Unspoken Agreements & Tribal Knowledge between the you and me

Sociological & Psychological Studies have been done showing that human beings without ever speaking a word to their friend or companion or family member or spouse make a deal. The deal is that each will remember different bits and pieces or aspects of memories: the halves will each hold a half of the virtual scrapbook in their minds.

Simply put, you remember one aspect of a memory and your beloved remembers another piece of it. And you remember one day and your beloved the next.

I was recently reminded of this unspoken reality when two close friends from the past got in touch with me via facebook. Both relationships were such that it was like picking up where we left off. And then it started to happen: remember… and soon we were each reminding the other of aspects of our common story that we’d forgotten: two halves once again brought back together to be whole again in that common story we held.

Even after getting off the phone, there were memories that came to me—stuff I had long since forgotten suddenly dusted off and remembered from the back recesses of my mind.

However, it isn’t always as pleasant as this. How many times have I uncomfortably sat with older couples arguing about some minute detail from their wedding day or arguing whether or not it was Thanksgiving 2006 or 2007 when old Aunt Ruth kicked the bucket. Ugh…

That of course is trivial in comparison to those embodied scrapbooks that are so disparate and incongruent that you’d swear that the two speaking are talking about different stories rather than their common one. It is this torn and ripped place that can feel very crazy.

The siblings that see childhood so differently: one claims that the other is a klutz while the klutzy one recognizes bruises from a violent father. One spouse sees alcohol abuse while the other sees only wanting a drink to unwind.

Stories are sacred—especially our own personal ones.

A friend some years ago shared with me after a very painful divorce a study about this embodied unspoken memory issue. I remember thinking at the time, “Oh yeah, this makes sense.”

And then there were so many light bulbs that went off after that: wow, this is why relationships that end catastrophically (divorce, not speaking to each other, etc) can be so painful and devastating-- we are losing not just a person, but half of our story.

Truly there is tribal knowledge between us-- and yes, it is difficult when we sever our stories from the tribal truth for the sake of our own reality and sanity. Wow, I remember thinking-- this is really helpful to know and to notice.

I am still haunted by the places of incongruence that I know—the places where the pictures in my virtual scrapbook that looks so different from the "yous" in my life. Its not the small differences or arguments like what year when such and such happened—it’s the bigger ones that are troubling. Is it me that's crazy or the you? Or maybe both? I don’t know quite what to do with those.

Of course, our perceptions are different and our memories are not accurate recording tools—rather they are story makers.

The question I have in the disparate places are how can you hold up both pieces of perception and honor them—is that a possibility? Or is it that the best we can do is choose not to talk about those places of radical incongruence? Or is it that we should flee from such places and relationships? I don’t have answers for this, only more questions and memories and unspoken pacts formed between relationships.


And notice, I've kept it simple-- there is only in this the two-- the you and the me but you know there's more than that: there's the tribal knowledge of relationships and unspoken memory between 3 or 4 or 5 or more.

I think I'll take that glass of wine now.

Blood & Water

You’ve heard it said, “Blood is thicker than water.”

But I say blood coagulates. It can seal up a wound or complicate a life. Water thickens to ice but melts again. Blood can only go in one direction.

Wounds sealed up, clots in the legs and heart and brain. Or hemophilia on the other extreme. Gushing and gushing and gushing free.

Blood is thicker than water.

Is that a good thing?

Free Counter

8 things that I love about life...

Not just chocolate... there's so much.

1) The sound of my dog sleeping at night. She makes this noise-- its a grunt that sounds a bit like a mowing cow. We like to imagine that there is a sacred cow burial ground under our house and that if you listen very closely at night, the ghost cow rises to moo000...

2) Lattes in the morning. I use to drink a pot of french pressed coffee every morning until this past spring when I gave up coffee cold turkey. Oh man. Now I drink green tea or some other healthy crap in the morning. I feel great... really. But every now and again, I wake up to find my partner has gone astray to the local bakery for a morning latte. OH, what a delight. The smell... the foam... its... heaven in a cup.

3) The way I feel after going to church. Okay, it sounds REALLY cheesy, but today I woke up in the worst mood EVER. I could have fought with a rock if it talked back. I didn't sleep well on Saturday night, I don't like getting up early but somehow, it happened. It happens every Sunday-- regardless of my mood. I find joy and I love these people that God has given me to tend. I leave (most) every Sunday satiated in ways that I didn't imagine possible. There's something to this God stuff...

