Messages? Meanings?

Last night I had a dream in which I was looking through a little book. It was old and illustrated with woodcut drawings. On the page I read there was a picture of a fox, followed by this sentence: “When we sleep, it’s to rest, not to outwit metananda (or metanda?).” I woke up and immediately wrote it down, excited that I’d been given some kind of written message in my dream. I knew that a fox can symbolize the archetypical trickster. But I was confused. What was metananda/metanda? I knew that meta means “change,” as in “metamorphosis." But I didn't know the defininition (or if there even was one) of metananda. When I got to work, I looked it up. All I could find was a Harvard-educated Buddhist Monk whose last name is Metananda. So what does it all mean? In the middle of my dream (I’d been dreaming that I was at some kind of camp and was participating in a group game. We were building a train made up of both our bodies and real train cars. I was acting as a connector between two cars.), I somehow ended up with this little book. Its message seemed to be telling me that, even though I’m asleep, I can’t avoid some kind of change/transformation that is taking place. Am I trying to “outwit” (like a fox?) whatever it is? I don't know. Very strange. Fascinating. I wonder what Jung would say.

On my way to work today I heard a song on the radio that stirs me every time I hear it: Toadies’ “Possum Lake.” I find it compelling on several levels. First of all, Todd Lewis’ voice is so sexy; I’m not quite sure how to describe it, but it’s extremely passionate—almost pained. And the lyrics…Ah, the lyrics. It’s about a boy and girl at a lake who go behind a building where he tries to seduce her. “I’m not gonna lie,” he tells her, “I’ll not be a gentleman/Behind the boathouse/I'll show you my dark secret.” And the fact that he weaves in references to Jesus only adds to the seductiveness. Lewis grew up in the Bible Belt, the son of a fundamentalist minister, so his Jesus-laden pleas sizzle with irony. Reminds me of when I was in 5th grade and attending Temple Christian School in Dayton, Ohio. There was a boy in the grade above me who caught my eye. His name was Eddie Markley, and unlike many of the other boys I’d known since infancy, Eddie hadn’t grown up in the church. Instead, his wealthy aunt was paying for him to attend private school. I could tell just by looking at him that he wasn’t quite “one of the crowd.” This made him, in my eyes, the cutest, most interesting boy in school. Eddie noticed me, too. We often stared at each other on the playground or in the lunchroom. Eventually we met because my nephew, who was also in 6th grade at the school, blabbed to Eddie that I liked him. But instead of putting him off or turning him bashful, the revelation emboldened Eddie. He started writing me notes and hanging out with me on the playground. Soon we were meeting behind the church building to kiss. He even kissed me once in front of everyone at a birthday party. I acted shy about our rendezvous and the birthday kiss, but to be honest, I was intoxicated by Eddie and our youthful displays of affection. I was, for the most part, a “good girl;” I wanted to follow the rules. Still, I also wanted to taste the allure of taboo. Perhaps this is why Todd Lewis and his songs appeal to me: He’s like the clean-cut Baptist boys who walk around filled with desires. If you look carefully enough, you can glimpse a carnal amber flicker in their eyes. Growing up, I found these boys irresistible. I guess I’ve always been attracted to slightly blemished sheep—to those who aren't afraid to be ungentlemanly now and then.

On a totally different note (I think)…After the Toadies song, the next song that came on was Tori Amos’ “Sleeps With Butterflies,” another song that has special meaning to me. Here are the lyrics:

Airplanes
Take you away again
Are you flying
Above where we live
Then I look up a glare in my eyes
Are you having regrets about last night
I'm not but I like rivers that rush in
So then I dove in
Is there trouble ahead
For you the acrobat
I won't push you unless you have a net
You say the word
You know I will find you
Or if you need some time
I don't mind
I don't hold on
To the tail of your kite
I'm not like the girls that you've known
But I believe I'm worth coming home to
Kiss away night
This girl only sleeps with butterflies
With butterflies
So go on and fly then boy

Balloons
Look good from on the ground
I fear with pins and needles around
We may fall then stumble
Upon a carousel
It could take us anywhere
I'm not like the girls that you've known
But I believe I'm worth coming home to
Kiss away night
This girl only sleeps with butterflies
With butterflies
With butterflies
So go on and fly boy

Sadly, this song makes me aware of the fact that, while I do like rivers that rush in, I also tend to be an "attacher."I wouldn't be a good Buddhist because I tend to fasten myself to things—people and ideals. I wish I were better at setting things free, keeping my hands/heart off kite strings. I wish I were better at agape. Agape loves no matter what. And it doesn't lead to death--unlike another kind of love. Sigh...I want to learn to do the selfless thing: sleep with a butterfly.

