The Way Mulattas Make Me Feel: Michael Jackson’s Domination of the Feminized Other by Abdel Shakur
Category: Faith & (Dis)Belief
“I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.” — C.S. Lewis
Hold On, Honey (a poem)
In the face of a child
you see a simple belief
that life will always be safe and good.
That they are loved. Always.
Even when you might yell or sternly scold,
a child forgives. Not really knowing they even need
to forgive.
A child comes running for a hug and snuggle that says, once again,
everything is going to be okay.
Yes, in the face of a child, everything’s gonna be okay.
A child doesn’t know that they might not eat tomorrow.
A child doesn’t know they may not have a place to sleep tonight.
A child is laughter, joy and expectation of fun. They just want a zooming truck or a pretty doll or a book read, just one.
In the face of a child you find the hope of the whole wide world,
wrapped up in the crinkles around their eyes as they smile,
in those chubby cheeks and baby teeth lined up so nice.
In the sweet, sweaty smell of their body rubbing up against yours.
In a child’s believing eyes there is love.
Their “Good night Mama, I love you” holds more hope than one adult can imagine to feel
in life time.
Hold on to that hope honey. You hold on.
10-28-2009
Written for all children who still smile and for those that have forgotten what it is to be and trust like a child.
Why are we here?: On Purpose, Artistic Expression & Fear
I’ve got a problem and my mother summed it up correctly: “Something’s got you stuck.”
As I sat in her living room yesterday, even my body spoke of the heavy, languid place I am in. Slouching, holding my head which by the end of the day had become a migraine with nausea and halos, I was sinking; mired in body and spirit.
Earlier this week, my shrink really pissed me off. I’m sure he did it purposefully and that makes him good. As I see him monthly, this schedule makes it obvious that I’m stuck, afraid to move on with my photography.
For months, and months, I’ve been allowing everything under the sun, every good thing, to get in the way. I found myself saying to him, “I know, I know! I don’t want to become my mother! In my 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s resenting and regretting all the “sacrifices” I made for everyone else.” I don’t think she regrets them completely, actually. Nor is she bitter, amazingly. But I watched as she gave up so many of her aspirations and dreams for others, mostly my father.
Why am I stuck? … What is it that I fear or is it even fear?
I am a lover of words (a wordie). And I will travel down every rabbit trail of language’s meaning, fascinated by each manifestation. It makes me interesting in a Bible Study group, and fairly annoying I think as a blogger, but just look at this list on words related to fear.
“Fear, as a noun, denotes the agitation and anxiety caused by the presence or imminence of danger.
Fear is the most general term: “Fear is the parent of cruelty” (J.A. Froude).
Fright is sudden, usually momentary, great fear.
Dread is strong fear, especially of what one is powerless to avoid.
Terror is intense, overpowering fear.
Horror is a combination of fear and aversion or repugnance.
Panic is sudden frantic fear, often groundless.
Alarm is fright aroused by the first realization of danger.
Dismay robs one of courage or the power to act effectively.
Consternation is often paralyzing, characterized by confusion and helplessness.
Trepidation is dread characteristically marked by trembling or hesitancy. (www.education.yahoo.com)
Or is it something else entirely, inertia? Don’t worry, enough about words.
Kafka was wrong when he said: “It is not necessary that you leave the house. Remain at your table and listen. Do not even listen, only wait. Do not even wait, be wholly still and alone. The world will present itself to you for its unmasking, it can do no other, in ecstasy it will writhe at your feet. ”
It’s definitely lined with excuses whatever it is that is keeping me from doing something, anything with my photography.
I don’t have time to have an opinion on all the things I have an opinion on. I don’t have time to express all the things I want to express. I don’t have time to learn all the things I want to learn, to create all I want to create, to do all I want to do ….. choices, blessed choices!
I think THIS is the midlife crisis I have been colliding into! I can hear that big clock ticking …. this is the funk I am in. It is a little bit fear but it’s mostly inertia, dismay and consternation all rolled into one and I cannot visualize what I want for myself so I cannot go after it.
What does it mean to be successful at my photography? The business aspect, say the bottom-line? The artistic expression? The public accolades?
And so, as I put sarcastically to a friend yesterday, “I have been trying to know as little as possible about how to take pictures, and expect hardly anything as an outcome.” I am sooo funny. Sooo pathetic more like it.
What makes what I do worthwhile? Is it simply because I make it and I like it?? Or do others need to value it to make it of value? How do I determine what is worth pursuing artistically? Is it about listening to others cues or simply allowing my inner vision to grow and the world can stuff it?
