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.

The Rowing Endeth - Anne Sexton

I'm mooring my rowboat
at the dock of the island called God.
This dock is made in the shape of a fish
and there are many boats moored
at many different docks.
"It's okay," I say to myself,
with blisters that broke and healed
and broke and healed -
saving themselves over and over.
And salt stick to my face and arms like
a glue-skin pocked with grains of tapioca.
I empty myself from my wooden boat
and onto the flesh of The Island.

"On with it!" He says and thus
we squat on the rocks by the sea
and play - can it be true -
a game of poker.
He calls me.
I win because I hold a royal straight flush.
He wins because He holds five aces.
A wild card had been announced
but I had not heard it
being in such a state of awe
when He took out the cards and dealt.
As he plunks down His five aces
and I sit grinning at my royal flush,
He starts to laugh,
the laughter rolling like a hoop out of His mouth
and into mine,
and such laughter that He doubles right over me
laughing a Rejoice-Chorus at our two triumphs.
Then I laugh, the fishy dock laughs
the sea laughs. The island laughs.
The Absurd laughs.

Dearest dealer,
I with my royal straight flush,
love you so for your wild card,
that untamable, eternal, gut-driven ha-ha
and lucky love.

There's a post-your-favorite-poem meme floating around, and I'll post one of mine in a while, but first, this one was posted by someone else, and caught at my heart this morning. It speaks to me of the practice of mindfulness and immediacy; of being present in this moment, now.

You, Reading This, Be Ready

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
Sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
Than the breathing respect that you carry
Wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
For time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
New glimpse that you found; carry into evening
All that you want from this day. This interval you spent
Reading or hearing this, keep it for life—

What can anyone give you greater than now,
Starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

-- William Stafford

Between a study group and preaching from the lectionary this week; I've been reflecting on Mark's story of the disciples immediately following Jesus when he calls them away. They leave fishing nets  and boats behind, James and John leave their father. Now - they don't really go that far the first day, only into Capernaum; and  they end up in Simon Peter's house.

But it's the "immediately" that catches my attention. Mark uses it eight times in short succession:

Jesus is immediately visited by the Holy Spirit in his baptism, and immediately goes into the wilderness. Afterwards, he comes along the lakeshore and Simon and Andrew immediately leave their nets and follow him. Jesus sees James and John and immediately calls them. They go into Capernaum, and immediately to the synagogue, where immediately there is a demon possessing a man. After the synagogue, they immediately go to Simon's house, where his mother-in-law is sick, and immediately they tell Jesus about her illness.

I'm more of a leave-it-for-later person, than do-it-immediately. But thinking about this section, and the disciples' response (is this the first and only thing they get right?) - leads me to question how I could integrate more immediacy into my life.

Definitely in the little things: doing the dishes now, rather than letting them pile up for later.

But when I consider Thich Nhat Hanh's advice that we need not worry about the future, but only do that which needs doing now... I think I start to see glimmers of a wider and deeper spiritual practice. That at any time; there is something which could be done right now. And if I were to do that, then I could move on to the next thing that needs doing.

I'm working on it. At home, and at the church. I've collected up three years worth of tax records, and hired an accountant. I left the messy house this morning with some calm, knowing that there would be time when that was at hand, but not when I was trying to get everyone up and out in the morning. I did all my follow -up from the editorial meeting first thing. I cleared out the mail while not keeping any of it on my desk.

I've posted this entry. And now, immediately, I'm going on to the next task.

Today's sign that I might be feeling slightly overwhelmed: feeling like I could start crying because I couldn't find the tea strainer.

Yikes. And it's only Tuesday.

(And the tea strainer was behind the microwave, so now I have my tea, too.)

Imagine it.

You live in Jerusalem, or maybe in one of the neighbouring villages. People have been talking for the last few months about the new prophet who has set himself at the Jordan river, baptizing people in the water for forgiveness of sins. A few of your neighbours went, and when they came back they seemed different. More compassionate, maybe, a little more honest.

( You can't quite stop thinking about it )

- this morning's sermon, focus inspired by nezumiko , </lj>who is amongst God's beloved children

I've been struggling with my Epiphany sermon all week - reading about light imagery, and how our image of three wise kings is influenced more by Christmas carols than scripture... and all of it not going anywhere at all in my head.

But finally (and none too soon, really) it flipped around and fit together. Rather like turning around that one jigsaw puzzle piece that lets all the others fall into place.

My new piece: a quote by Judith Halberstam, who writes about  female masculinity.

And that suddenly met up with the assertion that the wise men were changed by their encounter with the Christ child - so that they chose to go home another way.

And I thought: Really? Maybe they never intended to go back to Herod. Maybe one meeting with him was enough, and they intended to resist the powerful king from the time of the first meeting. And then (with my unfinished Moses Sunday school lesson in my head) - that Matthew is comparing and contrasting Jesus with imperial power - with Herod and Cesear; by reshaping the Moses story - and finally, FINALLY realized who the wise men remind me of...

