I was talking to someone the other day about this huge divide that we have created in our culture (and religion) between body and spirit. There are attempts throughout faith practices and cultural revolutions to bridge this gap, but the fact remains that we have inherited an idea that feels instinctual: our bodies and our minds (or spirits) are separate. And by default, in that separation we have deemed one to be good and the pursuit of it safe, and the other to be bad and the pursuit of it dangerous.
In my religious experience, particularly growing up in an evangelical church, the separation of the flesh and the spirit was a constant, underlying theme. We were instructed to reject our flesh, our desires, and focus instead on spiritual things. Focus on morality, purity, and spiritual salvation. Our bodies were mere shells.
There is a quote mis-appropriated to CS Lewis that says "You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body." The original lines can be found in Walter Miller, Jr's novel "A Canticle for Leibowitz." But it reminded me of another quote that is similar: "We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience." This was written by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, a french philosopher, theologian, and scientist. I really like him. I'm not sure he was trying to drive a hard wedge between the body and spirit, but this quote and others like it are constantly re-tweeted/shared/memed/etc.
Quotes like these make the rounds because people LOVE them. People LOVE them because it feels mystical when everything can feel so mundane and terminal. Dividing the body and spirit so clearly gives us a shot at magic. Something beyond what we see and feel is at work, and when we feel the limits of our physical bodies and the physical world, we can believe in the magic of the spirit. The spirit is set free to roam about and do things uninhibited by this creaky and battered thing.
It's so comforting. I didn't realize just how deep into this divide I had fallen until I started thinking about it. I find comfort in separating myself into two. Good = spirit (at least the well-fed and trained one). Bad = body. That equation allows me to drop my body by the side of the road when it fails me. And it fails me often. I have nerve pain, back pain, numbness, hearing loss, vision isn't what it was, and my body can create uncomfortable moments of vulnerability. My God what a relief to throw the whole bag of bones in the trash. In the next life, anyway. Isn't that what a lot of mainstream Christian voices say? Store up your treasures in heaven and all. We love this because it means that if we fail at having all the treasures here on earth - that's OK. If our body fails us in this realm, it's no problem because we didn't need this body anyway. Cancer, dementia, chronic illnesses- they can all go to hell (literally) while we shed the mortal coil and graduate up to spirit. What a relief right? It is, actually. But this relief comes with a price.
I remember in one seminary class, when the professor reminded the majority of United Methodists in the room that their faith tradition included a belief in a bodily resurrection (for you non-church folk- that means your body gets a new lease in heaven). Granted, even in this idea the understanding is that your body is all new and shiny and painless. But there was a tangible discomfort in the room. I could tell that people really did not want to grasp onto this idea of having an actual body - their own. He made them even more uncomfortable by saying that perhaps that might affect their beliefs on whether or not they should be buried or cremated, etc. Most of them tossed the discomfort away with the God-card, saying that if God could make us from dirt in the beginning, then God could do it again with ashes. Not a bad argument, one I've used. When I die- toss me in the ocean, burn me or not. Feed me to the sharks. Who cares- I don't need the body. But maybe I should be thinking about my body as having a purpose, even in death.
The Christian tradition can't get away from the body, and sometimes it slips into awareness that maybe we can't separate ourselves so readily. On Ash Wednesday, we line up to have someone mark our foreheads with smudges of ash in a cross shape. The person imposing the ashes often repeats a refrain like: from dust you were made, to dust you will return. It's similar to what we say at a gravesite service: dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Some people absolutely love the lenten season because it is an excuse to get in touch with our physical reality (in the name of spirituality). Most people hate it and would rather skip Lent, Good Friday (when Jesus dies a real physically terrible death) and jump right to Easter. In fact- most people would prefer to do Christmas and Easter- which is basically Birth and reBirth. We try to leave that pesky mortality by the roadside. Who cares, we are people bound for heaven and shiny things, why would we waste our time in darkness with our disposable bodies?
I'm reminded that the stories of the resurrected Christ include his scars. When I think of my body, I have so many scars that I would like to see erased. But maybe this image of a not-perfect bodily resurrection is supposed to teach me something. Is God full of scar tissue?
I just finished reading "Learning to Walk in the Dark" by Barbara Brown Taylor (highly recommend- she's my best friend and doesn't know it). In this book, Taylor writes about the "full-solar spirituality" of the Church. She points out how many churches split the world in two and focus on the sunny side up. Light vs. Darkness (which is the focus of her book); Flesh vs. Spirit; Good vs. Evil.... Many churches welcome their member into their sanctuary where only light, spirit, good, and happy things are allowed. Sure we say "bring your burdens" but what we want is for you to set them down and forget about them. We don't want to talk about them, feel them, shoulder them, or anything uncomfortable. We're going to shine a floodlight onto you until all the darkness and badness burns away and you might be blind but at least you're safe, at least we're safe. There are ALWAYS exceptions to this, but as a whole, the world and the church both are very happy for you to leave your dirty laundry in the basement.