Rosanne Cash said in an NPR interview that she isn’t a performer if she doesn’t get out there and perform. The music cannot stay private.
And yet, so much of art is how you market it, market yourself, the glossy package of your website, studio, groups you join. If that’s the case I’m in trouble: My office is in my junky basement, my gear is okay, and I have no slick studio. I haven’t gotten around to making a website or …. all the other elements of “Making your photography Business a Success.” So what? How much of it is perception and how much reality.
And if you have some ability you can take dynamic, compelling images no matter what your gear. That I really do believe.
I think what’s more important is what’s the message? What’s the story? Does your art have to have a message and story to be ‘good.’ I lean that way and then can think of tons of art that is simply pleasing to look at, esoteric, full of mood, just makes me feel good ….
Here’s a question for you: If you don’t know what the “rules” of art are (e.g. no classical training, art school etc. ) and you break them, can you make good art? And who decides? Should art have outcomes? I don’t know. And, I don’t know how or when I will be out of this stupid funk. And I’m starting to feel some fright!
The good news, it’s not depression (and if you know my story at all you know that is major). It really is not turning into that, but rather, more of a Why am I here? What are my days for? How do I serve others? Can I serve with my artistic talent? If so, how? Do I have to be paid money, written up in the New York Times, recieve critical acclaim in order to prove myself. And who is it that I’m trying to prove myself to, besides my father who’s dead. To whom do I owe ultimate justification of my exsistance? If god real, what is really expected of me as an artist? Starting from the belief that god is real, how does that change my actions, deeds, what I create.
My kingdom for a magic eight ball that actually worked…
It’s raining and I am reading Kierkegaard.
It’s raining and I am reading Kierkegaard. That’s a good combination, the gloomy weather and honest thoughts. As I sip my coffee and write, I do it amidst the bustle of children preparing for their day. My coffee has grown cold, but let me tell you I am just warming up!
I have sat among others in conversation about Søren Kierkegaard and his thinking, but like many other areas in my life I have let others’ interpretations suffice and he had very little impact.
This is all so ironic, considering that he put into words an ache inside me that I haven’t known how to express. This understanding didn’t become as real until I read him for myself! Like so many areas of life, I am discovering that I am unique. I have thoughts and ideas that are different, sometimes hugely different, from others. But my self-discovery has been so long in coming that it is more than a little embarrassing.
In An Introduction to Kierkegaard, it says: “Kierkegaard aims to strip you, the reader, naked at two in the morning, to sit you in front of a mirror and force you to think about your life.”
Rest assured I am fully dressed, and it’s daytime, but my soul feels echoes of relief at being understood, even as I am reading the words of someone writing 100 years ago! How I have anguished! Certainly that is how this blog came about and anyone who takes the time to read my poetry knows it is true of my poetry.
Kierkegaard demands self-examination in a way that makes me jump up and howl “Yes!” Not in self-absorption, or self-centeredness, but in a quest for maximum understanding, which makes so much sense to me! He confronts our innermost person, who is being lost in today’s (American) culture. Hear me out.
“They use their abilities, amass wealth, carry out worldly enterprises, make prudent calculations, etc. and perhaps are mentioned in history, but they are not themselves. In a spiritual sense they have no self, no self for whose sake they could venture everything.” (CUP 64-5)
This lack of being an individual leads to despair. Many never acknowledge this. Too often I do and feel like a total nutcase. In the daily, humdrum of life “We convince ourselves that life is ‘happy’, that there is meaning and purpose to our lives, when often this is not the case. We throw ourselves into activity of various kinds which is subconsciously designed to prevent us having to think deeply about ourselves at all.” (Introduction to Kierkegaard.)
He doesn’t consider despair a negative. Kierkegaard believed that the pain of despair can help us to seek something deeper, which comes before a person can take charge of their life, “beginning the long, painful, slow walk of becoming an individual.”
This, for me, is the most important point:
“In his ignorance of his own despair a person is furthest from being conscious of himself as spirit. But precisely this — not being conscious of oneself as spirit — is despair, that is to say spiritlessness . . . the despairer is in the same situation as the consumptive; he feels best, considers himself to be healthiest, can appear to others to be in the pink of condition, just when the illness is at its most critical.” (CUP 75)
Kierkegaard is challenging those of us who have the outward appearance of happiness, to slow down, to be still, to look at ourselves differently. Then perhaps we will see that it is a facade. This doesn’t come easily and for me it took a complete change of career paths from a really driven, accomplished Mission leader … striving, proving, achieving… to housfrau and mommy. Whoa did I have a crisis of purpose and fall flat on my face both physically and emotionally. A crisis in my soul. I was completely flattened by the fact that I had no understanding of my life’s greatest meaning. (And many Christians I know will now start flinching at this heretic thinking. Read on.)
