Reflections – Page 9 – Another Adventure

Jerusalem

I would really love to post all my pictures from Jerusalem, call out some tourist places, and call it a day.
But that wouldn’t be accurate.
Jerusalem is….Jerusalem. It’s always been Jerusalem, and that word still carries so much weight.

Here, here is our challenge: to love all our brothers; even, and especially, those who hate us. Israel is so paradoxical because in the midst of the “promised land” there is still so much hate. I’ve been here almost a month now (wow) and it’s becoming horribly apparent to me from every angle that I am not enough in myself for the hatred that infiltrates us all and is magnified here in such a small and tense arena. My first real realization of this was Jerusalem–nothing epitomizes this conflict as Jerusalem. There I was, in the holiest of holy lands, where martyrs and saints and kings have walked, and you would think that everyone belonged to a “gang” because that’s really all it felt like–like the Jets and the Sharks ready to shiv each other over control of the corner soda stand. It’s astonishing how like children adults can be. And it’s shameful because we should know better. We should be creating a better world for our children, not training them in the combat.

When walking Friday night to the Western Wall, I saw a religious Jew and Muslim boy and his mother cross paths (about six inches away from each other at most, because the streets are so incredibly narrow..the ancient, cobblestone streets of Jerusalem, that cry out with every step). As naturally as breathing, the boy jumped around and started laughing at the Jewish boy on his way to pray. (Just for the record, the boy’s immitation of dancing was a horribly staunch depiction of men’s Shabbat dancing. It is powerful and majestic…a sight to behold.) The boy’s mother did nothing, but complacently walked on.

I was shocked. Of course this goes both ways, and I am not educated enough to give facts or statistics on such conflicts, but in my lowly opinion facts and statistics are like crutches to an injured man: he can get around well enough but he cannot walk upright. They demean the issues of humanity and civility down to figures and pieces of paper and ink. And the fact of the matter is that when human life and peace is on the line, facts and statistics are meaningless. For God’s sake, we’re all the same people.

I know that for many who live here and have grown up here–Israelis and Palestinians alike– that such blatant hatred has become a way of life and one must develop thick skin. You really do when you live in a place that people want to wipe off the map. But to me, the fact that this type of perpetual whitewashing–talk of a nation or a country “free of” another group of people–is precisely the problem, not the solution. I thank God that I’m still in shock, because it means that I’m not immune to it.

This country is so beautiful. It’s so rich in ancient history and biblical tradition. It’s a wonderful place to be, but it’s also difficult and very exhausting, from a personal level, too: when I strike up a conversation with someone and I see their eyes immediately dart down to my cross, up, and down and back up again, I can’t help but stop my train of thought and wonder what just happened. Who cares? The fact of the matter is that many people do care quite a lot about another man’s faith. I’ve also gotten this: “Are you Jewish?” “No.” “Then why are you in Israel?” And this: “Are you Jewish?” “No.” “Christian?” “Yes.” “Oh, Jesus.” “…”

What about him?

Maybe if we weren’t all so concerned with names and titles we could realize that we all drink the same water and breathe the same air and that that creates symbiosis among us, whether or not we want it or even like it. As my mom would say, “tough.”

Confessions

I am sitting against the wall in my sister’s spare bedroom. I haven’t had a room since July. But I haven’t been paying my own rent, either.

I keep writing and deleting and rewriting. I wanted to write something therapeutic, but not too personal, and not at all narcissistic, though I’m afraid that that is exactly what a blog is. Oh, well. Here I am in Atlanta, quite literally between phases of life, sitting on the floor, comfortably content enough to stay here until morning, when I will be whisked away to the art museum with my lovely family. And they are, truly, lovely. Though when I’m with them, I forget who I am. All my masks and armors melt away and I hunch forward safely over my curled up legs, listening and laughing and interjecting without fear or pretense.

I just wish that this nasty cold would go away.

I departed Mississippi on Tuesday, leaving one set of my parents and my latest home behind, to come play party guest to Emily’s life. I don’t think my sister has ever told me to sit down before 🙂 Strange, it seems, that she is offering me towels and wine, kissing me goodnight and giving me an extra blanket for the spare bedroom. Weren’t we just talking on the phone about boys?

I dream frequently about my own imaginary home. In it, I stand barefoot on the cool tile of my wide open kitchen, leaning on marble countertops, the sunlight reflecting in my steel pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. I am the quiet despot of my humbly rustic abode, with maybe a dog or two, and enough tea to last until my fifties. It’s Nancy Meyers on a slightly smaller scale.

Of course, this is all an illusion, and every time I look in the mirror I remember that I am far more round about the face then I’d like to be, and not nearly collected enough to be my own homeowner.

My dreams have changed so much with every passing year, yet they never cease to be fully visualized and massively elaborate. They never come true. This is why I need to watch less television. As cynical as that sounds, I am perfectly content to not watch TV, to take walks and stretch about on yoga mats and not look in mirrors at all. I realize this may seem strange to my Buckhead residential older sister or any one else my age, but I don’t think I can help that. I don’t want to help that. I want to like it and not give it another thought, because there is too much tea to be drunk before I turn fifty.

On Saturday night, after arriving in Philadelphia and unpacking in my new home, I will sleep, and, God willing, wake up in the year 2012, wondering how in the world I got to where I now am and chortling at how different my life is from what I earnestly imagined it would be right now.

Fasting…Ironic for a blog centered on food…

“If we can’t discipline ourselves in terms of what goes into our mouths, we will hardly be in a position to discipline ourselves with regard to what comes out of our mouths.”

