Day 26 Reflection: Mercy

I have hurt other people with my actions. Other people have hurt me with their actions. Sometimes our actions are deliberately chosen to cause harm; more often, we act out of ignorance or out of our brokenness.

When we are the one who hurt someone, we want mercy. We want them to look at us and say, “I will not punish you. I will not fire you, or cut you off from this friendship, or levee this fine on you. I will not carry on this family feud.” Because that is what mercy is: the act of withholding punishment.

When we are the hurt ones, we struggle to deliver mercy. Because we’re hurt, damn it. Because we have been betrayed. The desire to inflict hurt, we believe, lessens our pain. We want retribution, in other words.

Punishing someone doesn’t lessen our pain. Intuitively, it seems like it should. But punishment is not the same thing as seeking restitution or remediation. Restitution is restoring what was lost, whether money or trust. Remediation is fixing the problem. These things, not retribution, set the balance right.

An example of giving mercy through process is restorative justice, which seeks to connect offender and victim and allow the victim and community to truly speak their sorrow, their pain and anger.
Restorative justice is a hard concept to fathom, because it requires reconciliation rather than adjudication. It requires facing the offender and explaining the hurt, and it requires the offender listen. We don’t quite trust the process. It doesn’t always work. But the willingness to try it is what we call mercy.

Day 25 Reflection: Blessings

Note: I am not usually overly Christian in my writing, being rather universalist in my leanings. But as the topic is blessings, I thought I would write in the dominant American religious view, Christianity, and its struggle with the concept of blessings.
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I dreamed last night that I was watching a religious TV movie and then I was in it. In the dream, I had checked in to this hotel of sorts, feeling rather down, and I noticed the others in there with me suffered from similar struggles. Being in this place, this boarding house of sorts, elevated us and helped us feel more cherished in the world.

Then I stepped out of the movie for a moment and said to my husband, who watched the movie with me (at a bed-and-breakfast, incidentally) “Watch what happens” in the most cynical tone of voice.

When I returned to the movie, one of the people running the establishment had added a month’s supply of some sort of supplement to my bill. And then the other residents started objecting to the new residents who had come in — from what a sputtering man said, his children should not be exposed to what he called “girly-boys”.

In a state of being blessed, we too often ask God to bless people like ourselves, not who we see as our enemies. We’d prefer it if God smote our enemies, like He did in the Old Testament. After all, they’re evil. They’re our enemies. We are the chosen ones, after all. We are Christian.

Actually, that’s not Christian. We are supposed to have evolved from that when Jesus delivered the Sermon on the Mount and when He gave his one Commandmant: Love your God above all and your brother as yourself — and note that he specifically gave an example of the Other — the despised Samaritans — as our brother.

If you are blessed, bless others. Bless those not like you. Bless your enemies. Blessings are not an economic good — that is, there is no finite amount of blessings such that blessings to your enemies or strangers detract from yours. It may be that your blessings to others soften their hearts or soften yours.

At the very least, blessing your enemies takes away the constant tension of hating your enemies and wishing them bad. You will find that a blessing.

Day 24 Reflection: Understanding

We nod our heads and say “I understand.”

Do we really understand those around us — friends in crisis, strangers in need, people surrounded by injustice?

Too many times, we use the words “I understand” to mean something quite opposite — something along the lines of “Please stop talking, I can’t really handle this.” It’s easy to tell when we are saying “I understand” to stop the flow of a difficult story, because the words come out of a sense of rising panic.

We can’t understand until we open up and sit with someone’s words and feelings. We need to listen without prejudging to get the message. We need to make meaning of their words to understand. If we can’t do this, we need to find someone else to listen.

We might be tempted to offer solutions — we can’t truly understand if we’re doing this, because we’re searching for the problems to solve. We’re not using the silence between words to understand, but to select what we think is the big problem to solve.

To truly understand is to accept what the other says — not accepting it as universal truth, but accept it as that person’s truth. This can be sobering, frightening, or terrifying at times. But understanding is the first step to bridging the gap between people, to healing hurts, to changing the world.

Day 23 Reflection: Dust

I associate dust with death. It must be my Roman Catholic upbringing and the rites of Ash Wednesday: Remember that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return. I prefer my father’s tongue-in-cheek version: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust; if the Good Lord don’t get you, the Devil must.

