Jack—the whole, human mess of him—brings me face to face with the problem of being tolerant vs. standing up for myself as a woman.
Dark nights happen to some and not others, and only God knows why. St. John of the Cross called it a holy experience. Tell that to my priest, I wanted to say. Tell it to my husband, who still mourns the “nice Christian girl” he thought he married.
Meditation is one of those things that has always been for other people. Patchouli-toothpaste white people with rustic-but-pricey cedar furniture and mandala wall hangings. People who "study" Japanese cooking. People with gurus and lots of time on their hands.
In spite of my best efforts, I am just not a secular person. I'm fascinated by religion, drawn irresistibly toward its ceremonies and symbolism like a moth to the flickering heart of a votive.
Whatever the reason, I've turned into one of those adults who were incomprehensible to me as a child: one who's ambivalent about Christmas.
Yesterday my husband and I planted a tree. It seemed like a hopeful thing to do in these uncertain and disheartening times. I felt all spiritual about it, I won’t lie. I am a person who hugs trees. I’ve hugged them on hiking trails and in my own backyard. As a human, there’s little else … Continue reading In Which I Meditate Upon Trees and Grasp at Hopefulness in Spite of the Impending Election and My Own Personal Problems
A couple of days ago a co-worker asked me if I were Christian and I didn’t know how to answer.