A story - Part 2

Continuation of a story - part one...

I laid there grateful for the dirt floor that effortlessly supported my weight. She wrapped each of my feet in a warm dry towel and then reached into a small brown bowl that looked like a hewn out coconut shell and retrieved a tiny pair of scissors. The golden bird shape on the handle reminded me that these were her embroidery scissors and though they were dainty and beautiful, they were also incredibly sharp. She slid one blade under my pants leg and with one swift motion, sliced the fabric from my ankle to my hip - revealing the bruises and scars that my legs had acquired this time. Tree branches and brush had not only snagged the fabric but also grabbed at my flesh, revealing small red dashes and dots that looked like morse code screaming SOS from the surface of my skin. 

I was glad to feel the cool air of the room grazing my skin. I could not see what she was doing but I felt the warm poultice that she placed on each bruise and scratch and I knew that the healing process was as intense and effective in its work as my adversary was in her process of the elimination of me. She repeated the process on my right leg but hesitated when she saw that there was a gash just above my right knee. I had heard the arrows whizzing past my ears and was able to avoid them but this one came unexpectedly and though it seemed to merely graze my leg, it actually tore a chunk of flesh from me. 

I remember when it happened. I felt the heat of the pierce and when I looked down, I saw that it had not lodged in my leg and so I assumed that it had only nicked me. It wasn't until later that I realized that the wound was so deep. The fabric of my pants and the thick weave of my socks had absorbed the blood that gushed and clotted, so I did not stop to notice or tend to the wound. I heard her weight shift as she reached back into the coconut shell for a scrap of fabric that looked like a large teabag. At some point, she must have brought a basin of water and a towel into the room because I heard the trickle of water into a shallow container as she squeezed the water out of the towel that she used to wash the wound. It frightened me that I felt nothing as she touched my raw muscle with the cloth. She washed around the wound and carefully cleaned the damaged tissue before affixing the small tea bag looking thing over the wound.  She applied the same paste over the entire surface of the fabric and onto the skin around it. She held her hands over the area and whispered something I could not understand and as the paste dried instantly, there was a moment  that felt like she had applied open fire to the wound but as quickly as it registered, it passed and a warming sensation radiated from what had once been an open flesh wound. I knew that it would not take long for this broken flesh to repair itself and return to its original state. She whizzed the small golden hummingbird beak across the rest of the fabric with a deft hand and was able to remove the rest of the fabric from my hips and waist. She quickly assessed for damage and finding none, covered my legs in a soft blanket while she prepared for the next steps. 

Although my eyes were closed with the weight of fatigue, I determined that she was praying and things were brewing and healing. I felt her hands on my belly and I felt the inside parts joining themselves together and healing again. I felt things repairing themselves. I felt my heart pushing against my chest cavity as if it might explode right out of my body. My heart began to race as the blood rushed to heal the injured parts. I never noticed that what I thought was sweat collecting on my back was actually blood. I had scratched out a whole chunk of skin when I fell from the tree branch that held me but for a moment. I saw the ground rushing up towards me and I was able to brace for the impact but not before the branch tore through my clothes and lacerated my skin. I never felt the cold air rushing past the skin that flapped open because I was focused on making it to a safe place. It's funny how the body will compensate for things by distracting you with other things. The blood collected in the shirt and clotted almost instantly, saving me from bleeding out. The strap on my bag held my jacket closed, I guess, while I was making my way to safety.

With her hands on my abdomen, she whispered words that I could not comprehend and then laid her hand on my sweaty forehead again. She gently stroked my hair and let her hand rest on my shoulder where the hair tucked neatly behind my neck. She cradled my neck in her hand for a moment and prayed again and I felt my heartbeat slow to a gentler, less frenetic pace. I felt the cool air of the room blow across my collarbone as she began to unbutton my shirt and expose my skin. I am sure that she could see inside of my torso and chest right through to my heart.  Her hands were cool and steady as they passed over my chest and abdomen searching for internal injuries. She had the ability to find places that were damaged and begin healing them immediately. She had always been able to find the internal bruises in my body and healed them with just a touch of her hand. 