When I was working I wasn’t told you’re doing too much, I was simply given more to do. The more I did, the more I was asked to do, until, when I left my job was split into three full-time jobs. Why is this important, because I had become a machine. When I was sad and confused about how to next spend my time and energies, I was given lists of activities and encouraged in to mommy-hood. Really I just simply wanted some space, to think about these bigger issues of purpose, a sabbatical of sorts. I now know that I would not have quit working if I could have sorted out these things, while procreating and all that entails. (I wonder how many women go through this?)
When I did go home, suddenly I fell into the despair of questioning my purpose and discovering the masks I had constructed, feeling the despair of the seemingly commonplace, everyday life I was now living. And so I began a long eight year path of becoming ruthlessly honest about what is true and false in my life.
Why do we seek the placid, safe and guarded sameness I have anguished? I questioned and lamented my superficiality and missed the safety of the pursuit of work. I was left with myself and I didn’t like it. We work, we eat, we exercise, we shop, we acquire things and experiences, we pursue a hobby, become good at certain skills, we seek knowledge of various kinds, we become addicted to good and bad things, if we are very lucky we love, and we create beautiful things … and yet, still, we find ourselves awake at 2 in the morning. The moment returns, or was it ever gone, and what then?
The greatest question is what does it mean to be human, not in some grand philosophical sense, but in how we choose to live and how to die. The word ‘philosophy’ means ‘love of wisdom.’ And wisdom my father always said can only be gained through experience. And I would add, thought.
For the first time in my life, with all pretense stripped away, I had an obligation to face my life and let wisdom begin to change the way lived. Otherwise, life is just passing the time having moments of meaning. I should be able to figure out how to live out my life with justice and truth, with meaning. My life can come to mean something more than what I do and create.
For Kierkegaard said “I also know that in Greece a thinker was not a stunted existing person who produced works of art, but he himself was an existing work of art.” (CUP 303)
What does it mean to say you love? What does it mean to be a self? As I was reading him for the first time I started to get excited. And if you are still with me after 1000+ words, I think you are excited as well!!!!! Kierkegaard argues that most people are not selves at all. Being an individual is difficult and it is something that few people attempt. Instead, we put ourselves together in such a way that we are acceptable to others. He calls it a copy. We put on a mask.
I had certainly worn a mask for most of my life and with the ending of my work, or my purpose, I fell into a desolate place, a sinkhole which was ultimately deep depression. It was like a loss of an arm it was so painful and it echoed on and on, I was lost .
And everyone continued to move through life as if it were nothing. I should be able to do this change of career, or purpose and not fall apart. So many other people do but for me it was my time of reckoning. And I am grateful for it now that I am on the other side of the raging river. I have crossed over and read with joy a description of what I went through. Sure, I’m just at the beginning of reading this great thinker, philosopher and theologin. But I’m psyched!
Be strong.
Be strong, little marshmallow.
-seen on a bumper sticker
I am often wary after having a prolific week of writing. Cautious. A few have said that what I express is too sharp, especially toward my parents. I should consider keeping it to myself. And I do wonder about that. I do. I am concerned.
I do spend quite a lot of time considering the idea of making my journey private. And at the moment when my doubt is most profound, if I had an easy OFF button, I would turn it off.
The doubters, they don’t make it easy.
My father used to say “Don’t say anything at all, if you can’t say something nice.” He was a man of contradictions, that’s certain. It was one of his MANY ways of controlling us. And yet, perhaps this medium is too open, or my story too raw, or my experiences too recent?
******************
My father is dead, but my mother lives and I want to respect her life experience. She’s 72 years old and was so misunderstood and alone much of the time, while my father traveled the world and had many friends and acquaintances. I only learned recently that he wouldn’t let her share things about their life together, or even her own experiences, not even with her own friends. He would punish her later (after she confessed of telling). I won’t give specifics here, because that’s her story not mine. I am only learning of much of it now, as she very slowly opens herself.
But I grew up in that environment of fear, control and subjugation and I am resolved that I will not be afraid to speak my mind and tell my story. He is dead and he cannot make me pay.
