Tag: my poetry

A Sacred Contract [a poem]

Tonya (8), Melody (10), Holly (3) and Paula (12) with Dan Harrison in southern California, 1976.

SISTERS: A Sacred Contract

A sacred contract between sisters;
My secrets are yours,
yours are mine,
And theirs

are ours together.

Four sisters.
Bound to one another
by secrets.
‘You don’t owe each other,’
my husband said.

Oh, but we do.
For we are survivors of secrets,
together.

by Melody Harrison Hanson, 2005

I’ll never forget how terrified I was when I wrote this.  When I sent it on to my sisters to read I feared their rejection because you see we never talked about dad much, not negatively.  Not until he died because  of his anger.  It just wasn’t worth it.

[Now some of you who knew the gentle, charming character of Dan Harrison will be rising your eyebrows and questioning me now.  Some day, perhaps I will have the energy to remember and write what our childhood was like.  Because we remained until the day he died strangled by his anger.]

You see, when you experience psychological trickery and  mental torment or suffering it creates a level of fear that is insurmountable.  We all suffered physically from this over the years.  I had stomach aches, Holly and my mom had headaches, the others in their own way.  The worry, the knowledge that at any time he might lash into a rage, get stirred up over the smallest thing, I never understood his trigger.  It caused us mental and emotional anguish.  But the very hardest for me was the secret of it.

That’s where this poem comes from.

Questions, cause I’ve been thinking

I have a lot of questions right now because I’ve been  thinking.  And when I start thinking I find I end up with more questions.

diversity @ church.

One of my favorite writers, Philip Yancey, recently scoured his hometown churches to see what he might find.   His comment about diversity in a church stood out to me.

As I read accounts of the New Testament church, no characteristic stands out more sharply than this one. Beginning with Pentecost, the Christian church dismantled the barriers of gender, race, and social class that had marked Jewish congregations. Paul, who as a rabbi had given thanks daily that he was not born a woman, slave, or Gentile, marveled over the radical change: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

Huh, diversity is Biblical.  ‘Nuf said.

MLK day was it ignored or forgotten? does it matter which.

Can I just say I love my church.  I have never grown in my spiritual life the way I have at this church.  It is amazing.

That said, yesterday I realized a stunning thing.   I attend one of those “mainly white mega-churches that don’t mention commemorating Martin Luther King Day.”   That made me sad.  They likely bumped it because of praying for Haiti and there are many challenges managing program time.  Still, I think it is important for a church to communicate from the platform that remembering and celebrating with our friends of color is significant to us all and valuable.   It’s a national holiday?  How are people going to spend it? Just made me wonder.

I’ve been writing on multi-ethnicity.

A friend asked me to reflect on Ecclesiastes 4:1-3, after reading these thoughts I wrote about my experience of going to a white church and my question of whether I should consider attending a multi-ethnic or even Black church.

Again, I observed all the oppression that takes place under the sun. I saw the tears of the oppressed, with no one to comfort them. ‘The oppressors have great power, and their victims are helpless.  So I concluded that the dead are better off than the living.  But most fortunate of all are those who are not yet born. For they have not seen all the evil that is done under the sun.  (New Living Translation)

From my post:

To live our lives based on that simple truth means our lives are built on self-sacrifice.  Every time we respond in love to someone else, we are laying down our lives for them.  “This is my commandment,that we should believe in the name of his Son Jesus Christ and love one another.” Strange how Jesus did not say to us, “these are my commandments.”  He said is as if it were one commandment.

To believe and love is one idea.

Believing in Christ means that we love one another.  Looking at it that way, there is a lot that I can do as a person with my affluence & power &  a voice for the cause of reconciliation in my city.  Things that have nothing to do with where I worship on Sunday.

What my friend Jimmy was gently saying (I think) is that people are living with oppression in our nation my city, in my kid’s schools.  And no one white people don’t seem to genuinely offer care and comfort.

I will do further study on the word: COMFORT.  And that will sooth my intellect.  But can I DO something.  What can I do?

That takes me back to my Advent Lament and prayer. Oh God, Tell me what you want me to do.

And from someone I am coming to read often, a cautionary quote to white people.

I can only speak anecdotally on this, but there seems to be a growing movement of white people—including Christians—who feel so victimized by political correctness (and how it’s robbing them of their rights) that they’ve hardened their hearts to any suggestion that racial injustice is a factor in our society today. And they’ve become cold to how their privileged words and actions might affect others. That defensive mindset and callousness could be the biggest obstacles to true reconciliation in our churches and nation. Ed Gilbreath, emphasis mine.