Lying on the floor with a blanket over my bare and battered legs, I heard the sound of water  bubbling and boiling and splashing against the sides of the hot copper kettle. Effortlessly, she rose from her crouched position next to me on the floor and moved into the kitchen to pour the excited water over the loose leaves in the brown cup that resembles a bowl with its wide bottom and generous diameter. I heard the clink of the plate as it rested on top of the cup while the leaves steeped in the hot water. I can already smell the aroma of the tea wafting into the room where I remain motionless on the floor. I felt a blast of what seemed like ice water rushing through my veins and I realized that it was just the chill that accompanied the healing fever. Small beads of sweat gathered again on my forehead and I felt the change in temperature as my warm skin was suddenly cooled by the moisture that attracted the cool air in the room. The sweat began to run down my face and I felt it gathering along my spine as my shirt absorbed the moisture and clung to my back along with the blood that had been clotting all along. I felt the throb of healing's heartbeat in my leg where the patch was securely attached to my skin. I wondered what else she would find as she continued to work on my aching body. I remembered the smell of the woods and just as quickly as the memory tried to stake a claim in my mind, I felt it racing away again and in its place, there were children's songs and nursery rhymes. This is the drift in and out of consciousness...I know it well...

She returns and kneels at my side and I hear her exhale gently and once again, I feel one hand on my abdomen and one on my breastbone. Before she proceeds with the ritual, she examines my abdomen and my arms to check for more severe damage. She must have returned with another bowl of water and another cloth for my face. I feel the cool water and the soft texture of the towel on my face and though I am drifting in and out of consciousness, I manage to press my face into a small smile of gratitude as she wipes the sweat and grime from my face. I am grateful. 

to be continued...

Resolving the Corporeal Contradiction

Yesterday, I was in the sanctuary listening to a sermon that was incredibly powerful in its simplicity. In a sermon entitled "In Practice" (http://1000wallace.org/713787954920), Pastor Callahan explained, or rather reminded us of the physical and spiritual importance of baptism and communion. I am not here to recap much of that...because you just need to watch, listen to, receive, and live the sermon for yourself. I am thinking about a conversation that I had just 24 hours prior about the trauma that the body tends to remember. I live in a body that remembers physical and emotional trauma and from time to time, serves up reminders in the form of incapacitating headaches, insomnia, aches and pains, and various other physical maladies. It's unfortunate because I don't always treat the physical symptoms for what they actually are. I mean, who treats unresolved grief with Advil, right? 

I am fortunate, in that I don't have trouble with movement. I mean, I am not the most graceful and coordinated person on the planet (or in the pew) but I have a pretty good range of motion...for a woman of a certain age! (I get points for still being able to do a pretty good cartwheel and a perfect round-off!) As I listened to the sermon, I heard the screeching sound of brakes and the two thoughts crashed in my mind. The same body that throws toddler hissy fits in the form of insomnia and migraines is the same body that went down into the water as an act of demonstrating my decision to follow the One who had indeed lived, died, and returned with all power in His hands. This corporeal contradiction was wrestling with the thought that these same limbs that reach towards heaven in an act of worship are the same ones that fall limp at my sides when I can't take life's pressures anymore. These same hands that hold the communion wafer and cup are the ones that held my aching head just 24 hours earlier. These same legs that walked down the aisle when I decided to join this particular body of believers at the corner of 10th and Wallace streets are the ones that collapse under the weight of the unresolved grief that they carry from pillar to post every day. These legs that bend at the knee for prayer also bend at the knee when I find myself in fetal position because I cannot navigate the raging waters of the day. 

This morning, I remembered the words of a woman who encouraged me to participate in the dance ministry of the church to which I belonged at the time. I don't think she knew that I have deeply ingrained body issues (which I mask with red lipstick and cute shoes to draw attention away from the middle ground) and I had a hard time relaxing into...well...real time confession, since I just stopped and realized that my shoulders had crept up to my ears in a well known gesture of fear, insecurity and tension, let's just say that I have a hard time relaxing. We would warm up with an unchoreographed time of "just moving in whatever way we felt led". That healed me then and continues to heal me now. I often wonder how it is possible to be such a walking contradiction - literally. Then, I remember to "just move" and I remember that I am not merely the sum of my experiences but I am also made in the image of the Divine. We waited for and celebrated for the One we call Emmanuel - God with us - but sometimes, I forget that God is not only with me but in me. 