My parents suffered for their isolation; they were private, lonely, solitary people. My father blabbed a few times in books and shared some of their stories, many we kids had never even been told. To this day, my mother remains a private, inward, fearful person. I know she longs for connections, but she no longer knows how to achieve it.
But let me say this: She is a beautiful, strong person inside, in that really small place where God has kept her safe and whole.
I believe that. Whether she will have time to bring that person to life, I do not know. I have told her I would be willing to help her tell her story. Give her a chance to have a voice, for once. We will see.
But each word I write, about my own experiences, is breaking the generational bondage of shame, isolation, fear and confinement, of emotional LIMBO.
And for each person who is slightly dismayed by my frankness, several more seem to be guided toward some place of truth in their own hearts and for me that is a good thing.
I cannot talk about this whole process without somehow connecting it to my faith, which is something I do not write about that often, at least I do not in an obvious way.
My faith experience is forever fragile and many aspects of it I cannot share, for fear of being misunderstood. My faith. I choose it daily. I don’t know if you will understand that. But I must choose, because, I CAN CHOOSE. (If you were NOT ever given choices as a child, as a young adult, and on, then you would understand that being able to finally do so seems like THE SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT piece of your existence.)
But more than that today I understand the immensity of what Jesus did in dieing. For me. Even if I were the only person that needed redemption. I am complete because of Jesus. I am whole.
Hold on!!! Am I kidding you? The issue here is that I am so rotten and messed up. How can I say I am complete?? That’s just it. Jesus completes me. That’s my hope. That’s my faith. That’s the choosing.
I am not whole, obviously. I’m feeble and impoverished. I am often misguided, extremely confused, greatly lacking in wisdom, seeking comfort in things that do not satisfy, running away (fleeing) from intimacy, fashioning my life after fiction, believing in empty ideas and myths. So why don’t I just go slit my wrists or drink myself into a death stupor? I mean, that would be the obvious response.
Yes, I am the quintessential sinner, in need of grace, which I receive with disbelief and gratitude. I know that God is good and I am not. But God is shaping my life into something worthwhile. Giving me reasons greater than myself, for choosing life.
As I look out at the beauty surrounding me:the autumn flowers, the changing leaves, red luscious tomatoes in my garden, my beautiful family — this life I have — is a reminder of God’s goodness and I am comforted. For today. And because of that hope, I write. I believe that the writing does something positive, even when the words contain anguish. I have hope for something good.
Be strong little marshmallow. Be strong.
We are all falling.
So much beauty [in the world].
And so much pain.
Often it is easier to see the atrophy of humankind, on our planet and in our lives.
Today I am blessed by someone passing along this poem by Rainer Maria Rilke.
Autumn
The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning “no.”
And tonight the heavy earth is falling
away from all other stars in the loneliness.
We’re all falling. This hand here is falling.
And look at the other one. It’s in them all.
And yet there is Someone, whose hands
infinitely calm, holding up all this falling.
I have never read that before today. It is perfect in its description of the almost inevitable atrophy or collapse of life and I can’t help but think our efforts to fight it are so vain. And the beautiful way that he talks about our Creator. I liked it a lot.
Thank you to my friend.
Thank you to the Someone who is holding it all together.
So how does a feminist, at-home mom answer the question: What do you do?
I hate that question!
And I hate that I hate it.
Unless you’ve spent some time (more than a month) at home managing things and people, you can’t imagine how the following realities can possibly be true.
When I say that I am a part-time free-lance photographer, I usually gets responses of “Oh, cool” or “Oh wow” and just slightly impressed gazes. I know what they are thinking when I say I am also an at-home mom. I am an out-of-work-highly-skilled-workaholic-manager who hasn’t been able to transfer that skill to home and doesn’t have another job.
It’s true. My many failings as a house-keeper are evident to anyone who spends more than a few minutes in my home. I sometimes take images for others, and get paid. Others I donate my time to like Our Lives magazine (I did this cover and usually have something in every issue. But most of the time my photography is for my own pleasure. I spend my days super busy and yet at the end of the day I have usually (not always) not made a cent and quite the opposite have undoubtedly helped the economy along.
How do I spend my days? What’s currently going on … ?
I spend a lot of time and even more soul energy, advocating for my children in the public school system.
When I am on my game I spend quite a good amount of time studying the Bible. (I can’t take anyone’s word for it any more when it comes to my faith and understanding of things in the Bible.)
