I imagine you sitting across from me - the soft cloud of brown hair framing your heart-shaped face - legs tucked up in the chair, small hands wrapped around a steaming cup of hot tea.
Your forehead is wrinkled in that same puzzled look, and your eyes turned inward, as you process what I've said.
We've been friends forever - since we were little girls growing up... and yet our personalities always seem to be perpetual, mutual mysteries to each other.
I shift impatiently in my seat.
The motion startles you from your thought and you glance up - your warm frank gaze meeting mine:
"I don't know..." you say, "I don't know exactly what's going to happen or what it means."
I'm frustrated that my questions seemed to be the first time the thoughts even crossed your mind.
"But how... It doesn't make any sense. I believe you - but... I don't understand."
The statement is true. I believe you - in a way that anyone who didn't know you -- to them my faith in you might seem ludicrous. But knowing you, you are the only one with this story that I would ever believe unquestioningly. Apparently, I think to myself ironically, in some ways through the years, maybe you have rubbed off on me...
Not nearly enough though for me to have responded in the same way you did - had I been in your place. It's that unwavering quality about you, the sense of pure faith, that makes so many people think of you as being a little stupid.
"She's sweet..." Jules said to me once, when I was sharing with her a particularly frustrating conversation I had with you once, with the pause heavily weighted at the end of the statement, "Sweet as she can be, but she seems a little... simplistic. Sort-of childish. Are you sure she really thinks about these things?"
"She thinks," I remember answering her, "She just, thinks in a way that doesn't seem to have any feet."
"How did you agree to it?" I ask you wonderingly, "Why would anyone in their right mind ever say 'yes'?"
You smile a little at that, "What are you trying to say -- that I'm crazy?" You ask teasingly - but I flush slightly on the inside - Good God you're perceptive.
"I wouldn't be the first, and I won't be the last," I mutter, "especially after this."
You laugh... and I marvel at that.
"Seriously, though," you continue, "It's really not like there was a question. He just showed up - told me that this was going to happen, and what else could I say other than 'ok.'"
"No." I said, "You could have said, 'Are you out of your mind? No!'"
You look down again, suddenly tired of the circles of the conversation -- studying your worn out slippers absently, poking your finger in the small hole in the top of the left one.
"Trust me, you wouldn't have if you were in my shoes," you say softly - so low I can barely hear, "It wasn't something you would say no to. He isn't someone anyone can say no to." You look up at me after that, look up and into me, and something in that statement touches the smarting issue in my heart. The conversation has suddenly broken the circle.
It's my turn to drop that steady clear gaze.
"But... I wasn't chosen."
The words drag themselves unwillingly from that honest part of my soul that just won't shut up when I want it to. I watch them tumble out and spill the ugly truth in front of both of us.
I'm jealous.
I'm wildly relieved not to be in your shoes, not to be faced with the task that you bear - the child that you bear - and what it will mean. All of what we know it will mean for your future, and all of what we don't know it will mean. Everything we once knew about your life and your world will be forever changed, and it will all happen a matter of months.
And yet... despite that honest to God relief -- what stings, the pure truth, is that you were chosen. Chosen to bear the Messiah, out of all the women out there... including me. And why you? Why you?
... Why not me?
The thought shames me, and the flood accusing thoughts that follow even more:
It's not like you're not human. I've seen you lose your temper - be petty - be hardheaded and outright wrong. Is it because you're so much more gentle than I am? So much more obedient - more pure. I look at you so often in my life and my imperfections always seem to stand out in the contrast. I can see that you're human, I've watched you laugh, cry, hurt, and retaliate. But even though I know you're just as human as me, it always seemed like you tapped into something - maybe were born with or blessed with - some store of patience and faith and love - that I always seem to lack. My deficiencies -- my sharp edges, unrefined and rough, seem startling clear when I think of the comparison between you and me, and yet I can't understand... I can't understand the wild difference that set you so apart.
Your small hand, so child-like in size and shape, crosses my plane of vision and suddenly you are kneeling by my side, your cloudless brown eyes peering up into mine.
"It's not because it's me," you say, as though you were reading the thoughts as they flashed across my mind, "It's not. I know that doesn't make any sense, but I think one day you'll understand. It wasn't because there was anything special about me, it's all Him."
The words are rushing out of you - those thoughts you've bottled up that go high and deep - those thoughts with no feet on this earth, but wings.
