october recharge

Quotation

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Since today I’ve decided to be Sam Winchester and work in a library since a motel room wasn’t available, I thought I would share his words from season 4, episode 8, Wishful Thinking.

It is also one of the reminders that I have for myself this week that helps me accept my changes and who I might become.

We can’t go back to our old lives. We’re not the same people.

-Sam Winchester

Follow Me (My Personal Reflection on Mark 1:17)

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Prior to two years ago, I hadn’t known much about Jesus, either the man or the Son of G-d. As a child, we never learned about his Jewish heritage, and anyone who had ever reminded us that He was Jewish did so in a condescending, but ‘he’s better now’ way.

Growing up, most of our friends were Christian, but our neighborhoods and schools were mixed, so being either was not terribly strange for us. I understood that Christmas was Jesus’ birthday, although I really did not understand Easter at all. It seemed strange to me, but all in all it wasn’t that big a deal.

I’ve always believed in G-d. Despite that most Jews don’t, I’ve always believed in an afterlife. I have this love-hate relationship with a Shirley Temple movie that takes place on a boat with a boy and it’s supposed to be heaven, both pre-birth and after-death, I don’t know. I feel the same way about Dead Again and DOA.

I follow the traditions of my family’s holidays, and carried that over to my married and family life. While we didn’t have a Seder, we did observe Passover, and consumed no bread for eight days. My kids would bring bag lunches to school during the holiday. We still use my parents’ menorahs at Chanukah.

When I wandered into the church two years ago in March, no one, especially me would have expected that twenty-five months later, I would be baptized Catholic. It hadn’t occurred to me. Not even for a moment.

Afterwards, the hardest question I have been asked sounds so simple: “Why did you decide to become Catholic?” Or alternatively, “why did you decide to join the Catholic Church?”

Unfortunately, for simple questions there is no simple answer.

The most truthful answer is that I didn’t choose anything, but there is no thirty-second sound bite to follow that introduction to the answer of my conversion or as I like to describe it, my transition.

In the middle of an unexpected crisis, I took the words of the Count of Monte Cristo (wait and hope) and a sign in Schenectady (Job) and together they were a sign that I needed a place to think. Not an hour before, I thought I would stop in and hide myself in a pew, but thought that idea was slightly crazy. Now, with Job leading the way, I drove back towards home and went in.

There were two main reasons that I allowed myself to go. One, no one would ask me why I was there, and two, no one would ask me to leave. Somehow, deep down, I knew both of those things.

That evening, a friend, G in Philadelphia posted a choir rendition of Psalm 23 and T in Nebraska sent me an uplifting, supportive message. Two weeks later, T suggested that I stay for Mass, telling me that Easter Masses were really beautiful. I couldn’t be there for Easter Day (family plans), but I began on the Tuesday during Holy Week in 2012.

I have gone to daily Mass ever since.

Sometime after that, I was still continuing to wander in when the spirit moved me (whether this was the Holy Spirit or just some paranormal poke, I didn’t know at the time, but strongly believed in the latter more than the former.)

So far, every time I had been there randomly, the odd verse or Scripture that I read or more frighteningly the chosen Gospel or reading for that day spoke to me in very real ways. Not the typical, you will overcome what is ailing you, but very specific, the person you’ve avoided for the last three days will call you after dark.

Obviously, that’s not really a scripture, but it was specific like that.

The first time, I was upset; I was crying, and I sat down, picked up the missalette, opened it to a random page, and read, “Cry to me in distress and I will hear you.”

I looked around, thinking Candid Camera, but it was pretty much on the mark and it never disappointed.

The incense would remind me of something long forgotten. The tree in my line of sight reminded me so strongly of Wales that I would tear up. When someone would shake my hand, it was electric. I’d ask a question, ask for a sign, and the bells would chime, and I would know the answer.

When my priest returned from his pilgrimage to Rome, the way he talked about Rome was the way I felt about Wales. He told a story of a red steamer trunk that first week, and that has stayed with me, and motivates me as I try to declutter my life, mostly my mind, and hopefully the rest will follow.

One day, I was sitting there, just thinking quietly. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about, if there was something specific or if I was asking for guidance, or just strength, but there was a moment of uncertainty, a hesitation. I still don’t know if it was mine or someone – something – else’s.

As unbelievable as it sounds, I turned my head and there was this bright light. Not the shape of a man, not the shape of an angel, but a glowing, shimmery white light, broader across the top, tapering at the bottom. No cross, no halo, just light.

