Ducks and Geese

I sat quietly on a bench outside of the hospital, my feet dangling in the air beneath. The pond was a soothing presence in front of me, right past the arch and pillars of the emergency room. My eyes glazed over as I stared at the waters, the emotional shut down allowing my system to do some much needed recovery. 
  
I felt my lungs expand and contract, breath coming in and out, not sure how things had gotten this bad but only convinced that this raw space was never one I wanted to be in again. With one touch I felt as if I would be shattered; the instability was that real. 

Maybe I sat there for minutes, maybe hours--I was there for a while, waiting for a call from my father to assure me that if I admitted myself into the psychiatric hospital that our insurance would pay for it.

My lungs were expanding and contracting. In and out. 

My lungs. 
Expanding. 
Expanding. 
My lungs.

The water was nice. Soothing. Steady. Unchanging. 

My lungs.  
My lungs. 

My chest hurts.

I heard a quack to my right and my eyes were drawn a grassy hill in front of the hospital where geese and ducks were together. I observed them as if through a haze, my eyes opening and closing slowly. I observed the duck feathers, the brown hues with indigo highlights, the orange bill that shines like the glassy black eyes one inch behind, the webbed feet and the plump body and all the beauty that is. The ducks and geese are peaceful on the grassy hill.

My eyes open, close.
My lungs expanding.

All at once a white goose scoops a duck's neck up in its bill and clamps down and the duck is squawking and

My chest hurts

and the goose is pinning the squawking duck into the grass as it bites at its neck and 

My chest hurts and my breathing becomes panicked

and the duck is hurting and the goose is not listening and somehow

My chest hurts and my breathing becomes panicked and tears are running down my face and why are no other geese or ducks stopping the violence and pain right front of them

and the duck is flapping its wings and the goose is relentless but finally after much flapping relents and the two birds walk away from each other and 

My chest hurts and I'm weeping and I just ache and want it all to be better.

I just ache and want to be better.

I just ache.  

*  *  *

The tears are still steady, but my breathing has slowed. Eyes are glazed once again, overlooking the steady pond and the quite lap of the water against the grassy edge. A car pulls up to the ER, and two men walk out--one going inside, and the other stepping in front of my bench.

"Do you mind if I sit here, miss?" I look up at the man, the sun behind his face making it hard to read his facial gestures. I nod and scoot to my right, putting my small bag of possessions on the ground next to me. He sits, and lets out a sigh. I sniffle beside him, the ducks and geese still heavy on my mind. 

We sit in silence for a few seconds, each lost in their own thoughts.

"You don't look okay," he said, commenting on my tear-stained face. 

I let out a laugh, "Yeah."

"You here to get help?" he asked.  I see the concern etched in his face.

"You could say that," I replied, nodding.

"Me too. My son brought me here. My name is Shawn."

I smile, introducing myself in reply. We sit in silence a bit longer.

"I'm a struggling alcoholic. I was going good, real good, and then the depression...it just crushed me. I want to stop, I just can't. I want to stop, I just can't. I want to stop. The depression...I don't know. My son brought me here, it's really hard on my son. It's really hard."

My struggle is different, but I know struggle, too. There's a sense of togetherness between us.

We look out onto the pond, the quiet pond, the pond with little waves lapping at the edges. 

I find myself thinking of ducks and geese, and how sometimes we're ducks whose necks are being strangled and sometimes we're geese doing the strangling, but we're always birds. 

And I find myself thinking of the moment of violence over something unknown between two birds and the moment of connection over shared pain between two humans and something about it connects deeply within me as something beautifully paradoxical.
  
And I find myself thinking of how Shawn and I are both so raw and fragile, and choosing the strength of surrender. Soon we will enter the hospital behind us to be reminded of the breadth and expanse of our indigo-hued wings until we remember ourselves.

My lungs expand, and my lungs contract.

My feathers are ruffled; I am ready.

 

Integration

I remember the hours that went by when I didn’t feel anything

I was only existing

And each hour was a choice to continue going on

Trusting that although I couldn’t see how anything would resolve

That it would

And I was cynical, so cynical, every hour

And the hours turned into days and the days into weeks

And the weeks into months of eating and sleeping and doing

But not being present in the moment

Not being present in passion

Not being present in hope

Only making it by and hiding within myself for protection

And I remember how you sustained me with manna

And you gifted me little sparks of what was to come

And I didn’t believe you because the numbness had become

So normal that there was no other way of being

And celebration could never exist in pain

And the end was never in sight

But you gifted me glimpses of affirmations

And companions who held my tears and walked with me

Hour by hour and day by day

And they listened as I processed the deep pain of living

And the deep pain that had become entrenched within me over the years

And the lies that had become my ways of existing

They held with me as the lies were brought to light

And I was so raw that it was clear that I was walking around naked

For months on end

And it was so uncomfortable

But it was okay because you kept gifting me glimpses

You kept saying “Trust, love.”

