing, and what needs doing, although not necessarily a checklist.
• prayer time - easy to lose when there's lots to be done
• taking care of details so they don't pile up and stress me out

Those are mine - What would you like to carry with you into fall?

I've been catching up on some reading - a stack of books on John's Revelations, and just started my stack on gender. I started with Kate Bornstein's Gender Outlaw. I found her book to be very readable (something you really appreciate after 2 1/2 books on the apocalypse). And it gave me some deeper understanding of transgender identities, and the performative aspects of gender. After I finished the book this morning, and was dressing for work,  I thought about how I was constructing my gender.

Shortish curly hair (with some grey)
Silver bangle, grey pearl necklace
Grey sweater/black capris
Black patterned sandals
black lace bra with a DD cup
no makeup

About how my clothes would have counted as cross-dressing in my culture not too many years ago. About how I chose a more masculine performative identity today (grey/black, no makeup, clothing adapted from men's garment traditions), when I was working in the office, rather than a more femme presentation yesterday (sheer white blouse with camisole, pink linen skirt) when I knew I was doing pastoral care in the afternoon.

I wonder how often I do that? Dress more masculine/butch on days when I'm trying to portray theological authority (funerals/preaching), and more femme when I'm being pastoral or resistant (visiting/presbytery).

I thought about how I can go to my yoga class tonight, in curve hugging stretchy pants and tank top, and have all my curves and bumps be in the "right" places.

I wondered what it would feel like to roll up a sock, and pack for a day.

All these ways in which I unconsciously construct my gender(s) in a day.

I had only one church service this Sunday, instead of the usual three, it was weirdly light to finish the benediction and then just relax, and stay for coffee, instead of driving off to do it all over again three more times.

And when I got to my office this morning, I shuffled through the mail, (voice, paper, e-) and thought about doing a ToDo list. And then I remembered the pad I saw at the mall yesterday (daytrip with the kids) - which was a To Not Do list, and had categories like Procrastinate and Sabotage. And that hit a little close to home for me.

And then I went through the ritual of shuffling through my phone calendar and the church calendar to add in missing appointments. And discovered that I'm working THREE nights this week. In July! When I'm supposed to be working on slowing down. So I'm not so very impressed with myself there.

I've spent the last hour or so on paper mail - I've got a stack of mail on my desk to take down to the post office - some personal mail that I brought from home, some thank you cards and pray notes from this morning's work in the church office. I might even curl up in an armchair in the corner in a bit, with a mug of tea and read theology or biblical criticism. It is beginning to feel like a very old fashioned clerical day, reminiscent of the clergy in old British murder mysteries.

I am drowning, water over my head
and I push up, gasp for breath, call out
to you
You Who Are Always Becoming

Can you hear me over the waves
please, can you hear me
choking, croaking
help

If You Who Are is marking my progress
surely you see I'm being sucked out
down
by the undertow

And yet you are not assigning points after all
only offering forgiveness
(and not just to me, to my chagrin)
and that abundance of grace
is wider than the ocean
more fiercesome
more beautiful

I wait for You Who Has Always Been,
my soul waits
for a word that engenders hope
my soul waits for You Who Will Always Be
more than those who watch for the morning
more than those who watch for the morning

O people, hope in the One Who Is
For with the One Who Is With Us
there is steadfast love,
and great power to gather in
all we who are lost.

I remember when I first started going to the Toronto Women's Bookstore - I was a teenager, and came home with things like Our Bodies, Ourselves, and read and reread and reread the chapter on lesbianism, looking for myself in the pages.

It's actually been years since I was last in, but I stopped in this weekend when I was in the city for a conference.

I picked up a couple of books - and found myself again in one of them. Femmes of Power is a book of portraits (photographic and narrative) that explore/explode queer femininities. I started it last night, and finished it on the porch this afternoon.

I almost didn't buy the book at all. I thought "Oh, this is shallow, self-indulgent." - which reveals just exactly what attitudes I've internalized about femininity and being femme.

But I read it, and the stories kept articulating things for me with which I strongly identified. Some of it I already knew - and it was wonderful to have things like femme-invisibility be explored. To realize that I'm not alone struggling with it. There are reflections on being attracted to butch women that are beautifully worded. And picture after collaborative picture of a wide, intersecting diversity of femme women.

By the end of the book, I was almost shaky with a new way of understanding myself. I remember having  a discussion with nezumiko a while ago about gender identification, and an uncomfortable assertion that I'd always felt like a woman. When Nezu challenged me to try and unpack what I meant by that, I really couldn't. But maybe my gender identification is mostly (but not always) femme.

I borrowed three other books on gender construction from a trans friend this weekend - serendipitously, I now think... one of those times I thought I was educated myself for others, and realize it's now for myself (or for myself in a different way than I first understood.)

[there's a whole other thing here for me, based on a friend's paper that was presented at the conference, about privilege, and companionship, that will have to wait]

But the most startling revelation was when I went upstairs. There was unpacking to do, but soon I found myself rummaging in my dressers and closet. And it took ten minutes to transform myself into an over the top femme. How did I not really know this about myself? I have wigs and skirts and corsets and 4 inch fetish heels... cherry red lipstick, fishnet stockings and false eyelashes. And most of it I never wear out, or mix with more conservative elements. But put all together I saw another self, one I really liked.

