custody

My landlords have disappeared (I harbor some concern ... last time their van was gone for this long, Norm was having a quadruple bypass.) The weather has fallen well below freezing. And Taku has returned to us. Although she has food out under the landlord's porch, she was waiting by my door two nights ago, ducking against snow flurries. She spent most of the night trying to get into the bedroom with me. Nyssa has learned this is fruitless. Taku was frightened by my stamping, flailing, fatigue angred figure several times before she gave up mewling at the bedroom door. She has been with us two nights now, but I hold no illusion it will last. She disappeared this morning through the bathroom window, but there is still no sign of my landlords' van. I let both of the animals into the bedroom this morning (I was groggy with the inklings of a head-cold and wanted some creature comfort.) Taku hopped up onto the bed near the window, and began an hour-long bath. Nyssa slunk in a few minutes later and curled up at my knees. Taku stopped her bath long enough to trot across my tummy and give Nyssa a kiss on the nose. I hope she stays for awhile.

trumped

An update on our adoption by Taku:

We have been displaced. Our landlady downstairs has catfood and a dog that's not quite so high-energy (intimidating?) as our dear Lion Hound. The cat disappeared for a few days. I finally ran into my landlady, who was desperate to find out why the cat wouldn't use the litter box she provided, but insisted on being let out. Apparently their warmer apartment, older dog and (presumably) better tasting kitty kibble, has ousted us from the running.

Nyssa, for her part, was hurt by the move. A few days ago, she cornered the cat in the yard (asking her, no doubt, why she hadn't been around for the past few nights.) The cat had few words, but a sharp swat in reply. Nyssa came back with a bleeding scalp and is now working on healing up the newest of her collection of scars.

In related news, my friend Janelle told me that there are people who cross-breed Border Collies and Burmese Mountain Dogs - the very breeds we were trying to decide between. So we have our next cat (a Maine Coon, whose name we have already picked out) and dog all lined up. Our house is filling up, and we don't even have one!

adoption

Peter and I were watching Princess Mononoke last week when we heard a sound outside on the porch. The stray cat that has been hanging around our building (and has been fed by the landlord's wife somewhat sporadically) was sitting on my mat. She meowed louder and louder until I came outside. I have tried to get close to her before, but she would have none of it. She was still a little skittish at first, but the initiation was hers this time. Once I got close enough to pet her, she walked right past me into the house and up to Nyssa's water bowl. The cat must have known that we have a huge dog; they have had several stand-offs in the yard over the last month. Nyssa, who had been sleeping on the couch, was all eyes and ears as her territory was invaded, but she's been smacked across the muzzle enough times to know better than to tangle with a strange feline. The cat explored the apartment for about 15 minutes before Nyssa could contain herself no more and got up to say hello. The cat didn't even flinch, just looked at her and raised a warning paw, then trotted back into the kitchen, keeping herself between the hound and the door. I put her out after that, but she was sitting on my front mat when I left for work the next morning. The next night, she was back and wanted in. I opened the door for her, and showed her where I'd opened the bathroom window so she could get in and out without a butler. It was late, so I shut myself in my bedroom, hoping she and Nyssa would work out their differences without waking me up. The next morning, Nyssa was stretched out on the couch and the cat was curled in a ball on the comfy chair. I hadn't heard a peep out of them all night. The cat left through the window as I was getting dressed, but met us on the back porch and gave Nyssa a kiss on the nose before we got into the car to come to work. When I got back from my sister's this weekend, the cat was waiting and trotted into the apartment with us when we arrived, even after Nyssa chased her around the yard. When I had a good hard cry later that night for no good reason, she curled up next to me (on the other side from Nyssa) and hung out until I was all dried out. So I guess we passed the adoption inspection. Peter has decided to call her Taku (yes, we know the red elk in the movie is male, but the cat doesn’t know any better and the name fits.) Now I'll have to add cat food to the budget.

mathematics

It has been a great point of pride for me that I dropped out of Calculus in High School, in favor of a Photography class that changed my life. The sappy story of how a sarcastic art teacher and creepy darkroom tech might alter a course of personal history is a tale for another time. I am writing today to regersiter a complaint against the esteemed George W. Bush. In a round-about way, lest the Feds get my address this time.