I believe God speaks and it is not random.

I believe that God challenges and moves people from within by breaking our hearts over injustice around us.  He is not random about this.  He leads us toward things.  And away from things.  Problematically I have been told  and I can affirm that I have the gift of mercy.   I pop open my laptop and the needs and issues all over the world, and in my community, flood toward me and it all hurts.   If I open myself up to it it’s crushing.  It makes me sad, and mad, and sometimes depressed.  Hopeless and sometimes despondent.  And I slam my laptop shut, but that’s just an excuse for doing nothing.

I challenge  myself to pray every day asking God to tell me how to respond to the OPPRESSED in my life and community.  Who are they?  How can I comfort?  Help me to know what it means to comfort the oppressed?

This means that I cannot be free until all men are free. And if in some distant future I am no longer oppressed because of blackness, then I must take upon myself whatever form of human oppression exists in the society, affirming my identity with the victims. The identity must be made with the victims not because of sympathy, but because my own humanity is involved in my brother’s degradation.  The Christian Century (15 September 1971)

what should I do with myself?

I continue to pray that I would know what God wants me to do with my time, work, contribution, opinions (*smirk*), and talents.

I’m still mulling on a conversation I had with one of my girlfriends (Someone I would trust with my life.)  We discussed what I am doing now.  I found myself saying this,

“I need a job.  I’m feeling like a kept woman.”

Why she asked? Laughing at me, if can you believe it.

“I need to make a contribution. I feel guilty that I don’t have a ‘job.’ The feminist in me is screaming that I should be carrying my weight… I was never going to be a stay-at-home mom..  And look at me, my kids are in elementary school.”

After leaving full-time work in 2001, I had no idea as it was happening that was beginning a long journey of “recovery” from being totally addicted to work — the rush, the sense of purpose, the affirmation (Oh, how I miss the affirmation!)  I came out of that detox a better person.  A stronger person.  Much better understanding that I am not what I do.  And I’m glad (mostly) that I have been able to be at home with my children for the last eight or is it nine years.  I feel okay about it, some days even good.  I can see every day why I am home when it comes to my kids.  Jacob’s need for an advocate for his learning disabilities is just one example.  On one level, I think I started Imagine Photography to dispel that feeling of being ‘a kept woman.’  Bring in a little income myself, but still have the at-home life.  But I haven’t taken off with that even though with my marketing background I know how to promote myself.  Something has held me back.

But I digress.

What Carol did was confront those ideas head on (yes, the voices in my head) that say I should be ‘making money.’  It freed me to consider any job or volunteer situation because  I was thinking about it only in terms of money not in terms of values and interests and calling and heart’s desires.

I just feel freed.  It was inconceivable to me at first that someone who manages to work and be a mom (my friend who I really respect and need) would not look down on me for not working.  She actually said, you do work.  Every day.  Well, we don’t need to have a debate about what I do all day and whether it’s work.  Her blessing (not that she represents all women) and her opinion is one of the more important to me.

But now,  I can pray and wait.  Listen.  Try things.  Explore.  I can give of myself without thinking about “earnings.”

Haiti

When it comes to Haiti I have more questions than answers.  This poem is a part of that conundrum.  Also, a post.

This week’s message @ church

I wanted to respond to the message this Sunday at my church.  But I don’t have the time or energy today.  But something new I am going to add to this blog, is a personal reflection on the talk.  I think it will force me to take it to the next level of integration into my life.

Be well.

my God is not random (a poem)

My God is not random.  He loves me.  He loves you.

He created Adam and Eve.

He put them in a perfect place.  He had

communion with them. He gave them

e v e r y t h i n g.

My God is not random. He longs for that with you and me.

I am Eve, you are Adam but we live in a broken place.

We are wreckage.  We are turmoil and pain.

But he never stops loving us red, yellow, black and white.  All named Precious!  Precious brown and beige and ivory.  Precious bronze, chestnut and chocolate. Precious cinnamon and cocoa, ecru and ginger.  Tan and tawny.  Even terra-cotta.  Precious chestnut, alabaster, and milky white. Precious ebony and obsidian. Precious slate.  Cream and sand. He made us and calls each one Precious.

My God is not random.  My God loves all.