And some days I did and most days I didn’t and

I cried and it was hard and I kept going

And then one day I realized that I didn’t want to kill myself anymore

And I realized that I still didn’t have a purpose in life and

I still didn’t know how everything would resolved but

I remember that moment in October of 2012 when I first realized that

Maybe, just maybe, I was healing.

And I just want to say

Thank you Lord for all you’ve done for me.

Celebrating Home

Home began with Akron. Home was stroganoff and pasties, spaghetti and mac and cheese. Home was lazy Saturdays and church on Sundays. Home was reading the days away and dancing the evenings away. Home was snow and hot chocolate, summers at the lake and Farmer Boy. Home was Springfield Lake and the Derby Downs, Goodyear and Canton Road.

But then I went to college in Bowling Green, and I saw how home could be cornfields and sunsets, small town laughter and Main Street. Home could be Grounds for Thought and Kroger, simplicity and solitude. I learned that home could be hummus and tabouleh, shawarma and dolma. Home could be tea and warm socks, Bananagrams and naps.

And then I moved to Southwest Philadelphia, where I learned that home could be rowhouses and asphalt, porch sitting and boisterous laughter. Home could be close proximity and corner stores, pigeons and hair braiding. Home could be Woodland Avenue and Elmwood, the 36 and the 11. I learned that home could be pasteles and collard greens, taro and arroz con gandules, kimchi and water ice. Home could be  Chinatown and West Philly, Kensington and Center City. 

Back in Akron, I'm learning home in a different way. Home that is Summit Lake and South Akron. Home that is the taqueria and the Asian market, taro milk tea and the barbershop. Home that is recovery and re-entry, refugee and reconciliation. Home that is Hmong and Nepali and Bhutanese and Italian and Laotian and Congolese. Home that is rich in culture and story.

A few weeks ago I was walking through Chinatown in Chicago. It was not even a walk really, it was a stroll. I was drinking taro milk tea from Joy Yee as I went into shop after shop, soaking it all in. Ginseng. Teas. Goods. Dim Sum. Everything you could imagine--it was here. I was an observer in a space that I would not identify with home for myself. Not much was familiar to me.

As I was nearing the end of the line of shops, I walked into a small corner grocery store and was suddenly hit with the strong smell of fish. I looked to my left and saw fish right there on top of ice staring at me, ready to be sold. I had a flashback to when a few Mission Year teammates and I walked into a Liberian grocery store in Southwest Philadelphia and the stench was so unfamiliar and difficult for me that I had to walk out within minutes. 

In this small grocery store in Chinatown for some reason the smell and sight of fish, though still unfamiliar, didn't bother me as it had before. In fact, I found myself tearing up at the smell of fish in this corner grocery store. As I strolled around the store, looking at dried prunes and Pocky sticks, I was able to put words to my wave of emotion. In that moment, I realized that even though it wasn't home to me, to someone, the smell and sight of fish is home. And that realization made all the difference. 

Whether it's stroganoff or kalua pig, collard greens or curry, home is home. Whether it's hip hop or country, reggae or tabla music, home is home. Whether its contra dancing or ballet, line dancing or the hula, home is home. One way of doing home is not better than another way of doing home. Home is home, and home is to be celebrated. 

May we be a people that celebrate each other. 

May we be a people that celebrate each others' manifestations of home.

Alpha and Omega and Emmanuel

You are Alpha and Omega and Emmanuel
The words too sweet for my soul to even grasp
For I have forgotten that you are before and you are after and you are now
And my love I have forgotten
But you are sweet to remind me in an unearned grace.

I was alone in a desert
Or I thought I was alone
I know not if you were there only that I thought that you weren't
And my spirit ached because you are all I ever want
But in wanting of you I searched elsewhere
For the water to satisfy my thirst
And came up with cups full of thistles and dry bones.

And I cried out to you for help
And then decided it was better to journey through the desert on my own
For I was angry at you for leaving me 
In the desert with my enemies
Where they sought me with fervor and strength
And I knew not what to do in the temptations and so
I turned away because it made sense 
To journey through the desert on my own. 

I see now how you called out to me
And whispered "Beloved" in my ear
But I was too deaf to your voice and
I continued stubbornly on and 
You and your Spirit were long-forgotten companions
In a world of pain and sorrow
Because I was convinced that you didn't see the pain and sorrow
And in my despair I didn't cry out like the saints of old
But instead allowed despair to seep into my bones forgetting
That you are Alpha and Omega and Emmanuel. 

Sweet love, you are so kind
For disciplining those you love.