In light of my current occupation changing the diapers of twin six month olds (Monkey and Turtle) and the fact that various Nanny web-sites assured me that I will never, ever, in a million years of economic upturn, make a penny more, or have any sort of job security, or have benefits or paid vacations, ever, I am looking for (yet another) career change. This makes seven in three years. This time, I'm hoping it will stick. Instead of looking for glam jobs, like kayaking near mile-long glaciers looking for whales, or hanging out with male prostitutes at 2am on dark street corners of sketchy 'hoods, or teaching crack addicts how to avoid rattlesnakes and start fires with sticks fifty miles from the nearest road in the Utah desert, I am buckling down and going for something a little more (gasp) mainstream. Maybe it has something to do with getting married (settling down?) in March. Maybe I am aging. Either way, it's a scary step for my little soul to plunge down.

I have been scowering the web for post-baccalaureate teaching certification programs. Every so-called "job" I've had has involved some form of teaching, and usually the teaching parts of the job are the only palatable bits. (ok, so surfing glacial drift and being tailed by angry bull-seals was pretty cool, too. but i'm trying hard to be positive, here.) I finally found one that looked good. It's on-line, so no matter how many times Peter and I uproot, I can continue to take the classes. They'll work with whatever state we end up in to find a student-teaching spot. It looks like it will take me less than a year. I hail the unsullied blessing of the Internet. The good news keeps on rolling in ...

Until I actually talk to a human, a very helpful and informative and infinitely discouraging human. This interaction reminds me once again that I should have become a luddite. She informs me that in addition to the very hard graduate level online classes, I have to take any number of "core" courses - she'll have to look at my college transcripts to be sure - but they will include chemistry, physics, history and (i nearly dropped Turtle at this point) calculus. Let me remind my listeners here that I am looking to teach FIFTH graders. Pint-sized, fashion maven, 4-square playing, eager-to-please ten year olds who are lucky if they can put a couple of fractions together without breaking a sweat. Calculus.

When I worked in a school district last year, I interacted with teachers in every subject at nearly every grade level. I also know many teachers from all over the country (thanks to my exponentially expanding list of places I've crashed.) I have yet to talk to a single professional educator who does not physically bristle when the No Child Left Behind Act is mentioned, referenced or hinted at. They become visibly irate, their mannerisms become jerky, faces turn red, speech becomes curt. This generally does not leave a favorable impression on a soul.

Now that I may have to take remedial mathematics for a decade or so, in order to teach tykes how to divide up a pizza into eights and then add them together to make a half, I am beginning to become a little bristly myself.

dissonance

(penned mid-august)

I think I need to back up to the beginning on this one. At least, the beginning of The Drift (as I have decided after very little thought to call it.) Somewhere during my tenure at Emmaus, I decided that the god the Christians believed in was not a god that I wanted to believe in, or for that matter to be associated with. Alternatively, I no longer believed that the Christian version of god I had grown up with (belated as I may have come to this) was the sort of god that might be true. I tried for a few desperate months to stop believing in god at all, in Houston (an easy enough place to dwell with that dark thought,) but to no avail. For whatever reason – at this juncture whether because it’s true or because I’ve been so well indoctrinated is quite beside the point - I could not stop believing in god altogether.

The interim time in Warrenville attending Rez, although a balm through friendships and the blessing of mundane physical labor, did not stop my mounting desire to distance myself from the Christian church in general. Although I wanted to disbelieve altogether, the familiarity of friends, of liturgy, of the rhythms of church seasons, and simply the habit and comfort of the subculture I found myself immersed in was something I needed around me to heal and grow in other ways (to whit: making good girlfriends, losing much fear and cynicism around marriage, working through some unfortunate choices I’d made with boys, raising a puppy.) For all the brilliant sermons and inspiring guitar riffs, Rez did nothing to further convince me of the authenticity of the Christian viewpoint. Attending a Bible Study geared to bring some girls into the Fold drove me from it at a run. By May I was restless both spiritually and psychologically. I could no longer stand selling The DaVinci Code (please, people, get it OFF the best seller list) day after day. I could no longer keep singing my way through the liturgy.