Big & tall.  Short and fat.  Skinny or petite.  Hideous.  Beautiful.  Proud.  Angry.   Perfectionists and slackers.  Healers.  Takers.  Know-it-alls and those that don’t.  Intellectuals.  Mystics.  Liberals.  Moderates. Conservatives.  indifferent. All. Those that clean and serve.  Those that won’t.  Prosperous or poor.  Passionate or indifferent. Foolish or wise.  Filthy or Clean.  Hungry or full.  Broken and hurting.  Devastated and afraid. Crushed.  Alone. Dieing.  Texting ten and those that don’t.  Those that go and those that stay.  Loved and precious.  ALL.

I am Adam.  You are Eve.

Don’t ya get it? Don’t you see?

We messed up this place.

Think you’re important?  He seriously does not care, unless you choose to help.

It is no matter to him who you are or what you have done .  That you have Hated.  Ignored.  Hurt.  Judged.

He loves you, Me, Adam, Eve.

All of us, He loves and calls us precious.

Then he let us choose.

We walked away. We ignored.

My God isn’t random. He says:

Come Eve.  Come Adam.  Come into the garden.  Dwell.  Be with me.

See the world  Do something. Feel the pain of others and respond.

I am the world.  I am hungry.  I am thirsty.  Feed me.  I am a stranger.  Invite me to your meals. I am cold and in need of clothes.  Cover me. I am sick, imprisoned won’t you look after me?

I gave you everything. What will you choose?

If you say “That can not be you Lord!  When are you ever hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison?”

Look! If we turn toward him, he will

break our heart. He will give us

Eyes. Ears. Hands. Feet.

He is not random. He let’s us choose.

He loves the hungry.  He loves the thirsty.  He loves the naked, the sick, the incarcerated.   He loves me and you.  No mater what we do.  No matter what we’ve done.

He wants your tomorrows.  He wants communion with you.  He named you Precious.

Won’t you listen, come.

Written in response to the crisis in Haiti.  To those who cry out in a moment like this and say “if there is a god he is terrible.  How could he?”  In my perhaps inelegant way I am trying to say he loves each of us and if we were to respond to him the world would be such a better place.  The poverty and tragedy in Haiti has been there for hundreds of years.  The world ignored, but for a few.  And still, he loves.

this poem is far from done.   a torrent of thoughts.  still unruly and a mess.

What Can’t our Daughters Do?

I’m re-posting something I wrote a year ago.  It was my most popular article ever written with more than a thousand viewers.  So I thought it was worth posting again.  

———————–

Quickly — I want to thank all my visitors from the homepage of wordpress.com. Welcome!  Wow!  A lotta love happens when you get featured on the homepage.  Until yesterday, this was a little ol’ blog visited by some of my friends and a few Facebook contacts. I was essentially writing to myself and my lurkers (I do have quite a few of those.)

It would kill me to have you think I’m some ranting feminist and that’s what this blog is about.  Because that is not true, about the blog, I mean. I am a feminist.  And I can rant (at times.)  Okay quite often.  But I rant — ahem write about many topics.  I post my poetry, and talk about all sorts of things from politics, faith & (dis)belief, family & parenting, depression & mental health.  It’s varied.

I’m a Haus Frau, free-lance photographer and generally vexed person who writes.  If it were not for my faith I’d be mean and ugly things would come out of my mouth.  But if you find anything golden here it is because of grace of God in my life.   Melody

I started writing these thoughts about two months ago.  But Nicholas Kristof’s article in today’s NY Times entitled, Religion and Women, got me thinking, again.   I am a regular reader of his Op-Eds.

Do you believe this little girl does has the right to the same opportunities as these boys?  (Even if she felt called to be a Pastor?)

Kristof mentions Jimmy Carter’s speech to the Parliament of the World’s Religions in Australia, which I read when it was first posted online.

(I think I’m “in love” with Jimmy Carter because he lives his life with principles.  And standing up for women is sexy!  But that’s irrelevant here.)  I don’t have complete or even very coherent thoughts on the topic yet, I just want to ask some questions:

  • Is feminism as simple as giving women equality in work, home, church life?
  • Do women deserve access to anything that men have access to?  Why do some men have such a problem with this?
  • Do you believe your daughter has a right to every opportunity that your son has?  Why would a loving God say she doesn’t?  What can’t our daughters do?

Personally, I think oppressing  a woman, from war lords raping women in the Congo, to Afghani men who throw acid on girls faces, to men who psychologically abuse women, or the British woman who was arrested for being raped in Dubai, all of this should make us sick to our stomachs and even more culturally accepted things like putting women down, objectifying women.  And yes even keeping them from leadership opportunities they are obviously qualified, all of these things give men the chance to believe that women are inferior human beings.  And when you do that, bad things happen in our homes, institutions and relationships.