"This is different from anything I have ever known, ever felt, ever believed," you share and your face is glowing. Words, never your strong point, are struggling to voice what you mean... "It's a gift of God's grace that I will bear him. It's a blessing, not that I was chosen because of me, but that He chose me. He chose us. He's coming -- He's coming to all of us."
You struggle again for the words - trying to help me bridge this gap between us -
"It's not because of anything I've done - or because of any way I am..." you repeat.
The words hit me, but aren't quite sticking... yet.
"One day, one day soon you'll understand," you say, that child-like faith again, "He'll come to you - He'll ask you to say 'yes,' and you'll find that in order not to say 'yes,' you will have had to set your heart against him... and you can't. If you love anything good, anything beautiful, if you hope for any hope, you can't. Not when it's him asking."
I look at you, drawn in by your words, and watch the truth fall unwillingly from my lips,
"How can you be so sure -- How can you be so sure he will ever ask me."
You pause.
"I guess," you say hesitantly, testing the statement like unstable footing, before committing to it, "I guess, because... he already is... right now."
You look at me, willing me to understand, "Somewhere, deep down inside I believe that to be true. I know you don't quite believe me... but I think -- simply because you want him to ask you at all, that's good. So, let's just wait and see. Wait for him with me. Let's just wait and hope and pray on Him together. Because I don't know what else to do. What else is there to do?"
You ask helplessly.
"You say yes, you wait, you pray. You watch to see what He will do... what else is there to do..." you've drawn inward again, your hands still resting on mine.
The slight tremble in your voice on that echo snaps me out of my self-focus and for a second your humanity strikes me again. In a different way this time -- no longer in accusation. I think of myself in your shoes and I realize that you're just as scared as I would be... as I am. You're looking into all the things that this will mean, and all that we don't know what it will mean, and it's happening. It's like you said -- it's not like there really is a question... it simply is happening. You're sucked into it, like the rip tide in the sea, and you're waiting to see on what strange shore it will dump you.
I reach out and touch your bent brown head and you rest it on my knee. I smooth your hair out.
"Okay Mary," I say simply and breathe deep--releasing it heavily, "Okay. Let's just wait and see. We'll wait together - with hope."
"For hope." You amend softly.
I think about that for a second... I don't mention that hope has a way of breaking your heart... we both know that. Clearly.
"For hope," I agree.
We're waiting. I pray silently. We're waiting with expectancy. Okay? okay... we're waiting.
Amen.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Christmas Here
last couple of hours spent
on edge of chair
and sometimes nerves
sometimes more in the center
of the hub where it is
safe
and hands are held
round a laden table in mutual
grace
the back and forth swing and sway
of family
with and without patience
heavy-burdened with
love
years of blood with some
in-law-out-law-mingled-mix
It is always interesting.
we admit
not always fun.
but sometimes great.
This was one of those days.
Step outside from inner warm
glow
to outside
crisp
clear and singular stars glance
through veiled cloud wisps
and i breathe one
smartsharp
breath
somewhere jingling faint
floats down and through, over chilled air
a tinny electronic something plays
the tune of some merry Christmas cheer
it translates down
snowy street
some elder-young Christmas magic
here
while i wait
to climb in car and drive
away
Friday, December 17, 2010
Friday, December 10, 2010
Skepticism and Belief
Philosophy has always fascinated me... I thought about double-majoring in philosophy in college, but figured I was already setting myself up for poverty as an English Writing major... adding Philosophy to it logically seemed to times impoverishment likelihoods by two.
What fascinated me about philosophy, is that even more than psychology it seemed to me to explain how people thought and why they thought that way. The reason for that is that a lot of times epistemological philosophical strains are defined by three main things: (1) If there is a truth - i.e., "logos," an underlying truth/logic that undergirds everything (2) If we can know it (3) If we can, what truths that "logos" will tell us. That's a very simplistic reduction - but it helped me make my way through several philosophy classes through undergrad.
(As a sidenote, I do use the word "logos" rather than "absolute truth" because I think logos is truer to what philosophies are seeking. In the very least, it was a word used more in ancient Greek philosophies when they were considering what logic or mode of thinking would help them understand life.
Absolute truth I think is truncated in its uses -- whether that's inherent to its definition or as a result of its uses in society is something else to be debated some other time (including the debate, for my literary criticism fans, on whether definitions are inherent to words at all...).