So I found myself running off to Alaska, hoping for distance and some kind of solid ground to stand on. It was here that The Drift began it’s transition from a vague, half-hearted meander to something more purposeful and less Drift-like. The conclusion I came to in the summer, wandering in the Chugach with the now quite large hound, was that God does, in fact, exist. Although it was a great relief at the time to come to some solid conclusion, this conclusion did not get me very far: So we are accepting that a god exists – we are even going so far as to assume monotheism at this point? Excellent! What is the nature of that God? How does God interact with humans, or does it even do so? Why are humans conscious in a way no other animal is? Is it soul, mind or something else? Is consciousness eternal or finite? What is our responsibility as conscious beings? How are we to live? Who or what are we to live for? How are we to interact with this creator-being, and respond to it? What are we to chalk up to Its doing and will, and what are we to blame on ourselves, on others, on falling barometric pressure? And none of this even begins to touch on the quandary that Jesus and the claims of the Gospel present. Without the framework of Christianity to fall back on, there isn’t much ready direction for a skeptical non-philosopher such as myself. And so I found myself falling back on my old framework when I came to gaps I hadn’t time (or brains) to work out yet.

And here’s the rub: I can’t disbelieve the old paradigm, while simultaneously falling on it for support. I believe this is called cognitive dissonance. I cannot (by way of example) disbelieve in hell, and simultaneously believe I am condemning myself to such a fate by my disbelief. Yet I do.

interpretation

Two Sundays in the Bible Belt means Two Sundays in Church. The Directory of options for my parent's town in Texas (population: 35,000) is three pages long. Although my church attendance has been spotty over the last several months, most lately with excessive travel as an easy excuse, the truth is my absence has been driven by spiritual turmoil that I have neither been able to identify or suppress. Living at home now, Church attendance is not optional. Thankfully, denomination (to a point) is.

My first choice was Mesa Community Church .It is an AMIA plant, and after attending Rez in Wheaton for so many years, I thought I would at least feel at home. I drove to Austin and was immediately welcomed by the requisite door greeter: “Have we met? We are *so* glad you are here!” I put on my game face and dove into the small milieu in the foyer of the Middle School where they meet. There were trendy, colorful handouts, a free worship CD by their band, nametags. I was heartily greeted by everyone I accidentally made eye contact with (“Have we met? We are *so* glad you’re here!") When I made it to the cafeteria where ten huge squares of black fabric had been set up which framed easels of painted scriptures and creeds, I realized Mesa was not what I was looking for.

I have to admit at this point that I had chosen Mesa over the other Austin AMIA church for a single reason: Based on the website, it looked bigger. I was craving a quiet place where I could slip in and face whatever turmoil arose. Where I could walk out, if I needed some space, without being noticed. I sought an AMIA church because I was craving the familiar space that Liturgy creates to do that. There were fifty or so chairs set up in the tiny space those black fabric squares create. The church was very small. There was no subtle way out. And there wasn’t liturgy (although I will also admit I have been spoiled by my sporadic attendance with the Orthodox.)

I must pause here and say that Mesa was an exceptional church. I felt welcomed by everyone I came into contact with, including the pastor (greeter-lines notwithstanding.) What they have done with their limited space and informational materials was unexpected for a congregation so small. The worship was easy to follow, albeit short on the “old school” church practices I normally associate with Anglicanism. I highly recommend a visit in the unlikely event that any of the evangelical kilt who reads this lives in the Austin area.

However, as expected, as soon as I walked in the door the now familiar turmoil hit me like a brick. I spent the service fighting back tears and frustration (again: source unknown.) I sat through the service detached from the worship, the sermon, even (loathe to admit it) communion. I was fighting this now-familiar blindfolded battle, trying to remain straight-faced until I could leave.

The next week, I played it safe and went to the St. Mark’s Episcopal in my parent’s town. I had been there on previous trips, before The Controversy made national headlines. I know that their early service is a mellow affair where I could sit in the back, mouth the liturgy, and kneel (or leave) if I needed to without causing undue concern. And it was. The liturgy was exactly the space I needed. Although I didn’t pay much attention to the sermon, and didn’t know most of the songs, I spent the service focusing, searching … even praying, as unfamiliar an activity as that has become. There were robes and guitar music. Bells and kneeling and the lighting of candles for intentions (I love this terminology, and was delighted to find a non-Catholic church that uses it.) A man with MS sat beside me and explained in his wispy voice how communion is taken, so I would know what to do.