I didn’t hear any words, and I didn’t speak.

I just stared into the light.

Just before it faded, I knew.

I just knew.

Everything.

I didn’t need an explanation. I didn’t need to hear the words, “Follow me.” I didn’t need a history book or witnesses to miracles.

I just believed.

I understood; well, as much as anyone can.

I finally grasped what Easter meant.

I had no doubt who Jesus was; that he was Son of Man and Son of G-d. There was no more, ‘hows or whys.’

I didn’t even think about joining the Church; I was happy just knowing, just having the remarkable experience of Jesus metaphorically taking my hand and leading me out of darkness.

My visits to Mass became more meaningful after that. I don’t know when I knew that I was truly missing something during the Eucharist, but once I began with my first Communion at Easter, I knew that a piece of me was returned.

The Train Station

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Apart from a variety of subways and commuter trains, I’ve only taken long distance trains twice for traveling. The first was across the UK in the 80s, which was a blast, and the second was last year to visit my friend and his friends to watch and celebrate the Supernatural ninth season finale.

I loved the visit, but the train travel made up half of the fun. It was an adventure.

My anxiety gave me bits to worry about, and I would have to stay over in Penn Station from 2am to 7am until my last train home, but all the parts in between were new and wondrous, and sleeping on my suitcase at 3am in Penn Station was not actually as bad as I was expecting.

I have always called this my retreat week, and as I mentioned earlier in the week, that may not be the correct word to use. In my search for a better word, journey came to mind, and while I still haven’t settled on it (or any other), I was zapped with creative lightning, better known as inspiration and actually said out loud: What better place to begin this week’s journey than at the train station.

It wasn’t bright and early, but I managed to get myself to the Amtrak station at the tail end of Sunday morning, and began by taking photos outside.

I don’t remember the old station, but the new one is very attractive and welcoming. (I sound like a tourist guide.)The last time I was there was Easter week and it was cold and cloudy and rushed.

When I went in this time, I took inventory of the place – coffee shop, gift store, waiting area, ticket counter, post office section and people.

I didn’t look too out of place – I had my briefcase with my notebooks, an umbrella, so I more or less fit in with most of the other travelers.

I found a seat and people watched for a few minutes, trying to squint my eyes enough to see the departures board as if I needed to see when that train was getting into DC.

For a second, I forgot that I wasn’t actually going anywhere.

I still felt like pretending. I took out my Kindle and that was where the unexpected urge to begin James Martin’s Together on Retreat with the First Prayer appeared. Seriously – I was just going to play a game and see what I wanted to do there.

My space wasn’t silent; it was barely still, but even so I felt the solitude in spite of the people milling about, hugging, taking pictures, checking the sizes of their carry-ons, calling each other from across the station. I noticed a Tardis hat, and the Red Caps finding wheelchairs and carting luggage around.

I could feel myself inwardly smiling.

It reminded me of the sensation of traveling: the list making, the packing, the plans, and the heartbeat of excitement that is the mix of adventure and anxiety – that typical but not typical wonder, not of getting from point A to point B, but the thrill of everything that comes in between.

I began to read.

His first prayer is to reflect on the scripture Mark 1:16-20, the call of the first disciples. This was very dramatic for me, having only recently been called. Once He (Jesus) beckons them, they follow. There’s no real suspense for us, the reader, knowing the outcome of this nearly two thousand year old book, but the part of me at home in the train station was envious, not only of their first-hand account of Jesus’ teachings but of their impending travel to parts unknown.

I wonder if they thought about the new things they’d see; or the old things they’d see with new eyes. Did they just go without a second thought or was there deliberation in hindsight?

This is one of the reasons that much of my writing, even the non-travely writing often has travel and journeying metaphors. Moving from one place to the next, whether physically or emotionally remains how I describe the changes in my life, physically and metaphysically.

I’m walking a path, parts of it are dark, parts of it are scary, but portions are also light and exciting. Sometimes we have a traveling partner, a companion, and sometimes, for some sections of it, we travel alone. Well, not quite alone. Walking with G-d, we are never alone.

And so the train station was so many things that day. I didn’t notice how long I’d been just sitting there, reading, contemplating, meditating and writing. It was more of jotting things down, and typing notes into my Kindle where I agreed with Father Martin. He was like a whisper in my ear, sharing his time in the Holy Land, and letting me take his experiences and use them to create an oasis of Holy Land around my seat by the window.

