The Place I’m at Now

I’ve been thinking about this blog post for awhile now but keep coming back to the same thing – what am I really going to say after what’s happened in the last few months? This blog has seen me through some interesting adventures – exploring ordination, becoming an abortion doula, quitting a doctoral program to enter a PhD program, having my best friend casually rip my still-beating heart out of my chest and then ask me to tea…

Often people who are meeting me for the first time, readers of my blog, and even those who have known me forever ask me, “What do you DO?” What they mean is that they can’t quite categorize me according to the normal capitalist scheme we have for DOING, for work. We can’t imagine there is a category simply for being, or that work might just be something we DO so that we can BE. So much to unpack here. But let’s just say that my being is controversial to some. I am someone who rides the ecstatic wave of curiosity. I might be a receptionist on Tuesday so that I can write on Thursday. On Wednesday someone might have asked if I wanted to go with them to visit a relative in jail. On Friday, I’ll probably take someone to the clinic for her abortion.  Saturday and Sunday I’m reading about medieval women prophets.

So, what do I DO?

I do whatever sounds fascinating, whatever piques my interest or scares the shit out of me. I do what needs doing so that I or others can be. I do a little here and there to make sure I don’t starve. I lift heavy. I do my PhD. I write books. I do what my energy and my inner compass tells me I need to do without any reference to whether it fits into accepted categories for me, my gender, my age, or anything else.

But what ARE YOU?

Ah ha! That’s an entirely different question though! That’s the problem. When someone follows up, “what do you do” with “what are you”, they are demanding I identify with some job or function of the consumer state. They want to know what I produce (answer: books no one wants to read) and if it makes enough money to justify my identification. I have and will always reject these ideas. I reject the idea that I need to DO in order to identify and that my DOING needs to be confined to predetermined categories for which I surely didn’t fucking vote.

What am I? I am curious, wild, caring, too loud, passionate, tired, energetic, full of questions, full of shit. I am alive.

It should always have been obvious to anyone unfortunate enough to read this blog that I’ve generally embraced my wildness and rejected rigid categories. And yet…and yet I’ve always longed for a home. Do wild things have homes? I don’t know, really. But I know that I’ve always hoped, even while laughing at myself for such hope,that there was a place for me, even if only on the edges. Like, maybe you’ll let me come warm myself by the campfire if I stay to the edge of the clearing. That’s what it seems drives my desire for spiritual community.

It’s all well and good to be wild and free but there is this part of me that always wants accountability. Community is good for that. If I live in community, however poorly formed, there is some sense of my responsibility to others. Without accountability, I’m afraid that I’ll just veer off into the void of self-obsession or that I’ll miss a vital experience of being alive in the presence of others. All of my life I had hoped that there was just a tiny little spot I could wedge myself into (not too tightly, I need to be able to run away) where I could care for others and others could care for me. Where perhaps there wouldn’t be too much emphasis on conformity or dogma or anything other than this astonishing gift of each other.

Something I’ve had to come to terms with over the last few weeks is that, as beautiful as this all sounds, it’s a dream that is dependent on others seeing things the way I do or of my seeing things the way they do. In other words, a dream, weirdly enough, of conformity. There is no edge for me. There’s no communal fire to which I might be invited on my own terms. Because no matter how much we so desperately want open and vibrant communities filled with their own eccentric and lovable characters, the truth is that, in the end, a community that refuses to be reflective will always take the laziest way. Instead of community opening up to embrace a new gift, it will instead offer the edge dwellers a pre-selected number of ways to be that are acceptable to the already-established community. Sadly, those pre-selected ways of being will almost always be limited, unimaginative, and morally repugnant. This is true even of the most supposedly “open” and “liberal” communities.

All of this explain why I need to confront my longing for community head on and to accept that there is no easy answer. There might never be a place for me. So, where does this leave me? My vocation? Even this shitty little blog?

It leaves me more open and vulnerable as ever. This is both good and bad, depending on the day and what I had for breakfast. It leaves me a wild thing that makes its home where it best serves its purpose. It leaves me a wild thing who refuses to eat from the hands of others.

It leaves my vocation unanswered. As a post-theist, I don’t rely on an interventionist God to find me a spot like some celestial job recruiter. I have stirrings in my life that I take seriously and that I answer and obey. I can’t control how others interpret this and I can’t rely on them to “recognize my calling”. Frankly, I’m not sure it matters in the long run. I will continue to walk with women, offering what little I can. I will continue to pursue the constant burning in my belly that tells me something is worth looking into.

It leaves this site what it has always really been underneath it all – an exploration of curiosity and the lengths it will take us if we engage. It’s about that and it’s about nothing. I expect this to be of interest to no one but if it does find one engaged reader, that’s wonderful.

So, here we go, off into the future as lone explorers responsible for their own campfires.

How to Be: Summer Breakup Edition

I know I’m an anomaly when I say that I don’t understand our prioritization when it comes to relationships. We assume that romantic relationships sit on the top of a pyramid of connections, with friendships somewhere below it. I’m a bit backwards and I place friendship at the top of the pyramid, if we even have to have a pyramidal, hierarchical structure at all. This is because my romantic relationships need to be above all things friendships at root. But its more than that, too. It’s also because I assume friendships are more enduring for most people (if done right) and that they are the most consistently life-giving. After all, you need your friends after a romantic breakup. So, it might be correct to say that I’m romantic about friendships. This is why it was such a hard thing for me this summer when my dearest and closest friendship ended.

