Markings

This semester, several of my students have marked themselves with tattoos. A nineteen year old girl got the Hebrew word "mercy" tatooed on the inside of her wrist. The Hebrew root of the word is the same as that for womb, so the tattoo is a reminder of the strength of her own body, as well as of God's mercy. Nice.
Her boyfriend got "love your enemies" in Greek written around his wrist. Two women went to a tattoo shop together and one had "yes." tatooed on the inside of her wrist (a sign of new openness to life, I assume, she was somewhat embarrased to talk about it with me...)the other received a simple brown circle. The circle represents the Native American view of life as circular, encompassing all. Another young women, who looks like she stepped right out of the 1940's, had a vintage rose tattooed on her right shoulder.
Part of me is envious of them, of their ability to decide on something which will be part of their body for the rest of their life. There's a certainty behind their actions, a willingness to mark themselves with something that's meaningful to them today, and may not be tomorrow. Or perhaps they assume these tattoos will always have the same meaning to them that they have today.
I've wanted a tattoo for at least 4 years. I promised myself a tattoo for my 30th birthday, in 2002. But I've never been able to settle on something that I think I can live with for the next 50 years or so. I've thought about a honey bee, which is the meaning of my name in Greek. I've almost committed to a Christian symbol that would mark the one thing I'm the most certain about (whatever that means...). I considered making up a symbol, the meaning of which could change with me. Of course I thought of tattooing my husband's name on my rear, just to be cute and kind of sexy. Or my daughter's name to maybe prove to her when she's an ungrateful, whiny teenager that SEE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH I MARKED MYSELF FOR LIFE WITH YOUR NAME!And I've considered just doing something pretty on one or two of my feet so I'd have something nice to look down at in the summertime.
However, I have yet to make a decision. Am I afraid of what people will think of my choice? Am I afraid that at age 75, if I decide my tattoo wasn't such a hot idea, I'll fall into despair? Is my self-concept that fragile? Am I just not certain about anything enough to put it on my body? I think it's more complicated, or at least more nuanced than any of those questions, but again, I'm wondering why these college students can take a leap of faith that I can't.
And what do I make of the guy who apparently marched into a tattoo parlor and declared his certain, unswerving love of (of all things), New Jersey??? (I originally hail from Jersey, and am pretty certain it IS the best state in the US, maybe he's onto something...)

Be Here Now

Thanksgiving week we offered our college students the opportunity to participate in a contemplative retreat. Twenty-some students chose to become monks for the week, trying out contemplative practices such as centering prayer, lectio divina, the examen. We kept silence every morning, and they also tried out using art, breathing, meditation, and pottery as means of prayer. The week was a gift to me as a teacher, as I watched the students start to become aware of themselves, be present to the moment, even notice God in the everyday. Many of these students have been wounded by the preaching of the "executioner God" at their churches (the idea that God is love, but only if you're good. Otherwise you're fried...), and have a hard time with the Bible and Christian cliches. Even the word "Jesus" stings some of them. By getting at this God stuff through the back door, it seems many found some freedom to meet God on their own terms, in the here and now. They saw the divine presence in the horizon, in piggy back rides from other students, in our infant daughter. Our scripture for the week was the story of the healing of a blind beggar, Bartimaeus, in Mark. In the story, Bartimaeus cries out to Jesus to have mercy on him. Jesus hears him, stands still, and says, "call him here." All week I heard the echo "call her here" (I took the liberty to change the pronoun) as a reminder to be HERE, present, and to see God in each moment. My hope is to carry this mantra with me in the days to come. We'll see how it goes...

Political Illusion?
Well, the Democrats have done it, pulled off a coup. It’s what all the liberals have been waiting for since ‘94. And Rumsfeld fell on his sword. Feels poetic.
But I guess I’ve been reading too much William Stringfellow, Jacques Ellul, and James Allison, to be convinced that there’s going to be a visible change just because the party in power changed. I still don’t think anyone there in Washington actually has anything other than their own political career in mind when they make decisions. Rumsfeld’s resignation feels like scapegoating-- someone had to take the fall and take the heat off of Bush.
Let’s hope that this political victory doesn’t cost the liberals their vigilance. Bush and Rumsfeld are not the problem, it’s so much bigger than that (although they are bighead mean dodos for sure). We (the good guys) haven’t won yet. We have to keep up the momentum that was generated through hating Bush and Rumsfeld, and try to keep these new powerful people honest. We have to keep reminding them about schoolkids and prisoners and immigrants, and people jam-packed into crappy public housing, And the earth—polar bears who will be extinct in 20 years because of our oil habit.
I’m too young to be this cynical, I know. Democrats all over the country are celebrating and I’m whining. I guess I never got over Bill Clinton signing the welfare reform bill….