What are the unintentional consequences of separating body and spirit? (I'm assuming that they are not separate like we imagine, as the separation is indeed a theological and epistemological development that has not been around forever. That argument is for another blog.) For me, it means that I do not fully feel. I have welcomed the habit of turning my body off so much that I must prepare for a physical activity like preparing for a quiz. My children plop themselves into my lap and I must resist the urge to protect my "bubble" that I have created. It's not as hard with them, but when it comes to others- I share very little physical vulnerability. I'm not talking about sex (but I will). I'm talking about all the things I'm not allowing: the hugs, the squeezes, the hands held and the fabrics felt, the paintings done, the dances danced. I've shut it all down because it is a tunnel into my body. And I don't want to feel my body. I've rejected it. You know why many people can't dance unless they are drunk or high? Because dancing is a full body expression- one that completely owns the body as a beautiful and good thing meant to be expressed, felt, moved, and admired. Oh hell no. That sounds terrifying. But it also explains my obsession with the movie Dirty Dancing as a kid. How I longed to be able to move like that, in a community of other people where it was OK and not actually, well, dirty.
Why are we so image-conscious? Why must our bodies be shaped a certain way or operate a certain way? Why isn't our body just good? We are all working out some guilt and shame about our physical beings because we are all taught through our culture, religion, and gender- about what pitfalls lie within our skin (especially if it doesn't fall within that parameter set by our surrounding social structure). The color of our skin gets assigned to varying levels of inherent goodness and badness. A topic for another blog post (or for me to read another's perspective). Our culture tells us bodies are bad - meant to be covered to varying degrees. Our religion tells us that sex is bad, unless it falls within a certain parameter. And even then- none of us really believes that it is good if our whole life we were taught it is bad. We know that there is no magic that makes it good only in this pocket of circumstance. The magic is that somehow we're left off the hook for doing this "dirty" thing. So we do it because our bodies need and want it, but we still feel it as being on the bottom half- the lower things that might be fine in moderation, but not to be overly enamored with. We're playing with fire, or something. When we forget to turn our brains off, sex becomes a rebellious act nearly every time. We're doing something we weren't supposed to do. Pile up enough guilt and shame around sex and the body, and then watch the sexual disorders multiply. Any kind of physical intimacy (whether in friendship or as lovers) carries with it a sort of shadow from shame or at the very least the fear that vulnerability digs up.
What if our bodies and our spirit were seen as one mingling substance? What if who we are is not just our "heart and soul" but also our body and death? Perhaps we would dance more. We would feel the earth and the painting. We would touch our face with grace and appreciation for all it has seen and felt. We would sob and laugh more. The avenues to intimacy might be broader, allowing more of us to feel connected to one another. We might understand our illnesses better, and our health. I honestly don't know. I'm new to this journey. Right now what it feels like is less shame. It feels like the opposite of numbness. It feels like the possibility of more joy.
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
Tuesday, January 2, 2018
The Hate Letter
I have a pit in my stomach just from writing that title. It's funny isn't it? The thing you brush off as being "no big deal" becomes a much bigger deal when you allow yourself time to think about it. I have a feeling this blog will take me a while to write because I'll only be able to do it in fits and bursts. The discomfort is real.
When I was in 4th grade (and I'm having trouble remembering if it was the summer before or after), I received a hate letter in the mail. The shock of it was perhaps the worst thing. I remember getting so excited about getting something in the mail, and thinking it was from a friend I had in Maryland (I had lived there preschool-2nd grade). When I opened the letter, I remember I saw inside a typed letter (typewriter!), with the words "I hate you" written inside. My heart and soul deflated. It was a page of words, but all I can remember is that the person didn't like me, called my Mom a nerd (which in retrospect is HILARIOUS), and left me feeling absolutely and completely drained of joy. It was, of course, anonymous.
There are several books and movies that focus on the "loss of innocence" trope. So much so that we may even miss the real, more subtle thing in our own lives. In literature and movies, they are usually drastic scenarios, sort of traumatizing to exploit the feeling that we all have felt when we find out that the world is perhaps not a magical place. In real life, it's often a small thing that simply breaks the spell. The beautiful iridescent bubble pops, and we see how fragile it all was. Some people never have a chance at innocence, they know from day one that things aren't fair and adults aren't actually in complete control and children can be cruel.
But I grew up in a world of magic. Rainbow bubbles were daily floating above my head. I was lost in my own imagination, singing songs, riding my bike, playing outside for as long as I wanted to. I knew bad things happened, I knew adults cried, but everything always worked out in the end. No one had ever hated me. No one had ever told me I couldn't accomplish something. I didn't know about mean girls or abusive boys. I was innocent. I was blissfully unaware of the human need to protect ourselves. What was there to protect against? My parents had everything under control and I was safe and loved.
