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I dreamed of a snowstorm last night, and when I woke this morning, it was in fact snowing, just enough
to make me laugh. Now, I did not have to be out in the world today, but I might have been better served by something - anything - forcing me out, because I had a sadness on me that would not budge. Times are hard and I'm tired. And restless. Those who know me well know that these are historically the times in which I pack up and move to another city, or at least move the furniture around, or repaint my home, because placement of objects in a space and colors of walls are things I can control.
There'll be no moving things around today though. Why? Because yesterday I found some furniture on the street and hauled it into my nest like a Labrador fetching sticks. Big sticks. Logs, really: iron lawn furniture. I have the backache to prove it. If I am careful, and I pay attention, it will pass in a day or two.
Other kinds of pain last longer. My neck has been fragile since a car accident in 1978. My foot hasn't been right since a horse stomped on it in the 90s. I would gladly be without these hurts - imagine turning my head without an ouch! and wearing gorgeous shoes onstage and at the meet-and-greet! But I may always have the scar on my chin that sometimes aches, and always need corrective lenses. If any of these difficulties are taken away, I will be all like, you know, OMG thanks!
Heart-hurts last, too. When my marriage failed, when my dogs died, when I didn't have enough money to buy food, when I was living in a tent, I spent nights on the ground crying so hard I vomited. I wailed and sobbed, begged for release, pleaded for time to regress to when I'd had a faithful husband or that beautiful frisky puppy, a roof over my head, and dinner every day, and anyone anywhere who cared about my singing. While I was living through these things, I would have given anything to be able to hurl them away.
But now... I don't know who I would be had I not experienced them. They are the many reasons I recognize someone else's pain when I see it. Why I (sometimes) know enough to stay present and keep silent with a friend. Why I talk to strangers. And why I grieve and rejoice for people I've never met. How would I know what I now know, had I not been on the floor, broken?
In the beginnings of religion, the practice of human sacrifice to the gods propitiated the uncontrollable deities. People were broken, burned, offered up. Not simple slaughter, this taking of life was so sacred that the act was hedged round with rules and rubrics. In Leviticus, there are pages and pages of very precise instructions of how these rituals must be performed.
And then something remarkable was introduced: a new kind of human sacrifice. The prophet Hosea proclaims what the Lord has told him: I desire steadfast love and not sacrifice, the knowledge of God rather than burnt offerings.
Hold on a minute. Cutting out someone else's heart won't do it anymore? I have to offer my own?
Yes. Steadfast literally means "fixed in place". Figuratively, it means constant and unwavering, sure and continuous. Steadfast love is our job. But a heart has to be opened before it can love in that way, and that's going to hurt. We can try to protect ourselves by locking our hearts up tight, but there is no safe strong enough. Sooner, later, inevitably, life itself will break in and savage us. Maybe this is what is meant by a verse which has always puzzled me: the kingdom of heaven has suffered violence, and the violent take it by force (Matthew 11:12).
These are hard times. There is plenty of heartbreak available. Afghanistan. Iraq. New Orleans. Iowa. Tucson. Haiti. Japan. Libya. The abandoned elder who lives next door. The woman who lost her job. The child losing heart in the inadequate school. The challenge is plant my feet in what I've learned, and use it, and use it, and use it, steadfast.