The Biblical metaphor does capture a truth: Life does come from dust. Dust contains numerous forms of tiny life: mites, bacteria, mold spores, plus specks of amino acids. The primordial ooze that begat the first life on earth was dust mixed with water for life.

When I die, I want to be cremated and scattered in a peaceful garden. I want to become nutrients for the grass and flowers. I want to scatter in the wind, become one with the soil.

I cannot think of a better thing to be than dust.

Day 22 Reflection: Safety

In my undergraduate economics class, my professor explained the relationship between speed and safety for consumers. Consumers, he said, didn’t want a completely safe driving, but a moderately safe driving experience. Which was why, as car manufacturers introduced safety innovations like seatbelts and antilock braking systems, people drove faster. My professor drew a graph to illustrate this, a supply/demand graph with the axes labeled safety and speed, and there was the answer in mathematic black-and-white.

People don’t want to be too safe. They relish the feeling of speed, and will drive faster if their cars are safer. Think about that.

Conversely, when safety decreases, we take fewer risks. Perhaps this is easier to imagine. People who grow up with abuse live in a miasma of implicit danger and don’t take the risk of reaching out for relationships. Authoritarian states silence the huge majority of dissenters because the stakes are too high to dissent.

We need to take risks to love, to create, to move forward. To become more human. Ironically, to do so, we need more safety. Those of us who feel safe must take the risk to address the unsafe conditions for others — the LGBT community, people of color, people of different religions. We need to stand up for others’ safety not just so they feel safe, but so they can move forward.mj

Day 21 Reflection: Friendship

As I said in these pages before, my best friend Celia died about ten years ago (I’m bad with dates) this week. She taught me a lot about friendship.

We met at a professional conference as the two slowest graduate students. Celia dealt with arthritis through her back and hips, while I had a broken leg from being hit by a car.

The first thing Celia taught me is that friendship is unconditional. She accepted me as I was — at times giddy, at times depressed. She gave me moral support during that rose petal wine disaster when the siphon got clogged and I got drunk trying to clear it. She took me to dinner when my husband at the time dropped a bombshell that led to our divorce.

The unconditional acceptance went both ways. I accepted her movement limitations and assisted her where I could. I helped scrub her back in the shower when she recovered from carpal tunnel surgery in both wrists.

I accepted that she was an introverted bookworm and she accepted that I was a voluble one that took naps when I felt talked out.

I envied her her drive to excel scholastically — she was a research leader, while I was a follower who had been encouraged to work at Master’s 1 rather than Research 1 schools. We complemented each other in research, because I have always been very good with words and she had excelled at research design. I didn’t let my jealousy get in the way of our friendship — that was my problem, not hers.

The day she died of a heart attack, Celia had sent a message on Facebook for my wedding anniversary, and as far as I can tell, she sent it just before she called the ambulance. She didn’t make it, and her daughter called me later while I was out with my husband and a couple other friends. I didn’t cry, mostly because I felt numb and helpless.

It’s been a while, but I still miss her.

Day 20 Reflection: Play

I have never stopped playing.

At age 55, my hands shape themselves into imaginary critters that talk in squeaky voices or growl and nip noses. I sicc them at my husband in the middle of restaurants when nobody’s looking, and he talks back. I don’t do this when the waiter’s visiting, because adults aren’t supposed to play.

I play with words. I make bad puns, which I’m told is more acceptable play for adults. I rename my cats silly things several times a day (Weeblebuttz sits next to me as I type this). I rewrite songs on the fly as jokes, or commentary, or nonsense.

My mind spontaneously explodes into play. I don’t have to make an effort to be playful. I don’t know if this is because I’ve never quite grown up or because I have bipolar disorder and possess the creativity that goes with the neurodiversity, but play is never far from my mind.

And I consider this a blessing.

Conversation with Leah and Baird

I sit at a front table at the coffeehouse. I look out the plate glass window — outside, the incessant rain punctuates my gloomy mood. I watch two people rush inside, looking wet and miserable. The tall man shakes droplets out of his black curls and the woman, long blonde hair tangled from the storm, playfully swats the man in the shoulder. He laughs at her. “You’ll need to get a lot stronger for that to even begin to hurt, Leah.”