For a moment, I wondered if I could afford one round trip ticket. What is the cheapest ticket that I could buy and still get back by tonight? I didn’t bother to check. Sometimes, the journey isn’t getting on the train; it’s finding the next place on the map and heading thataway.

There are so many things to think about this week.

No point sitting still; I hear the whistle; it’s time to go!

The Unexpected

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So far this week, at least the start of it, has been something else, in many ways, both good and bad. My anxiety reared its ugly, irrational head, some personal and family issues came up, and to be honest, this is my only week and I’m ignoring them/head sanding for the moment. That’s not to say that I’m not thinking about them or the situation; on the contrary, I’m thinking about them a lot, but this is the one week I can concentrate on me and not feel guilty about it. There are some health issues that I need to think about and deal with and I’ve been praying on that as well. That is one of the reasons I went to the healing/anointing mass on Monday. The one regret that I have for this week is that I can’t afford a couple of nights at a hotel/motel, like a pretend vacation, but not a vacation, kind of a prayerful, working (writing) vacation or some other word that hasn’t come to me yet.

Back to the guilt, I have always been in Mommy-mode, even in high school and college. I guess it’s hardwired in my nature, but it backs me into a corner and despite the instinct that everyone comes before me. It hasn’t always bothered me; it’s just the way it is, and because of that it’s kind of expected, including by me.

Part of the last two years, as I write often about, is discovering who I am. Part of that person has been hidden under fear of expectations of who I was supposed to be. The past can’t be changed, but those losses can be acknowledged and mourned.

The enormity of how much has changed for me is almost too much to confront, but who I am now is still evolving.

An obvious change is my level of religiousness. It isn’t just that I believe, because I’ve always believed in G-d and afterlife, but I believe in other things. I attend church at least four times a week. I’m thinking of joining a ministry. I didn’t become Catholic to fit in, but because Jesus asked me to follow him, much in the same way he called to the first disciples to follow him. For me, not the literal words, but the essence in a shimmering light. I don’t often talk about my moment. I still may write separately about it.

I have ideas of what I want to do this week. Primarily, I try to jump start my writing, but it appears the Spirit has other plans for me, guiding me to more spiritual places: the water, the train station and the city murals, the Anointing Mass and now today, to St. Kateri. I almost took her name as my confirmation name; she was one of my choices before settling on St. Elen. St. Kateri’s story is somewhat similar to mine, choosing the path apart from her family; speaking openly of her conversion.

I’m meditating and pondering more on what G-d’s plan is for me. Where do His wants and my wants meet? Can I openly, more openly be the spiritual person I feel deep within myself, rising more insistently to the surface? How can those around me get used to my love for the church and church things? I don’t have to go to church; I want to. I need to. My soul needs to. Not my immortal soul that goes to Hell if I fail my “obligations” but my soul-self, the me I am deep within who needs the church like I need writing.

Like I need air.

I know it’s not who I used to be. I know it’s not what my family and friends are used to, but it is who I am, and while I’m still changing, this won’t.

It won’t all spill out at once, but I can’t keep myself hidden. Some things are still hidden from me. I can feel them poking, but they’re not ready to be released and I’m probably hot ready for them just yet.

I’m not the same person. And once I truly accept that, I can start being my authentic self and slowly the people around me can adapt, hopefully.

As you can see, this consciousness streamed. My impromptu writing almost never ends up where I’ve expected it to go. I do wonder where tomorrow will take me. Maybe somewhere to help me explain what I need and who I want to be.

Weekend Update – Sunday

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On Sunday, I woke up not knowing what I would do for the day. My family would be home again later in the afternoon or early evening, but I still had most of the day to myself.

As I wrote in my journal, what better place to start the journey this week but at the train station.

In the last five years, I’ve been luckily been able to travel in three of those years: Wales in 2009, Denver in 2011, and Williamsburg, Virginia in 2013. By far, the trek with the least amount of travel stress was in 2013 when I took Amtrak. I would love to do that again. I loved the traveling by train.

I spent about two hours there, amid the noise of hellos and goodbyes, the Red Caps rushing about helping passengers, people asking for the bathrooms, a man working on his laptop, even a Tardis hat. I had a bag for my books and things, so I didn’t look out of place.

I took out my Kindle and read the first part of James Martin’s Together on Retreat. His first prayer was the calling of the first disciples. Jesus’ very simple, but powerful “Follow me” said out loud what I felt when he called me two years ago. I think that sometime this week, I might be ready to write about that in more detail.