Sexism is any mistreatment of women, ranging from violence against women, to treating women as inferior, to objectifying a women. Any time women are treated in any way other than a respected human being with every opportunity in the world!

“Women are prevented from playing a full and equal role in many faiths, creating an environment in which violations against women are justified,” former President Jimmy Carter noted.  “The belief that women are inferior human beings in the eyes of God gives excuses to the brutal husband who beats his wife, the soldier who rapes a woman, the employer who has a lower pay scale for women employees, or parents who decide to abort a female embryo.”

Jimmy Carter sees religion as one of the basic “causes of the violation of women’s rights.”

As a member of The Elders, a small council of retired leaders brought together by Nelson Mandela, he is speaking out.  The Elders are focusing on the role of religion in oppressing women, and they have issued a joint statement calling on religious leaders to “change all discriminatory practices within their own religions and traditions.”

Why do I have a problem with women not being elders at my church? Because in its simplest form it is saying:

  • That women are not trusted by God with the complete story, or
  • that women somehow don’t have what it takes to lead the church, or
  • that women don’t have full access to God, or
  • that women  don’t have the wisdom and life experience,
  • We do not have whatever it takes.

Oh, believe you me I know (some) churches will allow you to do anything else! Serve, give, teach, be missionaries.  Just not be the spiritual guide.  It just doesn’t feel right.  In my gut.

Eugene Cho, is a pastor and leader and all around amazing, wise and prophetic person who has written and thought about this subject saying:

“Shouldn’t we work together to build a culture (even amongst our own churches) of respect and dignity? How do we do that beyond the debates of the ordination of women?  How do we do that in our lives, families and churches (or must it be connected to the issue of ordination?)  What’s clear to me is that it’s really difficult to pursue these things when we don’t hear directly from women. Or allow ourselves to listen to women… aka – that we take a posture of humility and submit, believing that God can actually speak through women as well. Why?”

I’ll tell you why.  Because they do not fundamentally believe they should be listening to women.  You can’t convince me otherwise.

Surprisingly, in a progressive place like Madison we settle for less on this subject.  It is rare in Madison that are women subjected to overt forms of sexism.  Most of the men I know are loving and open-hearted.  And so, in the church especially, women let a lot go.  We ignore the whole Elder and women being ordained issue, just glad we’re all getting along.  And in fact my church is ahead of many other Evangelical churches in the area.

What I don’t like is that we aren’t willing to talk about these things.  We need to talk about these things.  The fact that we don’t talk about it is painful to me. I believe if we want grow, to heal, and to have everyone truly empowered and working out of their gifts and abilities, it is crucial that we be willing to talk.

It takes an immense amount of energy to challenge someone on their sexism. It is much easier to sit here and write about it.  Even a situation that is simple and straightforward, which I wrote about a few weeks ago, sent me into a tailspin for about 12 hours.  I knew it was sexist.  I couldn’t believe how bad I felt and wondered how my sister, an ordained minister in her own church felt being spoken to in such a demeaning manner.  I suppose in some ways I forgot, being out of the workplace and not heavily involved at church, that this is still common, and widespread.

It would seem that sexism would be easy to recognize.  As with any type of discrimination, sexism can be both personal and institutional, obvious and much more subtle.  Do you think you could spot sexism when it occurs?  These are all in the category.

  • Definitely commenting on a woman’s looks when you should or could be talking ideas with her can be a form of sexism.
  • The use of pejorative names like ” ‘girls’ at the home office” and other patronizing terms can be a form of sexism.
  • A teacher or pastor or youth worker offering more attention to one gender can be a form of sexism.
  • Only hiring people of a certain gender for a specific type of job can be a form of sexism.  (Every support role in a church or ministry being filled by one gender, female.)
  • Expecting only people of a certain sex/gender to be interested in specific activities can be a form of sexism.
  • Identifying activities, roles and chores as male or female can be a form of sexism.
  • Steering students towards specific subjects based on their gender can be a form of sexism.

Mutual respect, openness and conversation are what we need.

I have rung the bell too many times within my church on the role of women. I try to be respectful and teachable. But I am tired of being told “Talk to so and so, who is a woman who leads…” so that she can tell me why she’s accepted the fact and is okay that she will never be an elder in the church.  Pass.