My yard is sorely neglected but it is beautiful and has a garden (providing amazing tomatoes, banana peppers, leeks and carrots, Bok Choy, and beans and different herbs. I am an on again, off again composter but I mow my own yard and sometimes my aging neighbor’s.
My eight year old has — count them — eight cavities and will see the dentist four times this month, along with an orthodontist. He has the unfortunate combination of: loves sugar, bad hygiene habits, and simply has bad teeth. He also needs an appointment with an Audiologist, and a Psychologist, and I’m late signing him up for speech therapy/tutoring he receives twice weekly through the UW. I want to sign him up for football, because soccer was not his sport and with his auditory and focus challenges and issues, I think catch the ball and run will be right up his alley. His IEP will be written at the first of October. I need to contact a disability rights advocacy group, and figure out how to get his IEP working for him with or without that group, and check in weekly with the teachers, working on things at home.
It’s no wonder my eleven year old thinks she never gets my attention and she has started speaking stridently about e v e r y t h i n g. (At least I hope that’s why she’s so exercised about every little thing.) It’s absolutely not true about my time, but I do have a lot going on with Jacob.
My middle child is creative and happily goes about his movie making, hoping to slip under the radar. But he needs daily help with reading and homework whether he wants it or not.
My mother is 72 and although living independently we are beginning to have conversations about managing life. She has two doctor appointments that I will attend and will require follow-up. She’s broken her shoulder and so I do her laundry, fetch things, shop and visit daily. I aim for daily at least. Now I think she is ready to look into continued living facilities and has asked me to help her find them and go to appointments. That will happen after she gets out of the assisted facility she is in for her rehab.
I got the physicals done thankfully, with shots for Emma going into Middle School and they asked my kid, like they have for … nine or ten years, … DOES YOUR FAMILY HAVE A FIRE SAFETY PLAN? NO, No, for the last bloody time we don’t and probably never will!!!!!!!!!! Lingering Guilt… My advice in a fire is run!
I can’t seem to stay on top of my daughter’s soccer schedule and commitments, because we missed a seemingly innocuous parent meeting: I didn’t go and Tom didn’t get out of the car. And that’s all I’ll say about it, but she has two practices a week and a game which my husband helps to chauffeur, for which I am grateful.
Speaking of husbands, I have a book at Borders recommended by a good friend, The Passionate Marriage (by David Schnark) which I haven’t had time to pick it up much less read, or work on that passion! But I am hungry for connection with my husband, because we have reached those dangerous years when we are so busy “doing” for the kids that we hardly touch base. The main time we see one another is 6:00 pm daily when we eat dinner as a family.
I am 14 months into my recovery from alcohol addiction and this recovery takes work – time and energy, energy and time. I missed my Alcohol counseling appointment this month because it was the only day we had free to use already purchased tickets to Noah’s Ark, which we had been rained out of twice already, and the summer was over in a week. But I haven’t even had time to do my Step 2 homework, so although I need to go, I’m not ready.
Every strain of life seems to be leading back to nutrition and health, with Jacob’s sugar fixation, Tom and I feeling lethargic and being over weight, my kids being a bit chubby, my high cholesterol, etc, etc. I barely make it to the store, or to cook meals, much less read the 300 page book on Family Nutrition. Even if I skimmed it I just want to sit down and …. sigh.
I hadn’t had my teeth cleaned in a year, but did recently and have confirmed TMJ and need to schedule with a specialist. Any surprise that I grind my teeth at night? Some mornings I wake up with headache reminiscent of my old hangovers and my jaw pops all day long. The dentist recommends I quit chewing gum, the same gum that I was chewing so that I could quit smoking. Sore jaw or smoking withdrawal. Hm….. Life is full of choices.
I had skin cancer last year and need a followup appointment, my doctor moved, so I have to get a new doctor, and a new appointment. I have moles that are looking strange, but it will likely be winter before I get to it.
My neighbors have apples that need picking, free for the taking, but I keep buying them at the store because I don’t have time to go pick them.
When all is said and done (or undone) I will go pick an apple, breathe, and rethink whether it matters what my dentist, or anyone else, thinks about what I do all day?
Everyone’s life is full of challenge and we may or may not get to it all. I go to bed night after night with my to do list still swirling around undone. But big picture, this is exactly the right job for me, for now, for today, for this moment.
How do you “see” God?
I have been pondering seriously the idea of what we “SEE” in our mind’s eye when we think of God and/or Jesus. Do we connect God to being MALE, masculine, man? The New Testament offers almost no physical descriptions and the earliest surviving portraits of Jesus date from about two centuries after his lifetime.