4) Children's art made for just for me. "You are a good prest, gorgi" It reads. Then there's the piece with God as a big boobed woman playing tea party with a little girl. Then there's the picture of the girl priest at the altar with the note that reads, "After all these boy priests, I'm really glad to know a girl one. Today, you were wearing my favorite color, green." There's pictures of dinosaurs and monsters and the baby Jesus too. I'd take these over a Picasso anyday.

5) Fixing dinner for friends. Vino. Salmon. Raw Vegetable Salad. Fresh Ccrn on the cob. Laughter. What's better? The salmon was a bit over cooked, but oh my, what a wonderful gift.

6) Thunder Storms. Woe to us who live in the Pacific Northwest. Thunder Storms are an anomaly. We had one this morning. Just as the Gospel was being read, there it was: The Holy Gospel of our Lord CRACK! BOOM!

7) Beauty. It doesn't matter what or where. More than anything else in life, I am convinced that beauty saves lives. Now, I'm not talking super model superficial plastic boob looks. I'm talking real beauty-- something that takes your breath away and makes life so unbearably gorgeous that you can barely take it in. The smell of honeysuckle on sultry hot July day, a baby laughing, the couple that's been married for 62 years and still hold hands, good poetry, humanity being born, humanity dying after a full life. Beauty is everywhere.

8) Walking in the woods with the dogs and with Betsy. Silent together.

Hermetically Sealed

I stepped outside on the airplane wing to catch some fresh air and she was out there too: a big Christian. I could tell.

There appeared to be something that looked like a crystal ball hanging round her neck.

"Is that a crystal ball?" I asked. "NO!" she replied--"It is a sign of my faith: a mustard seed," she said and coming up closer to me she showed me the seed up close.

"Sure 'nough," I said, holding my balance on the wing of the plane-- not an easy feat at 10,000 feet. "But why a seed in a glass ball?"

My sister in faith preached to me: "Jesus said, 'that the mustard seed when planted was the strongest of all trees-- home to birds and all."

"Oh yes, but its not planted-- its hermetically sealed." Our plane wing began to tilt in our direction. It was hard to hold on. I hate flying-- especially when the plane tilts and the clouds roll in-- it gets cold up there on the wing of the plane. I leaned my shoulder in to help hold my place. I was fine and so was she. Only, she looked dissed somehow.

"What's your point?" she asked, now sounding defensive.

"Well unless a seed dies," I say to her. The plane tilts more-- damn, where are we going anyway-- changing direction and going to Florida instead?

"Unless the seed dies, it can't have new life-- isn't it ironic that the symbol you wear keeps you from enacting what Christ was asking his followers to do?" I"m holding onto rivets by now. Definitely heading to Florida. Why would you want to have such symbol...

"Oh its not a real seed. anyway."

"Oh?"

"Yea. Its one of those Monotuxedo Seeds anyway.

"Who? What?" I asked. I was wondering if the plane was going in circles.

"You know-- one of those seeds that really can't produce food from it. A Christian company got a whole bunch of fake seeds and put them in glass balls and sell them as symbols now."

I was starting to lose my grip so I merely grunted to show I was intrigued-- well, intrigued isn't quite the right word-- intrigued like seeing the bearded lady at the circus or the dude walking down the board walk covered in a Boa that's eight feet long-- you just can't seem to break away. Holding on tight I popped back into her big Christian monolog.

...so at least they could recoop their money and people could know we are Christians."

"Hmm. A crystal ball would be more useful than a mustard seed that can't even become a tree anymore."

"I don't believe in Crystal balls.

"Right." I said, "Of course. I don't believe in standing out on the wing of a plane either at 10,000 feet, but here we are and if you had a crystal ball, at least you would have known it: that thing can't even be planted and grown-- what good is it?

"True," she said with a furrowed brow, "but its a symbol of my faith."

"Yea, I suppose." Thank goodness the plane was now tilting the opposite direction and we could balance a bit better. "But here's the thing: isn't kind of a weird symbol-- it goes counter to everything Jesus said in a way-- its all neat and tidy and not of use at all inside that perfect little globe. I wish faith and the spirit were more... like that, but in my experience, well, damn: a cross sums it up pretty good, or a seed in lots of horse... (I wanted to say shit, but I thought better of it) manure dying to live... that's what's it like. Its never so neat as a hermetically sealed ball."

She was quiet for a long time.

Much to my surprise, the plane landed smooth as could be. Just a little pop.