I’ve decided it’s the denomination that speaks.  Women are not pastors or ordained in our denomination.  I cannot change the Evangelical Free Church of America denomination (Or can I? my son would say.  But I know I cannot.) so I have to decide if I can live with it.

And it comes down to whether I can counteract the message, subtle as it is from the platform, that says to my 12-year-old daughter sitting in the pew — you will never do that job.  You will never be a pastor.  You don’t need to study scripture as seriously as the boys, because you aren’t accepted at their seminary.  Women do not preach.  You will not see women preach in our church.

I just think that’s sad.  It makes me very sad.

a crooked road to home (a poem)

a crooked road

by Melody Harrison Hanson
December 31, 2009

Mama, I never thought being an adult child would be so hard.

being an adult child, of an adult who – is – a – child.

Reader. If you’re confused,
welcome.  It is a crooked road, full of twists I cannot define.  I cannot see to the other side.
I cannot look back, because I would slip on the path of unshed tears.

Mama, I get nothing from you.  Nothing for weeks. Before that, nothing

for as long as I can remember.

And I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. I’m trying to figure out what you want?  Do you want anything

[ from me?]

You never reach out.  You never check in.

Should I just assume you’re fine. You don’t want or need anything from me?

Reader. If you’re confused,
welcome.  It is a crooked road, full of twists I cannot define.  I cannot see to the other side.
I cannot look back, because I would slip on the path of unshed tears.

Mama, you can act like I’m not here.

Invisible.

Someone else’s child.

And [I think] I could live with that

if you didn’t act like you DON’T act

like that.  If you didn’t pretend

you are you.

If you didn’t pretent

You are the Mother.

Reader. If you’re confused,
welcome.  It is a crooked road, full of twists I cannot define.  I cannot see to the other side.
I cannot look back, because I would slip on the path of unshed tears.

And why, I think ,can I not be the adult?

Why can’t I make the calls, do the diligent thing? Why,

because I am somehow a little girl

waiting and hoping, for mama to Come Home.

I have a lot of poems about my feelings about parents… You can read them by going here:  https://logicandimagination.wordpress.com/tag/my-poetry/

Mel

Related articles

For Everything there is a Season

It is George Bernard Shaw that said what is the true joy in life,

“the being used for a purpose

recognized by yourself as a mighty one;

the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap;

the being a force of nature

instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances

complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy.”

I am starting to feel a such a sense of self-loathing because I need more to do with myself.   Do I have an utterly solipsistic life?  Not to be overly dramatic, but the care and well-being of my children is simply not enough.  I have wrestled with the demon and shame of that for nine years, since I quit working  at InterVarsity and began to take care of my kids full-time.  Even at the beginning, when I was trying to decide I never believed it would be enough for me.  And tho there have been wonderful moments, it has not been satisfying, not really.  How do you live with the knowledge that you should not have made the decision that you did?  I could hardly admit that after walking away from a really amazing job.  But my situation at work had grown intolerable and seemed impossible to fix.  So after nearly a year of soul-searching  — I quit .  I chose to become an at-home mom. Even while I was changing diapers and wiping noses, singing songs and cuddling, wiping away tears and reading stories — all thoroughly wonderful things, mind you — I struggled.  Though I know many, many women (and some men) do find it to be full of purpose, I was confused, very lonely, sad and missing my work.

Of course I questioned myself!  For all those years, thirteen at InterVarsity and nine years of being at home, I was searching internally for a sense of  my purpose.   At IV I was constantly pushing people and myself to try new things more out of a sense of my need for change and overworking as well.  I was frantic and dissatisfied most of the time.  So I don’t want to give the impression that WORK was a panacea or mecca.  I have searched for ultimate purpose my whole life and I still am looking.

On one level, have a father who was so dynamic and incredible made me expect more — of myself, of my work, of my life.

I think this blog was in part trying to sort that out.  Talk about things that are important to me.  Wrestle with ideas, doubt, passions and self-absorption, say something important or  at least interesting.  It was a venue for my poetry and a way to get feedback on it.

I once was a human dynamo, even while learning the hard way how to treat others with the dignity and with the care they deserved.  I had failures which I feel deep sorrow.  I could name the people whose lives I hurt as a leader or manager and I have such regret. But at the time I was so full of my accomplishments that it didn’t slow me down.  While I was making mistakes I was also accomplishing a lot (some of it good, a few things I consider great) and people were affirming and promoting me.  As I have mentioned at other times, I had altercations with another leader and that conflict became too much for me .  It wasn’t worth it after a while.  I had reached a place of resistance and no-where to go in the organization without running into this person.  I guess you could say they ‘won’ if it was a competition (which it felt like) and I lost by walking away.