Then that letter came. First was the shock that someone hated me. I didn't hate anyone. I didn't know how someone could hate me when I was pretty sure I hadn't done anything terrible. But I didn't know who it was. That was the second challenge: the mystery. I had no way of confronting this person. No way to clear my name or ask for forgiveness. No way to make things right. To convince them that I wasn't actually so terrible, and maybe if they gave me a chance, they would like me. Then came the guessing. Who was it? Was it a cruel joke by someone I didn't know? This seemed impossible as the contents of the letter were too personal and specific to be by someone oblivious to my life. Did I have a friend who actually hated me but pretended to be my friend? That was the most frightening of all possibilities.
The mystery was eventually solved, but in the same way that most childhood mysteries are. By the process of elimination and by the silence of those who would have rushed to the defense, we figured out who the mystery writer was. I was taught to let it go, that people say things they don't mean. Or that if they meant it- I didn't need to bother with an opinion I shouldn't care about. In fact, I had so "let it go" that I am connected to this person on social media today - and we have not once mentioned the letter. I never actually asked this person. Because how do you ask someone in their 30s- "did you write me a hate letter when you were 10?" It seems ridiculous, and makes the whole thing bigger than you want it to be.
But it was big. Not particularly because of the person or the words, but because of what it cracked open in me. Doubt. Self-awareness that people might not like me. The simple idea that someone could pretend to like me but actually hate me was the biggest bubble pop I could imagine. Didn't everyone say what they meant? I had not developed the tools for dealing with lying, rejection and hate, so I did what many of us do: I retreated behind a giant wall.
That wall was not a complete construction that year. And that letter was not the only catalyst for building it. But that was my loss of innocence. That was when I realized that I could be touched by this pain I had seen everywhere but here. I could unwittingly be the focus of someone's hate and malice. So I started to build the wall. Some years I built entire sections, some years only a few bricks. Some years I realized the need for a gate, some years I added barbed wire and electricity.
I built the wall brick by brick with every word I chose not to say, for fear of judgment. A brick was placed with every outfit that I chose out of my desire to blend in, not stand out. T-shirt and Jeans was my uniform. I built the wall by choosing to look out the window on the bus rather than chat with my neighbors.
I built that wall by making sure that I didn't get close enough to anyone that I would likely disappoint, and by limiting the amount of friendships I had in order to limit the responsibility and amount of pain I could endure if it went south. I built the wall by being much more strict about who I let in, I needed to trust them and believe that they loved me.
I built gates by writing honestly. I built windows and lowered the height by traveling and talking to strangers. I demolished sections by falling in love and having children. I chiseled away at corners with therapy and honest conversation.
I continue to build that wall by lowering expectations of what people should expect from me. What started as a gentle boundary-setting for myself turned into a cover for not wanting to risk disappointing anyone. I set the expectations drastically low. I tell you everything that I cannot and will not do. I confront you with my failures and short-falls before you get a chance to point them out. When I do something good- it's a pleasant surprise for all of us.
When we lose our innocence (if we ever had it), we lose the idea that we are safe. We gain the idea that we need to protect ourselves. And our entire lives become a battle between the need to protect ourselves and the need to connect.
I don't know what to make of our vulnerability. It seems ridiculous that the words of a 10 year old would have lasting impact on me, now in my mid-thirties. I am actually OK, and have survived and felt worse in my life. I don't know what I stand to learn from this memory or the incremental wall building and demolition from there. I want to be more vulnerable, but I'm still scared and I still get hurt. It seems as soon as I let "my guard down" someone sweeps in for a stab.
How do you live life joyful and connected, without all the pain? I don't yet have the bravery yet to let it all in. I still need my guard. I think most of us do. I used to think wisdom was the ability to not care about the things that hurt- to let it roll off your back. I don't think so anymore. I think wisdom is to care about it all- and somehow survive and have joy. I am not there yet. Maybe this year I'll carve out some more windows. It's a start.
When I was in 4th grade (and I'm having trouble remembering if it was the summer before or after), I received a hate letter in the mail. The shock of it was perhaps the worst thing. I remember getting so excited about getting something in the mail, and thinking it was from a friend I had in Maryland (I had lived there preschool-2nd grade). When I opened the letter, I remember I saw inside a typed letter (typewriter!), with the words "I hate you" written inside. My heart and soul deflated. It was a page of words, but all I can remember is that the person didn't like me, called my Mom a nerd (which in retrospect is HILARIOUS), and left me feeling absolutely and completely drained of joy. It was, of course, anonymous.