When I remember my baptism, I smile and I am encouraged to remember that I have been and continue to be transformed. I remember hearing "take me to the water, take me to the water, take me to the water, to be bap-tized" and I remember the splash of the cool water. I remember the billow of the white robe and I remember wondering if that cap would keep my fresh press and curl intact. I remember my pastor smiling at me as he brushed the droplets from my face with his hand. I remember feeling incredibly loved and welcomed although I had been an active part of the body of believers for my entire life. I remember imagining the sight of angels rejoicing as I came up out of the water and walked into the arms of a deaconess who embraced me in a huge white towel. Even in the midst of the corporeal contradiction, I remember that embrace and I remember that I am always embraced in the cocoon of God's love as shown in the actions of God's people as I live out the strenuous and often painful work of being transformed. 

When I take communion and remember the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, I also remember that in this, there is an ASSURANCE of pardon and I am encouraged to live as if it is so...because it is so. I feel the wafer dissolve in my mouth and remind myself that not only is God's name safe in my mouth but God must be safe in my mouth and body because I promised to make that the dwelling place when I accept this gift of a broken body.  As the wine passes from the edge of a plastic cup into my mouth and down my throat, I remember that the blood that was shed for me fuels the change. Even when my shell feels weak and inefficient, there is a reminder that what is inside of me will regenerate what is on the outside. This act resolves the corporeal contradiction because when I feel like I cannot...I am reminded that I can. 

When I remember that God is not only with me but in me...I move. I live, I move and I have my being, and when I move, it is an act of worship. Movement is not just an exercise to maintain the physical body that I have been given. In these simple acts of worship, movement is an act of exercising my right to live life abundantly and when I move in worship, I exercise my faith and exorcise the demons. Fear of movement is replaced with fluidity of movement. Every movement is not an act of joy but the nature of movement is that it allows me to be fully where I am in one moment and then, when the body and mind are ready, transform that moment into the next one. This morning, I stretched the tired muscles that did not get the proper rest last night. This morning, as I knelt to pray, I heard the popping and creaking of body parts that have been at work for 44 years. I am not discouraged by this. This morning, as I worship with every movement, every gesture, every keystroke as I type this entry...I am not only exercising the corporeal gift...I am the embodiment of a Christian life...in practice.

Go and do likewise!

Shalom!

Love, Guess Who?

Dear Carla,

I love you. I love your fierceness. You face challenges that many would not be able to withstand upon hearing the very description. You face fear like a Boss (I think that's what the kids say) with no problem. You walk into fire and worry about the burns later. You mourn so many losses and smile and hold people's hands when they go through as if your own heart is not breaking or broken. You love the most dangerous people with a courage that is unsurpassed. You leap where others would backpedal. You stand where others would not dare to walk. You are a formidable woman who has survived so much and who deserves far more than the world can offer you. And yet, you keep on living. What is the secret? How do you keep pressing when there is no strength left in your arms? How do you keep living when life threatens to kill you with your next shallow breath? How do you do this? How do you survive loss like this? How do you find ways to support those who steal from you regularly? How do you have the audacity to look at the phone hoping it will ring when you know with certainty that it will not? How can you wear those hurtful words as if they are just costume jewelry complimenting a well made up face - or should I say a well made up mask?? I mean, most people would call it quits. But you keep coming back even when the demons try to push you out of the picture. They call you to be done and end it all. Yet, you breathe again and live one more day. You are one bad mother fucker baby. I don't think I could do it. And I honor you for even trying. I will keep watching you and I will be here for you. I support you and I love you...hell, I am you!