Tonight, I googled “Orthodox fasting and eating disorders.” I came across this website: http://oca.org/questions/dailylife/orthodox-fasting

Amazing that my questions were answered so simply. No, I wasn’t the one who made the inquiry on the website, but I thought the exact same things. This being the first advent I’ve willingly participated in (horribly, too), it’s proved to me far more difficult than I ever could have imagined. Here’s what I thought would happen: Not eating meat and dairy for forty days? Cool, I’ll lose weight. My skin will probably clear up, and I’ll be helping the environment.” In my hazy atheistic narcissistic days, veganism was something I loosely followed, because it was chic in my eyes, just like helping the planet and saving whales. I thought I was a martyr. Ick.

I should probably also mention that I have a history with disordered eating. Now that the fast is almost over, it’s just now hitting me how much of a disordered eating approach I’ve taken to Advent, and I’m ashamed of myself. Truly. The process of binge eating (which sadly leads to binging and purging) involves eating (involuntarily, it often feels) copious amounts of food, usually after going several hours longer than typical without food. It occurs in dieting quite a bit when one deprives oneself of vital macro and micro nutrients obtained through plant and animal foods (yes, both). So, I’m no stranger to the process, having been on every possible diet imaginable. Usually what I would do was eat little to no protein, fat, or carbs, and then wreak havoc on a jar of peanut butter or some fat free potato chips. My body was crying out for nourishment.

We cannot survive without food. It is essential. It can also be wonderful, especially when lingered over with family or friends. But so often I hate food, because I allow it (or some facet of it) to have power over me. And that’s what this fast became for me. Another way for food to have power over me.

So clearly I missed the point!

Another great point the aforementioned website brings up is the fact that fasting is not, NOT, a form of self deprivation, suffering. I mean, it is suffering, in that I have to suffer through another peanut butter sandwich and suffer through not eating ice cream for forty days, but that’s the backwards thinking, not the true joy of fasting! “We fast in order to get a grip on our lives and to regain control of those things that have gotten out of control.” Like self indulgence and greed. Ironically, the process of choosing a college is possibly one of the most narcissistic indulgences, and for that to be happening during a Great Fast is just cruel. God, why are you doing this to me?!?!

Calm down, Melanie. It’s not about me. It’s about Him. Maybe you can use these next few days to remember that. I feel light, and like I’ve gone through this before. Maybe I have and am just sluggish so I can’t remember.

Children Won’t Listen

It’s true. Stephen Sondheim knows the truth, but the rest of us struggle with it.

Sometimes I wish life were as simple as it is scripted to be in a musical. What isn’t resolved in the course of an hour and a half is reflected upon in a lovely, cathartic swarm of melody, and one always leaves with a little bit better sense of the world. This is of course, precisely why I am no longer acting; it’s easy to get swept away in the imaginary world.

This morning my Grandmother ended up in the hospital complaining of hip pains; I saw her this afternoon, with a tube in her nose and an IV drip in her arm, just as bright and bubbly as ever. And I sat there, on the awkwardly square hospital couch (the dreadful ones you find in generic offices and waiting areas that simply repel everyone who dares attempt sitting down), listening to her stories (she tells the best stories) and trying to pretend that everything was normal.

I had been away from home for two weeks, and when my father picked me up from the airport a few days ago, I wasn’t happy to see him. He hadn’t changed, I hadn’t changed, the house hadn’t changed. Everything was just as it was when I left it. Physically, all the elements were the same. I had grown so tired of the same environment. I wanted to go back somewhere that was prettier, brighter, lighter. I didn’t like my family messing with my world, this world I created for myself, where I am strong and people love me and respect me.

I thought about this as I sat cross legged on that couch, watching the nurse inject borderline toxic chemicals into my Grandmother’s veins, my Grandmother, who by the Grace of God gave life to my father, who raised me and is in every way responsible for who and where I am today. I watched him as he drank his juice, battling a cold, emailing his brothers and sisters to maintain updates on Grannamae’s condition.

I’m not sure what to do. I recall seeing my mother a few times in a hospital bed as a much younger girl, and feeling frightened, but I think most children are terribly frightened of hospitals. Yet as I walked in the lobby of Baptist Memorial, I felt a strange sense of calm–or perhaps it was just determination in being present as our questions are answered as to the state of her health. Either way, I took myself up the elevator, into her hospital room, delivered my food, and plopped myself onto the furniture ready to be an active listener and an operative family member, eagerly looking for opportunity to administer medicine or laughter. But I did neither. I merely sat, quietly, and listened, and smiled. When I left, I hugged her and waved goodbye to the rest.

I think I got my sense of imagination from my Grandmother. If you read her blog, you’ll understand. She passed on her immense passion for the creative to her children, who in turn passed it on to me. It has been the biggest blessing, and sometimes curse, I’ve endured thus far. The more stories I hear from her, the more I understand an essential part of myself–the part that stops and stares into the sky, searching first for Venus, then Mars, then the Big Dipper. The part that takes pictures of food as if trying to preserve tastes and textures, wondering which amalgamation of flavors is on my plate this time. The part that looks at babies and marvels at all the innocence and purity therein.

It’s frightful to realize the fragility of cursory life. But I think it’s necessary. I am a child, and I don’t listen nearly enough. But I am trying. And I will try, and I will make a better effort to listen to my Grandmother’s stories just as I listen to the wind at night, to the rain outside my window, to violins and flutes and songs. And it’s true, that you can learn an awful lot when you close your mouth and just listen.