2/18/2017

attending to the struggle

Six years ago this week I made a decision that, over time, changed my inner world and launched me far from my own agenda about which church I should be attending.

In a sense, when joining the Orthodox Church I flipped. It was much like the time I let go of an airplane strut somewhere above Estacada, Oregon and tumbled, paratrooper-style, beneath a swiftly opening chute. I couldn't comprehend all that was happening after I jumped, but I knew that in a lucid moment I had signed on. My landing--safe or not--would be determined by the reality of the instruction I received from strangers, of the trustworthiness of their experience and skill.



Both times--skydiving and catechizing--I chose to place my life in the hands of other people and do something unexpected. Both times I did my best to keep my eyes open, to seriously engage in an intended practice, and to struggle. Stepping out under an airplane wing, after all, should never be a relaxed activity.

This week, fighting (and mostly losing to) a head cold, I rewatched Joss Whedon's Firefly and Serenity. I enjoy going back to something I really like and experiencing it through the eyes of my current perspective. Overall this time, the short-lived TV series and movie gave off hues of family--adopted, engaging; most of all, struggling.

During the past four months at my church, I've experienced people of a family persuasion struggling. Not so much with each other (and that is a kindness, as someone on Firefly might say). We've been going through a time of outward tribulation. I have whined and groaned about it aplenty. Thankfully, people still put up with me.


Characters on Firefly have much they are working on. Outwardly they strive to stay afloat and among the living. But it's the inward struggle that, I'm seeing, takes center stage. At the same time, they encounter people who've found a variety of ways to stop struggling.

What do I mean by ceasing this "inward" struggle? I could also call it a tendency in human beings to find ways to set it and forget it. To decide that my understanding, my way of carrying out life "in the 'verse" is just fine. It's deciding that the good world (good life, good behavior) I have put together is a sinless world.

No matter their social standing, the characters of Firefly who've stopped struggling all make the same sorts of decisions: they will keep on lying, stealing, and killing or they will continue attending fancy dinner parties and duels or they will once more kidnap townspeople or they will yet again cover up a terrible government mistake. The main problem isn't particularly how they live, it's that they don't seek to fight the tide of distraction from true living. They don't take stock of themselves or try to swim upstream.

By contrast, the characters joined to the crucible of family--in this case, at home within a spaceship most beloved--must, each in his or her fashion, wrestle mightily with failings they'd rather ignore. The work of this struggle binds each one to the others and helps them fight the current of inner falsehood. Here the choice is either sacrifice or selfishness. Only love will keep their ship from falling out of the sky.


2/08/2017

there are houses

Regular old rain has returned. Rhythm and song, off the eaves of a morning now daylight by seven.

Seriously I consider--and I believe I've decided to--let my Facebook account of nearly nine years wane. I will entomb it, set it in stasis, or whatever the procedure is for dis-following and un-fellowshipping with Facebook for, I hope, a few months at least.

It's kind of been like being cast in a TV series. I've had a good run. I'd like to go out while I'm sort of "on top." I saw a friend from church leave her account (she blogs still, as will I), and the idea, which has floated close sometimes for more than a year, came around again.

Facebook is perfect for cousins and old friends, between whom there is history and affection but who have so much else to get to they can't often connect. For love of friendly cousins I will likely return at some point. Starting over has its place.

My kids are far off, but the phone brings them closer. Video chats are possible and sometimes those happen. Victoria and I move deep into conversation at opportune moments. (We forget to update each other on daily details, but that's the way we meander.) Last time, Edmund kept floating close and asking to talk to Grandma. "I want to hug you," he said and hugged the phone. So I hugged mine, too, and then asked him what's outside his window ("there are houses").


Tim and I continue, surprised by it each time, to welcome people under our roof. Westley warms up to them after a few days. The fireplace crackles, heating water for tea. I am no hostess. Our latest visiting friend, who lives in his car but whose car is waiting at a repair shop to be repaired, roasts his vegetables in the kitchen, learns from me about kombucha, and sometimes sweeps the floor. Tim's wall of movies comes in handy.

For now I gaze out my window at bare houses waiting for finch and pollinator to return--and find myself (after some adjustment, to be sure) gratefully sharing and receiving. Out here it's a clunky, crunchy universe. Mostly quiet. And sometimes someone sweeps the floor. Yay.

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