Why do we picture God or Jesus as male? Should we, necessarily? Is it helpful or not? Is it important to God to be thought of as Male?
I want to create a photograph series representing an androgynous: (neither totally male nor female) God/Jesus, but beautiful, long-suffering, kind, generous, strong Jesus that all can relate to.
Why? Because for me and many people, male and female alike, it is destructive and even painful to think of God as male, masculine, or a man. I know Jesus came to earth in the physical body of a male, but there is very little in scripture that talks about his gender or sexual identity (it is actually very benign topic in scripture).
And the way I think of it, Jesus does not fit cleanly into typical masculine and feminine gender roles. Jesus was counter-cultural. He was a man, but then what? … If I am to be able to identify fully with God, who to me drew on both traditionally masculine and feminine emotions and behaviours, ways of thinking, approaches to life, I see that being as “between” woman and man, or if you will genderless.
If males are created in the image of God, then God has male attributes or traditional masculinity; and if females are created in the image of God, then God has female attributes and femininity. But we are uncomfortable with that in traditional Christianity.
God’s personality has attributes of maleness and femaleness. Males and females, created in the image of God, have God-given attributes of maleness and femaleness.
Androgyny is simply the unity of ‘man’ and ‘woman’, ‘male’ and ‘female.’
This changes the typical and peculiar valuing of woman or women and forces one to challenge thinking that assumes that Males have a higher position with God than Females. That man is the starting-point and woman the derivative. To me, an androgynous God is a correction to this one-sided thinking.
Where I have been reading:
“A better position of woman in Christianity (at least on the ideological level), or offering a Christian contribution towards a greater equilibrium between man and woman in our culture, will only be possible through a much more fundamental change of Christianity than is usually contemplated. A number of androcentric presuppositions, i.e. presuppositions which have the man as starting-point, or make him so, are present in Christian thinking; and it is precisely these unconscious presuppositions which accustom the legitimation by Christian thinking of one-sidedly patriarchal relations. Of course the spiritual movements, mentioned above, are present to give indications of the direction in which important aspects of deep transformations could be sought and achieved.” 1
This is not to say the person of Jesus was not a man, but was God, is God MALE. And is that important? How you or I “see” God need not be set in stone, need not be declared definitively, need not be harmful as it is now.
I want to blow people’s perceptions and stereotypes of God/Jesus, but I am not sure Blackhawk is ready for that … It is important to me. And I will pursue this project.
I am not certain that the person I have in mind would be willing to model. But I’d like to find out.
Melody
1 Boudewijn Koole, Man en vrouw zijn een: De androgynie in het Christendom, in het bijzonder bij Jacob Boehme (English title: Man and woman are one: Androgyny in Christianity, particularly in the works of Jacob Boehme), Utrecht 1986, with `Summary in English’, [with extensive Notes, Bibliographies, as well as Indexes on I. Subjects and names II. Citations of Boehme III. Citations of the Bible IV. Authors]; 341 pp.; = diss. Utrecht 1986; ISBN 9061940869 [This publication had been made possible by the Bibliotheca Philosophica Hermetica in Amsterdam]
2 Check out http://www.religionfacts.com/jesus/image_gallery.htm for images of Jesus.
What I Didn’t Learn From My Parents … or Did I?
From my parents, I didn’t learn how to have or be a friend.
I didn’t learn to trust people.
I didn’t learn how to stick with a person, even if they are unpleasant or difficult, or to work at a relationship even if it is imperfect.
I learned how to be alone.
I learned how to mistrust.
I learned how to fear and to look for rejection.
I learned how to use people to get what I needed and wanted.
I learned how to break promises. I learned to lie, mostly to myself.
I learned to be afraid, to find comfort in being alone, to be anxious, and to be unpredictable.
I learned to look strong, while I covered my fears with work, or illness, or alcohol, or sarcasm, or wit, or intelligence, or knowledge and arrogance, or competence, or whatever was near that made it go away, for a time.
I didn’t learn how to need, to depend on others, to be open, to give and take. Me, me, me! Always, what mattered was how everything impacts me!
I learned how to take from and use people — I didn’t think I had anything to give back.
Isolation equaled strength somehow in my parents. Fear people, because they will let you down, hurt you, disappoint you, or even need you too much.
I didn’t learn from my parents and what I did, I am trying to unlearn.