Your words are harsh to me as I recognize how
I have grieved your Spirit and 
Made you out to be a liar and a fool
When it is I who is a liar and a fool
And My God, My God, I sit in the depravity of my soul
And wonder how you make beauty out of ashes
And weep at the wonder of mercy
And in turning I feel like a prodigal daughter
Who recognizes the goodness of what she left behind
Only to see Goodness running towards her
With arms open wide

My love, my love
You are Alpha and Omega and Emmanuel
Before I was and after I am you are
And we embrace and I weep and you frantically kiss my face
And call me "Beloved" 
And we weep and remember the time
You gifted butterflies in winter
And the time I trusted you with everything
And the time you whispered "Go"
And we are crying and smiling and I feel my soul once again being recalibrated to 
Your guiding heartbeat
And I know that grace is the sweetest gift that is. 

My love.

My love.

My love.
 

When Conversing with a Professor

I sat across from a university professor yesterday, watching her try to understand the thing that was my life. 

"So you graduated with a degree in Film Production, but instead you chose to go into ministry and be a missionary," she inquired.

I tilted my head at her, unsure. "I'm not sure what you mean by ministry or missionary but I suppose that's one way of looking at it, though those are not the words I would use to describe what I do or my life."

It was a strange moment in the conversation. I was watching someone from the outside looking into my life and trying to put it into conventional boxes that made sense to her. After a few questions, she told me confidently that I was doing ministry. I think her confidence in labeling my life was more for her than for me. 

She stared at me, inquisitive. "You're an example of living into your passions. I talk with so many students who are majoring in one thing because of the money or because their parents tell them too but you're a living example of what it looks like to live into your passions."

I didn't tell her that I wanted to kill myself 3.5 years ago and that's why I decided to "live into my passions." That probably wouldn't have done well for the conversation.

We ended our conversation with her saying she would love if I came and spoke on a panel to her class of 80+ students. I stated that if it fit into my schedule, I would absolutely be open to doing that. As I walked out of her office, I felt like I was in another dimension.

What just happened? How the hell did I get to a point where I was being asked to speak in front of classes as if I have something to share and give? What is going on?

In many ways I haven't processed my story since Mission Year. The last 3.5 years of my life have been a daily walk of trust that God would lead me without a larger vocational blueprint after I dropped film. Directionless, I prayed daily after my time in the psych ward "Use me," less as a pious desire and more as a logical and cynical statement because I wanted to kill myself and didn't want my life so God (whoever that was) could have it because I was stuck on this earth anyway even though it was hell. (This was the state of my mind.)

It's not that I hated life it's just that I couldn't see how things could get better (socially, interpersonally, everything) and when you don't see how things will get better hopelessness makes sense and numbness is a by-product of a logical thought pattern. And no "Hallmark goody goody" hope phrase can get you out of that space. You're pretty much done for.

My experience with depression has been the pivotal point in my life. It is a journey that in many ways I have had to walk through by myself (though many have walked with me in ways that they were able.) It has been a deeply spiritual journey, one that has formed me in ways I have yet to put into words. In that space I had to muster up the resilience of my soul to seek the joy, beauty, and gratitude when my mind would tell me that these don't exist (and has really good arguments for saying so). It was the point when I had to choose to believe that even though I didn't feel the beauty of the flower that the beauty was still there. My feeling one way or another did not determine the truth that was--the flower was beautiful.

This has been the anchor for my soul prone to deep pain, depression, and anguish. Even if I do not feel the beauty of the flower this does not negate that the beauty isn't there. Truth is apart from my feelings and logic. Yes, life is painful and difficult, full of stress. In fact, I would argue that logically there is no reason to be alive (Ecclesiastes is my favorite book of the Bible.) The world is one massive shit-hole (pardon my language). The anchor that keeps me grounded is Truth, which means something different for me than it may mean for you.

Grounded in Truth, I see the healing is in the midst of pain, the resurrection in the midst of death, the reconciliation in the midst of separation--the beauty is in the cracks of the pain spaces.

It is in this paradox that I have chosen to live, because I have found it to be home. 

So when you say, professor, that I'm "living into my passions," I'm not quite sure I agree with you. You see, 3.5 years ago in college I decided to live into and lean into the pain--of myself, of my neighbors, of the world, of my Christ.

And that choice has made all the difference.

(I'm not sure that's exactly the message you want your students to hear.)

Ever-present

Remind me that the breath of the tulip reverberates with mine,
That with each day we are both waxing and waning beneath the ever-present moon.
She closes, I open, but we both respond to the heartbeat of the sun.

The sun.
Drench me with rays til I am wet with dew.
Sing your song to me in the morning and I will respond, opening up to your rays.
Glory.
(This is what we do not speak of in the night--how the willow bends in an embrace to weave its hand in mine.)

Remind me that the breath of the tulip reverberates with mine.
Remind me what it is to dance in the land of the living.
Remind me that though I am closed in the cold of the night that the Promised Sun still beats deep within the shell of the earth.
Remind me, Love.
(It is your warmth I seek.)