After the train station, I followed the signs to a place where you could look across the river to the Albany skyline. I was surprised at how close I was to the water. To be honest, this looked like the place in the movies where you find the dead body or where the thugs take you to shoot you in the head and let you fall into the water, never to be seen again.

Despite this, there was a playground nearby with laughing children, painted murals on the highway support pylons, which after Doctor Who’s most recent episode, Flatlines, made me very, very, very nervous. I took pictures of the boats, of the water, of the bridge above me and the tall buildings across the way.

It wasn’t the Sea of Galilee that Fr. Martin was writing about, but it was still a beautiful place to meditate on a few things.

I haven’t sorted out what I’m doing with the rest of my week. I had only formally planned Monday and Saturday.

Monday, at my church was their annual Anointment Mass, and with my current health issues, I was really looking forward to going to this healing mass. It was beautiful, and very moving. There was music, which I loved singing with; most of the songs I’d had a little knowledge of, and the Fathers came to where we were sitting to anoint us and give us the Eucharist. It was very welcoming and intimate, and I got a lot out of it. They also served a lunch, and I sat with people I’d just met. It was lovely.

Out of the blue I’ve decided to drive out to the St. Kateri Tekakwitha shrine tomorrow. We’ll see what I find there.

Hopefully, all will be well, as was quoted from Julian of Norwich during the homily.

Weekend Update – Saturday (Plus Quotations!)

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As part of my weekend update (thanks Seth Meyers), I’d like to share three quotes that I find encouraging for this week.

I always defined myself in terms of what I wasn’t. … Always what I wasn’t, never what I was. And when you do that, you miss the moments. And the moments are all we’ve got. … And I can define myself by what I am instead of what I’m not.

-Dr. Stephen Franklin, Babylon 5, season 3

Thought for the week: As you become more clear about who you really are, you’ll be better able to decide what is best for you – the first time around.

– Oprah Winfrey

Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life; define yourself.

-Harvey Fierstein

 

My family left this weekend to visit Grandma, and I didn’t know what I was going to do. I decided to start my week early. Saturday was a misty rain, and the orange leaves were practically glowing even against the grey sky. It was very reminiscent of Wales. A lot of things remind me of Wales, and then I get all misty.

I decided to pick a direction and take some photographs. I also decided to let someone else decide. After scrolling through my contacts, I stopped suddenly at Misha Collins’ contact info. (Yes, I have his number; he gave it out and sometimes he likes to surprise his fans. I haven’t been so lucky yet.) I sent him a text asking which direction I should take. I hadn’t even finished typing ‘north’ in the question, North or West, when I immediately knew his answer would be WEST, of course.

For those of you who are not fans of Supernatural, and do not know this, West is Misha’s son’s name.

So west it was.

It was raining, and every time I saw something interesting, I’d stop and take a picture of it. There was the train when I was stopped talking to my family.

There was the Episcopal Church with signature red door where the state trooper pulled up next to me to see if I was alright, double parked with hazards on in what was now pouring rain.

There was the old factory across the river and St. Mary’s Church with its shrine to the Blessed Mother. I sat there for a few minutes, glad it wasn’t Sunday and glad I was alone.

In trying to find my bearings to head back home to Doctor Who and Chinese take-out, I happened to cross over a bridge that went over what must have been the Mohawk River. I parked at the library, and listened to the rushing water, taking pictures, even filming a short video.

It was the first soothing thing I’d experienced since my family left. I do find it strange that waterfall-type water is calming to me considering I have a phobia of water, especially large bodies like lakes and oceans.

By now, the sun had come out, but it was time to starting going back home.

Wales was gone also, but my ‘retreat, recharge’ week had just begun.

 

 

October Recharge, 2014

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When my writer’s conference up and left to parts unaffordable, I tried to set up my own writer’s retreats; a solid week to concentrate on me as the writer with minimal upheaval to my family and my pocketbook. I would be home in the morning to send the kids to school, and then after Mass, I’d spend the day out, writing, visiting places I didn’t typically get to visit, taking photographs and making plans.

And, of course, writing.

It was good for my depression, and good for my soul, and fortunately, it didn’t upset the household balance too much.

Oftentimes, it reminded me of my solo trip to Wales that was a godsend and a challenge and spiritual and so many other things that five years later, I still write about the wonder of it all; about the aloneness but the comfort in that aloneness; that sense I had of self, and the want to do it all again.