People are funny things. We love them exactly for who they are and yet, when things go south, we wish they could be different. But relationships are messy at best and when we take on a friendship we also take on that person’s past, a past we were never a part of and have absolutely no control over. To put it simply, people are complex, a product of their past, and we can’t do anything about it.

For my old friend this past was, unfortunately, insurmountable. I had inadvertently done something that upset her and, because of her past, she was unable to move beyond it. At first, I didn’t understand why I couldn’t fix this. I apologized, I explained, I told her how much I loved her and I gave her space. But the lesson for me, it seems, was about how I can’t do anything. This was incredibly difficult for me because I am a doer and I like to show my feelings. But God, in Her wisdom, decided to knock me on my ass with this one. If I hadn’t learned that I can’t fix everything in the world by the age of 39, perhaps this was going to be how She got my attention.

And She did. She sent me on a long holiday the day after this all happened so that I was physically separated from my friend. This proved to be crucial to my healing as I was able to literally get some distance. Holidays abroad have always felt something like retreats to me so I got the added bonus of feeling especially close to God during this time. I used the time to pray and to reflect and what I found was not at all what I was expecting.

In my mind, I was expecting that my friend and I would make up and be close again, that we just needed time. But my time away showed me that perhaps that wasn’t the best outcome, strange as that may seem. When I had time to reflect, I realized that my nature as a doer meant that I had been the person primarily keeping the friendship going. I made dates to go out, I texted her, I reached out when I wanted to talk. Once again, I was doing. This isn’t a bad thing. I’m very proud of the fact that I know what I want and will set out to get it. Again, I’m romantic about friendship and believe that it requires intention and effort. But as I sat on the beach one evening looking out over the North Sea I realized that I had kind of made up the entire friendship, that I had chosen her but she had never really chosen me. Not that my friend was not a fantastic person and not that she didn’t care about me in some way, but when I was able to step back and really look, I saw that she was never going to really be able to choose anyone, that she would always wait to be chosen. I can’t blame her for this. She’s had a really rough time with relationships, both romantic ones and friendships. I understand to a point. But it came home to me with a sudden force that when it came to choosing between everything we shared as friends and the pain she felt from her past, she would choose the pain every time simply because it was safer and required less vulnerability.

This was hard. Like, REALLY hard.  There were nights where I just cried, feeling stupid and blind. How could I have not seen this coming? Why did I reveal so much about myself to this person? But it was also then that I knew deep within myself that I couldn’t let this situation cut me off. I couldn’t let the loss of this friendship threaten to isolate me and keep me from what I do best – sharing my heart with others. So, I prayed. I asked God to please keep my heart open, to let it break spectacularly so that I could stay compassionate. During the day I found myself absently stroking the sacred heart tattoo on my right forearm as if to remind myself to keep my heart broken for a little while yet, to let it be pierced over and over and let my compassion grow.

This might sound all very emotionally morbid to you, dear reader, but I believe firmly that we need to fully explore our emotions, our reactions, for meaning. Doing so allowed me to see that I “do” too much and that this has eroded my sense of self-love. Once I allowed myself to really feel the deep pain of betrayal and rejection, I felt an instinctive need to heal myself and to show myself the compassion I felt I was lacking. So, that’s what I did. I began, first of all, to eat better, something my powerlifting coach no doubt loves. I began making sure I went to bed before midnight. I began to monitor the way I spoke to myself. This all sounds very much like doing still, doesn’t it? But there were other ways I found healing as well.

I sat.

Literally, I just sat. I didn’t even focus on my breathing as I would for my meditation practice. I simply sat. When an emotion threatened me with its insidious waves, I shrugged and allowed it to roll over me. I trusted that God would see me through whatever happened. I trusted. I trusted. I trusted.

I accepted that I would cry for many weeks yet. That I would have days where I felt powerful and loving and days where I felt helpless and sad. I accepted that I may have moments where I felt friendless and times where I was going to have no one but myself and God to see me through. And I refused to talk myself out of loving in spite of it all.


I trusted that I was enough. I trusted that God is about connection and love and communion and that therefore I was on the right path. When in doubt, I spoke to myself.

“Keep your heart open. Let it break. Let it break. Let it break.”

And because I am such a doer and always will be, I repaired what I could in myself and in other relationships. I reached out to someone I had stopped speaking to when I realized I’d never get the apology I deserved. I no longer felt like the apology was necessary. I began to write olde tyme letters to friends. I went on blind “friend dates” that, at this point in time, seem very promising. I even wrote a letter to my biological father, a man who abandoned us thirty years ago. I let go of the expectation that he wanted to know me and gave in instead to the knowledge that I couldn’t let people think that they didn’t matter. Instead of retreating into myself and refusing to love, I decided to throw my heart back into the ring with abandon.


And I wrote a final text message to my old friend. I told her that I loved her and that if she ever decides she wants us to repair this, I’ll be here. But I no longer have the expectation that she wants this. I no longer need to assume that I was to her what she was to me. Knowing of the deep pain that she has experienced in the past, I don’t expect that she’ll choose me. Instead, I’ll just keep trusting that my love isn’t wasted, even when it isn’t returned.