And it felt completely transgressive to wear a platinum wig and lipstick and heels, a houndstooth skirt and a corset in the empty house, just for myself on a summer's afternoon.

Femme.

There have been a few conversations and journal entries this week that resurfaced some reflections on gender and sexual orientation and gendered sniping.

Preface: Most of the real world conversations I'm talking about are middle class white women in Canada. I'm sure that plays into this in ways I don't fully understand, but include gender being a primary division because privilege affords the space to ignore race and class.

There are times, in women's spaces (ladies night at curling, women's groups in the church) when I'm taken aback by the bitterness with which many straight women talk about the men in their lives, and men in general. Sometimes it's sniping, sometimes humourous storytelling. But there often seems to be a thread of deep rooted resentment. And that gets categorized as "women discriminating against men" or "battle of the sexes" or some such other nonsense. But I really experience it not a women's conversation, but as straight women's conversation. And the image that comes is of a dead end, or a narrow alley - there's only so much room to manouever and it's frustrating. Some of it includes the language of settling - "All men are hopeless, so I'll make do with the one I'm with".

I wonder how intimacy plays into this - how lesbian and bisexual women aren't going home to a partner that doesn't get gender discrimination, and so don't feel caught in a pressure cooker.

I wonder how vision and choice play - how does this conversation feel different (or meaningless) when we don't see gender as a binary, genetic absolute? When some of the folks we love have sometimes been female and sometimes been male, and sometimes been other?

I wonder how race (and class, and culture) affect the dynamics? Is this another place where I see 'women's conversation', and what I'm actually seeing is 'white women's conversation'? (As I type that out, I'm pretty sure I know the answer.)

It's an intersectionality piece, I suppose. A place like those wild intersections that have 3 or 5 streets converging, rather than two. They take some time to get used to, and some patience to navigate safely. If you try and rush across as though it were a simple right angled meeting of streets, someone's likely to get hurt.

A busy, busy weekend, with company, and church, and family things, and the Medium Sized Boy's birthday party and the Teenager's dramatic triumph in the spring drama production. She was SO GOOD. It was a pretty good mom weekend. Apart from the one short full volume fight about mindreading and driving people to work. And the omg-shoulder pain.

So I've booked a massage, and managed to put off work for long enough this morning that I've had 2 hours to myself, and won't be working a 13 hour day. Baby steps.

One of the things I'm figuring out about beachpsalms+fulltimeministry is the constant temptation to live in my head, with an everlengthening ToDo List of Doom, and ignore my body. (And maybe my soul). And so I find it hard to find the time to pray or reflect or meditate or walk or dance or garden or sail... and then I'm struggling with body pain, and feeling wrung out. A bit like the line from the Robin Marks' song about the preacher preaching when the well's gone dry.

Next week I've got my final week of study leave for the year (my year is July-June for that kind of thing). I'm going to a Conference on Calvin, and maybe my other learning goal just needs to be some time for reflection and soul/body work.

You know that changeable banner ad? Across the top of the page? (at least on my journal design)

When I look at my journal today, it's advertising Bible Software.

When I look at my flist, it's advertising a "Sugar Daddy Dating Service".

I'm just glad I've got Gertie as my default icon.

Lent was busy. And I kept thinking "After Easter, it will calm down." But then there were so many things that were put off until "After Easter" and then spring started arriving in fits and starts and it just got busier and busier.

I said to fierylight78  on the phone last night: "I really think it's going to calm down after I'm away at church camp in July. If it doesn't, then I'll re-evaluate." She replied "Just don't let it speed up until then." And my mind kind of blanked on me - some kind of ohgodbusierhowcouldicope and goditsnotlikeiplannedtobethisbusy So I guess we'll see how it goes.

Last night I actually had the night off, and cooked supper and did laundry and ate supper with both kids. And after we were cleaned up, the medium-sized-boy (who is not really so medium sized anymore, and soon will need a new internet moniker) and I sat in the upstairs hall and played with our new HotWheels cars. I have a new 1966 batmobile, and a sweet blue car with flames (I think it's a Ford Fairlane), We ran the cars up and down the hall, they slid and banked off the baseboards, crashed into each other, flipped and sometimes just coasted all the way to the end.

It was an unadulterated simple pleasure.

50 years ago today, Miles Davis went into a studio with Cannonball Adderley, John Coltrane,Wynton Kelly, Bill Evans, Paul Chambers and Jimmy Cobb - and they began to record Kind of Blue.

Psalm 139:1-14 (paraphrase)

O God, you have searched me and known me!
You know when I sit down and when I stand up;
you know my thoughts.
You know which way I run and when I lie down,
and know everything I do.
Even before I speak a word, you know it.
You are beside me and in front
and lay your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
too high, I cannot reach it.

Where can I go?
How could I run away from your presence?
If I go to heaven, you are there!
If I go to the abandoned places, you are there!
If I fly in the morning, or swim in the sea,
even there your hand will lead me,
and your hand will hold me.
If I say: “Let me hide in the dark”
even the dark is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as day
for darkness is as light with you.

You made me inside and out,
knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you,
for you are amazing and wonderful.