Tinkering

While journaling recently, reflecting on the wild turns my life has taken in the past few years, I wrote about dealing with a tired and ragged companion I’ve been dragging around all of my adult life.  I call that companion “that old nag.”

Formed in my imagination is a freakish mutant fused from myself and my parents.  This old talking donkey has followed me around all my life whispering two things; “survive”, “Jesus is coming soon.”  To think that my life’s goals can be boiled down to such a bland concoction, that’s not much of a recipe for life!  It sounds like a harsh reflection, maybe even self-loathing.  But for me today, it is not.  It is an honest self-reflection and quite possibly the very key to the door where I have been looked from the inside.  It seems that I have found the skeleton key.

I have come to realize that I have worshipped a God that I don’t even believe in.  I have lived this life almost entirely under an imagined skybox from where my parents gaze and judge my every move.  My life has never really been lived for me.  I think I have always known this on some level.  Seeing this now with such clarity is stunning, embarrassingly elementary.   Until now, whenever I asked, “what am I doing with my life?” – I was comforted with the answer that I had chosen the noble life, one in which I “lived for others” (in the Christian sense).  But what I have discovered is that living for others can easily morph into living other people’s lives for them and using that as an excuse for doing nothing with my own.  Is this truly a selfless way to live or is it a disguise for using people as a hiding place from life’s demands like real responsibilities or healthy pursuits?  Anything of interest that I have pursued up until now has in one way or another had to do with either saving the family,( which has always been pure fantasy), or helping others figure out their lives and find the path to God, (in Christian terms “accept Jesus as their savior”).  I carried this notion that any pursuits other than this were a waste of time since Jesus was to return and the earth would turn to ashes.  That old nag clopped along.

Lately I’ve been exercising a muscle that I’ve never used before.  I’m beginning to challenge the fear of the God of my former understanding.  Each time I hear a familiar threatening passage from the bible or a distant echo from my parents, thundering preachers or past religious fundamentalist friends, I stop and say, “No, I will not bend or bow to this anymore.  This is not who I want to be.”  And what a surprise.  It’s working!

As I speculate heaven in the fantastic way that it has been presented in the Christian view and how God is supposed to behave on the “great and terrible” day, I cannot help but wonder who any of us (believers of this sort) are kidding.  If we think we have lived righteously and get to heaven to claim our prize, isn’t God going to see right through this?  I absolutely must ask, “what-is-my-motive-for-serving-God?”  No doubt there are those who claim to love almighty God but I dare say, humans have been known to love even the cruelest captors out of terror for their lives.  I wonder how many worshippers of God actually privately fear not doing so.  I remember a friend telling me once that she would rather err on the side of this belief than to face the possibility of eternal torment.  In all honesty I think this has been much of my own way of accepting the Christian God.  If God is really this way, having very thin tolerance and limited control, then from this perspective I along with many soi-disant Christians will wind up in hell anyway. 
God will know that we have worshipped him in vain.

I’ve often heard that it is nearly impossible to change later in life.  I believe different.  I think the desire to change old and tired beliefs, particularly those that consume our thoughts and rob emotional space, must be stronger than any other desire.   For me, expelling sad morbid thoughts about God and hell dislodges something from the deep inner workings of my soul, like being relieved of a dangerously stuck piece of food.  As violent an analogy as that is, the result – to breathe freely, is the same.

What is to become of my old nag?  Do I shoot her, take her out of her misery?  Put her on a carnival display to mock and ridicule?  Or, how about this?  Perhaps put her to pasture and smile,  kindly remembering that it was she who brought me this far. 

Wow.  I guess Occupy Wall Street is becoming more to me than just a fascinating observation of the next youth movement.  Tardy as this movement is on our piece of geography, I’m glad it has finally arrived.  I’m a bit sad that I cannot be counted among the youth but my heart is young and I’ll ignore my aches and pains to stand boldly with them.

Up until now I have remained somewhat in the background, taking pictures and videos and making a few signs.   But with each day that passes I find myself thinking more and more about the OWS message.  I keep remembering all the things I’ve heard at the general assemblies.  The reports coming out on listservs and various news shows are stirring.   And now I’m looking at my bank.  Can my partner and I do this; participate in this direct action of transferring our money from commercial accounts and joining a local credit union?  Can we cut the ties to what we perceived as the safe systems and truly start sharing our lives with a local community?

It’s not such a big deal to switch banks or join credit unions.  It is a big deal, however, to do it now when big bankers just might be starting to wring their hands.  Clearly this youth movement has learned from the successes and failures of the 60s movement.  From my vantage point, these guys are smart, brave, well connected and can mobilize very quickly thanks to technology.  They’re getting funding and donations without even trying.  I haven’t heard of any introduction of mind altering drugs yet.  It’s still speculated that it was infiltrators in the 60s that introduced drugs and ultimately caused horrific scenes like Kent State.  I’m betting this generation is ready for such tactics.

Hope and determination in the occupiers eyes is what I’m continuing to see.  And I see a twinkle there too, almost like a glow from a spiritual experience.  They know this is good and right for all people.  Unlike the 60s where “no one over 30 should be trusted,” these young people are welcoming to us older folks.  I hope we don’t spoil it for them by urging too much caution.  They deserve to learn by their mistakes too.  I have faith in them though.  I’ve watched them hash things out in their general assemblies.  It is far superior to anything I’ve witnessed in many conference rooms in corporate America.  I’m encouraged.

Turning fifty this year has been perplexing.  For some reason I assumed turning the next decade was going to be even more exciting than turning the last one was.  Boy was I in for a surprise!  I mean, I understand all the complexities that go with hormonal changes but this is different.  When I turned forty it felt like I had arrived.  A kind of right of passage.  But turning fifty, I feel as if I’ve been sucked into a vacuum.

I’m suddenly unable to get up quickly from the bed or in and out of the car.  All my activities are planned around how my back is feeling today.  And what do I wear?  How is a fifty year old supposed to dress?  I’m clueless.  I’ve always basically dressed in play clothes.   Working at MTV all those years did not teach me how to dress like a grownup.

And politics.  Suddenly, I seem to understand politics and government and find myself having continued shouting matches with my television but I wouldn’t dream of watching anything else but the news.   And I have discovered that deep down I’m probably a real pacifist.  Me! “That woman with all those tattoos.”

This is all so baffling.   This aging thing happened so fast!