Yes, even the driving on the wrong side of the road, which is less a string of expletives and more a warm musing of my adventures.

The Spring Enrichment offered by our Diocese fed my soul in a similar way, although I’m not sure I would call that a retreat per se. Some parts of it were certainly that positive aloneness, time to meditate, but other portions were too exhilarating; too mind racing to be mistaken for a private retreat. It was less solitary, but it also led me out of my comfort zone in several other ways:  asking questions, introducing myself to speakers and strangers alike, getting involved in conversations, offering my opinions. I was comfortable enough to be me for a little while.

This past summer, I had the opportunity to attend a spiritual retreat. I hadn’t ever gone on one before; everything there was new to me. This was a weekend of prayer and artistry, no artistic talent needed. A retreat director, artist Brother Mickey McGrath guided us through his five sessions giving our creativity an outlet through prayer and bringing us closer to G-d, whether or not we were drawing religious symbols or objects from nature, like flowers and leaves. Except for our private rooms, we shared classes, prayer and group meals.

For this retreat, I’d need drawing paper and colored pencils and as I mentioned I’d have my own room. It was very exciting, and it was a little intimidating, and very much out of my comfort zone, but for the most part, I was looking forward to it.

All of it.

The packing, the unpacking, the communal bathroom down the hall, meeting strangers, all here for our own reasons seeking our own spiritual fortunes; the quiet, the nature, the prayer, the wonder of something new and old at the same time, all taking place in G-d’s presence.

Typically, I’m not much for being alone, but this was different.  For starters, I loved my room. A bed, a chair, a desk. It sounds spartan, but it was homey. There was a ceiling fan and a big window next to the bed. I almost didn’t want to leave the room. The wifi didn’t reach the room and cell service was spotty, but that was a good thing. It gave me the quiet space to meditate, to think, to write.

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It was two and a half days of good food, good company, and good meditating time. I was surprised by my drawings. I enjoyed doing the mandalas. I also think I did pretty well; my drawings came out better than I expected since I’m not much of an artist. I drew my favorite flower – the daffodil. I drew the triquetra that’s been so important to me lately.

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Once I got home, I started drawing small circular badges to use on my website. It made me feel like I’ve accomplished something artistically. I wasn’t overly critical of myself as I usually had a tendency to be.

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I prayed. We had prayer services every day, and Mass on Saturday night plus I sat in the courtyard with my journal and prayed the rosary. It was the first time I felt connected to the rosary in a meaningful way, and it started me praying with it a little more regularly once the retreat was over.

This is my introduction to this week’s retreat. I’m doing something a little bit unlike what I’ve done before on my other ‘retreats’.

I’ve done the writing retreat and now I’ve done the spiritual retreat. Last year, I was fortunate enough to travel to Williamsburg, a gift from my best friend, which was a kind of retreat in itself.

However, beginning tomorrow (maybe even parts of today), I’m doing both, maybe more. If I can plan it out and prepare my family, I should be able to recharge my batteries on so many levels before the holidays surprise us like they do every year.

For regular readers here, I have had the new weekly format in place for two weeks now, and it seems that people like it. I do. I’m very comfortable with it, and since my family is always taking my computer, I’ve even made sure that I can post the first couple of days each week from my Kindle, my very favorite piece of technology that I own.

This week it’s hard to say if my posts will be feast or famine.

I do have plans, reflections I want to write, places I want to pray, thoughts and scripture that I want to meditate on, continuing my creative recovery through The Artist’s Way book, ending next Saturday with a full day creative retreat at a nearby Dominican Retreat Center.

I’m also using Fr. James Martin’s book, Together on Retreat as the basis for the spiritual guide for me. Having just finished his recent book, Jesus: A Pilgrimage, I love his tone, his style of writing and his insights which more often than not match my own. Where we diverge, he offers questions for my own meditations. I’m looking forward to sharing my week with you.

There are so many things flying around in my head that I’m hoping to and trying to set them up in their own homes, rooms if you will, and organize them into manageable chunks.

As anxious as I am for this weekend and succeeding at my retreat, I’m also very excited.

My primary theme is to center myself spiritually through prayer and writing. Writing is my lifeblood. It is the second point of my triquetra.

My secondary theme is taking care of myself.

Focusing on me, pulling my creativity along, seeking past my comfort zone, and finding me because I’m still lost, but also combining all the positives as coping and managing tools, mechanisms for living with my depression and anxiety and letting me be me, and then be able to introduce myself to the people around me.