And now I come to the question of interpretation:

According to the Conservative Christian Right (as represented in this case by my Dr.Dobson Loving, Jerry Falwell’s School Attending, Anti-Gay Protesting, Overseas Evangelism Supporting, Anti-Immigration Voting, World Magazine Reading family) my presence at an Episcopal church was questionable if not outright Dangerous For My Soul. Because I am in a quagmire of spirituality a present, the fact that I experienced no turmoil while there would indicate to Them that the Spirit of Conviction, which should be pulling me (driving me?) to Christ was not present. My anxiety at Mesa was caused by that very presence, and I should continue to attend that place of discomfort until I am brought back into Right Relationship With God (whatever the hell that means.)

According to me, as the protagonist of this blog, my presence at the Episcopal church was the best thing (spiritually) that has happened in a formal setting (meaning: epiphanies in moonlit canyons not counted) in a very long time. Yet if I follow the reasoning of the Evangelicals, here, I get stuck. I do not think that there is anything “wrong” with Mesa, or that my presence there was somehow negative or detrimental, as would follow if Evangelical and Mainline churches were spiritually at odds with one another. I have a hard time stomaching this one. Granted, I am left with one more personal reason to avoid anything resembling contemporary evangelical worship. Yet I have no qualms recommending it to somebody who might find otherwise (although I would be martyred for the liberals before recommending some other churches that come to mind.)

(TO BE CONTINUED ... )

Announcements

I have driven over 6000 miles in the last month, and I am exhausted. I got a job with Wilderness Quest in Utah (www.wildernessquest.com) on short notice. On May 9th, I packed up a bag full of camping gear and flew south to train for three weeks. In the end, I came out of my first shift working with adult addicts in the deep desert wilderness of the Southwest elated. I was driving an old Toyota pickup with little engine power for the long inclines, and the head clinician was passed out in the seat next to me. As we drove through canyons and over passes, a harvest moon big enough to obscure the horizon rose up over the junipers and sage brush and lit the road. And I cried. I was so happy, having a job working outside, working with people, working for a company that was more than I could hope for, so many of the pieces that have made up my life so far coming together into such a beautiful picture.

But I was crying from a dissonance, as well. As much as I loved this job, these coworkers, the individuals we served. As much as I adored waking up under the moon, hiking through redrock canyons, finding clear springs hidden deep in crevices of rock, watching hawks hunt and jackrabbits evade them, finding mountain lion tracks by the stream in the morning, crying with a woman as the depth of her addiction sinks in and, for the first time, she wants ... really, honestly desires change, and realizes she is willing to fight for it. As much as I loved all these things, there was Peter, waiting patiently in Alaska, and with him all of the plans we have together; the land we will buy in the mountains, the kids we will teach and mentor, the goats and the tomatoes and the yurt and the woodstove glowing all night through the winters we are planning to spend together. Graduate school in Seattle. Travels to India and Kenya in our dreams, and now in our plans. Together.

When I returned to the Northcountry to pack my things and drive back, leaving Nyssa in Chicago on the way, leaving Peter in Alaska at the outset, the dissonance grew louder. I was leaving this one thing I loved for another. I believed at the time it would be alright, because I knew the strength of our connection and commitment. Halfway through my next shift in the desert, I knew I had been wrong. My relationship with Peter is irrevocably intertwined in my life, now. This miracle was hoped for with an intensity I would never admit until it was realized. It is realized now, and we will be gray-haired, senile old earth-muffins racing our walkers to the mailbox together before this chapter closes. A job in the wilderness, no matter how perfect in the moment, can never touch that span. Even if it means moving to the urban sprawl of the northeast for a time, building this life is the most important thing.

Suprising my parents at their home in Texas with the Trifold Announcement: I Quit My Job, I Am Moving Home, I Am Getting Married ... That was a challenge nothing in my life so far had prepared me for. But I am home now, the car a little worse for wear, my body still dazed from all the road-miles and changes, finding myself perusing wedding planners and looking for jobs in Pennsylvania. Peter is on his way to meet me, weaving his way through the Yukon on his own epic solo drive. He will be here soon. We will be here soon. And I suppose that is all that needs saying.