Catholic Church

Crushed by Religious Intolerance

I recently wrote a letter to my long time friend, and now Monk and Priest in a Monastery in Cullman, Alabama. At his invitation, I took the time to fly there for his ordination. Instead of being a celebration of a joyous occasion it turned into a weekend of misery and sadness due to his reaction after the mass to the fact that I – a non-Catholic – went up and took communion during his service. This is my letter to him, sent today, some two weeks after the event.

Dear Paul. I was happy to be able to attend your ordination but you know that it took a significant effort of both time and money to do so. And although I was aware that I was going to be a bit of a third wheel while there (being on my own) I had no expectation that I would be as devastated by the weekend as I was. The reason for my devastation was your comment, made to me directly after your ordination as I came up to congratulate you. It wasn’t a big comment as comments go, but it hurt me profoundly. What you said was: “You know you really shouldn’t have taken communion.” The feeling I had was that of being kicked HARD in the stomach. Yes, I covered it up. No, I did not tell you in that moment how much what you said hurt but … oh boy did it hurt.

Do you remember saying this? Do you know that I cried for hours as a result of your comment, including crying in the pew during the Sunday service when it came time for communion? What should I do? Go up again, giving you and your community the figurative finger? Go up and be “blessed” by you who had just hurt me so profoundly? Or stay in my pew and shut up? I chose the latter in the interests of leaving this fight for another time.

Do you know that what you said epitomizes everything that I find hateful and evil – yes EVIL – about the Catholic Church (and other churches)? For what is communion if not a chance to break bread together. To celebrate the sacrifice Jesus made for us? What is it if not a chance to bring people together? If your intention was that only Catholics take communion (which is not my experience in the churches I attend here – both Catholic and Anglican) then that intention should have been made explicit so that I would know the rules ahead of time and not get hit over the head with them after the fact.

If you are really interested in taking on the leadership of your community once your current Abbot retires it might be a good idea to work on developing a more Christian attitude towards those of us who are not Catholics. For we all share the same planet. We all bleed if scratched. Many of us are doing our best to make our way in the world and leave it a better place than we found it. I would have expected that attitude to be even more explicit at a community dedicated to serving God, but instead, I encountered exactly the opposite.

If taking communion in the church during your ordination service was enough of a sin that you felt it was important to say to me AT THAT MOMENT then it is not a church and yours is not a friendship I want anything more to do with. I hope you bring this email to your Abbot and discuss it with him. Maybe some good can come out of a very unhappy and harmful experience.

 *Cartoon by Daryl Cagle: http://www.cagle.com/

Growing up · healing · healing · Mental Health

No Man is an Island – with thanks to John Donne

_DSC4065I recently had a significant emotional upheaval in my personal life and the most interesting thing about this difficult event is the light it shed on my own emotional growth.

Some years ago my husband and I read the book Wired for Love. In the doing, we recognized habitual patterns in each other/ourselves that helped explain a fair bit about our relationship. My knee-jerk reaction to most stressors (especially any that seem to threaten my own stability) is to distance myself as best I can. Yup. I’m an “island.” Whatever is unsafe or threatening is pushed away because I am safer on my own. Like so many other coping techniques that served to keep me safe in an unsafe and undependable environment growing up, this one had turned into a dysfunctional coping skill as an adult.

Back to what happened last week and my reaction – which was to stay the course. Hang in with the person, walk the walk with them and continue to be a part of their life. I rejected my island-like nature and embraced that person, warts and all because I recognize that they are fundamentally good for me and me for them.

As Donne said “… I am involved in mankind. … never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” I am a part of the world around me – I cannot divorce myself from it without diminishing my own emotional reality.

Growing up · healing · Mental Health · Travel

Outward Bound Women of Courage week September 2004. My testimonial

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Outward Bound Women of Courage September 2004

I swore, I struggled, I cried but my fellow trippers refused to let me give up or to give up on me. I was going to get that canoe from one end of the portage to the other on my own. And I did. Staggering onto the beach at the end, my face a mess of tears and my shoulders aching, I was overwhelmed. Not just by what I had done but how it echoed what I had done on that very day six years earlier. One of our leaders – Phyllis – came up to me as I sat by the water, hugged me and said “Happy Birthday mama.” Indeed. My boy’s birthday and that epic portage were on the same day.

What had brought me to that moment in my life was because Outward Bound had gifted me with the opportunity to join in a one-week long Women of Courage course. With me would be 8 other women all of whom were in various stages of recovery and 3 wonderful, giving leaders.

I made it through the week and it became a touchstone for my personal growth. I am in a loving and equal relationship now and have two awesome teen boys. I am thrilled to be in a position to give back to OB as a monthly donor. I love that the money I give will enable some other person to embark on their own healing journey, a journey that is guaranteed to move and touch them – and others in their lives – for the better.

Brains · Thoughts

The smart unconscious

This is really really cool stuff! Reminds me of a book I read recently called Bowl of Heaven which explores some of the same ideas (in a work of fiction).

Mind Hacks

We feel that we are in control when our brains figure out puzzles or read words, says Tom Stafford, but a new experiment shows just how much work is going on underneath the surface of our conscious minds.

It is a common misconception that we know our own minds. As I move around the world, walking and talking, I experience myself thinking thoughts. “What shall I have for lunch?”, I ask myself. Or I think, “I wonder why she did that?” and try and figure it out. It is natural to assume that this experience of myself is a complete report of my mind. It is natural, but wrong.