RevGalBlogPals

Well, don't I feel like the internet fancy pants. I joined the RevGalBlogPals webring (the link is in the sidebar). It's a web ring of women bloggers who are clergy, are considering becoming clergy, or are otherwise interested in such things. I've been spying on this web ring for months, after JWD of the Blanket in a Grove blog (link to the right) introduced me. Maybe my months of hesitant lurking on this web ring is just another manifestation of my self-doubt. Part of the reason I've never pursued a religious career is that I just don't think I measure up. Not asking for pity (or counseling)here, just stating the facts. I still have this picture of pastors as people who are perfect, or near-perfect. They don't mess up, give bad advice, do murky exegesis bordering on heresy, or accidentally say "mother fucker" at the Thanksgiving table in front of all the relatives, as I did a few years back. Now that I've been to seminary with a bunch of shmucks and a few good people, and I have lots of imperfect, normal friends who are pastors, you'd think I'd be over this hangup. But old habits die hard, so I'm working on it, and I feel closer to a sense of calling than I ever have.
So I look forward to learning from this online community of normal people trying to help other people feel God's love in some way.

Books and Baby...

This photo sums up the last few months. Teaching and mothering is all-encompassing, which makes for a boring blog, among other things....
Despite the break-neck pace of this semester, it has been a source of light and life. It's good to be reading again, thinking about big ideas and watching undergraduates' brains melt down with the profound questions of life. It's also good to be in a place that's flexible enough to really co-parent my daughter without her having to be in day care a lot. And she loves the people who care for her, so that's been a true gift.
About the picture: not only is a cutesy metaphor for what's happening to my daughter, and representative of my life now, but it's also a good intro to a book promotion. Becoming Human was one of the first books we read this semester, and remains a source of conversation with students. Jean Vanier believes in the increasingly unpopular notion of loving others unconditionally, including our enemies, as the path to true freedom. Of course I'm oversimplifying, but his view of reconciliation is one which transcends the labels of oppressor and oppressed, right and wrong. Vanier is the founder of L'Arche, an organization which sets up intentional communities which include both people of "normal" intelligence, and those with developmental disabilities. He's lived in these communities for years, doesn't think you have to be out to change the whole world, just to make your loving presence known to those around you. The book's worth a read.

On the fifth anniversary

It's hard to be out of New York today, of all days. Everyone has their way of coming to terms with what happened in our city on 9/11, but it seems like a lot of us have to tell our stories over and over to heal.
On each anniversary, I go to work, and tune in to the reading of names while the work day starts. Inevitably, my co-workers and I end up telling each other stories about that day. Where we were when we heard the news, who we were worried about, when we heard news of our friends and family, how we got home that day. My story involves smoke and bits of charred paper filling the sky above my apartment building within minutes of the first plane hitting, a feeling of fear like I've never felt, worrying about my friend Edgar who is a firefighter, rumors of bio terrorism, responsibility for my staff, walking home with a mask on, not knowing if Mark's office was still standing, sleeping with a sheet over my head for several nights to keep the smoke from filling my nose. I was on edge for months afterward.
In retrospect, I'm grateful to be alive, I'm glad Mark was scheduled to work late that night and therefore wasn't at his office at what is now ground zero, I'm grateful Edgar is ok.
Beyond that, I still don't have many words of explanation or understanding or peace. I just have my story.

Parting Glimpse

Yesterday, we left New York City, after seven years. As we crossed the Hudson on the Verrazano Bridge, I turned for a last glimpse of the Manhattan skyline. I sat in the back seat next to my sleeping seven-month old daughter as we followed the moving truck containing a trio of Mexican/ Russian/ Kazak movers and all our worldly possessions down the New Jersey Turnpike. After a week of packing, goodbyes, and “last-time-we’ll-eat-at-Zaytoons” kind of activities, our life in NYC was over. I’ve only started to process what that means.