Three messages received in the first hour of my day...Hmmm...Maybe these little meanings flit into our lives to remind us that we're alive rather than dead, that we're here, walking this earth, living this life. This (is) life.

July 16th

Well, I'm officially a college professor now, albeit a very green one. I taught my first lit class two nights ago, and my first English comp preparation class this morning. Both went well. Who knows? Maybe teaching will prove to be a good fit for me.

Reading:
Almost finished with Kirsch's God Against the Gods. It's fascinating--about the history of monotheism vs. polytheism. So much of Western history, I'm reminded, was determined by Constantine's decision (for political reasons, mostly) to embrace Christianity. The book's also been making me think about God as a father figure. If we would stop casting God in that role, perhaps we'd stop living with the fantastic notion that we are going to be tended to. Yesterday on the [extremely-annoying-yet-appealing-to-masochistic-ex-fundies-like-me] radio show, The Bible Answer Man, the host, Hank Hanegraaff, told a woman who was upset about the tragedy in Chechnya (it was a rebroadcast) that God allows horrific suffering because he is a good father. Okay: A.) Since when do fathers refuse to protect their children? B.) What kind of father places a gazillion conditions on his love for his children? and C.) Who the hell appointed the creator of the universe a.k.a. The Ground of Being to be our FATHER in the first place? [Well, okay, so the writers of the Old Testament started the trend. Moses told Pharoah that God referred to Israel as "My firstborn son." And okay, Jesus called God, "Abba" (daddy). Nonetheless...] I think Freud was right: most of us remain retarded and fixated on parental figures our entire lives. "Suck, suck, suck," goes little Maggie Simpson.

I also started reading the Robert Boswell novel, The Geography of Desire. And I'm still nibbling away at Bataille's Erotism: Death and Sensuality. It's amazing.

Listening to:
My husband Jeff and I saw Robert Plant in concert this week. He's one of my favorite pop/rock vocalists; very bluesy and soulful--and moving toward a more "world" sound these days. Highlights for me were his cover of the Youngblood's "Darkness, Darkness" and Led Zep's "Gallows Pole." He still has it. Also listening to Damien Rice's B-Sides. The CD is a mixed bag (mostly demos and live recordings), but Damien's beautiful voice--along with his segue into French in the first song--make it worth the ten bucks I plunked down.

Watching:
My family saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory this weekend. I disliked 80% of it. (10% of the dislike I'd have to attribute to running into Johnny, a guy in my office, at the theater. But that's another story for another day.) Although I love the Roald Dahl book--and the script does maintain most of the book's integrity--I hated Tim Burton's dark interpretation of the story. I also found Willy Wonka downright creepy. (Which is a shame because Johnny Depp is usually swell in my book.) My kids hated the film, too. Sam said it was the worst movie he's ever seen--which makes it pretty bad, considering Sam has seen The Pokeman Movie two or three times.

Feeling:
Excited about life but also rather lost--like a little girl wandering aroud a department store after being separated from her mother. In fact, I've had two dreams in a row in which my mom is accompanying me somewhere, helping me do something. I rarely ever dream about her, so I'm wondering if it has to do with my current sense of displacement. I know it does. The Summer of My Displacement: perhaps a good title for a cheesy novel.

Good Parenting

Yesterday morning my husband Jeff and I were at, of all places, a Grease Monkey shop getting our oil changed. While waiting in the lobby, I overheard the following conversation between a woman and her 7-ish-year-old son:

Boy: "So am I a pagan, too?"
Mom: "Honey, you can be whatever you want to be. I'm pagan, but your dad is Christian. Remember how you were baptized as a baby in an Episcopal church? We respect both religions in our family. When you're older, you'll be able to choose for yourself how God best makes sense to you."

Immediately, I said to the woman, "You're a good parent." She looked at me, not quite sure I was talking to her. "Sorry," I said, "I was eavesdropping." She smiled and turned back to her son. Later, her husband came in, and then they left together. Before they walked out the door, though, she turned around and caught my eye. "Take care," she said and smiled again.