There are several books and movies that focus on the "loss of innocence" trope. So much so that we may even miss the real, more subtle thing in our own lives. In literature and movies, they are usually drastic scenarios, sort of traumatizing to exploit the feeling that we all have felt when we find out that the world is perhaps not a magical place. In real life, it's often a small thing that simply breaks the spell. The beautiful iridescent bubble pops, and we see how fragile it all was. Some people never have a chance at innocence, they know from day one that things aren't fair and adults aren't actually in complete control and children can be cruel.
But I grew up in a world of magic. Rainbow bubbles were daily floating above my head. I was lost in my own imagination, singing songs, riding my bike, playing outside for as long as I wanted to. I knew bad things happened, I knew adults cried, but everything always worked out in the end. No one had ever hated me. No one had ever told me I couldn't accomplish something. I didn't know about mean girls or abusive boys. I was innocent. I was blissfully unaware of the human need to protect ourselves. What was there to protect against? My parents had everything under control and I was safe and loved.
Then that letter came. First was the shock that someone hated me. I didn't hate anyone. I didn't know how someone could hate me when I was pretty sure I hadn't done anything terrible. But I didn't know who it was. That was the second challenge: the mystery. I had no way of confronting this person. No way to clear my name or ask for forgiveness. No way to make things right. To convince them that I wasn't actually so terrible, and maybe if they gave me a chance, they would like me. Then came the guessing. Who was it? Was it a cruel joke by someone I didn't know? This seemed impossible as the contents of the letter were too personal and specific to be by someone oblivious to my life. Did I have a friend who actually hated me but pretended to be my friend? That was the most frightening of all possibilities.
The mystery was eventually solved, but in the same way that most childhood mysteries are. By the process of elimination and by the silence of those who would have rushed to the defense, we figured out who the mystery writer was. I was taught to let it go, that people say things they don't mean. Or that if they meant it- I didn't need to bother with an opinion I shouldn't care about. In fact, I had so "let it go" that I am connected to this person on social media today - and we have not once mentioned the letter. I never actually asked this person. Because how do you ask someone in their 30s- "did you write me a hate letter when you were 10?" It seems ridiculous, and makes the whole thing bigger than you want it to be.
But it was big. Not particularly because of the person or the words, but because of what it cracked open in me. Doubt. Self-awareness that people might not like me. The simple idea that someone could pretend to like me but actually hate me was the biggest bubble pop I could imagine. Didn't everyone say what they meant? I had not developed the tools for dealing with lying, rejection and hate, so I did what many of us do: I retreated behind a giant wall.
That wall was not a complete construction that year. And that letter was not the only catalyst for building it. But that was my loss of innocence. That was when I realized that I could be touched by this pain I had seen everywhere but here. I could unwittingly be the focus of someone's hate and malice. So I started to build the wall. Some years I built entire sections, some years only a few bricks. Some years I realized the need for a gate, some years I added barbed wire and electricity.
I built the wall brick by brick with every word I chose not to say, for fear of judgment. A brick was placed with every outfit that I chose out of my desire to blend in, not stand out. T-shirt and Jeans was my uniform. I built the wall by choosing to look out the window on the bus rather than chat with my neighbors.
I built that wall by making sure that I didn't get close enough to anyone that I would likely disappoint, and by limiting the amount of friendships I had in order to limit the responsibility and amount of pain I could endure if it went south. I built the wall by being much more strict about who I let in, I needed to trust them and believe that they loved me.
I built gates by writing honestly. I built windows and lowered the height by traveling and talking to strangers. I demolished sections by falling in love and having children. I chiseled away at corners with therapy and honest conversation.
I continue to build that wall by lowering expectations of what people should expect from me. What started as a gentle boundary-setting for myself turned into a cover for not wanting to risk disappointing anyone. I set the expectations drastically low. I tell you everything that I cannot and will not do. I confront you with my failures and short-falls before you get a chance to point them out. When I do something good- it's a pleasant surprise for all of us.
When we lose our innocence (if we ever had it), we lose the idea that we are safe. We gain the idea that we need to protect ourselves. And our entire lives become a battle between the need to protect ourselves and the need to connect.
I don't know what to make of our vulnerability. It seems ridiculous that the words of a 10 year old would have lasting impact on me, now in my mid-thirties. I am actually OK, and have survived and felt worse in my life. I don't know what I stand to learn from this memory or the incremental wall building and demolition from there. I want to be more vulnerable, but I'm still scared and I still get hurt. It seems as soon as I let "my guard down" someone sweeps in for a stab.
How do you live life joyful and connected, without all the pain? I don't yet have the bravery yet to let it all in. I still need my guard. I think most of us do. I used to think wisdom was the ability to not care about the things that hurt- to let it roll off your back. I don't think so anymore. I think wisdom is to care about it all- and somehow survive and have joy. I am not there yet. Maybe this year I'll carve out some more windows. It's a start.
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