Love,
Guess Who? ;-)

A story...part one

A story crept into my mind and I am trying to let it out bit by bit:

 I collapsed from pure exhaustion and the kind of weary that can only come from a hard-fought battle. It is not just one isolated fight that has worn me out. It is an ongoing battle and my adversary knows just how to wear me out. I have found the threshold of a place of refuge and I can only collapse here and wait to be found. I must have brushed against the door and made some scratching noise because I hear her - the woman inside - coming to the door. The beautiful woman who opens the door is not shocked to see me lying on the  threshold. She looks out over my body into the distance to assess whether I made it there on my own or if I had been deposited there by another. Seeing no one and no tracks, she leans down and brushes my hair from my face and checks my breathing. It is shallow, ragged, and labored but present. She bends down to lift me off of the threshold and whispers to me. She calls my name and reminds me that I am safe now.

She carries me into her home easily as if the years have not ever diminished her strength and agility. She slides a pillow under my head and stretches my body out on a beautiful Persian rug. I know that I am covered in dirt from battle and I try to protest for fear of getting dirt on her precious rug. She shushes me and I stop protesting because I know that it is useless. She cares for me in ways that I am not able to care for myself. She knows who I am and she knows what I need. She places her hand on my forehead to assess for a fever and finds my skin warm and moist as if a fever has in fact begun to race through my body. She is relieved that my body has made this valiant attempt to heal itself. She closes her eyes for a moment and I know that she is whispering a prayer for my healing. We have done this many times before. She smooths my hair again and smiles at me and although my eyes are closed, I can still feel the warmth from her smile.

She stands up and walks to the kitchen to turn on a pot of water. She has all of the secrets of the earth in that kitchen. There will be a tea that is bitter on the tongue but sweet on the stomach. That tea will be one of the keys to this healing ritual. She returns to me and begins to untie my boots and pull them off of my aching feet. Dirt, blood and debris are caked in the boots but she has no concern for the filth and clumps of earth that fall off as she tends to me. Healing trumps housekeeping in this moment. She pulls my thick hunter's socks down my calves and hesitates when she sees that my feet look gnarled when in fact, they are cramped from dehydration and the potassium depletion that is a result of the battle.  With warm hands, she lifts my left foot into her lap and begins to stretch my foot until the muscles give in to her touch. No longer twisted over onto each other in a death grip, the muscles relax into a position that looks like the Creator's intention. This is always the most painful part and if I had breath, I might scream as the pain sears through my body on the way back to normal. The muscles in my foot seem to remember what they are supposed to do and be and with only a few twinges of confusion that look like a return to the cramped position, my left foot resumes its natural state and now, she will do the same with my right foot. There is no magic to this. She merely restores my feet to their natural state. This is her gift. She restores broken parts of me to their natural state. She reminds me all of the time that there is no magic and no secret to what she does. She is a healer and with her touch, she restores things to a rightful place. Muscles remember to relax in her presence. Bones no longer ache with the burden of stiffness. Hearing becomes sharper because distractions are filtered out. The mind works with greater efficiency now that there is room for every thought and they do not take over the rest of the body. She restores balance and I do not have to do anything but be in her presence. Her healing gift lies in her ability to allow me to just be. My feet know this and are healed and grateful.

grief verification

There's no casket here

But there is searing hot grief

Coursing down my face

Relentless hot rivulets 

leaping from my eyes and

Caucusing under my chin

There's no note 

On funeral parlor stationery

To excuse me from work

Because my loss

Was not carried in a casket

This grief knows

No pall bearers

Only grief bearers

Who loaned hearts

When mine broke

  for the millionth time

I called the wailing women

But the line was busy

With grief for fleshly remains

No time for wailing

Your petty griefs

But

We are sorry they keep you awake

We are sorry they steal your appetite

We are sorry that no one is available

   to take your call right now

But without a casket

We cannot verify your grief

Please try again

Later

Reverendsister's Ink (c) 2014

safety

i live in this

topsy turvy world

where things are never 

what i think they will be

a life lived on a fault line

and it's usually mine

even when it's not

a world where grief

sneaks in and grabs me 

by the throat

and I fall silent 

and cannot catch my breath

a world where

the defense always

seems to rest

never having bothered

with a burden of proof

that this world of mine

is anything other than

the home version

of the most dangerous game

so i long for safety

Reverendsister's Ink ©2014