They look young, she just out of high school and he in his early 20’s. They lean close to each other as they speak, not quite touching. I can feel the tension of their not quite touching, and understand their plight more than they themselves: they are young and in love, and they do not want to be.

Then the woman glances around and spies me. She taps the man’s shoulder and draws his attention toward me. They make a beeline toward my table. “May we sit down?” the woman asks. “We need to talk to you.”

It’s then I realize who they are. “Leah Inhofer,” I noted as the two sat down. “And Baird Wilkens, right?”

“Of course you know us,” Leah acknowledges as she sat down. “You’re the writer.”

Baird brushes a lock of wet curly hair out of his eyes. “You wanted to talk to us.”

“Yes, I did,” I admit. “It’s time to write about the two of you, and I need to get a better feel for you.” I pause. “You first, Baird. You’re a Nephilim and you were born not that long ago. Who are you?”

“True on both counts,” Baird notes. “It’s been about a year, but luckily, being a Nephilim, I became very quickly. I fell into the agricultural concern at the Dance, sensing that farming was where I could serve best. I found myself gravitating to the Maker mythos of the Archetypes rather than Leah’s Christianity — “

“Not my Christianity,” Leah corrects. “I don’t know what I believe, I don’t judge like my parents’ God does.” Leah shifts in her seat. “My parents don’t approve of me hanging out with Baird, because he’s a Nephilim. They can’t handle that he’s not fully human, because it calls into question all they believe as Christians. His father’s an Archetype — too much like an angel and not enough like one for Dad’s liking.”

Baird shrugs. “I don’t like that at all. I have to work with him, and he’s cordial enough to me, but he doesn’t like Leah spending time with me.”

I suspect there is more to Mr. Inhofer’s discomfort than Baird’s parentage, but I keep quiet.

“Leah,” I ask. “What are you doing now that you’re out of high school?”

“I’m waiting. My goal is to get to college and then vet med school, or at least vet tech training. We need a vet at Barn Swallows’ Dance. I’m trying to get in at the University.”

Baird looks at Leah pensively. “Baird?” I ask. “Are you going to stay at the Dance?”

He shakes his head as if clearing it. “Oh, sorry,” he murmured. “My mind wandered.”

“Earth calling Baird,” Leah teased. “Come in, Baird.” Baird’s pale cheeks took on a rosy tone as he looked down his nose at Leah.

Baird smiles, and I see something in his smile that Leah doesn’t, a longing. It’s not my business to tell, I realize. Only to write.

Day 19 Reflection: Hospitality

My friend Celia has been dead for ten years, but I still miss her. The thing I miss the most about her is how I felt when I visited her — I felt perfectly accepted despite my quirks (my need for an afternoon nap, my chattiness, my occasional giddiness).

To me, accepting the other is the key to hospitality.

Too many places I’ve been have professed hospitality and shown otherwise, many of them Christian in focus. I stayed at a bed and breakfast that posted the “As for me and my house, we will worship the Lord” quote in a guest room. This seemed almost hostile to me, even though I’m a Christian — as if the host had said “Leave this part of you that’s not Christian behind if you’re going to stay here.” I attended a church once that prided itself on its inclusiveness yet employed an uncomfortable silence when I mentioned I had just been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, just when I needed reassurance. I did not feel accepted there.

To me, the whole message of the New Testament. the key book of Christianity, is that the other is our brother or sister. Many other religions hold the same message. How can we be hospitable when we shut the door to travelers and seekers who are not like us?

To give hospitality is to say, “Please sit with me. I will assume the best of you. Spend this moment with me. Come as you are.”

Day 18 Reflection: Focus

I’m beating my head against the keyboard facing this topic, wondering how I can write about this without stating the obvious: We need focus to fulfill our goals.

We have valorized focus, declaring it a quality that leads to greatness. However, too many things disrupt focus: background noise, mental distractions and worries, a cheesecake staring one in the face, too much challenge in the task, even the amount of sleep one has gotten the night before.

It is not always possible to be focused. It’s often the case that people are too scattered, or too worried, or too overwhelmed to focus. It’s time to ask for help, take a break, get a good night’s sleep, put away the cheesecake, and try again.