When I left work to be at home  full-time, I was at first almost giddy with how simple it was.  Uncomplicated.  The sameness of the days was a relief after all that unpredictable infighting and conflict!  And then it wasn’t so great.  More like Ground Hod Day, if you have seen the movie.  The same day over and over, the alarm ringing and waking to realize it is THAT DAY again and again and again.

“Don’t waste life in doubts and fears; spend yourself on the work before you, well assured that the right performance of this hour’s duties will be the best preparation for the hours and ages that will follow it.”  — Ralph Waldo Emerson

What being at home did, with one day indistinguishable from the next, was to strip it all away — shattering the persona I had created and forcing me to look hard at my internal grid work.  I had to face and try to understand my family of origin.  While caring for my kids,  the successful person that I had been was unimportant, even irrelevant.  And I had no choice but to face myself — look in the mirror and frankly I wasn’t very happy with what I saw.

Through it, I was overcome by a deep, deep depression.  It hit most powerfully over two months and because I didn’t know what was happening to me I thought I was going mad.  Crazy.  Cuckoo.  Insane.  And I was utterly helpless to help myself.  I couldn’t make decisions.  I couldn’t sleep.  I couldn’t DO anything.  I had no energy, my mind was sludge, my heart felt like it might stop.

I remember talking to my dad on the phone, sitting on my backporch in the beautiful warn summer sunshine, saying “Dad, I just want to be happy.”  That was June.  He mailed me a plaque that said “You are the one Jesus loves” and  at the time my skin crawled at the thought!  I had absolutely lost any idea of God’s grace in my life or belief in His  individual love for me.  I was in the pit of despair and I did not believe it.  If I were the only one that existed, I would be loved by Jesus.   Little did I know this was to become a theme over the next years as I began to fight with God over his approval and affirmation.

In October my parents came to visit and I had manage to get myself functional.  My dad acted wierd and kind of mean, but he has always been slightly mean so I thought nothing of it.  Then in November he was diagnosed with brain tumors and we discovered his tumors had made him behave oddly for some time.

By May of the next year he was dead, but he was “gone” long before that.  After surgery, chemo and radiation he was gone.  He never said my name after his December surgery but he did call me Linda, once.  My mother went into treatment that April and was sober to see my dad die.  We’re all grateful for that.  Her alcoholism, his illness and death, my depression, my own alcoholism which I couldn’t accept, continuing to care for three young children…  You can imagine it was an ugly few years.  I am most grateful for Tom hanging in there with me and even more than just hanging, he helped fight for me and got me back into a place of genuine health.

Through those years, I struggled to do the hard work of therapy and if anyone has never done therapy you really have no idea how much work it is.  Weekly and sometimes twice a week at first, which turned into years of work.  I won’t go into all the detail here (too much was happening) but I have had episodes off and on with the depression for these many years.  With medication, several doctor’s care, a hospitalization after a suicide attempt, the care and long-suffering of Tom, much prayer and internal work which became eternal work,

I faced that I had become an alcoholic,

I faced that I needed to learn to love myself,

I faced that all of this around me (stuff & things) mattered not a whit,

I faced my loneliness,

I faced my insecurities developed from a lifetime of feeling my parents didn’t approve,

I faced a pathological need to be perfect,

I faced that I start and quit many things – I’m good at starting things and have more trouble with maintaining them;

I faced that I was tired of being at home, …

_______

Jeez, that makes me one crazy messed up woman that no-one will want to hire.  yes, that’s what the voices in my head began to say.

For everything there is a season,

And a time for every matter under heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;

A time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;

A time to kill, and a time to heal;

A time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, and a time to dance;

A time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;

A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to seek, and a time to lose;

A time to keep, and a time to throw away;

A time to tear, and a time to sew;

A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

A time to love, and a time to hate,

A time for war, and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

I have carried many stones.  Lost so much.  Wept an ocean inside.  Seen death and mourning.

I am ready to dance, to seek and listen.  I am eager to know what it is that I am here to do.  My advent lament was to cry out for God to speak.

James Thurber said:

All men should strive to learn before they die, what they are running from, and to, and why.

Stay tuned as I learn to dance, seek and listen!

clever by emma

I know I’m a proud mama, but this poem is amazing.

clever

by emma, 12 years old

I am witty and clever.
I wonder why people fight.
I hear everything.
I see people.
I want fairness.
I am witty and clever.

