Recently I led a women's retreat that began Friday evening and ended Sunday mid-morning. The theme, chosen by the women of this particular parish: "Reflect, Refresh, and Rejoice." I arrived at the retreat center prepared, on time, and ready to be the person at the center of attention. A retreat leader really does not want to be the center of attention, but you are, at least at key moments when you're trying to read the room, establish the direction of things, and set a tone that will make or break the experience.
But prior to my arrival, early Friday morning when my husband was driving me to the airport, I wept in the pre-dawn darkness. I was prepared to do the work commissioned me, but I was not well. I had not been sleeping. A freelance project was running late, which is a huge failure in my book, never mind that there were reasonable causes. Another project was exploding in my face, thanks to a seeming disconnect between the agreed-upon concept of a book I had written and the new editor's reaction to it, including a tone of e-mail messages that came across as abrupt and simply mean.
A mere three weeks before this, we had buried an eighteen-year-old, a young woman not my daughter but with whom I had been involved in several capacities for more than a decade. I had not had the time or space to grieve--in fact, I still haven't.
And so I arrived to function as a leader of sorts, knowing that I was quite empty and unable to recharge any part of myself. I did not feel that I was overflowing with good gifts for these women. I hoped that the gifts would come from elsewhere and maybe travel through my body and voice.
It's best to come clean in these situations, if you can do so without blurting out all your personal angst. In the initial meeting Friday evening, I gave the group very basic information about my state but added that this was probably to their advantage. When you are hurting and tired, your ego is less likely to drive the agenda. You rely on grace--I mean, really rely on grace--because you know you can't pull magic out of the air or fabricate wisdom and poise you do not have.
Maybe we should feel our fragility more often and more acutely. I do my best to come to these events well-rested and well-nourished, so that I'm in a good place physically and emotionally, capable of listening and being present. Sometimes my best efforts fail and yet I face a room full of people who hope I can encourage them, inspire their wisdom, and help their prayers. What's wonderful is that I do those things. The work happens, and because I feel how fragile I am, my faith in the wonder and the work is probably more authentic than at any other time.
The weekend went very well. I returned to Chicago and the missed deadline and the other stresses and the brutal absence of a person I wish had lived until old age. I returned to more winter and to endless tasks running late and hurried. Still fragile. But still intact.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Making My Lunch for Ash Wednesday
I'm feeling rather stoic this morning because I took the time to make a salad from scratch and take it in a jar to work. Other than that, my food will be liquid today, and although that hardly makes it a true Ash Wednesday fast, it is significant enough for me. I hope to use the weeks of Lent to work toward spiritual freedom when it comes to food.
Growing food, preserving food, cooking food, and eating food were major components of my early life. Our family had little money, and I don't recall a single vacation taken away from home. But we feasted all the time. Food was our habit and solace, our celebration and creative work. I can't remember a time when eating was not an experience for me--whether I was living at home or abroad, alone in an apartment or sharing a house with others.
I believe that many women make shifts during middle age to compensate for lost sensuality. For many of us, there are no longer babies to cuddle and caress or small children to hold on laps, little-girl hair to brush and braid, afternoon projects involving cookie dough or clay or crayons. Our sex life has probably diminished, too, thanks to hormonal changes, health issues, relationships ending through death or divorce. For all the hottie middle-aged and senior models that smile across our TV and computer screens advertising sexual aids and dating sites for the mature, I see a lot more women in my age group who are in fact ill or tired or without sexual companionship.
But there's always food. At least, for those of us fortunate to have resources, there is lots of food. My nation is food-obsessed, with fast-food chains thinking up new ways every week to add one more layer of cheese or meat or sweet-salty sauce or fried bread-stuff. My husband and I made our first visit to the new Marianno's that opened on 95th St., and it was grand and clean and stocked to the rafters with everything imaginable. I stood there in awe but also horror. It is obscene how much food gets sold and bought and loaded by bagsful and then half-eaten or thrown away. It is somehow anti-justice how abundantly the food tumbles and flows in a country where so many starve for nutrition.
When you're in the middle of your life, or further in, and you have racked up many disappointments, and the worries are multiplying with the years, and you long for something to stimulate your whole self, a gourmet cupcake can provide a fantastic few moments, can it not? Bliss on a Wednesday afternoon that might help you be a little more hopeful through Thursday and Friday.
I am that woman too much of the time. I plan my week around where to find a scone and tea, or coffee and pecan roll, or a Turkish lunch or extravagant Whole Foods salad. There's the sweet on Friday after work, a reward for the week. There's the other sweet late one afternoon because it's been such a stressful, nonstop day. And could I sit through this week's episode of Downton Abbey without a pot of the best tea and something perfectly sweet to go with it? No, really, I couldn't.
I dare to wonder what aspects of abundant life I miss because I follow cravings for mere food. It's time to try to wrest myself from this spiritual yet physical kind of bondage. I don't expect to exit the Lenten season twenty pounds lighter (although that would be nice) or converted to veganism or liberated from my love of sweets. But I have to see where this goes. I will eat less of certain things, eat smaller portions of most things, and donate some of the money I save to Chicago Food Depository. It's a start.
Growing food, preserving food, cooking food, and eating food were major components of my early life. Our family had little money, and I don't recall a single vacation taken away from home. But we feasted all the time. Food was our habit and solace, our celebration and creative work. I can't remember a time when eating was not an experience for me--whether I was living at home or abroad, alone in an apartment or sharing a house with others.
I believe that many women make shifts during middle age to compensate for lost sensuality. For many of us, there are no longer babies to cuddle and caress or small children to hold on laps, little-girl hair to brush and braid, afternoon projects involving cookie dough or clay or crayons. Our sex life has probably diminished, too, thanks to hormonal changes, health issues, relationships ending through death or divorce. For all the hottie middle-aged and senior models that smile across our TV and computer screens advertising sexual aids and dating sites for the mature, I see a lot more women in my age group who are in fact ill or tired or without sexual companionship.
But there's always food. At least, for those of us fortunate to have resources, there is lots of food. My nation is food-obsessed, with fast-food chains thinking up new ways every week to add one more layer of cheese or meat or sweet-salty sauce or fried bread-stuff. My husband and I made our first visit to the new Marianno's that opened on 95th St., and it was grand and clean and stocked to the rafters with everything imaginable. I stood there in awe but also horror. It is obscene how much food gets sold and bought and loaded by bagsful and then half-eaten or thrown away. It is somehow anti-justice how abundantly the food tumbles and flows in a country where so many starve for nutrition.
When you're in the middle of your life, or further in, and you have racked up many disappointments, and the worries are multiplying with the years, and you long for something to stimulate your whole self, a gourmet cupcake can provide a fantastic few moments, can it not? Bliss on a Wednesday afternoon that might help you be a little more hopeful through Thursday and Friday.
I am that woman too much of the time. I plan my week around where to find a scone and tea, or coffee and pecan roll, or a Turkish lunch or extravagant Whole Foods salad. There's the sweet on Friday after work, a reward for the week. There's the other sweet late one afternoon because it's been such a stressful, nonstop day. And could I sit through this week's episode of Downton Abbey without a pot of the best tea and something perfectly sweet to go with it? No, really, I couldn't.
I dare to wonder what aspects of abundant life I miss because I follow cravings for mere food. It's time to try to wrest myself from this spiritual yet physical kind of bondage. I don't expect to exit the Lenten season twenty pounds lighter (although that would be nice) or converted to veganism or liberated from my love of sweets. But I have to see where this goes. I will eat less of certain things, eat smaller portions of most things, and donate some of the money I save to Chicago Food Depository. It's a start.
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