"Let us return to imperfection's school, no longer wandering after Plato's ghost."
....Adrienne Rich
Daily. Every single day. Some phrase of Adrienne Rich goes through my mind or I use it to clarify a point in conversation.
"She [Marie Curie] died a famous woman denying her wounds
denying
her wounds came from the same source as her power."
"Truth is not one thing or another but an ever-increasing complexity."
Rich died yesterday at 82 and I feel as though a companion has gone away. But the lovely thing about poets is that their wisdom is timeless and always accessible. I will continue to ponder these truths and so so many others for the rest of my days. They are as imprinted in my mind as my name. I view the world through these eyes, of ever-increasing complexity. I have learned that our wounds come from the same source as our power And that we do well to stop wandering after Plato's ghost. And so much more.
There are songs, too, that make up the sound track of my life but I have to say that Adrienne Rich's poetry is more constant than any one song. I'm so grateful for her wisdom and her courage.
God did a real good thing when She partnered with Adrienne to teach the world its truth.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Cleaning out the closets
Closets need fresh air
That's the trouble with closets.
Closets are almost always small, closed off, interior rooms that have no access to fresh air or light. They get stale and messy and they are always filled with dark corners and, in fact, the closet itself is generally dark unless there is an artificial source of light that is turned on. Most of us know our way around our own closets so well that we can stumble around in the dim light and find our shirts, the checked one, and shoes, the stinky ones. Closets need exposure.
My gay and lesbian friends talk about coming out of the closet. Hurray!
My issue is a bit different. It is a different closet and a different set of issues. But then, not altogether different, I guess.
My closet needs some fresh air, natural light. My closet needs me to get out of it, too.
My closet is shame.
It is shame from a terrible experience that happened to me that seems to be nobody else's concern, that is, not beyond my faithfully wonderful family.
My closet is PTSD. I am not a war veteran. I don't get pages in the New York Times or coverage in Newsweek. I remember when the first war vets were being diagnosed with PTSD and I was so very glad they were getting the public attention and care they deserved. Now it seems the pages are filled with stories -- as there should be -- of PTSD suffering and war veterans.
But nobody writes about me. Not that I am a narcissist. That is not the point anyway. The point is to have a fellowship of suffering, a community of folks who see the world as you do, who freak out when you do, who cower in their closets of shame like you do. Community. Solidarity.
Clergy. Clergy who have been battered and beaten. That is my community. And nobody writes about us. We are the church's dirty little secret. That we happen. That terrible stuff happens to us. No one wants to know. Any articles written about us are sanitized beyond the point of our recognizing ourselves and what happened to us.
There is power in community. But nobody knows -- or has said -- how many ELCA clergy are disabled due to PTSD, depression, battering. We don't know one another. And, frankly, we are so shuttered in our own silos of depression and mistrust that we are not the ones who are most likely to reach out and find one another.
Well, this is a start. A modest proposal. If you trust me, let me know. We will continue to live without recognition, respect for our struggles, concern for our condition until we ourselves ask for it, maybe even demand it. No one, no bishop is going to come looking for us. We are their worst nightmares. In some cases, they are ours. But we need to find a way to clean out our own closets of shame and depression, of shell-shock and shattered trust.
And the way to do it is the way the military has begun its work with veterans: by drawing the victims together.
Can we do that? We can.
That's the trouble with closets.
Closets are almost always small, closed off, interior rooms that have no access to fresh air or light. They get stale and messy and they are always filled with dark corners and, in fact, the closet itself is generally dark unless there is an artificial source of light that is turned on. Most of us know our way around our own closets so well that we can stumble around in the dim light and find our shirts, the checked one, and shoes, the stinky ones. Closets need exposure.
My gay and lesbian friends talk about coming out of the closet. Hurray!
My issue is a bit different. It is a different closet and a different set of issues. But then, not altogether different, I guess.
My closet needs some fresh air, natural light. My closet needs me to get out of it, too.
My closet is shame.
It is shame from a terrible experience that happened to me that seems to be nobody else's concern, that is, not beyond my faithfully wonderful family.
My closet is PTSD. I am not a war veteran. I don't get pages in the New York Times or coverage in Newsweek. I remember when the first war vets were being diagnosed with PTSD and I was so very glad they were getting the public attention and care they deserved. Now it seems the pages are filled with stories -- as there should be -- of PTSD suffering and war veterans.
But nobody writes about me. Not that I am a narcissist. That is not the point anyway. The point is to have a fellowship of suffering, a community of folks who see the world as you do, who freak out when you do, who cower in their closets of shame like you do. Community. Solidarity.
Clergy. Clergy who have been battered and beaten. That is my community. And nobody writes about us. We are the church's dirty little secret. That we happen. That terrible stuff happens to us. No one wants to know. Any articles written about us are sanitized beyond the point of our recognizing ourselves and what happened to us.
There is power in community. But nobody knows -- or has said -- how many ELCA clergy are disabled due to PTSD, depression, battering. We don't know one another. And, frankly, we are so shuttered in our own silos of depression and mistrust that we are not the ones who are most likely to reach out and find one another.
Well, this is a start. A modest proposal. If you trust me, let me know. We will continue to live without recognition, respect for our struggles, concern for our condition until we ourselves ask for it, maybe even demand it. No one, no bishop is going to come looking for us. We are their worst nightmares. In some cases, they are ours. But we need to find a way to clean out our own closets of shame and depression, of shell-shock and shattered trust.
And the way to do it is the way the military has begun its work with veterans: by drawing the victims together.
Can we do that? We can.
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