It is interesting to me that in the gospel of John, which was written at a later time to a more "Greek"/Gentile audience than other gospels, by an author who, no doubt, lived at a time when he was no stranger to the Greek philosophies, uses this word to describe Christ: "In the Beginning was Logos"
As an English major and someone fascinated with Lacan - it is also fascinating to me that they used this word which also means "speech" or -- as modern translators who translated it in John: "the Word.")
Anyways. In terms of answer those first two main questions: (1) if there is a truth/logos and (2) if we can know it - I visualize it in one of those simple four square charts. Being limited in my software capabilities right now - you'll have to draw the little box in your head for your self - but the general idea is as follows:
(1) There is a Logos, and we can know it. (2) There is a Logos but we cannot know it
(3) There is not a Logos, and we know there isn't. (4) There isn't a Logos, but we can't know that.
Two and four interest me because in (1) and (3) there are philosophies that offer their "Logos" for knowing truth -- whether it its empiricism, realism, or anything else... but they each have flaws in their assumptions and theories that seem to say that they're not the one undergirding logos to everything, if there's something that it doesn't seem to apply to.
Two and four are normally associated with the skeptics. The interesting thing about skeptics is that their branch of philosophy is stuck. They cannot say "This is the Logos, and we know it." or "There isn't a logos, and we know that too," because they have stated that they cannot "know" it.
In fact, for the skeptic - all knowledge is belief.
I suppose if I had to pick my "philosophy" then - I would have to say that I am a skeptic. And the most basic reason for this is because, when I pushed it back far enough, every philosophy, every truth, even the "tools" we think most reliable like science and math -- I realized it all starts with an "assumption" if not several.
Perhaps it is an assumption that has been supported through multiple, thousands, trials, and not one has failed thus far, but it is nonetheless, whatever premise you start with, you are automatically making an assumption that because it has never NOT done x, y, or z - it never WILL do x, y, and z.
Unless we have anyone who can see across and into all eternity - then we are assuming that what we "know" to be true - is true "as far as we know"
Which... if you're like me -- isn't exactly confidence-inspiring when one considers how much any one person or any one people "knows."
And what is an assumption at is most basic core? Well... it's a belief...
Obviously - and this is the problem that a lot of philosophies have with skepticism - is that skepticism seems the easiest to defend. Never being one to choose something because it's "easy" - that rankled with me quite a bit in a lot of my classes.
The response that I got from a lot of people was that you didn't need to know the assumption was true across and into eternity (which would make that assumption an absolute truth) - but you could be pretty sure - to the point of "knowing it's true" about an assumption based upon the evidence and support of said assumption/premise thus far. If statistics show that 100% of the time Premise A is true - then we can logically assume that Premise A will always be true and therefore, we know it.
That theory still didn't sit well with me in considering "claiming" any other mode of philosophy because what I found was that people who are diehard adherents to a particular philosophy have this tendency to reject any data - experience - or example that counters their assumption.
The general idea is if someone presents a data point, experience, example, etc. that counters their assumption, the response is: "That can't be true - because it has never been that way before, therefore that point is invalid and Premise A remains true."
You don't have to take philosophy to recognize that there's a fallacy inherent in that statement. You are limiting the very "trials" the assumption is based upon, because of the assumption. Another words you are "forcing" the data to prove your assumption true... and goes against the very assumption you made in getting to the conclusion that Premise A was true.
The second major "slam" against Skepticism is that it's a "cop out" because in all reality, you can't LIVE life saying "you can't know anything."
Well ... that's where I disagree... because the main aim of a skeptic then should be carefully and constantly shifting through all the millions of assumptions and experiences, points of view, etc. that support or contradict those assumptions -- to find what it is that one believes to be true. It is open to dialogue between philosophies - even philosophies that seem diametrically opposed to one another - and attempting to find where there may be an assumption between those two philosophies that lead them to correspondence, rather than divergence.
And that I think, should be a "truer" way of life than simply making assumptions and excluding anything and everything that "doesn't fit" with your prior assumption.
"tidbits": the beginning
When I write something - whether it's a paper, a report for work, or simply for myself, I'm often left with paragraphs, sentences, sometimes just phrases that get "cut" in the editing process. These are often unedited, rough, but there was something about them I couldn't completely delete. I put them in a companion file to the final document and label them "tidbits."
The writings in here are going to be like that - rough -- edited out of my life, sentences, phrases, paragraphs, incomplete thoughts. I just needed to write, even if it were only in dropping crumbs behind me.
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