I didn't really think any more about the incident until last night. My 13-year-old son, Sam, and I were driving home from his friend's house. He asked me about a process through which his friend was currently going at his church: confirmation. I explained the process as best as I could, concluding with the summary, "Confirmation is, basically, a time when people who 'come of age' confirm their adherence to church doctrine."

"So," Sam replied, "they're confirming what they've been taught, not necessarily what they've thought critically about." (Not to brag, but how did I end up with such smart kids? All three constantly challenge and amaze me.) I said he was right in a lot of ways, although most people of faith sincerely believe in what they're confirming. "But they're ignorant," Sam shot back. I reminded him that ignorant does not necessarily mean stupid. You can be intelligent yet ignorant. "I know," he said. "But how can anyone believe that they have THE TRUTH when they don't know about anything but their own beliefs?" He was right. I told him about the conversation I overheard at Grease Monkey and how I told the woman she was a good parent. I told him my all-time favorite Bruce Cockburn lyric, "Everything is bullshit but the open hand." We talked about the Bible, about the value of mythology, about the meaning of religion (literally, it means, "re-union") and how it's basically, as Plato imagined it, the soul's search for the missing connection (to God, to Truth, to Beauty) it knew before it was born. We discussed the usefulness of religion--how it helps people cope with the terror of the unknown, with their feelings of meaninglessness, with their mortality. I said religion can be both terrible and wonderful but either way it makes life utterly interesting. We talked about paganism and the terrorists and fundamentalists/literalists, and about the evangelical mindset. Sam said he didn't want to be a person who did things out of guilt ("like win souls," he said) but rather out of a love of life. "So maybe by loving life you'd be loving God?" I asked. "Yep," he said. "I'd let life teach me."

If you knew me well, you'd know that both of these conversations (with the woman at Grease Monkey, with Sam) are radically different from ones I would have had even a decade ago. I grew up a fundamentalist Christian. Our church motto was, "Old-fashioned, independent, fundamental, Bible-believing Baptists and proud of it." Jerry Falwell regularly filled our pulpit as a guest speaker. I was taught to judge anyone who did not believe as I; of course, this judgment was cloaked in "love" (pity?) and a deep desire to win their hell-bound souls to Christ. I had certainty, eternal security and a special place in a male, triune God's heart. I had everything--everything except humanity. I was fearful of what I didn't understand, hated mystery, had no compassion for 99.9% of the rest of the world's population and was amazingly arrogant, self-righteous and...drum roll, please...ignorant. (Here's a link to my childhood church's web site, just in case you don't believe me: http://www.cbtministries.org/index.htm)

My friend Steve put it succinctly not long ago by saying that the betrayal of one's religion is really the betrayal of one's family. Religion and family are, in most cases, intimately entangled. Steve is right. In my own experience, my extended family feels as if I have turned my back on *them,* just as much--if not more than--the Judeo-Christian God. Heck, they've recently informed me that I was never really "born again" in the first place--since I've been able to get up and so seemingly easily walk away. This is their rationalization, anyway. It allows them to maintain their "rightness."

Whatever...

All I know is that I love my family, I love the mystery I sometimes call God, and I love the pagan woman at Grease Monkey. I could tell she'd probably gotten her share of scorn for her beliefs. When she first looked at me, she seemed defensive. But when she saw that I was sincere, she smiled. All of us are in the same boat. We're all scared. All of us want to be special in someone's eyes--namely, the someone who went to the trouble of creating this majestic universe. All of us want to feel that our lives have purpose. None of us wants to die. But it's what each of us does with these desires that differentiates us. I want the open hand. I don't want my life to be a closed fist. Being less ignorant now has humbled me greatly; I've had to give up a lot of preconceived, warm-fuzzy notions. I understand why they say, when something hurts, that it "smarts." Gaining wisdom is often a painful endeavor. And costly. I'm no longer close to my extended family the way we once were. I've committed--according to them--the unpardonable sin. I'm a blasphemer who loves story more than dogma. And I have few--if any--answers.

But then I look at my son Sam and know that with wisdom also comes great joy. Hopefully he and my other kids will grow up to be people who are kind and compassionate, who wake up and say, "Okay, life, what do you have to teach me today?" If they do, I will be what the psalmist called "exceedingly glad." Not that their lives will be easy and pain-free; quite the contrary. But they will be wise. I told Sam as we pulled into the driveway last night that it all boils down to, as my favorite poet Rilke puts it, loving the questions. "Never stop loving them," I said, "and everything will be okay. It'll be just as it should be."