I pretend I can fly.
I feel weightless.
I touch the cold metal.
I worry about change.
I cry like crazy.
I am witty and clever.

I understand pain.
I say ‘laughing is good.’
I dream about life.
I try so hard.
I am witty and clever.

Letting go. Thoughts on being an alcoholic. A cautionary tale.

Why do I tell people, up front, that I’m an alcoholic?  I certainly haven’t always been able to admit it.  That’s the journey really.  Once you can admit it, some of the sting is gone.  Once you can admit it, help looks appealing.  Once you can admit it everything changes.

It took me more than seven years to admit it to myself. And then s l o w l y getting help took another several years.  It is hard.  Proud people don’t easily concede and I was very very proud.

In November of 02 my father was diagnosed with brain tumors and it turned out to be a death sentence. I was abusing alcohol even then, but it took me years to process intellectually and spiritually that I might have a problem. And to be honest at that point it wasn’t bad — I was quite functional — just had bouts of over doing it.

Today I have to admit that I am an alcoholic and that I will never drink alcohol again, because I was headed toward being a falling down drunk. No, because I was a drunk.  But most people, even those I drank with regularly, didn’t see it and some still don’t believe it.  Of course I was careful.  And bless him, the one person that did see me the few times it got super ugly was my husband.  We’re talking black outs and you name it, it all happened.  He was never judgmental but he was worried — very very afraid and didn’t know what to do.  Over the years, we ‘quit’ together at his pushing and it lasted for a while.  But I wasn’t committed to that idea.  Let me be clear I am not proud of any of that, AT ALL.  I don’t write this to glory in it in some weird way.  I’m ashamed.  It was awful.  I’m grateful that my children were young and didn’t witness most of it.  When they ask me why I don’t drink I tell them I can’t and basically repeat what I’ve said above.  My daughter has asked me why I can’t just have one drink at a party?  I have to tell her there is no “one drink” for an alcoholic.  I wish it were different, but that is the plain truth.  One quickly becomes five, or eight.

I am sharing this story because, I think people need to know that I a forty-something, white, Christian women from the suburbs was a drunk .  It could happen to anyone.  This is a cautionary tale.

Alcoholism is partly genetic and my extended family is riddled with addiction.  With a parent who is an alcoholic, there’s one in four chance that you will be.  (Yes, I have told my daughter that and my nieces and nephews.) Scientists do not yet know how much is determined by our DNA and how much by our life experiences, but circumstances in your life play into it.  Also your emotional state.  And, although it’s not simple, but I can admit it myself that at a certain point in my addiction, I decided the following.  It was a clear-headed day when I said, “Perhaps I am an alcoholic, probably, but I will not quit yet.  Not until I really, really have to, because, at least I can enjoy a few more years of my life.”

Now that seems sad, that I believed life wasn’t worth living without alcohol. And I can say, today that life is way, way, WAY better without it.  (And I still crave it sometimes.  I’m only at the beginning of recovery.)

I told myself that I could “manage” my drinking.  And I did that, for about a year, until it escalated into drinking every day and then drinking a lot every day.  And then, … well, … all I can say is that God told me to quit. (And that is a story for another day.)

And so for years, I couldn’t imagine my life without alcohol.  It was more important to me than almost everything.  I had lost friendships because of it.  And other intangibles like personal integrity.  That was the sin I think.  I’m genetically predisposed.  I struggle with and receive treatment for major depression and I knew alcohol is a depressant.  I was on medication for depression that had warnings about drinking alcohol with it, but I did not want to give it up.  At one time I had a frightening suicide attempt.

I believed that I could not give it up, but here is the kicker . . .  I would not ask God to help me with it.  I mean how pathetic would that be? “God, please help me not to drink.” Swig.  Not me.  I turned away from God.

Now I can say publicly that I have struggled with addiction, depression and self-harm because I have finally let go. It all happened to me, but laying all that down was the biggest relief! I will never drink again.  I will likely struggle with major depression through out my life, though I have learned a lot about managing it and it’s better than it has ever been.

But I got help.  I had a supportive, rock solid, amazing husband, and family & friends that didn’t give up on me.  I have the best therapist.  I got trained in my addiction through Gateway Drug & Alcohol, which I cannot recommend highly enough.  But it was the ongoing teaching at Blackhawk, and my personal study of Biblical principles, and a small group of women praying, that was as or more important than anything else.  Through personal study I began to understand in a new way now, I can say to you, without shame, I may be an alcoholic but I am loved.