There’s an under-mind, all psychologists agree – an unconscious which does a lot of the heavy lifting in the process of thinking. If I ask myself what is the capital of France the answer just comes to mind – Paris! If…

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Hearing Loss

Auditory Challenges

I was working from home the other day and my cell phone started to ring. Oddly, while I could hear it ringing, I couldn’t locate it. I wandered around, checking all the usual spots, but no luck. After 5 rings it stopped and I was at a loss as to what to do! I could phone my sweetie and ask him to call me so I could continue to search for it? Or I could just wait and assume it will turn up sometime? My youngest seems to have some sort of magnetic body – any electronic device sticks to him – so chances are good that he could find it, if no-one else could.

Whatever. The dogs needed a walk, and since I was up and wandering around I might as well get to it. I was putting on their leashes when my phone started to ring again. Oddly, while I’m now I’m in the front of the house it STILL sounded like it was right by me. Suddenly I remembered, I’d used the powder room when I got home earlier that day – maybe I’d left my phone in there? But a quick check dashed my hopes, it wasn’t there. As the ringing stopped – again – I gave a mental shrug. Might as well get on with things … surely it’ll turn up.

As I pulled out some bags to take with  me, I started to stuff them into my back pocket. Yes, dear readers, I’m afraid you are way ahead of me. Yup. There it was. My phone. It sounded as if it was right THERE, because it had truly been right there. Sheesh.

Another episode of “My Life as Brought to You by a Monaural Hearer Living in a Multichannel World.”

AW

Hearing Loss

Cognitive Behavioural Therapy

This author shares his thoughts on the value of CBT – many of which echo mine. As a “mental illness veteran” (love that description, Sid) I have been known to roll my eyes when anyone mentions CBT. However, unlike the author, I have had significant success with plain old talk therapy. Works for me and even now (16 years into seeing my therapist) I still go to her when I need to.

Growing up

Border woes

Your story reminds me of one of my many border experiences. Growing up in my family meant going to the US often because my parents emigrated here from there in the early 60’s, so all our extended family was south of the border.

One day myself (maybe 14), and my two younger sisters Rebecca (12) and Gloria (9) were put on a bus in NB to go to NH. Two hours later the bus driver (or border guard?) put us OFF the bus when we tried to pass across the US/Canada border. Why? Well … for three reasons.
Problem #1: We didn’t look like siblings! Four of the six kids  in my family were adopted, so I was Caucasian, Rebecca was Pakistani and Gloria was African-Canadian. But we were sisters. Yeah. Right.
Problem #2 arose when the guard asked us where we were from.
I said Toronto (we had moved from there to NB fairly recently). Rebecca said Sussex (this was the closest town to our farm) and Gloria said Apohaqui (closest settlement to our farm).
Problem #3. We none of us had been provided with so much as a hint of documentation. It was a kinder, gentler world back then!
Result. With relatively little fuss we were taken off the bus and told to phone our parents to come pick us up. We were not getting to New Hampshire that day.
healing · Mental Health · Parenting

My baby, my son, my young man

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Alex was an infant when he was born. A tautology? Yes. But what many didn’t see is that I (his mother) was also an infant at his birth … no more ready to be a mother than he was to be a baby. So, together, we grew. Most of the time he grew faster. He showed me his internal self,  in music first, then with ASL, and finally in words. Once the words started it seemed they would never stop. They poured out of his person, bubbled along his perambulations and lit up the crannies and corners of his emotional world.

I stumbled along behind. Falling, often, catching him almost never yet somehow always persevering. I had lots and lots of help. A therapist, many and various mental health professionals, an (invaluable) parenting support worker, and (gradually) the discipline and friendship I found in my martial arts. Throughout I was (almost) always following Alex’s forays, struggling to catch up.

And now I find myself looking up at him. He towers over me, stomping around in his size 11 shoes. He is just as verbose as he always was, and his intelligence is used mostly to figure out how to muddle through a school system that neither inspires nor engages him. Other people see more of him than I, his world is larger than our shared reality. As it should be.

I, too, have changed. I am more whole than I was, more present, more conscious. As I begin to explore the other side of 50 I find myself saying hullo to my own emotional landscape. I am happy, sometimes, sad, sometimes, and all that falls in-between. I am a mother, a step-mother, and a wife. But enough of me. The world waits for Alex, he is champing to get out there and be himself. Meanwhile, my role has changed. I stand back further, ready to catch him if he stumbles, and I watch him unfold, physically, mentally, emotionally. He is and always will be, irrepressible, verbal, gentle. My baby boy, my son, my young man, of whom I am very proud.

 

healing · healing · Mental Health

Words to live by

There is a brokenness out of which comes the unbroken,

The shattered out of which blooms the unshatterable.

There is a sorrow beyond all grief which leads to joy
and a fragility out of whose depths emerges strength.

There is a hollow space too vast for words through which
we pass with each loss, out of whose darkness we are
sanctioned into being.

There is a cry deeper than all sound whose serrated edges
cut the heart as we break open to the place inside
which is unbreakable and whole, while learning to sing.

(Author unknown.)

I love this poem. My heart-mother shared it with me recently. She, upon whose compassion I shattered my old self, agonizingly, and then slowly rebuilt my soul, my life, my me.

She saved me, I grew her in her gift, together we are larger than we were before we met.

 

spring

Spring comes

We have been having the longest winter here in Ottawa. Almost the end of March and still we have copious amounts of snow on the ground and temperatures well below freezing. When I take the dogs out for their morning walk the ritual of bundling them up, then bundling myself up, continues. While there is warmth in the sun, it still battles the air temperature for primacy.

But today in my morning walk  I heard something different. I heard birds. Chattering, singing, making themselves known with a “joyful noise.” When I looked up, I saw three – black-feathered birds – in the very top of a naked tree. Wonder what they were gossiping about? Their cheerful, almost in-your-face happiness lightened my mood. Spring will come.

Abigail