Written 7/11, Sunday, 2009
Tuesday, July 13
Ah, the wretchedness of focusing on yourself and your internal distress and grief. Upon further thought I am truly ashamed. How self-centered these thoughts are and how sorry I feel for myself at times. Yes, all that happened but I also know, without a doubt, that what I learned and didn’t from my parents has made me the person I am today.
If anything, in the midst of my selfishness of thought, I am assured that I am not them. I am my own person. And although I am disgusted and ashamed of my parents’ behavior (and my own) at times, it came from their own pain and disappointment with their parents. My parents did not feel loved by their families, not a little, not a lot,seemingly not at all. And although intellectually I know I was loved, it always came with a sense of conditions, whether spoken or not, that I could not live up to. Not a little. Not a lot. Not at all.
I have made many, many mistakes already in my life. My addiction to work at one point in my life, and even my giving in to an addiction to alcohol, and came from lineage of broken people. Strength in the broken places was a mantra my father lived and I think he believedbut somehow he never changed; he never put a stop to passing on his pain, fear, isolation, and disappointments.
If I have any strength it comes from naming the sin of my selfishness. To continue on hurting others, or even blaming, would be the ultimate lapse of character and so I take my weaknesses, my awareness of what I did not learn, and what I did and reach out. For out of my fear, distrust and isolation come a raging and inconsolable need for Place. For Belonging. For a sense of Home, if you will, that I never knew as a child but crave as an adult. As I reach and extend my heart to others, I am trusting that we will each be strengthened by the risk-taking.
If it feels like jumping off a cliff, the terror unimaginably vivid, I am even more resolved! As I get outside of my doubts and fears, I can do something else with my life! Sometimes that is as simple as answering the phone, returning a phone call or email, replying lovingly to an inquiry and a revealing a little more of myself, or more importantly caring enough to ask questions of others.
Isolation only brings what I seem to always be looking for, which is ‘proof’ of others’ betrayal. I want others to reach toward me! What I am learning is to get outside of myself, to consider others before myself. Oh,I don’t do it perfectly, or even regularly, or even often enough; for the impulse to close in on myself is almost as natural as breathing. And yet although I breathe, that is not being alive. That is death in itself, to live hour-by-hour for myself and my own needs. It is to others that I am called or else this life in not worthwhile, not a life worth living. And I do want to live fully, as complete and whole as I can be.
In the end, this isn’t about my parents.
It ends with my parents and begins with,
jumping off the cliff,
today. Life in free fall is scary, but pretty great!
The Journey In Between
In my journey between belief and disbelief, I have found Truth to be something I choose not to argue about, but to be what I have experienced in the mystery of the flesh-and-blood of the incarnation. My encounter with Truth is the Story — my responses, reflected in word and image, are but a ripple in the ocean of that mystery.
After a recent exhibit at an artist showcase at my church, I found that I was ultimately ambivalent about it. One image I preferred, titled Sinkhole, seen below, truthfully expressed the dark lull of depression which is a reoccurring struggle for me, but the rest of my images were drivel. After searching within, and asking for guidance, I found inside myself a desire which I came to understand as this:
I want my photography and poetry to reflect the improbable and shattering experiences I have had encountering Jesus — encounters between my grubby and muddled life and Truth. These moments aren’t at all pretty; my struggles with a life-threatening depression (the sinkhole), the death of an abusive yet charming parent, a loathsome self-esteem, the tensions between my passions & my search for ultimate purpose, and the shame & fear in acknowledging my alcoholism, are all relevant to my faith journey.
I am living with the tension of wanting to create beautiful, excellent art and to reflect the sweat and toil of my faith. To honestly reflect the sweet serenity of unconditional love & laughter, as well as suffering, pain and broken heart I have from things chosen and unchosen in my life. The satisfaction I have experienced in my slow, bittersweet surrender to believing God is who he says he is and can do what he says he can do! The heart’s quickening by the spirit of God which is earth shattering and good.
I’m fully aware that my writing and photography will never have the Answers to the Questions people have — but if it can be a simple witness to my experiences and a nudge toward Truth, I will be satisfied. Knowing Jesus promised that those who seek will find. We can trust him. He meant what he said.
I want my Art to be a connection that cannot help but push one toward God. I need to make this kind of art, need it desperately. And I hope in the act of creating, whether through a lens or written word., some restitution will be found.
Is it too much to ask that Art heals, directs, and in the end is a tiny inkling of God’s Truth? There is a certain anxiety or fear involved with the attempt. Not wanting to be marginalized by the world for making “Christian art,” I feel reluctant and yet strangely compelled! What other option do I have? If my art is relevant to the entirety of my experience, from the dazzling to the profane moments, then it just may be relevant to the people around me.