I am more than a year, free (as of July 08)!

I found, at last, unconditional love from God.  After wondering and struggling my whole bloody life, finally I fell so far down that there was only up.  I looked up and God was still there.  Somehow, I believed it and although I have to take up with Him (almost) daily it is good.

“Do you mean it?  You really, really love me? Accept me, with all my sh*t.  I mean, I’ve messed up good.  How can I ever stand in front of people and admit…….” You get the picture.  He says “Yep, I mean it. I love you.”

And I start another day.

And, I continue to figure out what it means to be loved.  And what kind of person I need to be: humble and yet confident, kind, honest and compassionate, striving to serve others who walk the same path … for starters.

Life Long Yearning

The galactic hole in my heart makes me tired

of holding all the pieces together. Tired of doubting.

Tired of needing.Wishing.Hurting.Crying out in all the ways that speak of your neglect.

All my life, Daddy, learning  that I am incomplete.

So am filling up, gorging on all the things that don’t fill that galactic hole.

Wishing for love that never came. All my life, yearning.

It stops when I say so.  I am here, not billowing in space without an anchor.

I want more. I need.  I wish. I hurt. I cry for love and find it.

At the cross, in peace I lay a life of yearning. I am home.

All of my poems are organized with images and can be found here.  One in particular is about that time when I turned away from God.  It can be found here.

If you or someone you love struggles with depression there is help.  If I had managed my depression better I would not have needed to drink.  I’d be glad to talk to you or there’s tons of help on the web.  This website, http://alcoholism.about.com/od/about/u/symptoms.htm, does a good job of breaking things down.  A caution:  Medical doctors are terrible at helping a person with these issues.  I don’t know whether they are just too busy or in denial or just don’t have the where with all to help.  But I would not go to an MD if I were worried about my drinking.  They will likely play it down.  That goes for most Psychologists as well.  There is no harm in talking to a Drug or Alcohol professional, with is covered by many health insurance policies.  Or, you can pay out of pocket for one appointment if confidentiality is a concern.

Whether it is you or someone you love that you are worried about, I can tell you that if you are worried enough to get more information, then the chances are they have a problem or are headed in that direction.  It doesn’t have to shatter your life, if they can get some help sooner than later.  I’m grateful that I was able to get help before I drove drunk and killed someone.

**Two out of three people who struggle with depression never seek help, and untreated depression is the leading cause of suicide.  In America alone, it’s estimated that 19 million people live with depression, and suicide is the third-leading cause of death among those 18-24 years old.  The good news is that depression is very treatable, that a very real hope exists in the face of these issues.”   Source: http://www.twloha.com/index.php

My dad: Dan Harrison


dadOriginally uploaded by M e l o d y

My father was diagnosed with two fatal brain tumors November 2002. This rendering (right) is of the last photo ever taken of him. Of course we had no idea that he was going to die a few days later.

I love it, because although he wasn’t able to speak by that time, he was watching his grand kids (my kids) play in the yard and this smile is sooo HIS SMILE! Makes me (smile) just looking at it.

For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.  —    Rainer Maria Rilke

This is my dad.  I’m missing him today.  He died May 19th, 2003.  When I look at this picture, it still doesn’t seem to be real.

He traveled a lot.  He was gone as much as he was at home growing up.  So when I think of him as dead, well it’s really more of a gone feeling.  Which is very different than dead.

My dad was a mixed blessing.  I guess you take the good with the bad when it comes to parents.  Right now, I’d take anything from him.  I miss him so much.

With all I have learned about photography, I wish that I had one last chance to take his photo.  Oh how I would have loved that.

I’m looking to hear your thoughts about my dad.

I’ll write more later about mine.  I do have poems about him, but I don’t want to focus on that pain right now.  If you want to read them look under Poetry.

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.

SOME DAY: A poem about Siblings (Not) Getting Along

Some Day

Some day I won’t have to ask the question: Why do siblings war?

This I know.

Tattered hearts are the consequence.

It is said by some that soon you will be the best of friends.  And so I listen

from the next room, and wonder and think

it is said so assuredly, but that slippery truth isn’t now,

only some day.  You know what I think?

Some day, if you are lucky, you will long to share breakfast with your brother

and he’ll live miles away.  Or he may be

distracted, distressed or in a disagreement with you.

Life seems to get in the way

of some day.   As for today,

as you kick and scream on the couch demanding

your own way

I can only listen from the other room and pray, for some day.

Written October 28, 2009

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!