They remind me of Puah and Shiprah - the midwives who are called to be complicit in the killing of the Hebrew children and refuse. I think that gender obscures the parallel - even though there is in the genealogy a clear indication (with the anomolous women's names) an indication that righteous, faithful outsiders will recognize Christ in contrast to supposedly righteous authority figures.

So to go back to Halberstam - it is not enough to claim a title: be it lesbian, Christian, wise man, saviour - if we are still going to follow established patterns of hierarchy. We are called, instead - like the wise men - to follow the light, the star, when it leads us to the marginal places, and take up living there. It is, after all, where Christ can  be found.

I haven't really made it out of the kitchen yet today. Still in my pyjamas, too. Been on the computer, made some blueberry pancakes (which my son's friend wouldn't eat. Because apparently his food picki-ness extends to blueberries in pancakes. I don't even know.)  Flipped over to January on my new calendar (chickens!)

Swept the floor.

Thought about how good it felt on the first day of the new year to be sweeping up and clearing away detritus from the old year. Thought about how many things are sitting out because it seemed easier, or that I wanted them near to hand, but now they're in the way. Thought about how it's the little bits that fall unnoticed from daily tasks that need to be swept up. Considered how that applies outside my kitchen.

What little pieces of life crumble to the wayside, outside my attention?

Friendships neglected? 
Tasks left half finished?
All those things I mean to do, and don't get around to?

I'm not very fond of New Year's Eve. I don't make resolutions, rarely drink, dislike crowds... So I'm quite content to be planning a night in with the medium sized boy and a couple of movies. Maybe I'll pick up some pop, so he can have something fizzy to drink. Maybe take down the Christmas tree in my ongoing quest to put the house back to rights after Christmas.

My cat always stalks around, discontent, when things like Christmas trees disrupt the house. Each year I empathize a little more with her, muttering under my breath about more stuff in my already too-messy house; cardboard boxes still needing breaking down, trying to figure out when Christmas trees will get picked up at the curb, why is there still bits of wrapping paper on the living room floor, and where will I find a home for the stuff displaced by the new (to me) aquarium.

And yet there's something very comforting about these mundane grumblings. They're small and domestic and non-tragic. A reminder that we're doing alright; that we had money for gifts and time to spend at home together messing up the house.

Blessings in disguise.

It's funny about leading worship - so often my mind is wandering forward to the next piece of the service, or I'm concentrating on matching my speed to the congregation's (the pacing and leading is a little different in all three of my congregations) - it's difficult to sink into the moment and let myself pray from my heart, and not just my mouth.

I was at one of the smaller nursing homes this morning - myself and just three residents for their mid-week service. I've been using the same set of prayers during my December rotation at the retirement homes, and this prayer has pulled me into the moment each time. It is saying something I really need to be praying right now.

( prayer by Maria I. Tirabassi )

Take a moment. Have you got a ruler nearby? A tape measure?

Mark out a square foot on the floor. 30cm by 30cm.

The battle of Passchendaele started with opening volleys of artillery fire. Artillery fire so heavy that it was heard in London.

By the time the fighting was over, approximately 145 artillery shells for every square foot of battleground had been fired.

Just in that square foot marked out on your floor. And another 145 shells in the square foot beside that, and another 145 shells in the square foot beside that.

We're on a summer worship hiatus for the month of August, so Sunday morning worship is held at the other end of the village at the Presbyterian church.

I find myself to be really hyper-critical of other people's preaching. I listen, and there's a running commentary in my head about how wrong, wrong, wrong their interpretation is... I suppose I have some work to do on my own arrogance.

But - - I couldn't believe it this morning, listening to someone preach on the dangers of pluralism - the dangers of listening to other religions?

Really? Seriously? This is what she thinks is threatening the existence of the rural church? Other religions? Buddhism? Or maybe Ba'hai?

I just can't stand listening to such close-minded, intellectually weak assertions.

I remember when I worked as a layperson in the church office, there were a few times when I was so grateful that I wasn't clergy. That the worst I had to do was go through the congregation list and made phone calls advising of a death and the funeral times.

The funeral director said to me this morning "The longer we stay in the community, the more it's people we know. This isn't easy, like a 97 year old grandmother. This one. This one is hard."

So I sat on the steps of my porch and broke down in tears halfway through my cup of coffee.

We fall in love with our congregations, and our congregation members, sometimes. Not in a way that involves boundary workshops and discipline hearings, but in an uncomplicated open heart way. Sometimes, it feels to me like the way I love my grandparents, or aunts and uncles.

And it hurts, oh it hurts, when you step out of the house for a half hour meeting on wedding prep, to come home to three phone messages that bring unexpected bad news.