This is my wish.
MHH
Some of my thinking was inspired by: http://www.relevantmagazine.com, http://www.insidecatholic.com, as well as by the writings of C.S.Lewis. Teaching at Blackhawk Church, http://www.blackhawkchurch.org, has been a catalyst in this profound change in my life over the last seven years.
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I need a filling (a poem)
It’s difficult to face
some days.
Yesterday was like that
simply
because I was face-to-face
with my [faithless and revolting] need
for Substance.
And I vowed,
again, as I do many days
to offer my need to God, the ultimate Other,
asking for a filling.
I need a filling dear Lord, I need a filling.
written 4/13/2009
by Melody Harrison Hanson
Mastery of Life: About Face!
The whole idea of blogging about diet and exercise is such a pedestrian stereotype. But be warned, this is a journal about a personal transformation. No, even better, my personal body revolution! No blood will be shed, but change is occurring! And if, by following along, it is meaningful to others, that’s a reward too. I won’t be preposterous and say it with help someone. But I know MANY people struggle with “issues” of weight loss or gain, disordered eating and body hatred, so that’s why I make this journal public. It will be about mastering my body and life.
A week ago Sunday I began to use our treadmill for a long walking workout. Every day, I walk for at least an hour, because this gives my body a “wake up” time and then once it (my body) is fully awake and functional, I give it a good hard sweat. Doing this, I am able to burn from 500-750 calories in about an hour. And I feel great afterwords. I drink about 32 oz. of water during and after the workout and am feeling really good. I know I just said that, but it bears repeating! This type of workout makes me feel really, really good.
When I quit drinking in July, 08 my weight was up to 169, which is the very highest my weight has ever been when not pregnant or recovering from pregnancy. I’ve always said I will never ‘get fat’ I am not certain that I have the willpower to take it off. As members of my family have struggled with their weight for years, the yo-yo of a life of dieting was something I feared. I do not want that!! I’m afraid of that eventuality. An yet, here I am at 42 and 168 or so pounds, and the scale and my BMI tell me I am over-weight at 5’6″. As I said, I thought when I quit drinking that the weight would drop off, but I guess that my body had adjusted and was comfortable with it. This puts me at a size 14 and uncomfortable. For about a half a year I have been in MAJOR denial about this weight gain. But you can’t deny it forever and hitting 170 would be it for me. There’s no denying it.
Since giving birth to three kids in 1997, 1999 and 1991, I carried about ten pounds for each child. In 1992 I tried the first diet of my life more out of a desire to be supportive to Tom. I can actually say that South Beach diet works and I lost 17 pounds in about two months. I was a beautiful size ten and I have to say that I felt fantastic. I wasn’t working out at all and people told me I looked “unhealthy.” But for the first time in years the heavy, bloated, thick-waisted feeling was gone.
So now, in my closets I have my skinny clothes (did I just say my skinny clothes? Ew!) (9-10s), my medium clothes (11-12s), and my heavy clothes (solid 14).
All this rambling brings me to today. As already mentioned, a week ago Sunday I started working out and watching my calories. Tom’s the kind of dieter that counts calories, tallying in his mind all day long. When he gets to his limit he stops eating. For me, counting calories doesn’t work. I can’t remember the value of everything and after about three or four days of writing everything down on scrap pieces of paper in the kitchen, I want to scream and stop writing things down. But with eating through out the day and then a workout to subtract and have no idea where I am.
During the first week, I fluctuated up and down, but couldn’t break the 165 barrier. Frustrated and confused, I kept limiting calories and exercising every day, and drinking lots of water…. Yesterday, finally, after two weeks, I weighed in at 165. Today it is 166 again.
OH, just to be clear: My commitment is daily exercise and I’m going to apply Phase I of the South Beach Diet. The South Beach is perfect for me. It’s simple, healthy, and kicks my body into turbo calorie burning. I need the immediate results. I can’t wait to see what happens next although today I’m frustrated to not see results yet. To be sure, it didn’t help to eat some birthday cake last night. Strictly speaking I broke all the rules, but, I’m back on the plan today. Cheese and meat for breakfast. Lots of water. I woke up with a pick ax behind my eyeballs, which has been a reoccurring problem and Tom’s theory is I’m dehydrated.
More later on, the psychology of dieting and the South Beach program and why I like it.
Goal: 140 March 15th!
Logic & Imagination 