Abigail spoke again just after the plane landed.

"Yeah, well... maybe that's your experience, but its not mine!" she said and then popped back in through the window into the interior of the plane where she was safe. I watched her go in shaking her head and take her seat. She even buckled her safety belt.

I wished that I could join her inside that safe little bubble, but I like it better out here on the wing of the plane-- the air is a lot fresher and there is more to breath.

How to be a perfect mess: Chapter IV

Some months have too much bad history. I think this is why Christmas is such a dreaded time of the year-- too much baggage for too many people. For me, I've gotten past my Christmas hang-ups. I'm damn tired in December anyway.

My bad history month is July. Last year, I hit the reset button on July and took the entire month off as a declaration to the universe that I was taking back the month of July, dammit, from the cloud of misfortune that seems to always hang over it. It was a good July. I hung out and worked on my tan.

But then came this year and fireworks again. I love the pretty colors but the idea of blown off fingers and drunks on the road have really helped to dull the 4th of July holiday for me. Plus, you can only imagine how crazy the dogs go.

So once again, I find myself in the thick of bad history month: awaiting ghosts around every corner, wishing I had been smart enough to take the damn month off. Its so hot and dry anyway. Ghosts go away!

Ghosts may linger when you are a mess. Closure is never as simple as it sounds: Close... Sure. Bang! A door slams. As one of my sage aunties once said to me, "Let's admit it honey-- closure does not exist. Pain goes on and on until it is transformed." I never stopped to ask transformed into what?

Part of being a spiritual mess is recognizing that life's painful seasons aren't like a laundry list-- okay, I grieved that loss! I can check it off and be done. Life's not a list for the messy-- what list? I lost the list! Screw the damn list!

No, life for the messy is more like a labyrinth-- we walk in circles coming back to places again and again from different angles and ways and at different times. Painful seasons can remain painful for years, I'm finding. Long after you hit the reset button.

July will always start with a bang, I reckon. The dogs are upset, I can barely sleep, the roof catches on fire. This is only the beginning.

T.S. Eliot once wrote, " April is cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the deadland." I think July is crueler yet for me-- the labyrinth is not so pleasant to traverse.

Where is there good news in this? I suppose the good stuff is in knowing. Like my desk-- its messy, but I know what's there. Maybe that's the trick with cruel months-- in hitting the reset button, it didn't change everything, but instead, this year, I wasn't blind-sided by history. I am aware it is coming and maybe awareness is enough for now.

Yes indeed, its messy isn't it?

Wild Grapes

Wild Grapes

I’ve grown to love gardening over the years. It takes me out of my head and puts me in the moment. It’s hard to space off and worry about much when you are digging up dandelions or planting rose bushes. You have to be in the moment.

Years ago when I first started gardening, I was renting a little house with a large back yard that had not been tended in years. There were these large “domes” of thick brown dead grape vines. I had never seen anything like it before. Some of the vines were as thick around as my arm. They had grown and grown around themselves until they had become these domed rounded masses. From a distance, I would imagine that they were hobbit dwellings.

It happened one autumn. Betsy said to me, “Mern, (she calls everyone Mern or Merna) we’re going to chop down those dead vines. I was sad somehow—the hobbit dwellings were to go. I knew she was right—up close without my imagination, the dead vines were not nearly as romantic—they were an eyesore.

And so it came to pass that for days we hacked our way through wild dead grape vines—some as thick around as my arm. Hacking and cutting away one day, the voice of the word we call scripture came to me and she whispered to me,

1Let me sing now for my well-beloved
A song of my beloved concerning His vineyard.
My well-beloved had a (A)vineyard on a fertile hill.
2He dug it all around, removed its stones,
And planted it with the (B)choicest vine
And He built a tower in the middle of it
And also hewed out a wine vat in it;
Then He (C)expected it to produce good grapes,
But it produced only wild grapes.
3"And now, O inhabitants of Jerusalem and men of Judah,
(D)Judge between Me and My vineyard. (Is. 5:1-3)

Wild grapes indeed. My mind is deluged in my garden with parable and story and messages about garden and spiritual stuff. Since hacking through wild grape vine, I’ve never been the same.

The wild grape vines returned the following spring—green and sprouting new life from where my imagination had strained to see the old Hobbit dwellings made of dead vines.

But the story doesn’t end there… the story continues on today…

We moved and started a new garden. I often wonder if the grapes vines will ever yield good fruit?